Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne, August 19, 1862

HUDSON CAMP GROUNDS. I have enlisted! Joined the Army of Uncle Sam for three years, or the war, whichever may end first. Thirteen dollars per month, board, clothes and travelling expenses thrown in. That's on the part of my Uncle. For my part, I am to do, I hardly know what, but in a general way understand I am to kill or capture such part of the Rebel Army as comes in my way.

I wonder what sort of a soldier I will make; to be honest about it, I don't feel much of that eagerness for the fray I am hearing so much of about me.

It seems to me it is a serious sort of business I have engaged in. I was a long time making up my mind about it. This one could go, and that one, and they ought to, but with me, some way it was different. There was so much I had planned to do, and to be. I was needed at home, etc., etc. So I would settle the question for a time, only to have it come up to be reasoned away again, and each time my reasons for not taking my part in the job seemed less reasonable. Finally I did the only thing I could respect myself for doing, went to Millerton, the nearest recruiting station, and enlisted.

I then threw down my unfinished castles, went around and bid my friends good-bye, and had a general settling up of my affairs, which, by the way, took but little time. But I never before knew I had so many friends. Everyone seemed to be my friend. A few spoke encouragingly, but the most of them spoke and acted about as I would expect them to, if I were on my way to the gallows. Pity was so plainly shown that when I had gone the rounds, and reached home again, I felt as if I had been attending my own funeral. Poor old father and mother! They had expected it, but now that it had come they felt it, and though they tried hard, they could not hide from me that they felt it might be the last they would see of their baby.

Then came the leaving it all behind. I cannot describe that. The good-byes and the good wishes ring in my ears yet. I am not myself. I am some other person. My surroundings are new, the sights and sounds about me are new, my aims and ambitions are new;—that is if I have any. I seem to have reached the end. I can look backwards, but when I try to look ahead it is all a blank. Right here let me say, God bless the man who wrote "Robert Dawson," and God bless the man who gave me the book. "Only a few drops at a time, Robert." The days are made of minutes, and I am only sure of the one I am now living in. Take good care of that and cross no bridges until you come to them.

I have promised to keep a diary, and I am doing it. I have also promised that it should be a truthful account of what I saw and what I did. I have crawled off by myself and have been scribbling away for some time, and upon reading what I have written I find it reads as if I was the only one. But I am not. There are hundreds and perhaps thousands here, and I suppose all could, if they cared to, write just such an experience as I have. But no one else seems foolish enough to do it. I will let this stand as a preface to my diary, and go on to say that we, the first installment of recruits from our neighborhood, gathered at Amenia, where we had a farewell dinner, and a final handshake, after which we boarded the train and were soon at Ghent, where we changed from the Harlem to the Hudson & Berkshire R. R., which landed us opposite the gates of the Hudson Fair Grounds, about 4 P. M. on the 14th. We were made to form in line and were then marched inside, where we found a lot of rough board shanties, such as are usually seen on country fair grounds, and which are now used as offices, and are full of bustle and confusion. After a wash-up, we were taken to a building which proved to be a kitchen and dining room combined. Long pine tables, with benches on each side, filled the greater part of it, and at these we took seats and were served with good bread and fair coffee, our first meal at Uncle Sam's table, and at his expense. After supper we scattered, and the Amenia crowd brought up at the Miller House in Hudson. We took in some of the sights of the city and then put up for the night.

The next morning we had breakfast and then reported at the camp grounds ready for the next move, whatever that might be. We found crowds of people there, men, women and children, which were fathers and mothers, wives and sweethearts, brothers and sisters of the men who have enlisted from all over Dutchess and Columbia counties. Squads of men were marching on the race track, trying to keep step with an officer who kept calling out "Left, Left, Left," as his left foot hit the ground, from which I judged he meant everyone else should put his left foot down with his. We found these men had gone a step further than we. They had been examined and accepted, but just what that meant none of us exactly knew. We soon found out, however, Every few minutes a chap came out from a certain building and read from a book, in a loud voice, the names of two men. These would follow him in, be gone a little while and come out, when the same performance would be repeated. My name and that of Peter Carlo, of Poughkeepsie, were called together, and in we went. We found ourselves in a large room with the medical examiner and his clerks. His salutation, as we entered, consisted of the single word, "Strip." We stripped and were examined just as a horseman examines a horse he is buying. He looked at our teeth and felt all over us for any evidence of unsoundness there might be. Then we were put through a sort of gymnastic performance, and told to put on our clothes. We were then weighed and measured, the color of our eyes and hair noted, also our complexion, after which another man came and made us swear to a lot of things, most of which I have forgotten already. But as it was nothing more than I expected to do without swearing I suppose it makes no difference.

The rest of the day we visited around, getting acquainted and meeting many I had long been acquainted with. In the afternoon the camp ground was full of people, and as night began to come, and they began to go, the good-byes were many and sad enough. I am glad my folks know enough to stay away. That was our first night in camp. After we came from the medical man, we were no longer citizens, but just soldiers. We could not go down town as we did the night before. This was Saturday night, August 17th. We slept but little, at least I did not. A dozen of us had a small room, a box stall, in one of the stables, just big enough to lie down in. The floor looked like pine, but it was hard, and I shall never again call pine a soft wood, at least to lie on. If one did fall asleep he was promptly awakened by some one who had not, and by passing this around, such a racket was kept up that sleep was out of the question. I for one was glad the drummer made a mistake and routed us out at five o'clock instead of six, as his orders were. We shivered around until roll-call and then had breakfast. We visited together until dinner. Beef and potatoes, bread and coffee, and plenty of it. Some find fault and some say nothing, but I notice that each gets away with all that's set before him. In the afternoon we had preaching out of doors, for no building on the grounds would hold us. A Rev. Mr. Parker preached, a good straight talk, no big words or bluster, but a plain man-to-man talk on a subject that should concern us now, if it never did before. I for one made some mighty good resolutions, then and there. Every regiment has a chaplain, I am told, and I wish ours could be this same Mr. Parker. The meeting had a quieting effect on all hands. There was less swearing and less noise and confusion that afternoon than at any time before. After supper the question of bettering our sleeping accommodations came up, and in spite of the good resolutions above recorded I helped steal some hay to sleep on. We made up our minds that if our judge was as sore as we were he would not be hard on us. We spread the hay evenly over the floor and lay snug and warm, sleeping sound until Monday morning, the 18th.

The mill of the medical man kept on grinding and batches of men were sworn in every little while. Guards were placed at the gates, to keep us from going down town. I was one of the guards, but was called off to sign a paper and did not go back. Towards night we had to mount guard over our hay. Talk about "honor among thieves," what was not stolen before we found it out, was taken from under us while we were asleep, and after twisting and turning on the bare floor until my aching bones woke me, I got up and helped the others express themselves, for there was need of all the cuss words we could muster to do the subject justice. But that was our last night in those quarters.

The next day the new barracks were finished and we took possession. They are long narrow buildings, about 100 feet by 16, with three tiers of bunks on each side, leaving an alley through the middle, and open at each end. The bunks are long enough for a tall man and wide enough for two men provided they lie straight, with a board in front to keep the front man from rolling out of bed. There are three buildings finished, and each accommodates 204 men. We were not allowed either hay or straw for fear of fire. As we only had our bodies to move, it did not take long to move in. Those from one neighborhood chose bunks near together, and there was little quarrelling over choice. In fact one is just like another in all except location. Walter Loucks and I got a top berth at one end, so we have no trouble in finding it, as some do who are located near the middle. These barracks, as they are here called, are built close together, and ordinary conversation in one can be plainly heard in the others. Such a night as we had, story-telling, song-singing, telling what we would do if the Rebs attacked us in the night, with now and then a quarrel thrown in, kept us all awake until long after midnight. There was no getting lonesome, or homesick. No matter what direction one's thought might take, they were bound to be changed in a little while, and so the time went on. Perhaps some one would start a hymn and others would join in, and just as everything was going nicely, a block of wood, of which there were plenty lying around, would come from no one knew where, and perhaps hit a man who was half asleep. Then the psalm singing would end up in something quite different, and for awhile one could almost taste brimstone. I heard more original sayings that night than in all my life before, and only that the boards were so hard, and my bones ached so badly, I would have enjoyed every minute of it.

But we survived the night, and were able to eat everything set before us, when morning and breakfast time came. After breakfast we had our first lesson in soldiering, that is, the men of what will be Captain Bostwick's company, if he succeeds in filling it, and getting his commission, did. A West Point man put us through our paces. We formed in line on the race track, and after several false starts got going, bringing our left feet down as our instructor called out, "Left, Left," etc. A shower in the night had left some puddles on the track, and the first one we came to some went around and some jumped across, breaking the time and step and mixing up things generally. We were halted, and as soon as the captain could speak without laughing, he told us what a ridiculous thing it was for soldiers to dodge at a mud puddle. After a turn at marching, or keeping step with each other, he explained very carefully to us the "position of a soldier," telling how necessary it was that we learn the lesson well, for it would be of great use to us hereafter. He repeated it, until every word had time to sink in. "Heels on the same line, and as near together as the conformation of the man will permit. Knees straight, without stiffness. Body erect on the hips, and inclining a little forward. Arms hanging naturally at the sides, the little finger behind the seam of the pantaloons. Shoulders square to the front. Head erect, with the eyes striking the ground at the distance of fifteen paces." Every bone in my body ached after a little of this, and yet our instructor told us this is the position in which a well-drilled soldier can stand for the longest time and with the greatest ease. This brings my diary up to this date and I must not let it get behind again. There is so much to write about, it takes all my spare time; but now I am caught up, I will try and keep so.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 1-7

Diary of Sergeant David L. Day: August 12, 1863

AN INSPECTION.

A few days ago orders came to get ready for inspection the next afternoon. All was now hurry and bustle, cleaning up camp, arms, equipments and clothing, and putting everything in order. The artillerists worked like beavers, cleaning up the gun carriages and limbers, using all the grease in the kitchen to brighten them up. The old brass guns were polished up and shone like mirrors and we were congratulating ourselves on being highly complimented.

At the appointed time, Lieut. Col. Moulton and Capt. Rawlston of somebody's staff put in an appearance. The captain was the inspecting officer; a very airy, pompous young gentleman, with a remarkable faculty of making his weak points conspicuous

When the companies fell in, he noticed the artillery detail did not fall in and inquired the reason. Col. Moulton replied that they were expecting to be inspected as artillery. The captain said he knew nothing about that, he was sent here to inspect this detachment as infantry and every man must fall in. Now that was all right enough, only it placed me at a disadvantage, for I had taken no thought or care of Spitfire since my promotion and it was looking pretty bad. But I had no time to clean it up, and I must say it was a sorry looking piece to take out for a show. But as bad as it looked, I had the utmost confidence in its shooting qualities, in fact I have never lost confidence in Spitfire but once, that was when I dropped it in the creek at Goldsboro.

We were marched out and paraded, and after the inspecting officer had “sassed” Col. Moulton and nearly all the other officers, he commenced his job. He found right smart of fault, but didn't find a really good subject until he came to me. He looked me over, and taking Spitfire gave it a very careful and thorough inspection. Handing it back he very gravely informed me that he had inspected the whole army of the Potomac and had never before seen a rifle looking so bad as Spitfire, and still further complimenting me by saying I was about the roughest looking sergeant he had ever seen. I nodded assent, venturing the remark that I had been in the artillery detail while here and my rifle had been somewhat neglected, but I had a gun on the Malakoff that could knock the spots off the sun. He allowed that that was insolence and any more of it would subject me to arrest. Imagine the indignation of the chief of artillery on being threatened with arrest by an infantry captain. My first impulse was to call my command, lash him to the muzzle of the gun on the Malakoff and give him rapid transit over the tops of the pines, but better thoughts soon succeeded and I forgave him, thinking that perhaps he was doing as well as he knew how. The inspection over, he had not long to stay, as the boat was waiting for him. I noticed the officers didn't pet him very much and I don't believe he got more than one drink.

MISS CARROLL.

Three or four miles out here, through the woods, lives a Mr. Carroll. He has two sons in the 1st North Carolina union volunteers, stationed up in Washington. He makes frequent visits up there to see the boys and is often accompanied by his daughter, a rather good-looking young lady of about 20 years of age. It sometimes happens that they get here early in the morning and have to wait an hour or so for the boat, and will sometimes stop an hour on their return before going home. At these times they are guests at headquarters and a few of us, without the fear of the captain before our eyes, will happen in to have a chat with the old gentleman and his daughter. She expressed a great fondness for literature and claims to be “the only really literary young lady in these yere parts." We occasionally fit her out with such story papers and magazines as we may have lying around, for which she expresses great pleasure.

She one day inquired if we had read a certain piece of poetry in one of the magazines we had given her. She was told we had and thought it very nice. We inquired if she was pleased with it. She replied she thought it was “Splendid! beautiful!" We asked if she was fond of poetry. She said, she was excessively fond of it and read a great deal; in a sly, blushing kind of way, she hinted that she sometimes tried her hand at composing. “Ah, indeed; would you favor us with a few specimens, some day when you come over? We should be pleased to look at them.” She promised she would, and the next time she came she brought a composition entitled “Lines to the Union Boys. They were the merest doggerel, but we were loud in their praise and told her that by reading poetry and practising composing she would excel; that when the cruel war was over and we had retired to the peaceful pursuits of life in our far northern homes, we hoped to be reminded of her occasionally, by seeing some of her productions in print. She seemed a good deal pleased with such flattering encomiums, but thought she would hardly attain to that distinction. I thought so too.

I asked if she would allow me to take a copy of the lines during her absence up town, and she kindly consented. Below is the copy :

I suppose you have herd of Swift creek
An the victory there was won
The yankee boys was wide awake
An they made them rebels run.

CHORUS:
Farewell Father an Mother
An a true sweetheart
An the girls we leave in pain
Oh dont forget those yankee boys they are coming back again.

An when the yankees did come in
The guerrillas took to flight
An tore down the bonna blue flag
An hoisted the stars an stripes.

When South Carolina did secede
An surely did go out
The yankee boys must have bin asleep
They had not whipt her back

I take my stand in Richmond
An Swift creek Il persue
I do not care for Whitford*
Nor none of his cowardly crew

The gurrillas hates the Buffalows†
But they dont care for that
If they dont shut their mouths an let them alone
They will make them clere the track

There is good many men in this war
By the names of Hill
An if the yankees dus get them
They will larn them how to drill

There is good many men here
By the name of Whitford two
An when the yankees does get them
They will put them rebels through

The secesh girls look mighty loansum
Walking the road in there homemade homespun
The Union girls dont look sad
Walking the road in there yankee plad

An when the war is ended
The guerrillas they will say
They rather fight the devil
Than the boys that gains the day

Hold your toungs you secesh ones
An see what will be don
The yankees boys are bound to go
The whole hog or none

The Union men looks mighty grand
With there cork heel boots au their gloves on their hands
The secesh men looks mighty mean
Going through the woods an never are seen.

CHORUS, &c.

Now whatever fault can be found with the above lines, there can certainly no fault be found with their loyalty.

WAITING TO BE RELIEVED.

We keep a small camp guard during the night and this duty is assigned to the artillery detail, each gun's company taking its turn, which brings us on every third night. There are only four posts, the guns and magazine, and as they only go on at tattoo and come off at reveille, the duty is not very arduous. The guard is divided into two reliefs, one going on the first part of the night and the other the latter part; the duty is simply to keep their ears open for any disturbance among the pickets out in the woods and alarm the camp. The reliefs sleep in their quarters and are called when wanted. The sergeant or corporal on duty occupies a small wall tent, in which a candle is kept burning through the night. Having my choice of time and it not making any difference to the corporal, I take the latter part, as I prefer sleeping the first part. I have a splendid corporal, I think the best in the service; we go along together, and agree first rate. He is willing to do all the work and I am willing he should. He posts the first relief and then keeps his eyes open until it is time to post the second relief, when he posts them and then comes and calls me, when I relieve him. My work is now all done; all I have to do is to lie down and go to sleep or busy myself with my reading or writing, and call off the relief at reveille. If I am too busy to attend to that duty (which I generally am), they take the responsibility of relieving themselves, which is a great help to me and relieves me of a great burden of care.

One night while on this duty the officer of the day came in and inquired if I would like to take a stroll and make a round of the pickets. I replied that I should. We started out making the round and not being in a hurry did not get back till daylight. I laid down and went to sleep, feeling that everything was all safe and quiet on the Pamlico. About 7 o'clock I was called up and told I was wanted at the magazine. I went out and there stood Charlea, a Roman sentinel amid the wreck of worlds. I admired his fidelity, but I really couldn't commend his judgment and no explanation or excuses of mine availed in the least; he was going to be relieved officially, and after he had got through with me I don't think there were many more cuss words left in him. I certainly felt relieved if he didn't.

THE ROVER.

Capt. Foss somewhere picked up an old boat and with Jed's assistance put it in good repair, rigged up a sail, rated it A 1, and named it the Rover. The captain is skipper and Jed sailing master. She is a long, clipper-built craft, with a large spread of canvas in a carrying capacity of ten or twelve persons. With a spanking breeze she walks up and down the river like a thing of life and makes nothing of sailing right around the little steamer Undine. She makes frequent trips to Rodman's and occasionally to town. The captain selects the party he wants to take out and I am sometimes honored with an invitation. We usually run alongside the gunboat that lays here and take aboard the second assistant engineer, who is a genial, good-natured old fellow, full of his fun and stories, and then put for Rodman's. We stop there an hour and start for home. On the return trip, the old engineer's inventive powers will be a good deal quickened and he will suggest various alterations in the rig and sail of the craft, which will improve her sailing qualities, all of which Jed readily accepts and is going to forth with adopt, but the next day the improvements are all forgotten and never thought of again until another return trip from Rodman's. A few days ago a small party of us made a halt at Rodman's and found Sergeant Martin in command. He did the honors, showing us about the camp and extending hospitalities in a manner that would have done credit to a prince. To my notion Sergeant Martin has got the correct idea of holding a command, not to go dry himself nor let his friends.

BIG JIM.

Big Jim, is he is called, is a character; genial, charitable, good-natured, humorous and generous to a fault. He is quite a theatrical character and loves to deal in romance and tragedy, and he caters to the mirthful and fun-loving among the boys. He does not amount to much as a soldier, but that is more his misfortune than from any unwillingness. He is of enormous proportions and very fat, tipping the scale at 250 pounds. He is sorely troubled with chafing when drilling or on the march, and for that reason is excused from pretty much all duty. He is a sort of independent corps, doing duty when he feels like it; he will often go out in the woods and relieve a man on picket who happens to be taken sick. He sometimes has a feeling come over him that he would like to get away from the noise and bustle of the camp, and be alone by himself. At such times he takes his rifle and goes to the little point, some 100 rods down the river, where there is a picket post. Here he will stay two or three days at a time, caring for no company except at night, and amuses himself with fishing, reading and writing. He has become so enamoured of this kind of life, that he has taken the contract to do the picket duty at that post and has made it his permanent residence, coming up to camp only two or three times a week to see the boys and get his rations. He has opened a trading post down there, and trades with the natives who touch there as they come in their boats from up the bay or cove which sets back from there. He has built himself a log house, and a sign over the door reads “Cash paid for coon skins,” of which and other peltries he has collected quite a quantity, and intends sending them to Boston markets.

_______________

* Whitford was a Guerrilla captain.
† Buffaloes were North Carolina Union volunteers.

SOURCE: David L. Day, My Diary of Rambles with the 25th Mass. Volunteer Infantry, p. 97-102

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, November 13, 1861

Headquarters Second Brigade,

Hilton Head, S. C.

November 13th, 1861.

My dear Mother:

I am delighted, after several busy days, once more to have an opportunity to quiet the uneasiness of your anxious heart, and assure you of my continued welfare. We are now fairly ensconced on South Carolina soil. Our headquarters are at an old wooden building innocent of paint, but rendered interesting by a large hole in the side, caused by the passage of one of our shot. These were pleasant places that the planters have abandoned us, and though conscious that our victory has been glorious, and that a heavy blow has been struck, would to God that this war had never visited us, and that the planters were once more peacefully cultivating their pleasant homes. The country for many miles around has fallen into the hands of our armies, and, unhappily, victors are apt to be ruthless in destroying the property of conquered enemies.

However, the season of pillage is almost over. Our camps are being well guarded, and the opportunities for the escape of straggling parties of marauders have ceased. Every effort has been made to check wanton excesses, and it has been made for a few days past almost the sole duty of the Aides to scour the country for the purpose of intercepting parties wandering about without proper authority. In this manner I have come to see something of neighboring plantations, which are among the wealthiest in South Carolina.

I wrote you before that here lived the Pinckneys, the Popes, a gentleman named Jenkins-Stoney, and others whose names may, or may not be familiar to you. Their houses are in the old fashioned Southern mansion style, and show evidences of luxury and comfort.

By-the-way, I saw a letter from a Secession soldier named Lusk the other day, which dilated much on the justice of the Southern cause, and the certainty that God would give the South the victory. I hear there is, or was previous to our arrival, a large family of Lusks at Beaufort, a few miles distant. I regret to say that the letter I have mentioned, did not show the writer to have displayed any great diligence in studying his spelling-book in the days of early youth. The weather here is warm as summer. Oranges hang still in ripe profusion on the trees, the cotton remains unpicked, and the corn remains for us to gather. Negroes crowd in swarms to our lines, happy in the thought of freedom, dancing, singing, void of care, and vainly dreaming that all toil is in future to be spared, and that henceforth they are to lead that life of lazy idleness which forms the Nigger's Paradise. I fear that before long they have passed only from the hands of one taskmaster into the hands of another.

All this long time I get no news from home, and am eagerly, impatiently, awaiting the advent of the mail which is to recompense for the long weeks of waiting. I may write very irregularly, as my time was never so little my own as now. I think, when the “Vanderbilt” returns, you will see my old school friend Sandford, who will bear you news of me. Sandford is a young fellow, of the family of the name, so extensively engaged in shipping interests. I mention this as possibly Uncle Phelps may know of them. Have Lilly and Tom any intention of soon being married? I send by Sandford, a hundred dollars of my pay home to be delivered to Uncle Phelps, and would like $25.00 of it to be expended in buying Lilly, when the wedding day comes, some remembrance from brother Will. I enclose in this letter a $5.00 bill to be especially employed in the purchase of toys for the children. I would like much to see little Willie and Turlie once more. If I possibly can, I shall try and get a leave of absence about Christmas time, though I hardly expect to be successful. Walter, I suppose, is fairly home by this time. I would have written before, congratulating him upon the arrival of his little boy, but have been waiting to get hold of the letter which announces it. Beyond the fact that he is a father I know nothing.

Give love to all my friends, and all who feel an interest in me. I would like to see you soon again, which, in fact, is the burthen of all the Southern letters we have intercepted. There is one thing very conspicuous in all letters from Southern soldiers. I refer to the deep religious vein pervading them. Their religious impressions seem to be warmer than those of our troops. One poor fellow fears their cause is doomed because of the fearful immorality in their ranks. “Why,” he writes, “I even hear that officers have been known to curse the men under their command.”

Good-bye,

Very Affec'y.,

Will.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 99-102

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: May 23, 1864

Our young relative, Lientenant G., a member of General Stuart's staff, who was always near his person, has just been giving us a most gratifying account of General Stuart's habits. He says, that although he considered him one of the most sprightly men he has ever seen, devoted to society, particularly to that of the ladies, always social and cheerful, yet he has never seen him do any thing, even under the strongest excitement, unbecoming his Christian profession or his high position as a soldier; he never saw him drink, or heard an oath escape his lips; his sentiments were always high-minded, pure, and honourable, and his actions entirely coincided with them. In short, he considered him, whether on the field or in the private circle, the model of a Christian gentleman and soldier. When speaking of his gallantry as an officer, Lientenant G's admiration knows no bounds. He speaks of the devotion of the soldiers to him as enthusiastic in the extreme. The evening before his fatal wound, he sent his troops on in pursuit of Sheridan, under the command of General Fitz Lee, as he was unavoidably detained for some three or four hours. General Lee overtook the enemy, and a sharp skirmish ensued, in which Sheridan's rear suffered very much. In the mean time, General Stuart determined to overtake General Lee, and, with his staff, rode very rapidly sixteen miles, and reached him about nightfall. They were halting for a few moments, as General Stuart rode up quietly, no one suspecting he was there, until a plain-looking soldier crossed the road, stopped, peered through the darkness into his face, and shouted out, “Old Jeb has come!” In an instant the air was rent with huzzas. General Stuart waved his cap in recognition; but called out in rather a sad voice, “My friends, we won't halloo until we get out of the woods!” intimating that there was serious work before them. At that hour the next night he was pursuing his weary and suffering way to Richmond. A friend, who knows how much I regretted not being able to serve General Stuart in any way, or even to be at his funeral, has been so kind as to write me a minute account of his sickness, death, and burial. "Perhaps (she says) it is not generally known how entirely General Stuart sacrificed his life to save Richmond. An officer of high rank, who knew the circumstances, told me that in all the war there was not one man more truly a martyr to our cause. In the many raids upon Richmond there was none in which we seemed in such imminent peril as the one in which General Stuart has just fallen. How we listened, and watched, and prayed, as the cannon sounded nearer and nearer, and even the volleys of musketry could be heard out on the roads by which the enemy were approaching! We knew that General Stuart had a band of about 2,000 cavalry against overwhelming odds on the Yankee side, and that he knew that upon this 2,000 men alone it depended to bar the enemy's approach on that side. He met the Yankees, 5,000 strong, beat them back, and fell in the encounter! It was with difficulty that he could be rescued from those who were bearing him away, but one of his own troopers saved him, and with his staff and surgeon (Dr. John Fontaine) bore him to the city. We heard that he was dying, and, in spite of the anxiety and confusion reigning at such a time, many of us rushed to Dr. Brewer's house to hear tidings of the beloved commander, whose gallantry, whose youthful gayety and chivalrous character, made him the prince among our cavalry officers. His life was ebbing out from internal hemorrhage; but his senses were as clear and his mind as calm as noontide. He asked repeatedly for his wife, who, though but fifteen miles away, could not be reached, so completely was the city hemmed in by the enemy. By his side stood our President, who, upon hearing of his situation, had hastened to thank him in the name of his country. “I have but done my duty,” was the soldier's reply. And near him was the minister of God, good Mr. Peterkin, of whose church (Episcopal) General S. was a member. He asked for his favourite hymn, and joined his feeble voice with the touching words: “I would not live alway.” From time to time, he turned his head to ask, “Is she come?” But she, for whom his loving heart so yearned, came not till that heart was stilled forever. At the funeral — at the head of his coffin — sat the soldier who had rescued him, all battle-stained and soiled; and near by, the members of his staff, who all adored him. Upon the coffin lay a sword, formed of delicate white flowers, a cross of white roses, and above these the heavenly crown, symbolized by one of green bay-leaves. We followed him to the church, where, after appropriate ceremonies, attended by many persons, his body was taken to Hollywood Cemetery. No martial pomp, no soldier's funeral, but —

“‘Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.'

Everybody was struck with the resemblance to the funeral so beautifully described in the lines just quoted. As we passed, in slow procession—

“‘We knew by the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.'

These guns were his funeral knell, sounding at intervals the solemn peal, with which, in the haste and uncertainty of the time, it was impossible for us to honour him.”

One of the morning papers has some lines on the same subject, more poetic, though not so graphic, as the account given by my friend:

“J. E. B. STUART.

"We could not pause, while yet the noontide air

Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing,

The funeral pageant, fitly to prepare,

A nation's grief revealing.

"The smoke above the glimmering woodland wide,

That skirts our southward border with its beauty.

Marked where our heroes stood, and fought and died.

For love, and faith, and duty

"And still what time the doubtful strife went on,

We might not find expression for our sorrow;

We could but lay our dear, dumb warrior down,

And gird us for the morrow.

"One weary year ago, when came a lull

With victory, in the conflicts' stormy closes,

When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful,

First mocked us with her roses—

"With dirge and bell, and minute-gun, we paid

Some few poor rites, an inexpressive token

Of a great people's pain, to Jackson's shade,

In agony unspoken.

"No wailing trumpet, and no tolling bell,

No cannon, save the battle's boom receding,

When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell

With hearts all crushed and bleeding.

"The crisis suited not with pomp, and she,

Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration,

Had wished his Christian obsequies should be

Thus void of ostentation.

"Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twine

Above his form, so still, and cold, and painless,

Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine,

Whose life and sword were stainless.

"We well remembered how he loved to dash

Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers

How like a fountain's spray, his sabre's flash

Leaped from a mass of flowers.

"And so we carried to his place of rest,

All that of our Paladin was mortal;

The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast,

That opes the heavenly portal.

"No more of tribute might to us remain;

But there will come a time when freedom's martyrs

A richer guerdon of renown shall gain

Than gleams in stars and garters.

"I claim no prophet's vision, but I see,

Through coming years now near at hand, now distant,

My rescued country, glorious and free,

And strong and self-existent.

"I hear from out that sunlit land which lies

Beyond these clouds which darkly gather o'er us,

The happy sounds of industry arise,

In swelling, peaceful chorus.

"And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim

Of millions, undisturbed by war's afflictions,

Crowning each martyr's never-dying name

With grateful benedictions.

"In some fair, future garden of delights,

Where flowers shall bloom, and song-birds sweetly warble.

Art shall erect the statues of our knights,

In living bronze and marble.

"And none of all that bright, heroic throng

Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander,

Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song,

Than the beloved commander.

"The Spanish legends tell us of the Cid,

That after death he rode erect and stately

Along his lines, e'en as in life he did,

In presence yet more stately.

"And thus our Stuart at this moment seems

To ride out of our dark and troubled story,

Into the region of romance and dreams,

A realm of light and glory.

"And sometimes when the silver bugles blow,

That radiant form in battle reappearing,

Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,

In victory careering."

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 269-74

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: September 5, 1862

Our son J. arrived last night with quite a party, his health greatly suffering from over-work in Richmond during these exciting times. One of the party told me an anecdote of General J. E. B. Stuart, which pleased me greatly. Mrs. S. was in the cars, and near her sat a youth, in all the pride of his first Confederate uniform, who had attended General S. during his late raid as one of his guides through his native county of Hanover. At one of the water stations he was interesting the passengers by an animated account of their hair-breadth escapes by flood and field, and concluded by saying, “In all the tight places we got into, I never heard the General swear an oath, and I never saw him drink a drop.” Mrs. S. was an amused auditor of the excited narrative, and after the cars were in motion she leaned forward, introduced herself to the boy, and asked him if he knew the reason why General S. never swears nor drinks; adding, “It is because he is a Christian and loves God, and nothing will induce him to do what he thinks wrong, and I want you and all his soldiers to follow his example.”

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 151

Colonel Charles Russell Lowell to Josephine Shaw, September 10, 1863

Centreville, Sept. 10, 1863.

I to-day had to call attention in a general order to the prevalence of profanity in the command, and at the same time to add that perhaps I had not set them a good example in this respect. I don't swear very much or very deep, — but I do swear, more often at officers than men, and there is a great deal of swearing in the regiment which I wish to check: of course, I shall stop it in myself entirely; I shall enforce the Articles of War if necessary. . . .

I think we must make up our minds to a long war yet, and possibly to a war with some European power. For years to come, I think all our lives will have to be more or less soldierly, — i. e. simple and unsettled; simple because unsettled.

SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, p. 301

Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Lyman to Elizabeth Russell Lyman, October 2, 1864

October 2, 1864

. . . The Washington boat was much in the style of the other — rather worse and more crowded, people and freight similar. There were more Christian Commissioners, who were joined by those who had come with me. The funniest people you ever saw! Their great and overshadowing anxiety was dinner; that was the thing. Accordingly they had deputed the youngest — a divinity student, and supposed to be a terribly sharp fellow — to lie in wait at sundry times and secure tickets for the meal. “I have arranged it all with the steward; we shall sit together,” said this foxy one. Long before the hour, they all went down and stood against the door, like the queue at a French theatre. One of them came up, a little after, wiping his mouth; and asked me with surprising suddenness, if I “was on the side of the Lord.” They were mostly Methodists, and of course very pious. One of the soldiers on the lower deck, suddenly cried out: “Oh, H---!” upon which a Christian Commissioner said: “Mr. Smith, did you think to bring a bundle of the tracts on swearing?” I told him I hoped he had brought a good many, and of several kinds, as there was a wide field in the army. All of which reminds me of an anecdote. A group of these gentlemen, going on foot and with their carpet-bags towards the front, were addressed by a veteran with “Hullo! got any lemons to sell?” “No, my friend, we belong to the army of the Lord.” Veteran, with deep scorn: “Oh, ye—es; stragglers! stragglers!” I respect these Christian Commissioners, though they are somewhat silly often. Some of them had come all the way from Wisconsin. I arrived in camp somewhat after dark and was tenderly welcomed by all, from the General down. Barstow and Humphreys were highly pleased with their gifts. To-day a curious thing occurred. While I was away, looking for a place for the new camp, General Meade rode out with the Staff. There came a conical shell, which shaved a patch of hair off the tail of General Humphrey's horse, scraped the leg of General Meade's boot, passed between General Ricketts and Griffin who were standing within a foot of each other, and buried itself in the ground, covering several officers with sand and dirt. Four Generals just escaping by a turn of the head, so to speak! I got this shell and shall send it home as a great curiosity.

SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness to Appomattox, p. 231-2