Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: September 16, 1864

Bright and pleasant—the weather.

Gen. Hood telegraphs that his army is so much mortified at the feeble resistance it made to Sherman, that he is certain it will fight better the next time.

Mr. Benjamin asks a passport and transportation for Mrs. Jane L. Brant, who goes to Europe in the employment of the government.

Gen. Morgan's funeral took place to-day. None were allowed to see him; for the coffin was not opened. On the way to Hollywood Cemetery, Gen. Ewell received a dispatch that our pickets were driven in at Chaffin's Farm. This demonstration of the enemy compelled him to withdraw the military portion of the procession, and they were hurried off to the battle-field.

The local troops (clerks, etc.) are ordered to assemble at 5 P.M. to-day. What does Grant mean? He chooses a good time, if he means anything serious; for our people, and many of the troops, are a little despondent. They are censuring the President again, whose popularity ebbs and flows.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 2, p. 283-4

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: August 18, 1864

Cloudy and pleasant.

Still we have no authentic account of the details of the fights on the north side of the James River. We know we lost two brigadier-generals, and that we captured some 600 prisoners. Of the number killed and wounded on either side is all conjecture, although a semi-official statement makes our loss but "light.”

Nevertheless, I happen to know that the President rode out yesterday, and remained until late in the night: for Mr. Craddock, his special detective (and formerly his messenger), whom he sent for to accompany him, assures me while on the field there was a flag of truce to bury the dead, and that the slaughter had been large. Our cavalry had suffered; but he thinks the enemy's infantry lost many more men than all our slain together. He says, moreover, that only one negro prisoner reached the city. The rest, thrust forward, being killed on the field in action, I suppose.

At 2 P.M. a rumor began to be expanded that a terrific and probably a decisive battle was going on at Petersburg. One report says the enemy assaulted our lines, the operations on this side of the river having been more a feint to draw our forces away; another that Gen. Beauregard attacked the enemy, finding their troops in large force had crossed over to this side, and this in the absence of Gen. Lee, he taking the responsibility. Be this as it may, some stir was in the cabinet: and the Secretary of War was with the President from 11 A.M. till 3 P.M. This might be on "appointments and promotions," and it might be on Beauregard.

About 5 P.M. brisk artillery firing was heard in a southeast direction, which increased in rapidity, and apparently became nearer the city, until musketry could be distinctly heard from all parts of the city. My daughter Anne and her younger brother, Thomas, had walked out to Hollywood Cemetery, where they could not only hear the firing, but could see the lines of smoke below the city, on the left or north bank. Between 6 and 7 P.M. the sound seemed to recede, indicating that the assault had been repulsed; and finally all was silent again. It is probable the battle raged likewise on the south side of the river, and it may be hoped the assault on Petersburg was similarly repulsed. We shall know to-morrow.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 2, p. 265-6

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: Sunday, December 4, 1864

We attended this evening the funeral of Colonel Angus W. McDonald, the relative of Mr. –––. His is a sad story. He was educated at West Point, but in early life resigned his position in the regular army and joined a company of fur traders, went with them to the Rocky Mountains, where he led an adventurous life, well suited to his excitable temper. For years, his life was full of adventure, with the broad heavens for his roof and the cold earth for his couch. With a bold spirit and great muscular power, he soon acquired extensive influence with the Indian tribes among which he moved, and was chosen as the chief of one of them, where he was known as the “Big Warrior.” As such he led his braves to many a hard-fought battle and taught surroundmg tribes to fear him and them, by such courage and prowess as always so deeply impress the savage mind. Many incidents of his life among the Indians are full of interest. On one occasion, having received an injury from a neighbouring tribe, he sent to them that he was coming to settle with them for it, and that they must meet him for the purpose, at a certain time and place. Accordingly, all their warriors were assembled and seated in due form, at the proper distance from and around a central post, ready and waiting for the conference. At the appointed time, the “Big Warrior,” in full dress, made his appearance, and striding through to the centre of the dark, silent circle, he struck his tomahawk deep into the "post," and looking quietly but sternly around from one gloomy warrior to another, he in few words told them why he was there, and what he required of them. “You have insulted me,” said he; you robbed some of my men, and you killed two of them ; you must restore the goods and give up the murderers, or you must fight it out, and I am here for that purpose.” His imposing appearance, his boldness, the justice of his cause, and his steady purpose of retaliating to the full, so awed them, that his terms were promptly assented to, and he quickly returned to his people with the most ample satisfaction for the injuries they had received. He grew weary of this life after some years, and determined to return to his early home and associations. Acting upon this impulse, we next find him in Romney, Hampshire County, among his kindred, where he quietly resumed the duties of civilized life, was married, and practised law for years. Still restless and different from other men, he was constantly speculating in one thing and another — politics, property, etc. At one time he was in the Virginia Legislature, and controlled the vote of his county in a way new to our republican experience. For this purpose he got possession of a large mountain region, filling it with a population whom he ruled very much as a Scottish chief would have done in his ancestral Highlands, and using their votes to decide any public controversy in which he chose to engage. This, of course, did not last long; it was too much opposed to the public views and feelings, and under the consequent changes around him, he found it expedient to return to private life. From this retirement, however, his native State soon recalled him, as one of the three commissioners to settle the boundary line between Maryland and Virginia. In his capacity as such, the Virginia Legislature sent him to England to examine the public records bearing upon this subject. He discharged the duties of his mission with ability and success, as his voluminous report will show. The present war found him residing with his large family near Winchester, his native place. The Confederate Government having given him the commission of a colonel, it was hoped that he would be of great use in the bloody contest; but a discipline better suited in its severity to Indian warriors than to our high-minded volunteers, together with advanced years and declining health, disappointed the expectations of himself and his friends. He found, indeed, that bodily infirmity alone rendered him unfit for active service, and this, with other difficulties, made it proper to break up his command. Thus it happened that when that brute, Hunter, marched through Lexington, spreading desolation in his path. Colonel McDonald, then a resident of the town, believing that the enemy, who had manifested great harshness towards him, injuring his property near Winchester, etc., would arrest him, determined to keep out of their way, and with others took refuge in a neighbouring forest. Here, unfortunately, the enemy found him, with his son Harry, a youth of some sixteen years, and took them prisoners. It is somewhat singular that the presence of this devoted son caused the father's arrest. He had always determined that he would never surrender, never be taken alive. But when he looked at this boy, who had fought so nobly by his side, and who would surely be sacrificed if he refused to surrender, he could fight no longer; it seemed to him, as he afterwards said, as the voice from Heaven which stayed the armed hand of Abraham, and he could not fire another shot. Father and son were thus captured. Harry escaped in a day or two; but the father was tied and dragged along at a rapid pace towards the Maryland line. When he could no longer walk a step, they allowed him to get into a wagon with nothing to rest upon but some old iron, rough tools, etc. Thus they hastened him to Cumberland, Maryland, where they handcuffed him and put him into solitary confinement; thence he was hurried to Wheeling, where he was again, with his manacles on, shut up in a dungeon, seven feet by ten, with nothing to relieve the sufferings incident to such a fate, nothing to expect or hope for, but the bitterest cruelty. From this dreadful captivity he was released two or three weeks ago, and reached the house of his daughter, in this city, with health, bad for years, now worse than ever, and constitution entirely broken by hard and cruel bondage. Cheered by freedom, and the society of his children who were here, he flattered himself that he would be enabled to return to his home of refuge in Lexington. This hope proved delusive. It soon appeared that his whole nervous system was shattered, and his end rapidly approaching; his wife was sent for, but did not arrive until the day after he died. Not dreaming of what awaited her, she came full of hope and joy at the anticipated meeting. But who may describe the grief which overwhelmed her on her arrival? His checkered life was closed in his sixty-sixth year. The funeral took place this evening at St. Paul's Church. He was buried with military honors, at Hollywood Cemetery. While manacled in the horrid dungeon, his only petition was to be allowed to keep a Bible, from which he professed to have derived great peace and comfort His family think that he returned from prison a changed man. His spirit, which was naturally stern, had become gentle and loving, and strangely grateful to every being who showed him the least kindness. The Bible was still his daily companion; from it he seemed to derive great comfort and an abiding faith in Christ his Saviour.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 318-22

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: September 18, 1864

Nothing yet from Mr. —— about our rooms. All the furnished rooms that I have seen, except those, would cost us from $100 to $110 per month for each room, which, of course, we cannot pay; but we will try and not be anxious overmuch, for the Lord has never let us want comforts since we left our own dear home, and if we use the means which He has given us properly and in His fear, He will not desert us now.

I went with Mr. —— as usual this morning to the “Officers' Hospital,” where he read a part of the service and delivered an address to such patients among the soldiers as were well enough to attend. I acted as his chorister, and when the services were over, and he went around to the bedsides of the patients, I crossed the street, as I have done several times before, to the cemetery — the old “Shockoe Hill Cemetery.” It is, to me, the most interesting spot in the city. It is a melancholy thought, that, after an absence of thirty years, I am almost a stranger in my native place. In this cemetery I go from spot to spot, and find the names that were the household words of my childhood and youth; the names of my father's and mother's friends; of the friends of my sisters, and of my own school-days. The first that struck me was that of the venerable and venerated Bishop Moore, on the monument erected by his church; then, that of his daughter, the admirable Miss Christian; then the monument to Colonel Ambler, erected by his children. Mrs. Ambler lies by him. Mr. and Mrs. Chapman Johnson, Judge and Mrs. Cabell, Mr. and Mrs. John Wickham, surrounded by their children, who were the companions of my youth; also, their lovely grand-daughter, Mrs. W. H. F. Lee, who passed away last winter, at an early age, while her husband was prisoner of war. Near them is the grave of the Hon. Benjamin Watkins Leigh; of Judge and Mrs. Stanard, and of their gifted son; of dear Mrs. Henningham Lyons and her son James, from whose untimely end she never recovered; of our sweet friend, Mrs. Lucy Green. Then there is the handsome monument of Mrs. Abraham Warwick and the grave of her son, dear Clarence, who died so nobly at Gaines's Mill in 1862. His grave seems to be always covered with fresh flowers, a beautiful offering to one whose young life was so freely given to his country. Again I stood beside the tombs of two friends, whom I dearly loved, Mrs. Virginia Heth and Mrs. Mary Ann Barney, the lovely daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Gwathney, whose graves are also there. Then the tomb of our old friend, Mr. James Rawlings, and those of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert A. Claiborne and their daughter, Mary Burnet. Just by them is the newly-made grave of our sweet niece, Mary Anna, the wife of Mr. H. Augustine Claiborne, freshly turfed and decked with the flowers she loved so dearly. A little farther on lies my young cousin, Virginia, wife of Major J. H. Claiborne, and her two little daughters. But why should I go on? Time would fail me to enumerate all the loved and lost. Their graves look so peaceful in that lovely spot. Most of them died before war came to distress them. The names of two persons I cannot omit, before whose tombs I pause with a feeling of veneration for their many virtues. One was that of Mrs. Sully, my music-teacher, a lady who was known and respected by the whole community for her admirable character, accompanied by the most quiet and gentle manner. The other was that of Mr. Joseph Danforth, the humble but excellent friend of my precious father. The cemetery at Hollywood is of later date, though many very dear to me repose amid its beautiful shades.

But enough of the past and of sadness. I must now turn to busy life again, and note a little victory, of which General Lee telegraphed yesterday, by which we gained some four hundred prisoners, many horses and wagons, and 2,500 beeves. These last are most acceptable to our commissariat!

The Southern Army are having an armistice of ten days, for the inhabitants of Atlanta to get off from their homes. Exiled by Sherman, my heart bleeds for them. May the good Lord have mercy upon them, and have them in His holy keeping!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 307-9

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 12, 1863

We have lately had a little fight on the Blackwater. The Yankees intended to take General Pryor by surprise, but he was wide awake, and ready to receive and repulse them handsomely. The late democratic majorities at the North seem to have given the people courage; denunciations are heard against the despotism of the Government. Gold has gone up to 160, causing a ferment. Oh that they would “bite and devour one another!” Since I have been so occupied in nursing B. I have not had as much time for the hospital, but go when I can. A few days ago, on going there in the morning, I found Miss T. deeply interested about a soldier who had been brought in the evening before. The gentleman who accompanied him had found him in the pouring rain, wandering about the streets, shivering with cold, and utterly unable to tell his own story. The attendants quickly replaced his wet clothes by dry ones, and put him into a warm bed; rubbing and warm applications were resorted to, and a surgeon administered restoratives. Physical reaction took place, but no clearing of the mind. When soothingly asked about his name, his home, and his regiment, he would look up and speak incoherently, but no light was thrown on the questions. He was watched and nursed during the night. His pulse gradually weakened, and by the break of day he was no more. That morning I found the nameless, homeless boy on the couch which I had so often seen similarly occupied. The wind had raised one corner of the sheet, and as I approached to replace it a face was revealed which riveted me to the spot. It was young, almost boyish, and though disease and death had made sad ravages, they could not conceal delicately-carved features, a high, fair forehead, and light hair, which had been well cared for. He looked like one of gentle blood. All seemed so mysterious, my heart yearned over him, and my tears fell fast. Father, mother, sisters, brothers — where are they? The morning papers represented the case, and called for information. He may have escaped in delirium from one of the hospitals! That evening, kind, gentle hands placed him in his soldier's coffin, and he had Christian burial at “Hollywood,” with the lonely word “Stranger” carved upon the headboard. We trust that the sad story in the papers may meet some eye of which he had once been the light, for he was surely “Somebody's Darling.” Sweet lines have been written, of which this sad case reminds me:—

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,

      Where the dead and dying lay—

Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls—

      Somebody's darling was borne one day:—

Somebody's darling I so young and brave,

      Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face—

Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave—

      The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,

      Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;

Pale are the lips of delicate mould—

      Somebody's darling is dying now.

Back from the beautiful, blue-veined brow,

      Brush his wandering waves of gold;

Cross his hand on his bosom now—

      Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake;

      Murmur a prayer soft and low;

One bright curl from its fair mates take,—

      They were somebody's pride, you know

Somebody's hand hath rested there;

      Was it a mother's, soft and white?

Or have the lips of a sister fair

      Been baptized in their waves of light?

God knows best! He has somebody's love .

      Somebody's heart enshrined him there;

Somebody wafted his name above,

      Night and morn, on wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away,

      Looking so handsome, brave, and grand

Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay;

      Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,

      Yearning to hold him again to her heart;

And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,

      And the smiling, childlike lips apart.

Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

      Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;

Carve on a wooden slab o'er his head—

      “Somebody's darling slumbers here!”

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 188-91

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: Monday Night, March 17, 1862

This morning I was at the funeral, at St. Paul's Church; the service was read by the Rev. J. P. McGuire and Rev. C. J. Gibson. Bishop Johns made a most solemn address. The procession, long and sad, then wended its way to Hollywood Cemetery.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 102