Our hearts ache for the poor. A few days ago, as E. was
walking out, she met a wretchedly dressed woman, of miserable appearance, who
said she was seeking the Young Men's Christian Association, where she hoped to
get assistance and work to do. E. carried her to the door, but it was closed,
and the poor woman's wants were pressing. She then brought her home, supplied
her with food, and told her to return to see me the following afternoon. She
came, and with an honest countenance and manner told me her history. Her name
is Brown; her husband had been a workman in Fredericksburg; he joined the army,
and was killed at the second battle of Manassas. Many of her acquaintances in
Fredericksburg fled last winter during the bombardment; she became alarmed, and
with her three little children fled too. She had tried to get work in Richmond;
sometimes she succeeded, but could not supply her wants. A kind woman had lent
her a room and a part of a garden, but it was outside of the corporation; and
although it saved house-rent, it debarred her from the relief of the
associations formed for supplying the city poor with meal, wood, etc. She had
evidently been in a situation little short of starvation. I asked her if she
could get bread enough for her children by her work? She said she could
sometimes, and when she could not, she “got turnip-tops from her piece of a
garden, which were now putting up smartly, and she boiled them, with a little
salt, and fed them on that.” “But do they satisfy your hunger,” said I? “Well,
it is something to go upon for awhile, but it does not stick by us like as
bread does, and then we gets hungry again, and I am afraid to let the children
eat them too often, lest they should get sick; so I tries to get them to go to
sleep; and sometimes the woman in the next room will bring the children her
leavings, but she is monstrous poor.” When I gave her meat for her children,
taken from the bounty of our Essex friends, tears of gratitude ran down her
cheeks; she said they “had not seen meat for so long.” Poor thing, I promised
her that her case should be known, and that she should not suffer so again. A
soldier's widow shall not suffer from hunger in Richmond. It must not be, and
will not be when her case is known. Others are now interested for her. This
evening Mrs. R. and myself went in pursuit of her; but though we went through
all the streets and lanes of “Butcher Flat” and other vicinities, we could get
no clue to her. We went into many small and squalid-looking houses, yet we saw
no such abject poverty as Mrs. Brown's. All who needed it were supplied with
meal by the corporation, and many were supporting themselves with Government
work. One woman stood at a table cutting out work; we asked her the stereotyped
question — “Is there a very poor widow named Brown in this direction?” “No,
ladies; I knows two Mrs. Browns, but they ain't so poor, and ain't no widows
nuther.” As neither of them was our Mrs. B., we turned away; but she suddenly
exclaimed, “Ladies, will one of you read my husband's last letter to me? for
you see I can't read writing.” As Mrs. R. took it, she remarked that it was
four weeks old, and asked if no one had read it to her?” Oh yes, a gentleman
has read it to me four or five times; but you see I loves to hear it, for
may-be I shan't hear from him no more.” The tears now poured down her cheeks. “He
always writes to me every chance, and it has been so long since he wrote that,
and they tell me that they have been fighting, and may-be something has
happened to him.” We assured her that there had been no fighting — not even a
skirmish. This quieted her, and Mrs. R. read the badly written but affectionate
letter, in which he expresses his anxiety to see her and his children, and his
inability to get a furlough. She then turned to the mantelpiece, and with
evident pride took from a nail an old felt hat, through the crown of which were
two bullet-holes. It was her husband's hat, through which a bullet had passed
in the battle of Chancellorsville, and, as she remarked, must have come “very
nigh grazing his head.” We remarked upon its being a proof of his bravery,
which gratified her very much ; she then hung it up carefully, saying that it
was just opposite her bed, and she never let it be out of her sight. She said
she wanted her husband to fight for his country, and not “to stand back, like
some women's husbands, to be drafted; she would have been ashamed of that, but
she felt uneasy, because something told her that he would never get back.” Poor
woman! we felt very much interested in her, and tried to comfort her.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 252-5