Diary of Clara Barton: Thursday, April 14, 1864

This was one of the most down-spirited days that ever came to me. All the world appeared selfish and treacherous. I can get no hold on a good noble sentiment anywhere. I have scanned over and over the whole moral horizon and it is all dark, the night clouds seem to have shut down, so stagnant, so dead, so selfish, so calculating. Is there no right? Are there no consequences attending wrong? How shall the world move on in all this weight of dead, morbid meanness? Shall lies prevail forevermore? Look at the state of things, both civil and military, that curse our Government. The pompous air with which little dishonest pimps lord it over their betters. Contractors ruining the Nation, and oppressing the poor, and no one rebukes them. See a monkey-faced official, not twenty rods from me, oppressing and degrading poor women who come up to his stall to feed their children, that he may steal with better grace and show to the Government how much his economy saves it each month. Poor blind Government never feels inside his pockets, pouching with ill-gotten gain, heavy with sin. His whole department know it, but it might not be quite wise for them to speak — they will tell it freely enough, but will not, dare not affirm it — COWARDS! Congress knows it, but no one can see that it will make votes for him at home by meddling with it, so it is winked at. The Cabinet know it, but people that live in glass houses must not throw stones. So it rests, and the women live lighter and sink lower, God help them. And next an ambitious, dishonest General lays a political plot to be executed with human life. He is to create a Senator, some memberships, a Governor, commissions, and all the various offices of a state, and the grateful recipients are to repay the favor by gaining for him his confirmation as Major-General. So the poor rank and file are marched out to do the job, a leader is selected known to be brave to rashness if need be, and given the command in the dark, that he may never be able to claim any portion of the glory — so that he cannot say I did it. Doomed, and he knows it, he is sent on, remonstrates, comes back and explains, is left alone with the responsibility on his shoulders, forces divided, animals starving, men suffering, enemy massing in front, and still there he is. Suddenly he is attacked, defeated as he expected he must be, and the world is shocked by the tales of his rashness and procedure contrary to orders. He cannot speak; he is a subordinate officer and must remain silent; the thousands with him know it, but they must not speak; Congress does not know it, and refuses to be informed; and the doomed one is condemned and the guilty one asks for his reward, and the admiring world claims it for him. He has had a battle and only lost two thousand men and gained nothing. Surely, this deserved something. And still the world moves on. No wonder it looks dark, though, to those who do not wear the tinsel. And so my day has been weary with these thoughts, and my heart heavy and I cannot raise it — I doubt the justice of almost all I see.

Evening. At eight Mr. Wilson called. I asked him if the investigation was closed. He replied, yes, and that General Seymour would leave the Department in disgrace. This was too much for my fretted soul, and I poured out the vials of my indignation in no stinted measure. I told him the facts, and what I thought of a Committee that was too imbecile to listen to the truth when it was presented to them; that they had made themselves a laughing-stock for even the privates in the service by their stupendous inactivity and gullibility; that they were all a set of dupes, not to say knaves, for I knew Gray of New York had been on using all his blarney with them that was possible to wipe over them, When I had freed my mind, and it was some time, he looked amazed and called for a written statement. I promised it. He left. I was anxious to possess myself of the most reliable facts in existence and decide to go to New York and see Colonel Hall and Dr. Marsh again; make my toilet ready, write some letters, and at three o'clock retired.

SOURCE: William Eleazar Barton, The Life of Clara Barton: Founder of the American Red Cross, Volume 1, p. 265-7

Diary of Corporal David L. Day: October 12, 1861

The boys are settling down to the routine of military duty, and getting accustomed to camp life. They take kindly to discipline, and seem anxious to learn the drill.

PRESENTATIONS.

Presentations are the order of the day. The adjutant has had a horse presented him by his firemen friends. A great, stout, clumsy, good-natured horse. I should think he was better adapted for hauling a fire engine than for a parade horse, but perhaps will answer the purpose well enough.

The major's friends have also presented him with a horse. A good kind of horse enough. Nothing very stylish or dashy about him for a war charger, but perhaps he can smell the battle as far as any horse. The major, in a clever little speech, assured his friends that they would never hear of the nag's striking his best gait to the rear. The major being a man of immense rotundity, I imagine that the horse after carrying him a couple of hours, would feel willing to give boot to go into the ranks rather than remain on the staff.

The Worcester ladies, with commendable patriotism, have presented us with a splendid silk banner (the national colors), and have enjoined us to carry it with us in our wanderings, and return it again to them without dishonor. And we have sworn by a thousand stout hearts and bright bayonets, that that banner shall float above the battlements of secession and be again returned to them, crowned with the laurel wreaths of victory. And when amid the flame and thunder of the battle, we look on its bright folds, remembering its fair donors, rush to victory and glory.

SPECULATIONS.

Our time is being occupied with drills and receiving company, with which we are highly favored and are always glad to see. The boys are having leave of absence, and are visiting their homes preparatory for their departure south. Many are the speculations among the boys as to our destination, but no one seems to know anything about it. I tell them I think we shall go to Dixie.

SELECTING A CHAPLAIN.

After hearing several candidates for the office of chaplain, they have finally settled on Rev. Horace James, pastor of the old South church, Worcester. I think they have shown good judgment in selecting a chaplain of the orthodox faith, as no one visiting our camp for an hour could doubt their belief in the existence of the burning lake by the way they consign each other to that locality.

THE LADIES.

The pretty girls, God bless their souls, are always first and foremost in every good work, and they are now in session at Agricultural Hall, busily at work for the soldiers. They are making repairs and alterations in our uniforms, sewing on chevrons and doing whatever small jobs of needlework we may desire. They have also furnished us with needles, thread, wax, buttons, pincushions, pins and other small articles which we may need. For all of which they will please accept the warmest emotions of grateful hearts.

SOURCE: David L. Day, My Diary of Rambles with the 25th Mass. Volunteer Infantry, p. 7-8

Bayard Taylor to Richard Henry Stoddard, April 21, 1862

Cedarcroft, Sunday, April 21, 1861.

Everything here is upside down. We live almost in a state of siege, with the rumors of war flying about us. At present we don't know what is going on. We have reckless secessionists within twelve miles of us. Everybody is arming. The women are at work night and day, making clothes for the volunteers. Fred has raised sixty riflemen, and goes off in two days. The people of Kennett have contributed four thousand dollars to equip them. All the young Quakers have enlisted. The excitement and anxiety is really terrible. We are so near the frontier that if the damnable Maryland traitors are not checked within three days we may have to meet them here. I never knew anything like the feeling — earnest, desperate, sublime — which the people exhibit. There are no parties any more. All are brothers, drawn together by the common danger. Chester County will furnish one thousand men, and dangerous men to meet. Of course we can't think of going to Europe now, nor until this immediate crisis is over. The danger is too near and too great. Our departure is postponed until some decisive action occurs. I cannot leave home now, though I want to go to New York to raise money. I shall have to sell one share of Tribune stock immediately, to pay Fred's pressing debts and let him go. C— L— has enlisted, W— C—, G—'s boys; everybody that can be spared, in fact. The old men are forming a home guard for the defense of their households.

I never had such a day as last Thursday in Washington. I had a private interview with Lincoln, which was very satisfactory. I passed through Baltimore just before the attack on the Massachusetts men, — four hours only. Wilmington is loyal, I think; the news to-day is favorable, but we live from hour to hour in a state of terrible excitement. Show this letter to Putnam immediately (I have no time to write to him), and let me ask him in this way immediately to send me a check for one hundred dollars, or fifty dollars, or twenty-five dollars, any sum he can spare, to buy arms. We are unarmed; that is our great danger. Just let him read this, as if written to him. Go to his house; if you don't find him at home, tell Fiske my situation. I will send him a letter as soon as I can. Seward was not to be seen when I was in Washington, and Sumner had just left. We are courageous here, and full of hope for the final result, but the next few days will decide our fate. I will write again soon. God and Liberty!

SOURCE: Marie Hansen-Taylor and Horace E. Scudder, Editors, Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor, Volume 1, p. 375-6

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: July 30, 1861 – First Entry

I have just been conversing with some young soldiers, who joined in the dangers and glories of the battle-field. They corroborate what I had before heard of the presence of Northern females. I would not mention it before in my diary, because I did not wish to record any thing which I did not know to be true. But when I receive the account from eye-witnesses whose veracity cannot be doubted, I can only say, that I feel mortified that such was the case. They came, not as Florence Nightingales to alleviate human suffering, but to witness and exult over it. With the full assurance of the success of their army they meant to pass over the mutilated limbs and mangled corpses of ours, and to go on their way rejoicing to scenes of festivity in the halls of the vanquished, and to revel over the blood of the slain, the groans of the dying, the wails of the widow and the fatherless. But “Linden saw another sight,” and these very delicate, gentle, womanly ladies, where were they? Flying back to Washington, in confusion and terror, pell-mell, in the wildest excitement. And where were their brave and honourable escorts? Flying, too; not as protectors to their fair friends, but with self-preservation alone in view. All went helter-skelter — coaches, cabriolets, barouches, buggies, flying over the roads, as though all Fairfax were mad.

"Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!

I see — I see thee near.

I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!

Like thee, I start; like thee, disordered fly!

Each bush to their disordered imaginations contained a savage Confederate. Cannon seemed thundering in the summer breeze, and in each spark of the lightning-bug, glinted and gleamed the sword and Bowie-knife of the blood-thirsty Southerner. Among the captured articles were ladies' dresses, jewels, and other gew-gaws, on their way to Richmond to the grand ball promised to them on their safe arrival. There were also fine wines, West India fruits, and almost everything else rich, or sweet, or intoxicating, brought by the gay party, for a right royal pic-nic on the field of blood. The wines and brandies came in well for our wounded that night, and we thank God for the superfluities of the wicked.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 46-7