Diary of Dolly Lunt Burge: November 22, 1864

After breakfast this morning I went over to my grave-yard to see what had befallen that. To my joy, I found it had not been disturbed. As I stood by my dead, I felt rejoiced that they were at rest. Never have I felt so perfectly reconciled to the death of my husband as I do to-day, while looking upon the ruin of his lifelong labor. How it would have grieved him to see such destruction! Yes, theirs is the lot to be envied. At rest, rest from care, rest from heartaches, from trouble. . . .

Found one of my large hogs killed just outside the grave-yard.

Walked down to the swamp, looking for the wagon and gear that Henry hid before he was taken off. Found some of my sheep; came home very much wearied, having walked over four miles.

Mr. and Mrs. Rockmore called. Major Lee came down again after some cattle, and while he was here the alarm was given that more Yankees were coming. I was terribly alarmed and packed my trunks with clothing, feeling assured that we should be burned out now. Major Lee swore that he would shoot, which frightened me, for he was intoxicated enough to make him ambitious. He rode off in the direction whence it was said they were coming. Soon after, however, he returned, saying it was a false alarm, that it was some of our own men. Oh, dear! Are we to be always living in fear and dread! Oh, the horrors, the horrors of war!

SOURCE: Dolly Lunt Burge, A Woman's Wartime Journal, p. 38-40

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: September 25, 1862

Blankets, that used to sell for $6, are now $25 per pair; and sheets are selling for $15 per pair, which might have been had a year ago for $4. Common 4·4 bleached cotton shirting is selling at $1 a yard.

Gen. Lee's locality and operations, since the battle of Sharpsburg or Shepherdstown, are still enveloped in mystery.

About one hundred of the commissioned officers of Pope's army, taken prisoners by Jackson, and confined as felons in our prisons, in conformity to the President's retaliatory order, were yesterday released on parole, in consequence of satisfactory communications from the United States Government, disavowing Pope's orders, I presume, and stating officially the fact that Pope himself has been relieved from command.

We have taken, and paroled, within the last twelve or fifteen weeks, no less than forty odd thousand prisoners! The United States must owe us some thirty thousand men. This does not look like progress in the work of subjugation.

Horrible! I have seen men just from Manassas, and the battlefield of the 30th August, where, they assure me, hundreds of dead Yankees still lie unburied! They are swollen “as large as cows,” say they, “and are as black as crows.” No one can now undertake to bury them. When the wind blows from that direction, it is said the scent of carrion is distinctly perceptible at the White House in Washington. It is said the enemy are evacuating Alexandria. I do not believe this.

A gentleman (Georgian) to whom I gave a passport to visit the army, taking two substitutes, over forty-five years of age, in place of two sick young men in the hospitals, informs me that he got upon the ground just before the great battle at Sharpsburg commenced. The substitutes were mustered in, and in less than an hour after their arrival, one of them was shot through the hat and hair, but his head was untouched. He says they fought as well as veterans.

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* It is held by the government now, January, 1866, and my family are homeless and destitute. Onancock, Accomac County, Va. — J. B. J.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 155-6

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Thursday, August 28, 1862

I am satisfied. I have seen my home again. Tuesday I was up at sunrise, and my few preparations were soon completed, and before any one was awake,

I walked over to Mr. Elder's, through mud and dew, to meet Charlie. Fortunate was it for me that I started so early; for I found him hastily eating his breakfast, and ready to leave. He was very much opposed to my going; and for some time I was afraid he would force me to remain; but at last he consented, — perhaps because I did not insist, — and with wet feet and without a particle of breakfast, I at length found myself in the buggy on the road home. The ride afforded me a series of surprises. Half the time I found myself halfway out of the little low-necked buggy when I thought I was safely in; and the other half, I was surprised to find myself really in when I thought I was wholly out. And so on, for mile after mile, over muddy roads, until we came to a most terrific cross-road, where we were obliged to pass, and which is best undescribed. Four miles from town we stopped at Mrs. Brown's to see mother, and after a few moments' talk, went on our road.

I saw the first Yankee camp that Will Pinckney and Colonel Bird had set fire to the day of the battle. Such a shocking sight of charred wood, burnt clothes, tents, and all imaginable articles strewn around, I had never before seen. I should have been very much excited, entering the town by the route our soldiers took; but I was not. It all seemed tame and familiar. I could hardly fancy I stood on the very spot where the severest struggle had taken place. The next turn of the road brought us to two graves, one on each side of the road, the resting-place of two who fell that day. They were merely left in the ditch where they fell, and earth from the side was pulled over them. When Miriam passed, parts of their coats were sticking out of the grave; but some kind hand had scattered fresh earth over them when I saw them. Beyond, the sight became more common. I was told that their hands and feet were visible from many. And one poor fellow lay unburied, just as he had fallen, with his horse across him, and both skeletons. That sight I was spared, as the road near which he was lying was blocked up by trees, so we were forced to go through the woods, to enter, instead of passing by, the Catholic graveyard. In the woods, we passed another camp our men destroyed, while the torn branches above testified to the number of shells our men had braved to do the work. Next to Mr. Barbee's were the remains of a third camp that was burned; and a few more steps made me suddenly hold my breath, for just before us lay a dead horse with the flesh still hanging, which was hardly endurable. Close by lay a skeleton, — whether of man or horse, I did not wait to see. Not a human being appeared until we reached the Penitentiary, which was occupied by our men. After that, I saw crowds of wagons moving furniture out, but not a creature that I knew. Just back of our house was all that remained of a nice brick cottage — namely, four crumbling walls. The offense was that the husband was fighting for the Confederates; so the wife was made to suffer, and is now homeless, like many thousands besides. It really seems as though God wanted to spare our homes. The frame dwellings adjoining were not touched, even. The town was hardly recognizable; and required some skill to avoid the corners blocked up by trees, so as to get in at all.

Our house could not be reached by the front, so we left the buggy in the back yard, and running through the lot without stopping to examine the storeroom and servants' rooms that opened wide, I went through the alley and entered by the front door.

Fortunate was it for this record that I undertook to describe the sacking only from Miriam's account. If I had waited until now, it would never have been mentioned; for as I looked around, to attempt such a thing seemed absurd. I stood in the parlor in silent amazement; and in answer to Charlie's “Well?” I could only laugh. It was so hard to realize. As I looked for each well-known article, I could hardly believe that Abraham Lincoln's officers had really come so low down as to steal in such a wholesale manner. The papier-maché workbox Miriam had given me was gone. The baby sacque I was crocheting, with all knitting needles and wools, gone also. Of all the beautiful engravings of Annapolis that Will Pinckney had sent me, there remained a single one. Gentlemen, my name is written on each! Not a book remained in the parlor, except “Idyls of the King,” that contained my name also, and which, together with the door-plate, was the only case in which the name of Morgan was spared. They must have thought we were related to John Morgan, and wreaked their vengeance on us for that reason. Thanks for the honor, but there is not the slightest connection! Where they did not carry off articles bearing our name, they cut it off, as in the visiting-cards, and left only the first name. Every book of any value or interest, except Hume and Gibbon, was “borrowed” permanently. I regretted Macaulay more than all the rest. Brother's splendid French histories went, too; all except “L’Histoire de la Bastille.” However, as they spared father's law libraries (all except one volume they used to support a flour barrel with, while they emptied it near the parlor door), we ought to be thankful.

The dining-room was very funny. I looked around for the cut-glass celery and preserve dishes that were to be part of my “dot,” as mother always said, together with the champagne glasses that had figured on the table the day that I was born; but there remained nothing. There was plenty of split-up furniture, though. I stood in mother's room before the shattered armoir, which I could hardly believe the same that I had smoothed my hair before, as I left home three weeks previously. Father's was split across, and the lock torn off, and in the place of the hundreds of articles it contained, I saw two bonnets at the sight of which I actually sat down to laugh. One was mother's velvet, which looked very much like a football in its present condition. Mine was not to be found, as the officers forgot to return it. Wonder who has my imperial? I know they never saw a handsomer one, with its black velvet, purple silk, and ostrich feathers.

I went to my room. Gone was my small paradise! Had this shocking place ever been habitable? The tall mirror squinted at me from a thousand broken angles. It looked so knowing! I tried to fancy the Yankee officers being dragged from under my bed by the leg, thanks to Charles; but it seemed too absurd; so I let them alone. My desk! What a sight! The central part I had kept as a little curiosity shop with all my little trinkets and keepsakes of which a large proportion were from my gentlemen friends; I looked for all I had left, found only a piece of the McRae, which, as it was labeled in full, I was surprised they had spared. Precious letters I found under heaps of broken china and rags; all my notes were gone, with many letters. I looked for a letter of poor –––, in cipher, with the key attached, and name signed in plain hand. I knew it would hardly be agreeable to him to have it read, and it certainly would be unpleasant to me to have it published; but I could not find it. Miriam thinks she saw something answering the description, somewhere, though. Bah! What is the use of describing such a scene?¹ Many suffered along with us, though none so severely. Indeed, the Yankees cursed loudly at those who did not leave anything worth stealing. They cannot complain of us, on that score. All our handsome Brussels carpets, together with Lydia's fur, were taken, too. What did they not take? In the garret, in its darkest corner, a whole gilt-edged china set of Lydia's had been overlooked; so I set to work and packed it up, while Charlie packed her furniture in a wagon, to send to her father.

It was now three o'clock; and with my light linen dress thrown off, I was standing over a barrel putting in cups and saucers as fast as I could wrap them in the rags that covered the floor, when Mr. Larguier sent me a nice little dinner. I had been so many hours without eating — nineteen, I think, during three of which I had slept — that I had lost all appetite; but nevertheless I ate it, to show my appreciation. If I should hereafter think that the quantity of rags was exaggerated, let me here state that, after I had packed the barrel and china with them, it made no perceptible diminution of the pile.

As soon as I had finished my task, Charlie was ready to leave again; so I left town without seeing, or hearing, any one, or any thing, except what lay in my path. As we drove out of the gate, I begged Charlie to let me get my bird, as I heard Charles Barker had him. A man was dispatched, and in a few minutes returned with my Jimmy. I have since heard that Tiche deserted him the day of the battle, as I so much feared she would; and that Charles found him late in the evening and took charge of him. With my pet once more with me, we drove off again. I cast many a longing look at the graveyard; but knowing Charlie did not want to stop, I said nothing, though I had been there but once in three months, and that once, six weeks ago. I could see where the fence had been thrown down by our soldiers as they charged the Federals, but it was now replaced, though many a picket was gone. Once more I stopped at Mrs. Brown's, while Charlie went on to Clinton, leaving me to drive mother here in the morning. Early yesterday, after seeing Miriam's piano and the mattresses packed up and on the road, we started off in the buggy, and after a tedious ride through a melting sun, arrived here about three o'clock, having again missed my dinner, which I kept a profound secret until supper-time.

By next Ash Wednesday, I will have learned how to fast without getting sick! Though very tired, I sat sewing until after sunset, dictating a page and a half to Anna, who was writing to Howell.

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¹ In her book, From Flag to Flag, Mrs. Eliza McHatton Ripley gives a vivid description of Judge Morgan's house as she herself saw it after the sacking. — W. D.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 196-203

Major Wilder Dwight: Friday Evening, October 25, 1861

Camp Near Conrad's Ferry, October 25,

Friday Evening.

I shall try to send you some, pictures, though I am too tired to-night for anything but sleep.

Scene, our old camp; time, evening. The regiment just getting into marching array under crisp starlight. The men gay with singing and laughter. The camp one huge bonfire of old bedding and tent-floors. Every man in fine marching condition. Again: Scene, the bank of the canal at Conrad's Ferry; time, eight o'clock the next morning. The regiment huddled in dripping groups, under a driving rain. The men tired and silent. Ambulances of wounded men passing by. Blankets swung on poles, covering the bodies of the slain, and borne along with that heavy, dull tread which betokens the presence of death. Jaded stragglers from the river hurrying back, cold and half naked, to their camps; the interchange of greetings and tidings. The Colonel and other field-officers huddled under an apple tree, breakfasting upon a hard-boiled egg, and shivering over a feeble fire, questioning stragglers about the fight. Up comes a Yankee-looking fellow, clad only in an overcoat, with that peculiar hunched-up movement which indicates shuddering cold. Dialogue between Colonel Gordon and Yankee. Colonel G. Where do you come from? Y. The river. G. What regiment? Y. Massachusetts Fifteenth. G. Did you fight? Y. Wal, I guess we did some. G. How many times did you fire? Y. Thirty or forty. G. What did you do during the day? Y. Wal, at first we was skirmishing along, and I got behind a tree, and I was doing first rate. I come out once, but I see a feller sightin' at me, and so I got in again suddin. Then, arter a while, the cavalry came down on us. I see there wa'n't much chance, and so I just dropped into a hole there was there, and stayed still. Pretty soon we retreated towards the river. We got together there, and formed a kind of a line, and then the fitin' really began. Some fellers came out near us, and says they, “We 're Colonel Baker's men.” “Guess not,” says I. “Yes we are,” says they. “I know better,” says I. “Let 'er rip, boys!” and we fired on 'em. But 't wa'n't no kind o' use. Baker got killed, and we couldn't see the enemy, and they raked us like death. I finally come down the bank with the rest on 'em. I see Colonel Devens there. Says I, “Colonel, wot's to be done now?” “Boys,” says he, “you must take care of yourselves.” “All right, Colonel,” says I. And the way my 'couterments come off was a caution. I swum the river. But I tell you there was a sight on 'em didn't get across.” G. Do you want to go back again? Y. Wal, not till I get rested. G. You 're cold, ain't you? Y. I tell you, I just am. G. Don't you want some whiskey? Y. Don't I? (Yankee takes a pull at the Colonel's flask, and expresses himself only by a long, silent, intensely meaning wink.) Yankee then turns and sees a shivering figure approaching. “Hullo, John; I never expected to see you again. Wal, I guess we'd better go to camp,” and off he moves. The drollery of the scene I cannot give. I just indicate an outline of the cool, circumstantial narratives that every other man would give you. We found none so amusing as this, which relieved our tedious breakfast. But the men showed no fear, and, only by an occasional allusion, any sense of the terrors through which some of them had passed. Their only idea seemed to be, If there only had been more of us, how we would have licked 'em! All accounts agree that the two Massachusetts regiments fought splendidly, as far as individual daring and coolness go.

I sent you off a letter yesterday; for I must continue my story without a formal introduction of each picture. I mailed the letter with the ink wet upon it, and went off on my duty to the river, to take charge of my picket-line along the canal. But as tattoo is now beating, and as I put on my clothes in Washington on Monday morning and have not yet taken them off this Friday night, I will tell the rest of my story to-morrow.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 123-4

Captain Charles Fessenden Morse, September 21, 1862

Maryland Heights, September 21, 1862.

To go back a little; last Sunday, we marched through Frederick, almost the last corps of McClellan's army. We marched to the sound of the cannon to Middletown Heights, reaching the latter place about half-past one Monday morning, after the battle had been fought and won by our men. We lay down on the ground and slept till daylight.

Monday we marched to within about five miles of Sharpsburgh. Tuesday we united our corps to the main army. A battle was expected that day, but nothing took place beyond a little shelling. We were aroused that night at ten o'clock and marched to our position on line, reaching it between one and two A. M. We were just behind Hooker's division. There was continual picket firing throughout the night.

I awoke at daylight with the full conviction that we were going to fight a battle that day. The first thing to do, of course, was to eat a good breakfast, which I fortunately had with me. I had scarcely finished before the cannonading began, followed quickly by heavy musketry volleys. We got under arms at once and our corps marched forward. We halted just before reaching the field, while our gallant general, Mansfield, gave the orders for our disposition. He was a splendid old veteran; fine white hair and beard. He had commanded us for three days only, but we all felt his good influence. The poor man received his mortal wound before we had been under fire five minutes.

Our brigade moved up into an apple orchard; we had the right. The Third Wisconsin was engaged first, receiving a tremendous fire; we were quite well protected. Captain Mudge was slightly wounded, and about a half a dozen men. Our regiment was now called upon to support the Third Wisconsin. We formed a line almost at right angles with theirs, and poured a heavy cross-fire on the rebels, who were in a cornfield not a hundred yards off; this continued about ten minutes, when the rebel line broke, turned and ran. Our brigade now advanced with a tremendous cheer; the whole field before us was literally covered with dead and dying; we took a number of prisoners from the rebels and the battle flag of the Eleventh Mississippi. We advanced in line for several hundred yards, then halted; our part of the work had been done for the present.

It was sad, now, to look around and see the shattered battalions that were left in the places of the comparatively full regiments we had seen an hour before. The Third Wisconsin had lost more than half its numbers, and almost all its officers; it was very much the same with the Forty-sixth Pennsylvania. Our loss had been very small, though I think our fire was altogether the most effective of any regiment. Colonel Dwight caught up our rebel flag and rode by our line, waving it triumphantly; every cap went off and a cheer went up that you must almost have heard at Jamaica Plain. It was one of our poor Lieutenant-Colonel's last gallant acts, and I don't believe many who saw him will ever forget it.

All of a sudden, Sumner's whole corps came up behind us; we gave them a cheer as they passed by. They were in three lines and looked splendidly. They advanced into a wood and were met by an awful fire; they returned it gallantly, but were unequal to their task and were obliged to give way to the right a little, leaving the woods to the enemy. All this time we were lying down flat under a heavy fire of solid shot and shell, which tore the ground up around us, but as usual did no harm.

Now came our turn again; Gordon's brigade was ordered to attack the woods on the right. We crossed a high rail fence into a lane¹ and ensconced ourselves behind the fence on the other side within fifty yards of the woods; we had on our right and left two new regiments. We had hardly taken our position when the rebel line came out of the woods, so near you could distinguish the features of the men. We gave them a volley which sent them back in quick time under cover of a natural breastwork they had there; then, without any cause, the new regiments bolted, officers [Sept. 22, 1862, The first sheet was written on picket: I was suddenly relieved and am now in camp in Pleasant Valley] and men, and we were left alone. We stood it for about ten minutes, losing a third of our men and several officers, when the order was reluctantly given to fall back. This we did in good order (though it was hard work getting over that high fence in our rear, with much appearance of dignity), for about a hundred yards, when the regiment was halted; then ranks closed up and again made ready for attack or defence.

Now, too, it was sad to look at our thinned ranks; I found I had lost two men killed and five wounded; many of the companies had suffered more severely, but our greatest loss was Colonel Dwight. I saw his horse shot, and saw him dismount and try and hold his horse by the head, but the animal struggled so violently that he broke away; almost immediately afterward, Colonel Dwight received his death wound. He was within six feet of Colonel Andrews at the time, and as he was struck and sank to the ground, said, "That's done for me." As soon as our regiment halted, four men immediately volunteered to bring him in; this they succeeded in doing, though all the time under a heavy fire. He was carried to a farmer's house, but lived only about thirty-six hours. Lieutenant Mills, acting Adjutant, was badly shot through both legs; Crowninshield received a flesh wound in the leg. Captain Francis was shot through the hand and lost two fingers. Colonel Andrews' horse was shot through the shoulder. Captain Shaw was struck by a spent ball in the neck; Robeson was grazed in two places; I was struck by a spent ball in the temple, which laid me on my back for a moment and raised a pretty black and blue spot; I thought at first it was all up with me, but I soon got the better of that idea. We carried into action less than two hundred and forty men and lost about eighty killed and wounded.² During the rest of the battle, we were on different parts of the field supporting batteries. We lay down that night about ten o'clock, glad enough to get a little rest. The dead and dying were all around us and in our very midst.

At the first streak of daylight, I awoke; the first sight I saw was a squad of wounded rebels coming into our lines: you can't imagine such miserable looking objects as they were; their wounds undressed, and bleeding, and their clothes torn in tatters. I found that Bob Shaw and I had slept within fifty feet of a pile of fourteen dead rebels, and in every direction about us they were lying thick.

One of the most brilliant actions of the day was a charge of Smith's division; they passed our left and swept the rebels from their front like chaff. Our artillery was splendidly served and did great execution. Everywhere the rebels fought with desperation. Rebel prisoners stated that their army numbered over one hundred thousand, and that they expected to win the day and annihilate our army and have an open road to the North. Friday morning, we had been reinforced by at least thirty thousand men, and McClellan moved his whole army forward, but the rebels had gone, leaving dead and wounded on the field uncared for; the sight everywhere was dreadful, and one that I hope you may never see the like of; it cannot be imagined or described.

Our corps marched until two o'clock Saturday morning, over the roughest of roads and through the darkest of nights, reaching the summit of Maryland Heights ridge about ten miles from Sandy Hook; here we lay down till daylight, then marched along the ridge over rocks and stumps to Maryland Heights. Our old crowd had a nice dinner at Mrs. Buckles'; it was very pleasant. I was sent out upon our old camping ground with my company to do picket duty. Here I stayed until Sunday evening, when I was relieved and marched my company down a breakneck road to the regiment which was bivouacking in Pleasant Valley. 1 arrived about nine P. M., and lay down and slept under a blanket for the first time for a week. It was luxury enough, though there was nothing overhead but blue sky.

To-day we pitched camp and began our work with company books and papers, thinking at last we were going to rest; but to-night our hopes are dashed by an order saying, “Reveille at four o'clock; march at daylight.” I am now sitting up to finish this letter, because if we move as we have been moving, it is actually impossible to write.

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¹ The Hagerstown turnpike, which is quite narrow at this place.

² Actual loss 18 killed and mortally wounded, 54 wounded. Total loss, 72.

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 86-90

1st Lieutenant Charles Fessenden Morse, June 3, 1862

June 3, 1862.

Last night, as we officers were sitting around our tents after supper, we suddenly heard a shout from the further side of the camp of “Major! the Major!” which was instantly taken up all over the field, followed by a rush of the men towards the guard tent: we all followed, and, passing across the lines, discovered the Major coming up the hill to camp, in a little old wagon. I wish you could have heard the shout the men set up when he fairly came in reach of them. They finally made a rush at him; it seemed as if they would tear him to pieces in their eagerness to touch his hand or some part of him; every cap was off and every face was on the broad grin. When he did get through the men, Colonel Gordon got hold of him and shook his hands and hugged him in the heartiest and most affectionate way; so he was passed along until all had given him a greeting.

After a short time spent in congratulations, Major Dwight returned to the men, who had not yet dispersed and were watching his every movement. He made a short speech, and then proceeded to give an account of every man of the regiment who was killed, wounded, or a prisoner. He had attended the burial, himself, of all of our dead, and had visited the wounded, who were all doing well. He was able to contradict entirely all stories of the rebel soldiers' cruelties; they had not killed a single wounded man, but had treated them kindly; the citizens were much worse than the soldiers. When he spoke of Company I and their large number of killed and wounded, he said he could not help asking for three cheers for their gallant conduct at the Kernstown bridge on Saturday night; they were given with a will. The Major mentioned each of the wounded by name, and had something pleasant to say about almost every one relating to some little peculiarities, which the men understood.

After Major Dwight had finished, Colonel Gordon made a few remarks, ending by calling for three cheers for the Major. Three times three and a “tiger” were given, and the men dispersed, happy as they could be. One of the pleasantest things that has developed by our late action is the kindly feeling shown by the men to the officers; they have learned their dependence on them, and have confidence now in their pluck and willingness to share every danger with them.

We received a great deal of interesting information from the Major, — none more so than this: Major Wheat, of a Louisiana battalion, told Major Dwight that on Saturday night their loss must have been ten to our one, and he wanted to know what regiment it was that was ambuscaded all along the road; he said that after their cavalry had been driven back, the Second and Fifth Virginia regiments had been ordered to the front, and it was with them that we did most of our fighting that night. Their loss was very heavy, including a number of officers.

Major Dwight was taken prisoner in Winchester; he had just helped a wounded man into a house and was surrounded by rebel cavalry before he could get away. He surrendered in the cool manner he does everything. He made friends with everybody and succeeded in getting paroled; he left this morning for Washington with his brother, to try and effect his exchange. Drs. Stone and Leland have both been unconditionally released. L. is still at Winchester, taking care of our wounded. The correct statement about our company is, one killed, four wounded, and twelve prisoners. Jackson and his army are disheartened; they did not entertain a doubt but that they would capture Banks and his division, bag and baggage, and then make a foray into Maryland, but by good luck, we got out of this scrape with pretty whole skins. Captain Mudge is at Frederick; his wound is very painful. Crowinshield will be able to be moved in a few days and will go home. Major Dwight saw over a hundred of their dead buried Sunday.

I have just come in from a brigade review, almost melted; two mortal hours have we stood under a scorching sun, ready to drop.

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 64-6

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 Corporal Alexander G. Downing: Wednesday, September 28, 1864

Cloudy with some rain today. I went on picket this morning for the first time since coming back from the hospital. I was on a lookout post on the right of the picket lines of the brigade with four other men out of our brigade. All is quiet in front of the lines. I miss the four boys killed in battle while I was absent from the company — they were all good men, three of them being veterans.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 218

Diary of Mary Brockenbrough Newton: July 4, 1862

A beautiful, glorious day, and one which the Yankees expected confidently to spend triumphantly in Richmond. Last Fourth of July old General Scott expected to be there, to tread in triumph the fallen fortunes of his quondam friends, and to-day McClellan has been obliged to yield his visions of glory. “Man proposes, but God disposes.” Many of their companions in arms are there, in the Libby and other prisons, wounded in the hospitals, and dead in the swamps and marshes, or buried on the battle-fields while the “Grand Army” and the “Young Napoleon” are struggling desperately to get out of the bogs of the Chickahominy to his gunboats on James River. I sent the carriage to Richmond a day or two ago for Mr. N., but he writes that he is sending it backwards and forwards to the battlefields for the wounded. It is a season of wide-spread distress; parties are going by constantly to seek their husbands, brothers, sons, about whose fate they are uncertain. Some old gentlemen passed yesterday, walking all the way from Lancaster County. All the boats and bridges have been destroyed on the rivers, and conveyances can't be put across. Ladies are sent from river to river by those persons who have conveyances and horses left to them. Oh, I trust that blood enough has been spilled now!. Dr. S. has just arrived; he has been twenty miles below Richmond. He says the Yankee dead still lie unburied in many places — our men are too much worn out to undertake to bury them. The Yankee hospitals, as well as our own, are all along the roads; their hospital flag is red; ours is orange. They have their own surgeons, and, of course, many delicacies that our men can't have. The Northern papers speak of this retreat of McClellan's as a “strategic movement.” The bloody fights of eight days, the retreat of thirty miles, attended by immense loss of life, thousands of prisoners, many guns, stores of all kinds, etc., a “strategic movement !” But our loss is heavy — so many valuable lives, and such suffering among the wounded. O God! interpose and stop this cruel war!

[Returning to her diary, Mrs. Judith W. McGuire writes:]

I quote no further from Mrs. N[ewton]'s diary, as the next page was devoted to the visits of those dear ones whom God had preserved amid strife and carnage. She mentions the return of our dear W. B. N. from Fort Delaware on the 5th of August, where he had been for several months. He asked but five days' furlough to be with his family, and then returned to his regiment, (Fourth Cavalry.) His reception by his company was most gratifying. As soon as he got to camp, it drew up in line, and requested him to come to the front, when the “Orderly” came up, leading a very handsome bay horse, elegantly equipped, which he presented to his “Captain,” in the name of the company.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 148-9

Diary of Corporal Charles H. Lynch: July 20, 1864

Called up early, this hot, muggy morning. The 6th Corps early on the move. Watching them cross the Shenandoah River at Snicker's Ford. No enemy in sight. We follow on after the 6th Corps. As we wade the river I think it was never known to rain harder. We were soaked from head to foot. Crossing the river we filed to the right, going down the river into camp on the battlefield of the 18th, two days before. Looking over the field we were surprised to see that the enemy had not decently buried our dead who fell into their hands. Our boys gave them a decent burial.

Camp in the woods that were occupied by the enemy during the battle. Raining very hard. We build a large campfire which helps to keep us more comfortable during the night.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 102

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: June 30, 1862

McClellan certainly retreating. We begin to breathe more freely; but he fights as he goes. Oh, that he may be surrounded before he gets to his gun-boats! Rumours are flying about that he is surrounded; but we do not believe it — only hope that he may be before he reaches the river. The city is sad, because of the dead and dying, but our hearts are filled with gratitude and love. The end is not yet — oh that it were!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 126-7

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: June 27, 1862 – 10 p.m.

Ten o’clock at Night.—Another day of great excitement in our beleaguered city. From early dawn the cannon has been roaring around us. Our success has been glorious! The citizens — gentlemen as well as ladies — have been fully occupied in the hospitals. Kent, Paine & Co. have thrown open their spacious building for the use of the wounded. General C., of Texas, volunteer aid to General Hood, came in from the field covered with dust, and slightly wounded; he represents the fight as terrible beyond example. The carnage is frightful. General Jackson has joined General Lee, and nearly the whole army on both sides were engaged. The enemy had retired before our troops to their strong works near Gaines's Mill. Brigade after brigade of our brave men were hurled against them, and repulsed in disorder. General Lee was heard to say to General Jackson, “The fighting is desperate; can our men stand it?” Jackson replied, “General, I know our boys — they will never give back.” In a short time a large part of our force was brought up in one grand attack, and then the enemy was utterly routed. General C. represents the valour of Hood and his brigade in the liveliest colours, and attributes the grand success at the close of the day greatly to their extraordinary gallantry. The works were the strongest ever seen in this country, and General C. says that the armies of the world could not have driven our men from them.

Another bulletin from the young surgeon of the Fortieth. That noble regiment has lost heavily — several of the "Potomac Rifles" among the slain—sons of old friends and acquaintances. E. B., dreadfully wounded, has been brought in, and is tenderly nursed. Our own boys are mercifully spared. Visions of the battle-field have haunted me all day. Our loved ones, whether friends or strangers — all Southern soldiers are dear to us — lying dead and dying; the wounded in the hot sun, the dead being hastily buried. McClellan is said to be retreating. “Praise the Lord, O my soul!”

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 125-6

Diary of Luman Harris Tenney: February 22, 1862

Started at 2 A. M. Went to and surrounded Independence. After search found none, so started to return at seven A. M. Stopped a little distance out of town, down a hill, and got feed for our horses. Ordered to be ready to go on at ten A. M. All ready at the time. Three or four fellows up town, fired upon, bring the report that rebel troops are in town. Forthwith all the companies, all ready, start at full gallop, Company L leading. The enemy after one volley, wheel and run down into the gully east, our troops following closely, and firing as they go. At the forks in the road they scatter, some going straight forward and some getting into lots behind buildings and stumps and then firing. The boys charged upon them, killing two and taking five prisoners. Brownell was shot. After passing him to see if there was a chance to shoot and finding none, I returned to him. Helped him up hill to barber shop. Citizens assisted zealously. Three wounded. Stayed by them until ready to return. In the meantime Nettleton and the command went up the road in search of the rebels. Found none. One of our men killed. Co. L. Saw two rebels dead — awful sight — all over dirt and such an expression upon their countenances. Reached camp at Kansas City at 4 P. M. All pleased with the expedition. Issued rations.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, 7-8

Diary of Judith W. McGuire: Tuesday Evening, July 23, 1861

Mr. ––– and myself have just returned from a neighbouring house where we heard the dread particulars of the battle. We saw a gentleman just from the battlefield, who brought off his wounded son. It is said to have been one of the most remarkable victories on record, when we consider the disparity in numbers, equipments, etc. Our loss, when compared with that of the enemy, was small, very small; but such men as have fallen! How can I record the death of our young friends, the Conrads of Martinsburg, the only sons of their father, and such sons! Never can we cease to regret Tucker Conrad, the bright, joyous youth of the “High School,” and the devoted divinity student of our Theological Seminary! Noble in mind and spirit, with the most genial temper and kindest manners I have ever known. Mr. ––– saw him on Thursday evening on his way to the battle-field, and remarked afterwards on his enthusiasm and zeal in the cause. Holmes, his brother, was not one of us, as Tucker was, but he was in no respect inferior to him — loved and admired by all. They were near the same age, and there was not fifteen minutes between their deaths. Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their deaths they were not divided. But my thoughts constantly revert to that desolated home — to the parents and sisters who perhaps are now listening and waiting for letters from the battle-field. Before this night is over, loving friends will bear their dead sons home. An express has gone from Winchester to tell them all. They might with truth exclaim, with one of old, whose son was thus slain, “I would not give my dead son for any living son in Christendom.” But that devoted father, and fond mother, have better and higher sources of comfort than any which earthly praise can give! Their sons were Christians, and their ransomed spirits were wafted from the clash and storm of the battlefield to those peaceful joys, “of which it has not entered into the heart of man to conceive.” I have not heard which was there to welcome his brother to his home in the skies; but both were there to receive the spirit of another, who was to them as a brother. I allude to Mr. Peyton Harrison, a gifted young lawyer of the same village. He was lieutenant of their company, and their mother's nephew, and fell a few moments after the last brother. He left a young wife and little children to grieve, to faint, and almost to die, for the loss of a husband and father, so devoted, so accomplished, so brave. Like his young cousins, he was a Christian; and is now with them rejoicing in his rest. Martinsburg has lost one other of her brave sons; and yet another is fearfully wounded. I thank God, those of my own household and family, as far as I can hear, have escaped, except that one has a slight wound.

We certainly routed the enemy, and already wonderful stories are told of the pursuit. We shall hear all from time to time. It is enough for us now to know that their great expectations are disappointed, and that we have gloriously gained our point. Oh, that they would now consent to leave our soil, and return to their own homes! If I know my own heart, I do not desire vengeance upon them, but only that they would leave us in peace, to be forever and forever a separate people. It is true that we have slaughtered them, and whipped them, and driven them from our land, but they are people of such indomitable perseverance, that I am afraid that they will come again, perhaps in greater force. The final result I do not fear; but I do dread the butchery of our young men.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 42-4

Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Lyman to Elizabeth Russell Lyman, June 19, 1864

June 19, 1864

It having been represented to General Meade that there were some wounded and a good many dead between the lines, he determined to send a flag to get a short armistice, as at Cool Arbor. I was again selected, as the man having good clothes, to undertake the mission. This time I determined to have a bugler, and so I did, and very spruce he was, with a German-silver key-bugle. Likewise was there a tall sergeant, in Sunday best, with General Seth Williams's new damask tablecloth, on an appropriate staff! Thus equipped, and furnished with a large letter, I rode forth.  . . . We crossed the rail near Colonel Avery's, rode into the woods and immediately came on the picket reserves of cavalry, where we got a man to guide us to the extreme left of the infantry picket line. We floundered through a little swampy run, brushed through some brush, and came on a little clearing, at the other side of which was a gentleman, with a cocked musket, eyeing us suspiciously, but who withdrew on seeing our color. There we came on what is always a pretty sight, a picket line in a wood. The men are dotted along, ten or fifteen feet apart, with stronger parties on the roads; and you see them indistinctly, as they stand, half-hidden among trees and bushes. I found there Captain Thatcher in command of the picket line. There was some delay here, in sending word to the division commander, and to a battery that was firing. As soon as they were notified, Captain T. and myself, with the flag about five paces ahead, and the bugler behind, walked along the wood-road. Thatcher is a brisk, black-eyed little man, and kept peeping about, through the dense pines, and saying: “We are getting somewhere pretty near them. Wave your flag, Sergeant!” As for myself, I looked with some confidence for a salutation of two or three bullets; but made no observation, as being superfluous under the circumstances. Presently the flag-bearer, who, you may be sure, kept an extremely bright look-out, said: “There's one of 'em!” and immediately waved the emblem of peace in a truly conscientious manner. I looked and saw the main road, and, in an open field beyond, stood a single grey-back, looking dubiously at us, with his rifle ready for any emergency. I told the bugler to blow a parley, which he did in very good style, while I advanced to call to the solitary sentry; but the effect of the bugle was most marvellous — quite as when “he whistled shrill and he was answered from the hill.” In an instant, a line of some seventy-five men rose, as if out of the ground. It was their pickets, who had been concealed in little holes, dug in the slope of the gentle hill. One of them laid down his musket and came forward, when I asked for an officer; whereat, he touched his hat (probably awestruck by my cotton gloves) and returned to fetch one. Then came a red-faced captain, who received my despatch, and a bundle of letters from Rebel prisoners, and promised a speedy answer. So the flag was stuck up on a fence and we waited. In a few minutes the commander of the pickets hastened out to do me honor — Major Crow, of Alabama, a remarkably bright, nice-looking man. We exchanged compliments and newspapers, and he entertained me with an amusing account, how he had gone on a “leave” to north Alabama, and how our cavalry suddenly rushed into the town, whereupon he ascended briskly into the belfry of the court-house, through the slats of which he beheld a large number of his friends gobbled up and marched off, while he himself nearly froze to death with the extreme cold! By this time we had the variety of a visitor on horseback, Colonel Ring, a handsome man, who was curious about the negro troops and said, with an honesty unmistakable, that he would not be a bit afraid to fight them, one against two. They, however, said nothing at all unpleasant or rude. The next comer was apparently a Staff officer, a young man of rather a sour countenance, with a large pair of spurs. He brought a message that we should immediately retire from the lines, and hostilities would then recommence, till the answer was ready, when they would put a white flag on their rifle-pit. This amused me, for I had already seen all that could be seen and knew just where their position was just at that point! I returned whence I came, and waited at a wretched, deserted house. ... At seven in the evening I got the reply and carried it in. The sum of it was: “Have the honor to acknowledge your favor. As to your proposition — Ah, don't see it!”^l And so there was no armistice. Our poor wounded fellows, I believe, we got off that night, all of them, or all but a very few. And thus ended my second diplomatic mission. Since then, General Williams has caused a regular white flag to be made, ready for use in future.

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¹ “It was signed by Beauregard, and was a specimen of his mean Creole blood. ‘He did not know there had been any fight of consequence and should therefore refuse. After any engagement of real moment, he should be glad to extend the courtesies of war!’ He lied; for he knew full well that there had been heavy fighting and that we at least had lost some thousands. But he wished to show his dirty spite. Lee does not do such things.” — Lyman's Journal.

SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness to Appomattox, p. 170-3

Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Lyman to Elizabeth Russell Lyman, June 18, 1864

June 18, 1864

A general attack was planned for an early hour, so Headquarters, which had lain down late, had scarce a chance to turn over once before it was routed out again, just at daylight. The General was in a tearing humor. (I don't think anybody felt any too pleasant.) “Lyman, you are behind time!” I had the satisfaction of stepping out, all dressed, and saying shortly: “No, sir, I am ready.” Presently: “Colonel Lyman, take two or three orderlies and go to General Warren and report to me by telegraph promptly and frequently.” I did not admire this duty, as there was to be an assault; but everybody must do his share, and I started immediately. The General started with me. “Do you know the way to General Hancock's?” “Yes, sir!” In a few moments: “This is not the short cut to Hancock's.” “I did not say I knew the short cut, General.” “Well, but I wanted the short cut! What's the use of the road; of course I knew the road!” Whereupon I suggested I would gallop ahead, not to lose time; which I did and left my chief to attack Biddle, who was late and was coming up very red in the face!

It was half-past four when I got to Headquarters of the 5th Corps, which consisted of a couple of tents, pitched by a solitary tree. Warren, with all his clothes on, was catching a little sleep on a camp bed. Burnside¹ was there also, sitting under the tree, and there was a telegraph operator with his little portable instrument. Our lines were advancing, and there was an inexplicable silence along the skirmish line.  . . . At 6.50 came an order for all the line to advance and to attack the enemy if found.  . . . A little later, after seven, Major Roebling came in and reported he had discovered the enemy's new line of works, that ran along a high ground beyond the railroad, and that they were all there, with batteries in position. Soon after General Warren mounted, and we all rode to the front, over a wide oat-field past the works captured last evening, from which we were afterwards driven. In these there was one part where we seemed to have had an enfilade fire, for the Rebel dead lay there, one on top of the other.  . . . We stopped under a hollow oak, just at a point of woods and at the juncture of two country roads. Some movement of our troops attracted the enemy, who immediately sent two or three round shot to enfilade the road, and which of course came about our ears in a most uncomfortable way. Ill luck would have it that the fire of two or three batteries just crossed at that point. So not a gun could open but that we got a reminder. To which may be added that stray bullets from Crawford's front came zip! Tziz! to add their small voices. We had it intermittently all day long from eight o'clock till dark. New batteries soon came up, under charge of Captain Phillips (Appleton's commander). “I want you to go in there with your guns,” said General Griffin, “but you will be under fire there.” “Well,” said Phillips, “I have been in those places before"; and rode on, followed by his pieces. Later, his First Lieutenant, Blake, was carried by me, dead, shot with a minié ball through the forehead. . . .

After much difficulty in advancing the different divisions, we at last drove the enemy from the railroad cut and a gully beyond, and got in, to about 200 yards of their works. At 3.30 in the afternoon the first assault took place. We rode out on an open field to watch it. In front was a broad expanse, quite flat; then the railroad cut with a fringe of bushes, and then a gradual rise crowned by the Rebel rifle-pits and batteries, which were distant perhaps half a mile. Close to us, on each side, were our batteries, firing as fast as they could, and the rebels were sending back shot, shell, and shrapnel as hard as possible. Half a mile is no good with minié rifles; and, as soon as we attacked, the balls came tolerably numerous, cutting up little puffs of sand on the dry field. I sat up straight on my horse, comme les autres, but I can't say it was pleasant, though it is a help to have others cool and brave. It was as I expected — forty-five days of constant marching, assaulting and trenching are a poor preparation for a rush! The men went in, but not with spirit; received by a withering fire, they sullenly fell back a few paces to a slight crest and lay down, as much as to say, “We can't assault but we won't run.” The slopes covered with dead and wounded bore testimony that they were willing to give proof of courage even in circumstances that they deemed desperate. Another attack at six resulted no better, save that the lines were at all points pressed close in on those of the enemy. Birney, during the day, made a grand attack with no better success, on the right. I returned after dark, feeling pretty sad. General Meade was much disappointed, but took it cheerfully as he does every matter which affects him personally. The whole thing resulted just as I expected. You cannot strike a full blow with a wounded hand.

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¹ “Everyone was near the breaking-point. He, Burnside, complained of the heavy artillery detailed to his corps. ‘They are worthless,’ said he; ‘they didn't enlist to fight and it is unreasonable to expect it from them. In the attack last night I couldn't find thirty of them!’ He afterwards said of Meade (to one of his Staff): ‘He is irascible; but he is a magnanimous man.’ Presently up comes Griffin, in one of his peculiar blusters! and all about a commissary who, he maintains, didn't follow orders. Griffin stormed and swore. ‘Now! now!’ said Warren (who can be very judicious when he chooses), ‘let us all try to keep our tempers more, and not swear so much. I know I give way myself; but it is unworthy.’” — Lyman's Journal.

SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness to Appomattox, p. 167-70

Diary of Corporal Charles H. Lynch: June 15, 1864

Up and early on the march this hot morning. Going up the narrow road over the mountains we make very slow progress. The Rebs and bushwhackers have cut down large trees and fell them across the road. The Pioneer Corps are having hard work to clear the road. As we pass slowly along the bodies of dead Rebs are lying beside the road, having been killed by the advance scouts. They looked frightful, with their long black beards and white faces, in death. The road is very narrow and winding as we go on up the mountains. At the side of the road one can look away down into the valley and ravines. Army wagons can be seen down among the trees. We suppose they must have broken down and been pushed over to get them out of the way. It was cause enough to set the boys talking and to help make them forget their own troubles. A hard, tiresome march over the mountains, stopping for the night between the Peaks of Otter, having marched only fourteen miles. Orders are to keep very quiet and not make any fires. Must go without our coffee for the night.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 77

Diary of Private Charles H. Lynch: June 6, 1864

Up early this clear, hot morning. During the night the wounded had been removed and cared for, and the dead buried. Our company's loss, twenty killed and wounded. The loss in the regiment, one hundred and thirty killed and wounded. None taken prisoners. The color-sergeants and the guard were all killed or wounded except one. They were a part of our company, as we were the color company. Very sad over our loss. Such is the life of a soldier. Rations running very low.

This morning, fifty rounds of cartridges given to each man, forty for our boxes, ten for our pockets. Left the battle field. Again on the march, rather slow, through wood-land, wondering what was in store for us. After being under way for about two hours, suddenly, great cheering was heard. The regiment came to a halt as the cheers came nearer to us. Reports came to us by scouts that our cavalry was in possession of Staunton, where we expected to meet with stubborn resistance. We were soon pushing for the town, said to be twelve miles away, at the upper end of the Shenandoah Valley. The march takes us over a rough, stony, hilly road, sometimes through the lots, giving up the roads to the artillery and wagon train. As we marched along there was much to be seen by inquisitive Yankees. We entered the town from the north, passing through what seemed to be the main street, going into camp on the west side.

The scenery in this vicinity is grand. Town located on hills and hillsides. Reminds us somewhat of our home town, Norwich, Connecticut. We are soldiers, doing hard service for our country in a cruel war, but for all that we cannot help but take in the fine scenery. We are living close to the earth, as we eat and sleep on the ground. We try to improve every opportunity to take a bath, wash our clothes, and swim. At this time the weather is very hot, dry, and dusty, which seems to come very soon after the rain. Thunderstorms, in this valley, are very fierce at times.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 70-72

Brigadier-General Thomas Kilby Smith to his sister Helen, January 1, 1864

Headquarters First Brigade,

Fourth Div., Seventeenth Army Corps,

Department Of The Tennessee,

“Camp Kilby” 1n The Field, January 1, 1864.

My Dear Sister Helen:

The weather in this neck of woods has been most charming, warm and balmy, until night before last, when after a most terrific rainstorm, the full benefit of which your brother received, riding that day forty miles or more, the wind changed to the north, and suddenly there came a flurry of snow followed by freezing and most bitter high wind. I never felt more intense cold anywhere. I don't know the condition of the thermometer, but everything about me has been frozen up, ink, ale — everything that will freeze — and to-day, although the sun shone bright, there was no sign of thaw. It is by far the coldest weather I have experienced for more than two years. It is exactly a year ago to-day since we withdrew from “Chickasas Bayou,” within six or eight miles from here after one of the severest contested battles I have been in. I little thought to be here, that day, now. It has been a year of remarkable events to our country and to me.

I send you a few old books that have been my solace in many a weary hour past; don't scorn them because they are old. “Old wine, old books, old friends,” you know — and each one of them I send you has a legend to me, associations that make it dear, and, therefore, for my sake, you will keep them as a little more precious, giving all of the family who wish a taste of their contents, for they all have intrinsic worth; you will note a memorandum in some from whence they came, etc.

For a whole month past I have been in the wilderness, so I can write you no stirring story. I left a life in Natchez that almost realized a fairy tale; this could not last long, and on some accounts I am glad it is over. I am again in the front, though it was pleasant, while it lasted, to sit in '”fayre ladye's bower.” I wonder how you all look at home. I have hoped for cartes, but I suppose it would be expecting too much from the enterprise of the family. I wonder if I shall ever again see any of you. Almost every night I dream of the dead, of father, and Walter, and Charlie. One or two nights ago my dream was so vivid. I thought I woke with Walter's hand in mine. Can it be that the dead watch over the living, and come to us in dreams; I sometimes think that this is true, and that for every friend we lose on earth we gain a guardian angel. I hope our dear mother is well and happy. I can see by her letter that in my children she renews her youth. She has had many and sore afflictions, but bears a brave heart. You must all do everything in your power to smooth her pathway. I have met many women in my experience of life — many beautiful, witty, sweet and lovely, some who thought they loved me — but never any woman like our mother, never any one with so many graces of mind and body.

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 347-8