Slept in my clothes last night, as I heard that the Yankees
went to neighbor Montgomery's on Thursday night at one o'clock, searched his
house, drank his wine, and took his money and valuables. As we were not
disturbed, I walked after breakfast, with Sadai, up to Mr. Joe Perry's, my
nearest neighbor, where the Yankees were yesterday. Saw Mrs. Laura [Perry] in
the road surrounded by her children, seeming to be looking for some one. She
said she was looking for her husband, that old Mrs. Perry had just sent her
word that the Yankees went to James Perry's the night before, plundered his
house, and drove off all his stock, and that she must drive hers into the old
fields. Before we we [sic] were done
talking, up came Joe and Jim Perry from their hiding-place. Jim was very much excited.
Happening to turn and look behind, as we stood there, I saw some blue-coats
coming down the hill. Jim immediately raised his gun, swearing he would kill
them anyhow.
“No, don't!” said I, and ran home as fast as I could, with
Sadai.
I could hear them cry, “Halt! Halt!” and their guns went off
in quick succession. Oh God, the time of trial has come!
A man passed on his way to Covington. I halloed to him,
asking him if he did not know the Yankees were coming.
“No — are they?”
“Yes,” said I; “they are not three hundred yards from here.”
“Sure enough,” said he. “Well, I'll not go. I don't want
them to get my horse.” And although within hearing of their guns, he would stop
and look for them. Blissful ignorance! Not knowing, not hearing, he has not
suffered the suspense, the fear, that I have for the past forty-eight hours. I
walked to the gate. There they came filing up.
I hastened back to my frightened servants and told them that
they had better hide, and then went back to the gate to claim protection and a
guard. But like demons they rush in! My yards are full. To my smoke-house, my
dairy, pantry, kitchen, and cellar, like famished wolves they come, breaking
locks and whatever is in their way. The thousand pounds of meat in my smoke-house
is gone in a twinkling, my flour, my meat, my lard, butter, eggs, pickles of
various kinds — both in vinegar and brine — wine, jars, and jugs are all gone.
My eighteen fat turkeys, my hens, chickens, and fowls, my young pigs, are shot
down in my yard and hunted as if they were rebels themselves. Utterly powerless
I ran out and appealed to the guard.
“I cannot help you, Madam; it is orders.”
As I stood there, from my lot I saw driven, first, old
Dutch, my dear old buggy horse, who has carried my beloved husband so many
miles, and who would so quietly wait at the block for him to mount and
dismount, and who at last drew him to his grave; then came old Mary, my brood
mare, who for years had been too old and stiff for work, with her
three-year-old colt, my two year-old mule, and her last little baby colt. There
they go! There go my mules, my sheep, and, worse than all, my boys [slaves]!
Alas! little did I think while trying to save my house from
plunder and fire that they were forcing my boys from home at the point of the
bayonet. One, Newton, jumped into bed in his cabin, and declared himself sick.
Another crawled under the floor, — a lame boy he was, — but they pulled him
out, placed him on a horse, and drove him off. Mid, poor Mid! The last I saw of
him, a man had him going around the garden, looking, as I thought, for my
sheep, as he was my shepherd. Jack came crying to me, the big tears coursing
down his cheeks, saying they were making him go. I said:
“Stay in my room.”
But a man followed in, cursing him and threatening to shoot
him if he did not go; so poor Jack had to yield. James Arnold, in trying to
escape from a back window, was captured and marched off. Henry, too, was taken;
I know not how or when, but probably when he and Bob went after the mules. I
had not believed they would force from their homes the poor, doomed negroes,
but such has been the fact here, cursing them and saying that “Jeff Davis
wanted to put them in his army, but that they should not fight for him, but for
the Union.” No! Indeed no! They are not friends to the slave. We have never
made the poor, cowardly negro fight, and it is strange, passing strange, that
the all-powerful Yankee nation with the whole world to back them, their ports
open, their armies filled with soldiers from all nations, should at last take
the poor negro to help them out against this little Confederacy which was to
have been brought back into the Union in sixty days' time!
My poor boys! My poor boys! What unknown trials are before
you! How you have clung to your mistress and assisted her in every way you
knew.
Never have I corrected them; a word was sufficient. Never
have they known want of any kind. Their parents are with me, and how sadly they
lament the loss of their boys. Their cabins are rifled of every valuable, the
soldiers swearing that their Sunday clothes were the white people's, and that
they never had money to get such things as they had. Poor Frank's chest was
broken open, his money and tobacco taken. He has always been a moneymaking and
saving boy; not infrequently has his crop brought him five hundred dollars and
more. All of his clothes and Rachel's clothes, which dear Lou gave her before
her death and which she had packed away, were stolen from her. Ovens, skillets,
coffee-mills, of which we had three, coffee-pots — not one have I left. Sifters
all gone!
Seeing that the soldiers could not be restrained, the guard
ordered me to have their [of the negroes] remaining possessions brought into my
house, which I did, and they all, poor things, huddled together in my room,
fearing every movement that the house would be burned.
A Captain Webber from Illinois came into my house. Of him I
claimed protection from the vandals who were forcing themselves into my room.
He said that he knew my brother Orrington [the late Orrington Lunt, a well-known
early settler of Chicago]. At that name I could not restrain my feelings, but,
bursting into tears, implored him to see my brother and let him know my
destitution. I saw nothing before me but starvation. He promised to do this,
and comforted me with the assurance that my dwelling-house would not be burned,
though my out-buildings might. Poor little Sadai went crying to him as to a
friend and told him that they had taken her doll, Nancy. He begged her to come
and see him, and he would give her a fine waxen one. [The doll was found later
in the yard of a neighbor, where a soldier had thrown it, and was returned to
the little girl. Her children later played with it, and it is now the plaything
of her granddaughter.]
He felt for me, and I give him and several others the
character of gentlemen. I don't believe they would have molested women and
children had they had their own way. He seemed surprised that I had not laid
away in my house, flour and other provisions. I did not suppose I could secure
them there, more than where I usually kept them, for in last summer's raid
houses were thoroughly searched. In parting with him, I parted as with a
friend.
Sherman himself and a greater portion of his army passed my
house that day. All day, as the sad moments rolled on, were they passing not
only in front of my house, but from behind; they tore down my garden palings,
made a road through my back-yard and lot field, driving their stock and riding
through, tearing down my fences and desolating my home — wantonly doing it when
there was no necessity for it.
Such a day, if I live to the age of Methuselah, may God
spare me from ever seeing again!
As night drew its sable curtains around us, the heavens from
every point were lit up with flames from burning buildings. Dinnerless and
supperless as we were, it was nothing in comparison with the fear of being
driven out homeless to the dreary woods. Nothing to eat! I could give my guard
no supper, so he left us. I appealed to another, asking him if he had wife, mother,
or sister, and how he should feel were they in my situation. A colonel from
Vermont left me two men, but they were Dutch, and I could not understand one
word they said.
My Heavenly Father alone saved me from the destructive fire.
My carriage-house had in it eight bales of cotton, with my carriage, buggy, and
harness. On top of the cotton were some carded cotton rolls, a hundred pounds
or more. These were thrown out of the blanket in which they were, and a large
twist of the rolls taken and set on fire, and thrown into the boat of my
carriage, which was close up to the cotton bales. Thanks to my God, the cotton
only burned over, and then went out. Shall I ever forget the deliverance?
To-night, when the greater part of the army had passed, it
came up very windy and cold. My room was full, nearly, with the negroes and
their bedding. They were afraid to go out, for my women could not step out of
the door without an insult from the Yankee soldiers. They lay down on the
floor; Sadai got down and under the same cover with Sally, while I sat up all
night, watching every moment for the flames to burst out from some of my
buildings. The two guards came into my room and laid themselves by my fire for
the night. I could not close my eyes, but kept walking to and fro, watching the
fires in the distance and dreading the approaching day, which, I feared, as
they had not all passed, would be but a continuation of horrors.
SOURCE: Dolly Lunt Burge, A Woman's Wartime Journal,
p. 20-32
