Diary of Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle: Sunday, April 12, 1863

I took an affectionate leave of Don Pablo, Behnsen, Oetling, & Co., all of whom were in rather weak health on account of last night's supper.

The excellent Maloney insisted on providing me with preserved meats and brandy for my arduous journey through Texas. I feel extremely grateful for the kindness of all these gentlemen, who rendered my stay in Matamoros very agreeable. The hotel would have been intolerable.

I crossed to Brownsville at 3 P.M., where I was hospitably received by my friend Ituria, who confesses to having made a deal of money lately by cotton speculations. I attended evening parade, and saw General Bee, Colonels Luckett, Buchel, Duff, and . The latter (who hanged Mongomery) improves on acquaintance. General Bee took me for a drive in his ambulance, and introduced me to Major Leon Smith, who captured the Harriet Lane. The latter pressed me most vehemently to wait until General Magruder's arrival, and he promised, if I did so, that I should be sent to San Antonio in a first-rate ambulance. Major Leon Smith is a seafaring man by profession, and was put by General Magruder in command of one of the small steamers which captured the Harriet Lane at Galveston, the crews of the steamers being composed of Texan cavalry soldiers. He told me that the resistance offered after boarding was feeble; and he declared that, had not the remainder of the Yankee vessels escaped unfairly under flag of truce, they would likewise have been taken.

After the Harriet Lane had been captured, she was fired into by the other ships; and Major Smith told me that, his blood being up, he sent the ex-master of the Harriet Lane to Commodore Renshaw, with a message that, unless the firing was stopped, he would massacEEE the captured crew. After hearing this, Commodore Renshaw blew up his ship, with himself in her, after having given an order to the remainder, sauve qui peut.

SOURCE: Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle, Three months in the southern states: April-June, 1863, p. 22-4

Diary of William Howard Russell: April 29, 1861

This morning up at six, A.M., bade farewell to our hostess and Barnwell Island, and proceeded with Trescot back to the Pocotaligo station, which we reached at 12:20. On our way Mr. Heyward and his son rode out of a field, looking very like a couple of English country squires in all but hats and saddles. The young gentleman was good enough to bring over a snake-hawk he had shot for me. At the station, to which the Heywards accompanied us, were the Elliotts and others, who had come over with invitations and adieux; and I beguiled the time to Savannah reading the very interesting book by Mr. Elliott, senior, on the Wild Sports of Carolina, which was taken up by some one when I left the carriage for a moment and not returned to me. The country through which we passed was flat and flooded as usual, and the rail passed over dark deep rivers on lofty trestle-work, by pine wood and dogwood-tree, by the green plantation clearing, with mud bank, dike, and tiny canal mile by mile, the train stopping for the usual freight of ladies, and negro nurses, and young planters, all very much of the same class, till at three o'clock, P. M., the cars rattled up along-side a large shed, and we were told we had arrived at Savannah.

Here was waiting for me Mr. Charles Green, who had already claimed me and my friend as his guests, and I found in his carriage the young American designer, who had preceded me from Charleston, and had informed Mr. Green of my coming.

The drive through such portion of Savannah as lay between the terminus and Mr. Green's house, soon satisfied my eyes that it had two peculiarities. In the first place, it had the deepest sand in the streets I have ever seen; and next, the streets were composed of the most odd, quaint, green-windowed, many-colored little houses I ever beheld, with an odd population of lean, sallow, ill-dressed unwholesome-looking whites, lounging about the exchanges and corners, and a busy, well-clad, gayly-attired race of negroes, working their way through piles of children, under the shade of the trees which bordered all the streets. The fringe of green, and the height attained by the live-oak, Pride of India, and magnolia, give a delicious freshness and novelty to the streets of Savannah, which is increased by the great number of squares and openings covered with something like sward, fenced round by white rail, and embellished with noble trees to be seen at every few hundred yards. It is difficult to believe you are in the midst of a city, and I was repeatedly reminded of the environs of a large Indian cantonment — the same kind of churches and detached houses, with their plantations and gardens not unlike. The wealthier classes, however, have houses of the New York Fifth Avenue character: one of the best of these, a handsome mansion of rich red-sandstone, belonged to my host, who coming out from England many years ago, raised himself by industry and intelligence to the position of one of the first merchants in Savannah. Italian statuary graced the hall; finely carved tables and furniture, stained glass, and pictures from Europe set forth the sitting-rooms; and the luxury of bath-rooms and a supply of cold fresh water, rendered it an exception to the general run of Southern edifices. Mr. Green drove me through the town, which impressed me more than ever with its peculiar character. We visited Brigadier-General Lawton, who is charged with the defences of the place against the expected Yankees, and found him just setting out to inspect a band of volunteers, whose drums we heard in the distance, and whose bayonets were gleaming through the clouds of Savannah dust, close to the statue erected to the memory of one Pulaski, a Pole, who was mortally wounded in the unsuccessful defence of the city against the British in the War of Independence. He turned back and led us into his house. The hall was filled with little round rolls of flannel. “These,” said he, “are cartridges for cannon of various calibres, made by the ladies of Mrs. Lawton's ‘cartridge class.’” There were more cartridges in the back parlor, so that the house was not quite a safe place to smoke a cigar in. The General has been in the United States' army, and has now come forward to head the people of this State in their resistance to the Yankees.

We took a stroll in the park, and I learned the news of the last few days. The people of the South, I find, are delighted at a snubbing which Mr. Seward has given to Governor Hicks of Maryland, for recommending the arbitration of Lord Lyons, and he is stated to have informed Governor Hicks that “our troubles could not be referred to foreign arbitration, least of all to that of the representative of a European monarchy." The most terrible accounts are given of the state of things in Washington. Mr. Lincoln consoles himself for his miseries by drinking. Mr. Seward follows suit. The White House and capital are full of drunken border ruffians, headed by one Jim Lane, of Kansas. But, on the other hand, the Yankees, under one Butler, a Massachusetts lawyer, have arrived at Annapolis, in Maryland, secured the “Constitution” man-of-war, and are raising masses of men for the invasion of the South all over the States. The most important thing, as it strikes me, is the proclamation of the Governor of Georgia, forbidding citizens to pay any money on account of debts due to Northerners, till the end of the war. General Robert E. Lee has been named Commander-in-Chief of the Forces of the Commonwealth of Virginia, and troops are flocking to that State from Alabama and other States. Governor Ellis has called out 30,000 volunteers in North Carolina, and Governor Rector of Arkansas has seized the United States' military stores at Napoleon. There is a rumor that Fort Pickens has been taken also, but it is very probably untrue. In Texas and Arkansas the United States regulars have not made an attempt to defend any of the forts.

In the midst of all this warlike work, volunteers drilling, bands playing, it was pleasant to walk in the shady park, with its cool fountains, and to see the children playing about — many of them, alas! “playing at soldiers” — in charge of their nurses. Returning, sat in the veranda and smoked a cigar; but the mosquitoes were very keen and numerous. My host did not mind them, but my cuticle will never be sting-proof.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, p. 149-151

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: April 18, 1862

The President is thin and haggard; and it has been whispered on the street that he will immediately be baptized and confirmed. I hope so, because it may place a great gulf between him and the descendant of those who crucified the Saviour. Nevertheless, some of his enemies allege that professions of Christianity have sometimes been the premeditated accompaniments of usurpations. It was so with Cromwell and with Richard III. Who does not remember the scene in Shakspeare, where Richard appears on the balcony, with prayer book in hand and a priest on either side?

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 120

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: March 29, 1865

I was awakened with a bunch of violets from Mrs. Pride. Violets always remind me of Kate and of the sweet South wind that blew in the garden of paradise part of my life. Then, it all came back: the dread unspeakable that lies behind every thought now.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 372

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: Thursday, March 30, 1865

I find I have not spoken of the box-car which held the Preston party that day on their way to York from Richmond. In the party were Mr. and Mrs. Lawson Clay, General and Mrs. Preston and their three daughters, Captain Rodgers, and Mr. Portman, whose father is an English earl, and connected financially and happily with Portman Square. In my American ignorance I may not state Mr. Portman's case plainly. Mr. Portman is, of course, a younger son. Then there was Cellie and her baby and wet-nurse, with no end of servants, male and female. In this ark they slept, ate, and drank, such being the fortune of war. We were there but a short time, but Mr. Portman, during that brief visit of ours, was said to have eaten three luncheons, and the number of his drinks, toddies, so called, were counted, too. Mr. Portman's contribution to the larder had been three small pigs. They were, however, run over by the train, and made sausage meat of unduly and before their time.

General Lee says to the men who shirk duty, “This is the people's war; when they tire, I stop.” Wigfall says, “It is all over; the game is up.” He is on his way to Texas, and when the hanging begins he can step over into Mexico.

I am plucking up heart, such troops do I see go by every day. They must turn the tide, and surely they are going for something more than surrender. It is very late, and the wind flaps my curtain, which seems to moan, “Too late.” All this will end by making me a nervous lunatic.

Yesterday while I was driving with Mrs. Pride, Colonel McCaw passed us! He called out, “I do hope you are in comfortable quarters.” “Very comfortable,” I replied. “Oh, Mrs. Chesnut!” said Mrs. Pride, “how can you say that?” “Perfectly comfortable, and hope it may never be worse with me,” said I. “I have a clean little parlor, 16 by 18, with its bare floor well scrubbed, a dinner-table, six chairs, and — well, that is all; but I have a charming lookout from my window high. My world is now thus divided into two parts — where Yankees are and where Yankees are not.”

As I sat disconsolate, looking out, ready for any new tramp of men and arms, the magnificent figure of General Preston hove in sight. He was mounted on a mighty steed, worthy of its rider, followed by his trusty squire, William Walker, who bore before him the General's portmanteau. When I had time to realize the situation, I perceived at General Preston's right hand Mr. Christopher Hampton and Mr. Portman, who passed by. Soon Mrs. Pride, in some occult way, divined or heard that they were coming here, and she sent me at once no end of good things for my tea-table. General Preston entered very soon after, and with him Clement Clay, of Alabama, the latter in pursuit of his wife's trunk. I left it with the Rev. Mr. Martin, and have no doubt it is perfectly safe, but where? We have written to Mr. Martin to inquire. Then Wilmot de Saussure appeared. “I am here,” he said, “to consult with General Chesnut. He and I always think alike.” He added, emphatically: “Slavery is stronger than ever.” “If you think so,” said I, “you will find that for once you and General Chesnut do not think alike. He has held that slavery was a thing of the past, this many a year.”

I said to General Preston: “I pass my days and nights partly at this window. I am sure our army is silently dispersing. Men are moving the wrong way, all the time. They slip by with no songs and no shouts now. They have given the thing up. See for yourself. Look there.” For a while the streets were thronged with soldiers and then they were empty again. But the marching now is without tap of drum.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 373-4

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 28, 1864

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

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Friday, October 24, 1862

A letter from Jimmy, the first we have received since New Orleans fell. It was dated the 10th inst., and he spoke of being on the eve of running the blockade, and going to Liverpool “to represent our unfortunate navy,” as he says, though I am at loss to imagine what he can mean. He speaks of a kind friend, a Mr. George Trenholm,¹ whose kindness has been perfectly extraordinary. He has befriended him in every way.

Charlie has just come by the railroad, bringing other letters from him, to mother and Lilly. In mother's is his last good-bye on the 12th. Again Mr. Trenholm is the theme. I could not help crying over my dear little brother's manly, affectionate letter. He says he is sure God will still care for him, He has raised him up friends wherever he has been. He says he lost all his clothing in going to Charleston. There, among other kind people, he met this gentleman, who carried him to his house, where he has kept him ever since, treating him like his son, and forced him to accept a magnificent outfit as a present from him. He procured the appointment which sends Jimmy abroad (I wish Jimmy had been more explicit concerning it; we hardly know what it is, or how long it will keep him). The money he received to pay Jimmy's passage (received from the Government) he in turn obliged Jimmy to accept, as he sails in one of Mr. Trenholm's steamers; and not satisfied with that, gives him carte blanche on his house in England, to be filled up with any amount he chooses to name.

Mother went back to Clinton with Charlie that evening, to my great distress; for she hates that odious place as much as I.

I know the life will kill her if it lasts six months longer. How happy I would be, if it were not for the thought of her uncomfortable position there! Lilly agrees with me that, once out of it, she never wishes to see the vile place again. Margret says that when the Lord had finished all the world and all the people, he had some scraps left, and just thought he'd “batch up” Clinton with them. Perhaps she is right.

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¹ Secretary of the Treasury of the Confederate States. Later, Colonel James Morris Morgan (“Jimmy” in the Diary), married Mr. Trenholm's daughter Helen, whose portrait appears on an issue of Confederate bank notes.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 263-5

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Sunday, February 12, 1865

Our division relieved the Third Division on the skirmish line at the bridge this morning, while they went down the river about a mile, laid the pontoons and crossed over. The skirmishing was commenced at an early hour all along the line for a distance of fifteen miles. Our men threw shells across the river into Orangeburg, and the rebels left the bridge about 1 o'clock. Our division crossed the bridge two hours later and took possession of the town.¹

Orangeburg is nicely situated on the north bank of the Edisto river, and on the railroad running from Charleston to Columbia. The town is almost deserted, but before the war it had a population of three thousand. We destroyed the railroad and went into camp for the night.

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¹ The town was on fire when we arrived. The report was that the town was set on fire by a Jew, in revenge for the enemy's setting fire to his cotton, about fifty bales, when they evacuated the place. The high winds which prevailed rapidly spread the fire in spite of the efforts of the soldiers to extinguish it.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 252

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Saturday, February 11, 1865

Very pleasant weather. We started at 8 o'clock this morning and moved forward twelve miles. There was some skirmishing in front, and our forces routed the enemy from some strong positions.¹

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¹ When the Confederates had good positions, they were unable to make a strong stand and retain them. For although they could delay our army for a time at the main crossings of rivers, there was always another part of our army reaching the same river by some byroad, which after crossing would flank them, or coming up in the rear would drive them out of their defense – A. G. D.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 252

Captain Charles Fessenden Morse, February 14, 1863

Camp Near Stafford C. H., Va.,

February 14, 1863.

I have been appointed Provost Marshal of the corps, and shift my quarters to-morrow to General Slocum's headquarters. I am to have my company and another one from my regiment, and a company of cavalry for my guard. The duties I don't imagine to be very heavy, except in the office. I am allowed a horse and a wall-tent to myself. I rather like the idea of a change for a little while at any rate; if we begin active movements again, I shall try and get back to the regiment. I like General Slocum very well, from what I have seen of him, and he has some very good men on his staff. I shall probably see a good deal of them.

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 121

Major Wilder Dwight: November 26, 1861

camp Near Seneca, November 26, 1861.

If you are to have another letter from a major commanding, I suppose it had better be written to-night. Tomorrow, I feel sure, will bring back Colonel Gordon, and I shall very gladly shift that burden to his shoulders. There are some objections to holding the reins, very long, of power that you are not to continue in the exercise of; and, though I must say the Colonel has got a very easily managed regiment, and I have had no difficulty in my path, yet the temptation to mould things to your own will is a strong one, not to be indulged in temporary command. On the whole, this is probably better for the regiment, — it is certainly safer for me. The month of November, though we have spent it quietly in camp, has been the most trying one to the regiment in its whole history. I am glad to be able to persuade myself that we stand firmer than we did three weeks since. I hope we shall steadily improve. There is a hopeless desperation chilling one when engaged in a contest with disease. The unseen malaria has such an advantage in the fight. I had rather meet anything for the regiment than the enemy who surprised us in our former camping-ground, and who seems hardly yet to have given up beat. Two weeks ago I had something as much like depression as I ever allow myself the indulgence of. Now I feel quite glad again. This afternoon, for example, a blue, overcast November sky, but a keen, bracing air, we bad a lively battalion drill, which went quite well. The regiment turned out full companies, and, altogether, looked its old self — There, I was just in the midst of this last exultant sentence, when what should happen but a knock at my tent. Enter Captain . “Major, two men of my company are very sick in quarters, and ought to be in hospital, but there is not room.” “Well, sir, I can't make room.” Then the same complaint from another captain. I send for the Doctor. He is abed, having been sick for the past three days. I send for the Assistant Surgeon. He says, “Yes, it is so; but the Brigade Surgeon promises a tent soon. The measles cases have increased within two days.”

I require from him a report of every case in quarters, and a statement of how many sick men ought to be in hospital. This is the nature of the work to be done. To make bricks without straw. Our sick officers have not yet returned to duty. The Adjutant is still away. I have to look after everything myself. Still, I do insist that we are getting better. A week on a high piece of ground three miles from the river would put us all on our feet again. But as long as the morning sun rises only to quicken the fatal exhalations from this pestilent Potomac, and the evening dews fall only to rise again with fever in their breath, the contest is unequal and the victory uncertain. Well, we can only hope for better things, and be thankful for what we have. You will see, however, that the constant maintenance of military efficiency under all these circumstances exacts constant effort. I rejoice in continued health and increasing strength, and am thankful and happy. I think, too, that our experience will be a sort of seasoning. One thing is certain, — we cannot have the measles again!

I have just come in from my nightly round through the camp; and, as taps have sounded, all is quiet. I sit alone in my tent a-thinkin' o' nothin' at all, — and writing about it, too. Yes, I can tell you about our domestic arrangements, — I mean our mess.

We have intruded upon an elderly lady who lives near our lines. She has given us her parlor and the use of her cooking-stove. Tony is in great feather. He rejoices in all kinds of culinary eccentricities.

The old lady, meantime, is repaid by our protection. She confides to me her griefs for the losses of fence-rails and cabbages, of pigs and poultry. This happened when a former regiment was here. Now she is safe. Tony and she observe an armed neutrality over the common cooking-stove. This evening she told us the history of Jack Cross, the husband of the lady who owns the house where Colonel Andrews is sick. Jack is in prison — at Fort Warren perhaps — as a traitor. The good lady described his capture. Said she: “The officers came to me, and says they, ‘Do you know of Jack Cross's hanging or shooting any one?’ “As for shooting,” says I, “I've known him from a boy, and a more peaceable man I never knew; and as for hanging,” says I, “I never knew him to hang anything except a big black dog.” Which was true, indeed, and I recollect how the dog looked, and he most frightened me to death. But they took him. He was an unfortunate man, but he was a good neighbor; and a good neighbor can't be a bad man. But this business has got him into trouble; but I can't seem to understand it no how. I'm for the Union and peace before I die.” I think she would have talked till now, had we not left the table, her ideas running in a beaten track of puzzlement and dread. She evidently does not either understand or enjoy civil war.

I said our camp was still. I ought to admit that the night is full of echoes with the barking cough that prevails, — an unwholesome sound. Good night, and God bless you all at home.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 157-9

Farewell Address of Major-General John A. Dix to the Middle Department, June 1, 1862

Head quarters, Middle Department, Baltimore, Md., June 1,1862.

General Orders, No. 14:

The Major-general commanding, having received orders to repair to Fort Monroe and assume the command at that point, and having but two hours to prepare for his departure, takes leave of the troops under his command in the only mode left to him — through the medium of a General Order.

Of the corps composing his command when he first assumed it, more than ten months ago, two regiments — the Third New York Volunteers, under Colonel Alford; the Fourth New York Volunteers, under Colonel Taylor; and the regular garrison of Fort McHenry, under Colonel Morris — are all that remain. The admirable discipline of these deserves the highest commendation; and he returns to all his sincere thanks for their promptitude and fidelity in the performance of their duties.

It is a source of great regret to him that he is compelled to leave without being able to review the regiments of New York Militia — the Seventh, Eighth, Thirteenth, Twenty-second, Thirty-seventh, and Forty-seventh — which, under a second appeal from the Chief Magistrate of the Union, have laid aside their various occupations on the briefest notice, at great personal sacrifice, and, hurrying to the field, are now occupying positions in and around Baltimore. In their patriotism and their devotion to the Government of their country the Union feeling of the city will meet with a cordial sympathy. It is a great alleviation of the regret with which the Major-general commanding parts with them, that he is soon to be succeeded by a distinguished general officer of the regular army from their own State. In the interim the command of the Department devolves on Brigadier-general Montgomery, United States Volunteers.

The Major-general commanding cannot forbear, in taking leave of the citizens of Baltimore, among whom his duties have been discharged, to express the grateful sense he will ever retain of the aid and encouragement he has received from those of them who have been true, under all the vicissitudes of a wicked and unnatural contest, to the cause of the Union. The ladies of the Union Relief Association are entitled to a special acknowledgment of his obligations to them. It is believed that the records of philanthropic devotion do not contain a brighter example of self-sacrificing service than that which is to be found in their own quiet and unobtrusive labors. The military hospitals have, from the commencement of the war, borne unceasing testimony to their untiring zeal and sympathy. The wounded prisoners of the insurgent army have, like our own, been solaced in their dying hours by the ministrations of these devoted ladies: nobly suggesting to the misguided masses who are in arms against the Government that suffering humanity, under whatever circumstances it may present itself, has the same claim on our common nature for sympathy and ministering care. And it is to be hoped that this lesson of magnanimity may not be without its proper influence on those who, under the influence of bad passions, seem to have lost sight of their moral responsibility for indifference and cruelty.

It is a source of great gratification to the Major-general commanding that in the eight months during which the municipal police was under his control no act of disorder disturbed the tranquillity of the city, and that the police returns, compared with those of a corresponding period of the previous year, exhibit a very great reduction, in some months as high as fifty per cent., in the aggregate of misdemeanors and crimes. The police having on the 20th of March last been surrendered to the city authorities, they have since then been responsible for the preservation of the public order. The zeal and promptitude of the Police Commissioners and Marshal of Police on the occurrence of a recent disturbance, provoked by a brutal expression of disloyal feeling, gives earnest of their determination to arrest at the outset all breaches of the public peace, which, by whatever provocation they may seem to be palliated, are sure to degenerate, if unchecked, into discreditable and fatal excesses.

The Major-general commanding, with this imperfect acknowledgment of his obligations to the loyal citizens of Baltimore and their patriotic defenders, tenders to them all, with his best wishes, a friendly and cordial farewell.

By order of Major-general Dix.

Danl. T. Van Buren, Colonel and Aide-de-camp.

SOURCE: Morgan Dix, Memoirs of John Adams Dix, Volume 2, p. 47-8

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes: Sunday Morning, March 16, 1862

Another change — a snow-storm; March fuss and fury. Received a note from Lieutenant-Colonel Jones, directing vigilance and to be in readiness for an attack by the enemy or for a forward movement, — the abandonment by the Rebels of eastern Virginia on the Potomac rendering it likely that the enemy will come here or we go there!! . . .

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 209

Diary of Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle: Saturday, April 11, 1863

Mr –––, the Unionist, came to me this morning, and said, in a contrite manner, “I hope, Kernel, that in the fumes of brandy I didn't say anything offensive last night.” I assured him that he hadn't. I have now become comparatively accustomed and reconciled to the necessity of shaking hands and drinking brandy with every one.*

The ambulance returned from Bagdad to-day. Captain Hancock had managed to cross the bar in Mr Oetling's steamer or lighter, but was very nearly capsized.

I went to a grand supper, given by Mr Oetling in honour of Mr Hill's departure for the city of Mexico. This, it appears, is the custom of the country.

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* This necessity does not exist except in Texas.

SOURCE: Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle, Three months in the southern states: April-June, 1863, p. 21-2

Diary of William Howard Russell: April 28, 1861

The church is a long way off, only available by a boat and then a drive in a carriage. In the morning a child brings in my water and boots — an intelligent, curly-headed creature, dressed in a sort of sack, without any particular waist, barefooted. I imagined it was a boy till it told me it was a girl. I asked if she was going to church, which seemed to puzzle her exceedingly; but she told me finally she would hear prayers from “uncle” in one of the cottages. This use of the words “uncle” and “aunt” for old people is very general. Is it because they have no fathers and mothers? In the course of the day, the child, who was fourteen or fifteen years of age, asked me “whether I would not buy her. She could wash and sew very well, and she thought missus wouldn't want much for her.” The object she had in view leaked out at last. It was a desire to see the glories of Beaufort, of which she had heard from the fishermen; and she seemed quite wonderstruck when she was informed I did not live there, and had never seen it. She had never been outside the plantation in her life.

After breakfast we loitered about the grounds, strolling through the cotton-fields, which had as yet put forth no bloom or flower, and coming down others to the thick fringes of wood and sedge bordering the marshy banks of the island. The silence was profound, broken only by the husky mid-day crowing of the cocks in the negro quarters.

In the afternoon I took a short drive “to see a tree,” which was not very remarkable, and looked in at the negro quarters and the cotton-mill. The old negroes were mostly indoors, and came shambling out to the doors of their wooden cottages, making clumsy bows at our approach, but not expressing any interest or pleasure at the sight of their master and the strangers. They were shabbily clad; in tattered clothes, bad straw hats and felt bonnets, and broken shoes. The latter are expensive articles, and negroes cannot dig without them. Trescot sighed as he spoke of the increase of price since the troubles broke out.

The huts stand in a row, like a street, each detached, with a poultry-house of rude planks behind it. The mutilations which the poultry undergo for the sake of distinction are striking. Some are deprived of a claw, others have the wattles cut, and tails and wings suffer in all ways. No attempt at any drainage or any convenience existed near them, and the same remark applies to very good houses of white people in the south. Heaps of oyster shells, broken crockery, old shoes, rags, and feathers were found near each hut. The huts were all alike windowless, and the apertures, intended to be glazed some fine day, were generally filled up with a deal board. The roofs were shingle, and the whitewash which had once given the settlement an air of cleanliness, was now only to be traced by patches which had escaped the action of the rain. I observed that many of the doors were fastened by a padlock and chain outside. “Why is that?” “The owners have gone out, and honesty is not a virtue they have towards each other. They would find their things stolen if they did not lock their doors.” Mrs. Trescot, however, insisted on it that nothing could exceed the probity of the slaves in the house, except in regard to sweet things, sugar, and the like; but money and jewels were quite safe. It is obvious that some reason must exist for this regard to the distinctions twixt meum and tuum in the case of masters and mistresses, when it does not guide their conduct towards each other, and I think it might easily be found in the fact that the negroes could scarcely take money without detection. Jewels and jewelry would be of little value to them; they could not wear them, could not part with them. The system has made the white population a police against the black race, and the punishment is not only sure but grievous. Such things as they can steal from each other are not to be so readily traced.

One particularly dirty looking little hut was described to me as “the church.” It was about fifteen feet square, begrimed with dirt and smoke, and windowless. A few benches were placed across it, and “the preacher,” a slave from another plantation, was expected next week. These preachings are not encouraged in many plantations. They “do the niggers no good” — “they talk about things that are going on elsewhere, and get their minds unsettled,” and so on.

On our return to the house, I found that Mr. Edmund Rhett, one of the active and influential political family of that name, had called — a very intelligent and agreeable gentleman, but one of the most ultra and violent speakers against the Yankees I have yet heard. He declared there were few persons in South Carolina who would not sooner ask Great Britain to take back the State than submit to the triumph of the Yankees. “We are an agricultural people, pursuing our own system, and working out our own destiny, breeding up women and men with some other purpose than to make them vulgar, fanatical, cheating Yankees — hypocritical, if as women they pretend to real virtue; and lying, if as men they pretend to be honest. We have gentlemen and gentlewomen in your sense of it. We have a system which enables us to reap the fruits of the earth by a race which we save from barbarism in restoring them to their real place in the world as laborers, whilst we are enabled to cultivate the arts, the graces, and accomplishments of life, to develop science, to apply ourselves to the duties of government, and to understand the affairs of the country.”

This is a very common line of remark here. The Southerners also take pride to themselves, and not unjustly, for their wisdom in keeping in Congress those men who have proved themselves useful and capable. “We do not,” they say, “cast able men aside at the caprices of a mob, or in obedience to some low party intrigue, and hence we are sure of the best men, and are served by gentlemen conversant with public affairs, far superior in every way to the ignorant clowns who are sent to Congress by the North. Look at the fellows who are sent out by Lincoln to insult foreign courts by their presence.” I said that I understood Mr. Adams and Mr. Dayton were very respectable gentlemen, but I did not receive any sympathy; in fact, a neutral who attempts to moderate the violence of either side, is very like an ice between two hot plates. Mr. Rhett is also persuaded that the Lord Chancellor sits on a cotton bale. “You must recognize us, sir, before the end of October.” In the evening a distant thunder-storm attracted me to the garden, and I remained out watching the broad flashes and sheets of fire worthy of the tropics till it was bedtime.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, p. 146-8

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: April 17, 1862

To-day Congress passed an act providing for the termination of martial law within thirty days after the meeting of the next session. This was as far as they could venture; for, indeed, a majority seem to be intimidated at the glitter of bayonets in the streets, wielded by the authority of martial law. The press, too, has taken the alarm, and several of the publishers have confessed a fear of having their offices closed, if they dare to speak the sentiments struggling for utterance. It is, indeed, a reign of terror! Every Virginian, and other loyal citizens of the South — members of Congress and all — must now, before obtaining Gen. Winder's permission to leave the city for their homes, bow down before the aliens in the Provost Marshal's office, and subscribe to an oath of allegiance, while a file of bayonets are pointed at his back!

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 120

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: March 27, 1865

I have moved again, and now I am looking from a window high, with something more to see than the sky. We have the third story of Dr. Da Vega's house, which opens on the straight street that leads to the railroad about a mile off.

Mrs. Bedon is the loveliest of young widows. Yesterday at church Isaac Hayne nestled so close to her cap-strings that I had to touch him and say, “Sit up!” Josiah Bedon was killed in that famous fight of the Charleston Light Dragoons. The dragoons stood still to be shot down in their tracks, having no orders to retire. They had been forgotten, doubtless, and they scorned to take care of themselves.

In this high and airy retreat, as in Richmond, then in Columbia, and then in Lincolnton, my cry is still: If they would only leave me here in peace and if I were sure things never could be worse with me. Again am I surrounded by old friends. People seem to vie with each other to show how good they can be to me.

To-day Smith opened the trenches and appeared laden with a tray covered with a snow-white napkin. Here was my first help toward housekeeping again. Mrs. Pride has sent a boiled ham, a loaf of bread, a huge pancake; another neighbor coffee already parched and ground; a loaf of sugar already cracked; candles, pickles, and all the other things one must trust to love for now. Such money as we have avails us nothing, even if there were anything left in the shops to buy.

We had a jolly luncheon. James Lowndes called, the best of good company. He said of Buck, “She is a queen, and ought to reign in a palace. No Prince Charming yet; no man has yet approached her that I think half good enough for her.”

Then Mrs. Prioleau Hamilton, née Levy, came with the story of family progress, not a royal one, from Columbia here: “Before we left home,” said she, “Major Hamilton spread a map of the United States on the table, and showed me with his finger where Sherman was likely to go. Womanlike, I demurred. “But, suppose he does not choose to go that way?” “Pooh, pooh! what do you know of war?” So we set out, my husband, myself, and two children, all in one small buggy. The 14th of February we took up our line of march, and straight before Sherman's men for five weeks we fled together. By incessant hurrying and scurrying from pillar to post, we succeeded in acting as a sort of avant-courier of the Yankee army. Without rest and with much haste, we got here last Wednesday, and here we mean to stay and defy Sherman and his legions. Much the worse for wear were we.”

The first night their beauty sleep was rudely broken into at Alston with a cry, “Move on, the Yanks are upon us!” So they hurried on, half-awake, to Winnsboro, but with no better luck. There they had to lighten the ship, leave trunks, etc., and put on all sail, for this time the Yankees were only five miles behind. “Whip and spur, ride for your life!” was the cry. “Sherman's objective point seemed to be our buggy,” said she; “for you know that when we got to Lancaster Sherman was expected there, and he keeps his appointments; that is, he kept that one. Two small children were in our chariot, and I began to think of the Red Sea expedition. But we lost no time, and soon we were in Cheraw, clearly out of the track. We thanked God for all his mercies and hugged to our bosoms fond hopes of a bed and bath so much needed by all, especially for the children.

At twelve o'clock General Hardee himself knocked us up with word to “March! march!” for “all the blue bonnets are over the border.” In mad haste we made for Fayetteville, when they said:  “God bless your soul! This is the seat of war now; the battle-ground where Sherman and Johnston are to try conclusions.” So we harked back, as the hunters say, and cut across country, aiming for this place. Clean clothes, my dear? Never a one except as we took off garment by garment and washed it and dried it by our camp fire, with our loins girded and in haste.” I was snug and comfortable all that time in Lincolnton.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

To-day Stephen D. Lee's corps marched through — only to surrender. The camp songs of these men were a heartbreak; so sad, yet so stirring. They would have warmed the blood of an Icelander. The leading voice was powerful, mellow, clear, distinct, pathetic, sweet. So, I sat down, as women have done before, when they hung up their harps by strange streams, and I wept the bitterness of such weeping. Music? Away, away! Thou speakest to me of things which in all my long life I have not found, and I shall not find. There they go, the gay and gallant few, doomed; the last gathering of the flower of Southern pride, to be killed, or worse, to a prison. They continue to prance by, light and jaunty. They march with as airy a tread as if they still believed the world was all on their side, and that there were no Yankee bullets for the unwary. What will Joe Johnston do with them now?

The Hood melodrama is over, though the curtain has not fallen on the last scene. Cassandra croaks and makes many mistakes, but to-day she believes that Hood stock is going down. When that style of enthusiasm is on the wane, the rapidity of its extinction is miraculous. It is like the snuffing out of a candle; “one moment white, then gone forever.” No, that is not right; it is the snow-flake on the river that is referred to. I am getting things as much mixed as do the fine ladies of society.

Lee and Johnston have each fought a drawn battle; only a few more dead bodies lie stiff and stark on an unknown battle-field. For we do not so much as know where these drawn battles took place.

Teddy Barnwell, after sharing with me my first luncheon, failed me cruelly. He was to come for me to go down to the train and see Isabella pass by. One word with Isabella worth a thousand ordinary ones! So, she has gone by and I've not seen her.

Old Colonel Chesnut refuses to say grace; but as he leaves the table audibly declares, “I thank God for a good dinner.” When asked why he did this odd thing he said: '' My way is to be sure of a thing before I return thanks for it." Mayor Goodwyn thanked Sherman for promised protection to Columbia ; soon after, the burning began.

I received the wife of a post-office robber. The poor thing had done no wrong, and I felt so sorry for her. Who would be a woman? Who that fool, a weeping, pissing, faithful woman? She hath hard measures still when she hopes kindest. And all her beauty only makes ingrates!

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 369-72

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: February 15, 1864

A pause in my diary; but nothing of importance has occurred, either at home or with the country. The armies are mud-bound — I wish they could continue so. I dread the approach of Spring, with its excitements and horrors.

Prices of provisions have risen enormously — bacon $8 per pound, butter $15, etc. Our old friends from the lower part of Essex, Mr. –––’s parishioners for many years, sent over a wagon filled most generously with all manner of necessary things for our larder. We have no right to complain, for Providence is certainly supplying our wants. The clerks' salaries, too, have been raised to $250 per month, which sounds very large; but when we remember that flour is $300 per barrel, it sinks into insignificance.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 252

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Wednesday, October 22, 1862

Linwood. We left Clinton this morning, and have just now arrived by the cars. Charlie came in last evening, to our great surprise, so we did not scruple to leave Lilly. . . .

The Baton Rouge party returned late this evening. In spite of all preparation, Gibbes was horrified at the appearance of home.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 263

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Wednesday, February 8, 1865

Our division started out on the railroad at 7 o'clock this morning and destroyed about ten miles of track. We then returned to camp for the rest of the day and night. All is quiet in front.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 251