Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: December 22,1861

Dibble has succeeded in obtaining a passport from the Secretary himself.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 101

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: June 1, 1864

We have been to Bloomsbury again and hear that William Kirkland has been wounded. A scene occurred then, Mary weeping bitterly and Aunt B. frantic as to Tanny's danger. I proposed to make arrangements for Mary to go on at once. The Judge took me aside, frowning angrily. “You are unwise to talk in that way. She can neither take her infant nor leave it. The cars are closed by order of the government to all but soldiers.”

I told him of the woman who, when the conductor said she could not go, cried at the top of her voice, “Soldiers, I want to go to Richmond to nurse my wounded husband.” In a moment twenty men made themselves her body-guard, and she went on unmolested. The Judge said I talked nonsense. I said I would go on in my carriage if need be. Besides, there would be no difficulty in getting Mary a “permit.”

He answered hotly that in no case would he let her go, and that I had better not go back into the house. We were on the piazza and my carriage at the door. I took it and crossed over to see Mary Boykin. She was weeping, too, so washed away with tears one would hardly know her. “So many killed. My son and my husband—I do not hear a word from them.”

Gave to-day for two pounds of tea, forty pounds of coffee, and sixty pounds of sugar, $800.

Beauregard is a gentleman and was a genius as long as Whiting did his engineering for him. Our Creole general is not quite so clever as he thinks himself.

Mary Ford writes for school-books for her boys. She is in great distress on the subject. When Longstreet's corps passed through Greenville there was great enthusiasm; handkerchiefs were waved, bouquets and flowers were thrown the troops; her boys, having nothing else to throw, threw their school-books.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 311-2

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: April 1, 1863

All quiet on the Rappahannock to-night, and we are almost as still as in days gone by. The girls got up a little merriment this morning by their “April fools.” The remainder of the day passed in our usual way.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 202

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: April 2, 1863

We were shocked when the gentlemen returned, to hear of the riot which occurred in Richmond today. A mob, principally of women, appeared in the streets, attacking the stores. Their object seemed to be to get any thing they could; dry-goods, shoes, brooms, meat, glassware, jewelry, were caught up by them. The military was called out—the Governor dispersed them from one part of the town, telling them that unless they disappeared in five minutes, the soldiers should fire among them. This he said, holding his watch in his hand. Mr. Munford, the President of the Young Men's Christian Association, quieted them on another street by inviting them to come to the rooms of the Association, and their wants should be supplied; many followed him — I suppose those who were really in want. Others there were, of the very worst class of women, and a great many who were not in want at all, which they proved by only supplying themselves with jewelry and other finery. The President was out speaking to them, and trying to secure order. The Mayor made them a speech, and seemed to influence them, but I dare say that the bayonets of the soldiers produced the most decided effect. It is the first time that such a thing has ever darkened the annals of Richmond. God grant it may be the last. I fear that the poor suffer very much; meal was selling to-day at $16 per bushel. It has been bought up by speculators. Oh that these hard-hearted creatures could be made to suffer! Strange that men with human hearts can, in these dreadful times, thus grind the poor.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 202-3

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: Good Friday, April 3, 1863

The Bishop preached for us to-day most delightfully from the text: “Jesus Christ and Him crucified.” In the afternoon Mrs. Stuart had the inexpressible pleasure of welcoming her son, Mr. Arthur Stuart, from the Western Army. He thinks that Vicksburg and Port Hudson are both impregnable. God grant that it may be so!

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 203

Louise Wigfall to Francis H. Wigfall, October 24, 1862

Amelia Springs, Dec. 5th, 1862.

Mama and Papa returned last Saturday; they having come with General Johnston and staff and Mrs. Johnston, on a special train from Richmond, and parted from them at this place.

. . . What is the general impression as to Fredericksburg? Will your battery be in the engagement, if there is one? The rain is pouring and Mama hopes it will prevent Burnside from advancing. . . .

SOURCE: Louise Wigfall Wright, A Southern Girl in ’61, p. 96-7

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Sunday, June 29, 1862

“Any more, Mr. Lincoln, any more?” Can't you leave our racked homes in repose? We are all wild. Last night, five citizens were arrested, on no charge at all, and carried down to Picayune Butler's ship. What a thrill of terror ran through the whole community! We all felt so helpless, so powerless under the hand of our tyrant, the man who swore to uphold the Constitution and the laws, who is professedly only fighting to give us all Liberty, the birthright of every American, and who, nevertheless, has ground us down to a state where we would not reduce our negroes, who tortures and sneers at us, and rules us with an iron hand! Ah! Liberty! what a humbug! I would rather belong to England or France, than to the North! Bondage, woman that I am, I can never stand! Even now, the Northern papers, distributed among us, taunt us with our subjection and tell us “how coolly Butler will grind them down, paying no regard to their writhing and torture beyond tightening the bonds still more!” Ah, truly! this is the bitterness of slavery, to be insulted and reviled by cowards who are safe at home and enjoy the protection of the laws, while we, captive and overpowered, dare not raise our voices to throw back the insult, and are governed by the despotism of one man, whose word is our law! And that man, they tell us, “is the right man in the right place. He will develop a Union sentiment among the people, if the thing can be done!” Come and see if he can! Hear the curse that arises from thousands of hearts at that man's name, and say if he will “speedily bring us to our senses.” Will he accomplish it by love, tenderness, mercy, compassion? He might have done it; but did he try? When he came, he assumed his natural role as tyrant, and bravely has he acted it through, never once turning aside for Justice or Mercy. . . . This degradation is worse than the bitterness of death!

I see no salvation on either side. No glory awaits the Southern Confederacy, even if it does achieve its independence; it will be a mere speck in the world, with no weight or authority. The North confesses itself lost without us, and has paid an unheard-of ransom to regain us. On the other hand, conquered, what hope is there in this world for us? Broken in health and fortune, reviled, contemned, abused by those who claim already to have subdued us, without a prospect of future support for those few of our brothers who return; outcasts without home or honor, would not death or exile be preferable? Oh, let us abandon our loved home to these implacable enemies, and find refuge elsewhere! Take from us property, everything, only grant us liberty! Is this rather frantic, considering I abhor politics, and women who meddle with them, above all? My opinion has not yet changed; I still feel the same contempt for a woman who would talk at the top of her voice for the edification of Federal officers, as though anxious to receive an invitation requesting her presence at the Garrison. “I can suffer and be still” as far as outward signs are concerned; but as no word of this has passed my lips, I give it vent in writing, which is more lasting than words, partly to relieve my heart, partly to prove to my own satisfaction that I am no coward; for one line of this, surrounded as we are by soldiers, and liable to have our houses searched at any instant, would be a sufficient indictment for high treason.

Under General Williams's rule, I was perfectly satisfied that whatever was done, was done through necessity, and under orders from Headquarters, beyond his control; we all liked him. But now, since Butler's arrival, I believe I am as frantic in secret as the others are openly. I know that war sanctions many hard things, and that both sides practice them; but now we are so completely lost in Louisiana, is it fair to gibe and taunt us with our humiliation? I could stand anything save the cowardly ridicule and triumph of their papers. Honestly, I believe if all vile abusive papers on both sides were suppressed, and some of the fire-eating editors who make a living by lying were soundly cowhided or had their ears clipped, it would do more towards establishing peace, than all the bloodshedding either side can afford. I hope to live to see it, too. Seems to me, more liberty is allowed to the press than would be tolerated in speech. Let us speak as freely as any paper, and see if to-morrow we do not sleep at Fort Jackson!

This morning the excitement is rare; fifteen more citizens were arrested and carried off, and all the rest grew wild with expectation. So great a martyrdom is it considered, that I am sure those who are not arrested will be woefully disappointed. It is ludicrous to see how each man thinks he is the very one they are in search of! We asked a two-penny lawyer, of no more importance in the community than Dophy is, if it was possible he was not arrested. “But I am expecting to be every instant!” So much for his self-assurance! Those arrested have, some, been quietly released (those are so smiling and mysterious that I suspect them), some been obliged to take the oath, some sent to Fort Jackson. Ah, Liberty! What a blessing it is to enjoy thy privileges! If some of these poor men are not taken prisoners, they will die of mortification at the slight.

Our valiant Governor, the brave Moore, has by order of the real Governor, Moise, made himself visible at some far-distant point, and issued a proclamation, saying, whereas we of Baton Rouge were held forcibly in town, he therefore considered men, women, and children prisoners of war, and as such the Yankees are bound to supply us with all necessaries, and consequently any one sending us aid or comfort or provisions from the country will be severely punished. Only Moore is fool enough for such an order. Held down by the Federals, our paper money so much trash, with hardly any other to buy food and no way of earning it; threatened with starvation and utter ruin, our own friends, by way of making our burden lighter, forbid our receiving the means of prolonging life, and after generously warning us to leave town, which they know is perfectly impossible, prepare to burn it over our heads, and let the women run the same risk as the men. Penned in on one little square mile, here we await our fate like sheep in the slaughter-pen. Our hour may be at hand now, it may be to-night; we have only to wait; the booming of the cannon will announce it to us soon enough.

Of the six sentenced to Fort Jackson, one is the Methodist minister, Mr. Craven. The only charge is, that he was heard to pray for the Confederate States by some officers who passed his house during his family prayers. According to that, which of us would escape unhung? I do not believe there is a woman in the land who closes her eyes before praying for God's blessing on the side on which her brothers are engaged. Are we all to cease? Show me the dungeon deep enough to keep me from praying for them! The man represented that he had a large family totally dependent on him, who must starve. “Let them get up a subscription,” was General Butler's humane answer. “I will head it myself.” It is useless to say the generous offer was declined.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 92-7

Diary of Corporal Alexander G. Downing: Saturday, October 22, 1864

We lay in camp all day for the purpose of resting. But it appears to the rank and file of the men that Sherman must have given up trying to catch Hood, or else we would not remain so long at one place. The supply trains were all sent back to the main railroad line for provisions. I went out on picket this morning. The non-veterans of the Eleventh and Thirteenth Iowa Regiments were mustered out this morning, and left for Chattanooga, from which place they will start for home. All of the non-veteran officers from each regiment, except two or three, went out with the privates. It is fine weather for marching. No news from the Eastern army.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 223-4

1st Lieutenant Charles Fessenden Morse, June 14, 1862

Camp Near Newtown,

June 14, 1862.

After about eighteen days' absence, here we are back again in Virginia, camped on the identical piece of ground where the fight raged the fiercest on Saturday night, the 24th of May. We crossed the Potomac the 10th, Tuesday, and bivouacked on this side of the river; the next morning we started early, six o'clock, and marched to Bunker Hill, twenty-two miles, camping there that night; the next day we marched twenty miles to this place. Our march through Winchester was with closed ranks, band playing “John Brown,” “Yankee Doodle” and “Dixie,” and our old Harper's Ferry flag flying, almost torn to pieces by the bullets of the Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth. People scowled as we marched through town.

As I said before, our camp is on the ground occupied by us in the first skirmish of Saturday night, and what is a still more striking coincidence, our mess tent is pitched on the exact piece of ground that our skirmishers rallied on when they poured in such a deadly fire to the rebel cavalry. The last man of ours that was killed here was buried close by, by a citizen. Yesterday afternoon, I rode back to Winchester and over the battle field. The effects of the artillery were still very apparent; stone walls and fences knocked to pieces, trees cut off, etc. Near where our right was, are three graves of our men who were killed there.

I had a very pleasant visit to the hospital where our wounded are; they are mostly looking very well. It does one good to see how they brighten up when one of their officers comes into the room where they are. I believe I spoke in one of my last letters about a private named Stevens, in our company, whom I saw wounded, first by a piece of shell, then by a bullet. The poor fellow is dead; I could not find out any particulars about him yesterday, only that he died in hospital June 4th. He was a very good boy, not more than eighteen years old; he was one of the recruits that joined us last fall; he always did his duty faithfully, and was a brave little fellow. It seems sadder about him because he had an older brother in the company, who always took care of him when anything was the matter. He has been very anxious since the fight, and now the first news he has received is of his death. It is a severe shock, but he bears it bravely, and says he feels happy that his brother never showed himself a coward.

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 68-9

Major Wilder Dwight: September 19, 1861

pleasant Hill, September 19, 1861.

There is no reason why I should write you a letter, except that Captain Abbott is going to Washington and can carry it. With such a motive, let me say, then, that all goes well with us. That the weather is certainly the most trying in the world, — hot, bright, damp-aired, blazing days. Cold, heavy, foggy, shivering nights. If we don't have chills and fever it will be because we take good care of ourselves, which we try to do. The regiment is all right, and improves. My court-martial drags along a lazy and feeble existence. It does severe military justice upon offenders, and one duty is as well as another, though now that I am on my legs again, I should like to resume regular regimental life once more.

Our officers, and indeed the regiment itself, are very impatient of the quietness of this life; but there is no other way. You would like to see the ovens that the men have built of mud and straw and stones, with the fires blazing from their wide mouths. You would like to see the rich brown coffee come out of my roaster. In short, you would like to see plenty reign as it now does, since the men have got nothing to think of but how to feed themselves. But if you thought again, how little we are doing to teach men to take care of themselves on the march and in active duty, you would see that we are still lame, and probably shall be for many months, until experience has rubbed its lessons into the memory and habits of both officers and men.

I do not know why I write this, except that such problems and results are constantly occupying my mind.

You see the exploit at Frederick did not amount to much. The government alarmed the Legislature by making arrests in Baltimore, and by sending up policemen, so that what promised to be quite a Cromwellian stroke was only the seizure of a few straggling legislators, who were frightened before they were hurt. Secessionism, however, is dead in Maryland.

–––– has returned, disappointed that he did not bag more game. I, who was going with him, as I mentioned in my last letter, on this secret expedition to Frederick, am consoled since the result was no larger.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 105-6

Acceptance of the Sword and Other Testimonials by Major-General John Sedgwick

Gentlemen:

I accept these beautiful testimonials of your regard with feelings of sincerest gratitude, mingled with somewhat of embarrassment. It is a fortunate thing for a commander to be able in the discharge of the duties imposed upon him to win the kindly regard of those over whom he happens to be placed. I had not dared to hope, when I parted with you many months ago, that such had been my good fortune, for I felt that whatever obligation our mutual connection had created rested solely with me. I was proud of the division. I felt that I had every reason to be grateful to the officers and men composing it for their gallant and unexceptionable bearing and for the high reputation which their conduct had won for the command. I was, therefore, naturally somewhat embarrassed when I learned that it was your intention to revive the memories of old associations by an occasion such as this. It did not need, however, these substantial evidences of your good will to recall the old division and the pleasant days of my connection with it. I have never forgotten it, nor the friends who made it dear to me and honoured in the army.

Though some of these are not present with you to-day, and will never again take part in any scene on earth, yet all are alike remembered. Some, too, who united with you in the preparations for this day have not lived to see it, or are absent suffering from wounds received at Fredericksburg or on the glorious field of Gettysburg. The brave young Kirby and the gallant Colonels of the 59th and 82nd New York and of the 69th Pennsylvania Volunteers, and others whose names are equally familiar, are numbered with the unforgotten dead. They have fallen in recent battles, giving up their lives for the glory of the Union and the honour of our arms. If there had been anything wanted to give your offering a value which no words of mine can express, it would have been that it comes partly in the name of brave men killed in battle for their country. It comes, too, from a part of that command which was so often led to battle by that noble soldier Sumner, whose last and proud boast it was that they “never lost a gun.”

Have I not reason, then, to be grateful for these your gifts, recalling, as they do, both the living and the dead — brave men who are still contending for their country's honour, and noble martyrs who have borne witness with their blood to the sincerity of their patriotism.

Gentlemen, I honour the division which you represent; I shall always look back with pride to the time I commanded it, as who would not be proud to lead such men to battle under Sumner? With such a leader for your corps, it is no wonder that your record is unspotted. I glory in the reputation you have won under the gallant veteran whose memory the nation reverently honours, and I rejoice that under the leadership of Hancock and Gibbon so grand a future awaits you.

I have followed your career with interest through the varying fortunes of the war, observing always with sorrow whenever any of the old, familiar names appeared on the honoured roll of the fallen. I shall still continue to watch your course in the campaigns that are to follow, and I shall feel that every new honour you may win will be another ornament added to this beautiful sword, increasing, if that were possible, the value I attach to it. Deeply appreciating the kind feelings you have expressed for me, I accept these testimonials of your esteem with pardonable pride. I thank you with all my heart.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, Correspondence of John Sedgwick, Major-General, Volume 2, p. 152-4

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes: Friday, January 17, 1862

Froze last night to harden mud; cold and clear this morning; warm and bright all day. We feel rather lonely — so many gone. One regiment departed.

We hear of the resignation of Cameron and Welles. What does this mean? I think we must gain by it. I hope such men as Holt and Stanton will take their places. If so, the Nation will not lose by the change.

Read Nat Turner's insurrection of 1831. I suspect there will be few such movements while the war continues. The negroes expect the North to set them free, and see no need of risking their lives to gain what will be given them by others. When they discover their mistake and despair of other aid, then troubles may come.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 189-90

Francis Lieber to Senator Charles Sumner, December 11, 1864

New York, December 11,1864.

. . . War to the knife to slavery. Let us have no “slavery is dead.” It is not dead. Nothing is dead until it is killed. I trust our President feels this in his inmost soul. His message seems to pin him down to it. Now let the nation pin itself down by the Amendment. This Amendment is the clear idea, the distinct formulation, motto and principle, of all the inarticulated roar of our battles — the test, the battle-cry, the article of faith. The sooner it is pronounced, so that no receding is possible, the better for all concerned. . . .

Slavery dead? Why, did you see how the secretary of the Citizens' Association but yesterday spoke of Abolitionists? A man who now declares himself for the Union but not against slavery seems to me much like one who might have begged St. Chrysostom to baptize him fully and wholly unto Christ, but to allow him not to give up his Jove and Venus, and the rest. We fight for our country, that is, for its integrity, and slavery cuts it asunder far more clearly and injuriously than any geographic division could do. Such a division can be removed by a treaty, by force of arms, by the brush of the map-maker; but slavery is an institution, and has all the tenacity of institutions, whether they be for weal or woe, until they are destroyed, and the life is bruised out of their head.

If you see the President, and have an unofficial conversation with him, tell him how much those citizens who have no office or place, but simply love their country with all their heart, and have given their sons for that country, have thanked God for the passages in his message which relate to slavery. . . .

SOURCE: Thomas Sergeant Perry, Editor, The Life and Letters of Francis Lieber, p. 352-3

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: December 19, 1861

Judge Perkins came in to-day and denounced in bitter terms the insane policy of granting passports to spies and others to leave the country, when every Northern paper bore testimony that we were betrayed by these people. He asked me how many had been permitted to go North by Mr. Benjamin since the expiration of the time named in the President's proclamation. This I could not answer: but suggested that a resolution of inquiry might elicit the information. He desired me to write such a resolution. I did so, and he departed with it. An hour afterward, I learned it had been passed unanimously.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 100

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: May 27, 1864

In all this beautiful sunshine, in the stillness and shade of these long hours on this piazza, all comes back to me about little Joe; it haunts me — that scene in Richmond where all seemed confusion, madness, a bad dream! Here I see that funeral procession as it wound among those tall white monuments, up that hillside, the James River tumbling about below over rocks and around islands; the dominant figure, that poor, old, gray-haired man, standing bareheaded, straight as an arrow, clear against the sky by the open grave of his son. She, the bereft mother, stood back, in her heavy black wrappings, and her tall figure drooped. The flowers, the children, the procession as it moved, comes and goes, but those two dark, sorrow-stricken figures stand; they are before me now!

That night, with no sound but the heavy tramp of his feet overhead, the curtains flapping in the wind, the gas flaring, I was numb, stupid, half-dead with grief and terror. Then came Catherine's Irish howl. Cheap, was that. Where was she when it all happened? Her place was to have been with the child. Who saw him fall? Whom will they kill next of that devoted household?

Read to-day the list of killed and wounded.¹ One long column was not enough for South Carolina's dead. I see Mr. Federal Secretary Stanton says he can reenforce Suwarrow Grant at his leisure whenever he calls for more. He has just sent him 25,000 veterans. Old Lincoln says, in his quaint backwoods way, “Keep a-peggin’.” Now we can only peg out. What have we left of men, etc., to meet these “reenforcements as often as reenforcements are called for?” Our fighting men have all gone to the front; only old men and little boys are at home now.

It is impossible to sleep here, because it is so solemn and still. The moonlight shines in my window sad and white, and the soft south wind, literally comes over a bank of violets, lilacs, roses, with orange-blossoms and magnolia flowers.

Mrs. Chesnut was only a year younger than her husband. He is ninety-two or three. She was deaf; but he retains his senses wonderfully for his great age. I have always been an early riser. Formerly I often saw him sauntering slowly down the broad passage from his room to hers, in a flowing flannel dressing-gown when it was winter. In the spring, he was apt to be in shirt-sleeves, with suspenders hanging down his back. He had always a large hair-brush in his hand.

He would take his stand on the rug before the fire in her room, brushing scant locks which were fleecy white. Her maid would be doing hers, which were dead-leaf brown, not a white hair in her head. He had the voice of a stentor, and there he stood roaring his morning compliments. The people who occupied the room above said he fairly shook the window glasses. This pleasant morning greeting ceremony was never omitted.

Her voice was “soft and low” (the oft-quoted). Philadelphia seems to have lost the art of sending forth such voices now. Mrs. Binney, old Mrs. Chesnut's sister, came among us with the same softly modulated, womanly, musical voice. Her clever and beautiful daughters were criard. Judge Han said: “Philadelphia women scream like macaws.” This morning as I passed Mrs. Chesnut's room, the door stood wide open, and I heard a pitiful sound. The old man was kneeling by her empty bedside sobbing bitterly. I fled down the middle walk, anywhere out of reach of what was never meant for me to hear.

_______________

¹ During the month of May, 1864, important battles had been fought in Virginia, including that of the Wilderness on May 6th-7th, and the series later in that month around Spottsylvania Court House.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 309-11

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: Sunday Night, March 29, 1863

Very sweet services in our little church to-day. The subject of the sermon was, “Woe to them who are at ease in Zion.” Mr. ––– found a note on the pulpit from a Georgia soldier, asking the prayers of the congregation for himself and his family at home. The extemporaneous prayer after the sermon, offered for him, was most earnestly and tearfully joined in by all.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 202

Charlotte Cross Wigfall to Louise Wigfall, October 24, 1862

richmond, Nov. 26th, 1862.

. . . Genl. Johnston got his orders only day before yesterday. He is to have command of the three armies of Bragg, Kirby Smith and Pemberton, but not West of the Mississippi, as I understand. He expects to get off on Saturday, and his wife goes with him.

SOURCE: Louise Wigfall Wright, A Southern Girl in ’61, p. 96

Diary of Sarah Morgan: June 28, 1862

I am afraid I shall be nervous when the moment of the bombardment actually arrives. This suspense is not calculated to soothe one's nerves. A few moments since, a salute was fired in honor of General Butler's arrival, when women, children, and servants rushed to the front of the houses, confident of a repetition of the shelling which occurred a month ago to-day. The children have not forgotten the scene, for they all actually howled with fear. Poor little Sarah stopped her screams to say, “Mother, don't you wish we was dogs ’stead o’ white folks?” in such piteous accents that we had to laugh. Don't I wish I was a dog! Sarah is right. I don't know if I showed my uneasiness a while ago, but certainly my heart has hardly yet ceased beating rather rapidly. If I knew what moment to expect the stampede, I would not mind; but this way — to expect it every instant — it is too much! Again, if I knew where we could go for refuge from the shells!

A window banging unexpectedly just then gave me a curious twinge; not that I thought it was the signal, oh, dear, no! I just thought — what, I wonder? Pshaw! “Picayune Butler's coming, coming” has upset my nervous system. He interrupted me in the middle of my arithmetic; and I have not the energy to resume my studies. I shall try what effect an hour's practice will have on my spirits, and will see that I have a pair of clean stockings in my stampede sack, and that the fastenings of my “running-bag” are safe. Though if I expect to take either, I should keep in harness constantly. How long, O Lord! how long?

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 91-2

Diary of Corporal Alexander G. Downing: Friday, October 21, 1864

The Fourth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth, Seventeenth and Twenty-third Army Corps have concentrated here and are in bivouac. Foraging parties are sent out from the different corps, as there are some rich plantations in this section. Our corps moved camp today about four miles. All is quiet in the front. The report is that the rebels are retreating toward the Blue mountains.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 223

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: May 8, 1864

CAMDEN, S.C., May 8, 1864. – My friends crowded around me so in those last days in Richmond, I forgot the affairs of this nation utterly; though I did show faith in my Confederate country by buying poor Bones's (my English maid's) Confederate bonds. I gave her gold thimbles, bracelets; whatever was gold and would sell in New York or London, I gave.

My friends in Richmond grieved that I had to leave them—not half so much, however, as I did that I must come away. Those last weeks were so pleasant. No battle, no murder, no sudden death, all went merry as a marriage bell. Clever, cordial, kind, brave friends rallied around me.

Maggie Howell and I went down the river to see an exchange of prisoners. Our party were the Lees, Mallorys, Mrs. Buck Allan, Mrs. Ould. We picked up Judge Ould and Buck Allan at Curl's Neck. I had seen no genuine Yankees before; prisoners, well or wounded, had been German, Scotch, or Irish. Among our men coming ashore was an officer, who had charge of some letters for a friend of mine whose fiancé had died; I gave him her address. One other man showed me some wonderfully ingenious things he had made while a prisoner. One said they gave him rations for a week; he always devoured them in three days, he could not help it; and then he had to bear the inevitable agony of those four remaining days! Many were wounded, some were maimed for life. They were very cheerful. We had supper — or some nondescript meal — with ice-cream on board. The band played Home, Sweet Home.

One man tapped another on the shoulder: '”Well, how do you feel, old fellow?” “Never was so near crying in my life — for very comfort.”

Governor Cummings, a Georgian, late Governor of Utah, was among the returned prisoners. He had been in prison two years. His wife was with him. He was a striking-looking person, huge in size, and with snow-white hair, fat as a prize ox, with no sign of Yankee barbarity or starvation about him.

That evening, as we walked up to Mrs. Davis's carriage, which was waiting for us at the landing, Dr. Garnett with Maggie Howell, Major Hall with me, suddenly I heard her scream, and some one stepped back in the dark and said in a whisper. “Little Joe! he has killed himself!” I felt reeling, faint, bewildered. A chattering woman clutched my arm: “Mrs. Davis's son? Impossible. Whom did you say? Was he an interesting child? How old was he?” The shock was terrible, and unnerved as I was I cried, “For God's sake take her away!”

Then Maggie and I drove two long miles in silence except for Maggie's hysterical sobs. She was wild with terror. The news was broken to her in that abrupt way at the carriage door so that at first she thought it had all happened there, and that poor little Joe was in the carriage.

Mr. Burton Harrison met us at the door of the Executive Mansion. Mrs. Semmes and Mrs. Barksdale were there, too. Every window and door of the house seemed wide open, and the wind was blowing the curtains. It was lighted, even in the third story. As I sat in the drawing-room, I could hear the tramp of Mr. Davis's step as he walked up and down the room above. Not another sound. The whole house as silent as death. It was then twelve o'clock; so I went home and waked General Chesnut, who had gone to bed. We went immediately back to the President's, found Mrs. Semmes still there, but saw no one but her. We thought some friends of the family ought to be in the house.

Mrs. Semmes said when she got there that little Jeff was kneeling down by his brother, and he called out to her in great distress: “Mrs. Semmes, I have said all the prayers I know how, but God will not wake Joe.'”

Poor little Joe, the good child of the family, was so gentle and affectionate. He used to run in to say his prayers at his father's knee. Now he was laid out somewhere above us, crushed and killed. Mrs. Semmes, describing the accident, said he fell from the high north piazza upon a brick pavement. Before I left the house I saw him lying there, white and beautiful as an angel, covered with flowers; Catherine, his nurse, flat on the floor by his side, was weeping and wailing as only an Irishwoman can.

Immense crowds came to the funeral, everybody sympathetic, but some shoving and pushing rudely. There were thousands of children, and each child had a green bough or a bunch of flowers to throw on little Joe's grave, which was already a mass of white flowers, crosses, and evergreens. The morning I came away from Mrs. Davis's, early as it was, I met a little child with a handful of snow drops. “Put these on little Joe,” she said; “I knew him so well.” and then she turned and fled without another word. I did not know who she was then or now.

As I walked home I met Mr. Reagan, then Wade Hampton. But I could see nothing but little Joe and his brokenhearted mother. And Mr. Davis's step still sounded in my ears as he walked that floor the livelong night.

General Lee was to have a grand review the very day we left Richmond. Great numbers of people were to go up by rail to see it. Miss Turner McFarland writes: “They did go, but they came back faster than they went. They found the army drawn up in battle array.” Many of the brave and gay spirits that we saw so lately have taken flight, the only flight they know, and their bodies are left dead upon the battle-field. Poor old Edward Johnston is wounded again, and a prisoner. Jones's brigade broke first; he was wounded the day before.

At Wilmington we met General Whiting. He sent us to the station in his carriage, and bestowed upon us a bottle of brandy, which had run the blockade. They say Beauregard has taken his sword from Whiting. Never! I will not believe it. At the capture of Fort Sumter they said Whiting was the brains, Beauregard only the hand. Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou fallen! That they should even say such a thing!

My husband and Mr. Covey got out at Florence to procure for Mrs. Miles a cup of coffee. They were slow about it and they got left. I did not mind this so very much, for I remembered that we were to remain all day at Kingsville, and that my husband could overtake me there by the next train. My maid belonged to the Prestons. She was only traveling home with me, and would go straight on to Columbia. So without fear I stepped off at Kingsville. My old Confederate silk, like most Confederate dresses, had seen better days, and I noticed that, like Oliver Wendell Holmes's famous “one-hoss shay,” it had gone to pieces suddenly, and all over. It was literally in strips. I became painfully aware of my forlorn aspect when I asked the telegraph man the way to the hotel, and he was by no means respectful to me. I was, indeed, alone — an old and not too respectable-looking woman. It was my first appearance in the character, and I laughed aloud.

A very haughty and highly painted dame greeted me at the hotel. “No room,” said she. “Who are you?” I gave my name. “Try something else,” said she. "Mrs. Chesnut don't travel round by herself with no servants and no nothing.” I looked down. There I was, dirty, tired, tattered, and torn. “Where do you come from?” said she. “My home is in Camden.” “Come, now, I know everybody in Camden.” I sat down meekly on a bench in the piazza, that was free to all wayfarers.

“Which Mrs. Chesnut?” said she (sharply). “I know both.” “I am now the only one. And now what is the matter with you? Do you take me for a spy? I know you perfectly well. I went to school with you at Miss Henrietta de Leon's, and my name was Mary Miller.” “The Lord sakes alive! and to think you are her! Now I see. Dear! dear me! Heaven sakes, woman, but you are broke!” “And tore,” I added, holding up my dress. “But I had had no idea it was so difficult to effect an entry into a railroad wayside hotel.” I picked up a long strip of my old black dress, torn off by a man's spur as I passed him getting off the train.

It is sad enough at Mulberry without old Mrs. Chesnut, who was the good genius of the place. It is so lovely here in spring. The giants of the forest — the primeval oaks, water-oaks, live-oaks, willow-oaks, such as I have not seen since I left here — with opopanax, violets, roses, and yellow jessamine, the air is laden with perfume. Araby the Blest was never sweeter.

Inside, are creature comforts of all kinds — green peas, strawberries, asparagus, spring lamb, spring chicken, fresh eggs, rich, yellow butter, clean white linen for one's beds, dazzling white damask for one's table. It is such a contrast to Richmond, where I wish I were.

Fighting is going on. Hampton is frantic, for his laggard new regiments fall in slowly; no fault of the soldiers; they are as disgusted as he is. Bragg, Bragg, the head of the War Office, can not organize in time.

John Boykin has died in a Yankee prison. He had on a heavy flannel shirt when lying in an open platform car on the way to a cold prison on the lakes. A Federal soldier wanted John's shirt. Prisoners have no rights; so John had to strip off and hand his shirt to him. That caused his death. In two days he was dead of pneumonia — may be frozen to death. One man said: “They are taking us there to freeze.” But then their men will find our hot sun in August and July as deadly as our men find their cold Decembers. Their snow and ice finish our prisoners at a rapid rate, they say. Napoleon's soldiers found out all that in the Russian campaign.

Have brought my houseless, homeless friends, refugees here, to luxuriate in Mulberry's plenty. I can but remember the lavish kindness of the Virginia people when I was there and in a similar condition. The Virginia people do the rarest acts of hospitality and never seem to know it is not in the ordinary course of events.

The President's man, Stephen, bringing his master's Arabian to Mulberry for safe-keeping, said: “Why, Missis, your niggers down here are well off. I call this Mulberry place heaven, with plenty to eat, little to do, warm house to sleep in, a good church.”

John L. Miller, my cousin, has been killed at the head of his regiment. The blows now fall so fast on our heads they are bewildering. The Secretary of War authorizes General Chesnut to reorganize the men who have been hitherto detailed for special duty, and also those who have been exempt. He says General Chesnut originated the plan and organized the corps of clerks which saved Richmond in the Dahlgren raid.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 304-9