Yesterday was a day of intense excitement in the city and
its surroundings. Early in the morning it was whispered about that some great
movement was on foot. Large numbers of troops were seen under arms, evidently
waiting for orders to march against the enemy. A. P. Hill's Division occupied
the range of hills near “Strawberry Hill,” the cherished home of my childhood,
overlooking the old “Meadow Bridges.” About three o'clock the order to move,
so long expected, was given. The Division marched steadily and rapidly to
the attack — the Fortieth Regiment, under command of my relative, Colonel J. M.
Brockenbrough, in which are so many of our dear boys, leading the advance. The
enemy's pickets were just across the river, and the men supposed they were in
heavy force of infantry and artillery, and that the passage of the bridge would
be hazardous in the extreme; yet their courage did not falter. The gallant
Fortieth, followed by Pegram's Battery, rushed across the bridge at
double-quick, and with exultant shouts drove the enemy's pickets from their
posts. The enemy was driven rapidly down the river to Mechanicsville, where the
battle raged long and fiercely. At nine o'clock all was quiet; the bloody
struggle over for the day. Our victory is said to be glorious, but not
complete. The fighting is even now renewed, for I hear the firing of heavy
artillery. Last night our streets were thronged until a late hour to catch the
last accounts from couriers and spectators returning from the field. A bulletin
from the Assistant Surgeon of the Fortieth, sent to his anxious father, assured
me of the safety of some of those most dear to me; but the sickening sight of
the ambulances bringing in the wounded met my eye at every turn. The President,
and many others, were on the surrounding hills during the fight, deeply
interested spectators. The calmness of the people during the progress of the
battle was marvellous. The balloons of the enemy hovering over the battle-field
could be distinctly seen from the outskirts of the city, and the sound of
musketry as distinctly heard. All were anxious, but none alarmed for the safety
of the city. From the firing of the first gun till the close of the battle
every spot favourable for observation was crowded. The tops of the Exchange,
the Ballard House, the Capitol, and almost every other tall house were covered
with human beings; and after nightfall the commanding hills from the
President's house to the Alms-House were covered, like a vast amphitheatre,
with men, women and children, witnessing the grand display of fireworks — beautiful,
yet awful — and sending death amid those whom our hearts hold so dear. I am
told (for I did not witness it) that it was a scene of unsurpassed
magnificence. The brilliant light of bombs bursting in the air and passing to
the ground, the innumerable lesser lights, emitted by thousands and thousands
of muskets, together with the roar of artillery and the rattling of small-arms,
constituted a scene terrifically grand and imposing. What spell has bound our
people? Is their trust in God, and in the valour of our troops, so great that
they are unmoved by these terrible demonstrations of our powerful foe? It would
seem so, for when the battle was over the crowd dispersed and retired to their
respective homes with the seeming tranquility of persons who had been
witnessing a panorama of transactions in a far- off country, in which they felt
no personal interest; though they knew that their countrymen slept on their
arms, only awaiting the dawn to renew the deadly conflict, on the success of
which depended not only the fate of our capital, but of that splendid army,
containing the material on which our happiness depends. Ah! many full,
sorrowful hearts were at home, breathing out prayers for our success; or else
were busy in the hospitals, administering to the wounded. Those on the
hill-sides and house-tops were too nervous and anxious to stay at home — not
that they were apprehensive for the city, but for the fate of those who were
defending it, and their feeling was too deep for expression. The same feeling,
perhaps, which makes me write so much this morning. But I must go to other
duties.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 122-4
