Diary of Sarah Morgan: Thursday, January 22, 1863

What a rush of visitors last night! One would imagine they had all come by appointment, expressly to have an impromptu dance, which they certainly enjoyed, by the way. There was little Captain C––, the Susceptible and Simple, who so innocently says “I seen” and “I done it,” without the faintest suspicion of the peculiarity, and looks so sweet, and guileless, and amiable, and soft, that I can't help wondering if he would be sticky if I touch him. Indeed, I think his hands stick, at least; for when he told me good-bye, it was with the greatest difficulty that I extracted mine from his grasp (he having forgotten to return it during a long farewell address), and even when I succeeded in recovering it, by being almost rude, it was not released without a very sensible pressure from the putty, or whatever it is that is so tenacious. I am afraid it is rather a habit of his, which has lost all force or meaning by being too frequently repeated. Then there was a horrid little wretch, vulgar and underbred (to my idea), to whom I was introduced as Mr. G–– . . . . But here is Lieutenant Dupré, whom I have not yet introduced, though we have met before. Tall, good-looking, a fine form, and not a sparkling face, I am inclined to believe that his chief merit lies in his legs. Certainly when he dances he puts his best foot forward, and knows it, too. Miriam, who adores dancing, is flirting openly with this divinity of the “Deux Temps” and polka, and skims around with his arm about her (position sanctified by the lively air Lydia is dashing off on the piano) with a grace and lightness only equaled by his own. And Lieutenant Duggan, with his good, honest, clever face which so unmistakably proclaims him “Tom,” we know already, so no further description is needed. Captain Fenner, too, is well known, with his short, though graceful figure, his good-humored, intelligent face, irresistible imperial, and that roguish expression about that large mouth which displays such handsome teeth, and seems to say, “Don't trust me too far.”

Little Captain C–– tells me a long story about how Colonel Steadman had come to him and asked if he believed it possible that Miss Morgan had put her life and happiness in the hands of a homoeopathic physician; how he considered her fate sealed; and what a shame it was to trifle with such a sad affair, at my age, too, ruined for life! It was dreadful! Too sad! Hereupon, as continuing the story, he remarks that being asked his opinion by the Colonel, he agreed perfectly and thought with him it was an appalling sacrifice, and oh, all sorts of things! Anything, just to make me miserable and unhappy!

Well, what is written will come to pass. First comes a doctor with a butchering apparatus who cups and bleeds me unmercifully, says I’ll walk ten days after, and exit. Enter another. Croton oil and strychnine pills, that’ll set me up in two weeks. And exit. Enter a third. Sounds my bones and pinches them from my head to my heels. Tells of the probability of a splinter of bone knocked off my left hip, the possibility of paralysis in the leg, the certainty of a seriously injured spine, and the necessity for the most violent counter-irritants. Follow blisters which sicken even disinterested people to look at, and a trifle of suffering which I come very near acknowledging to myself. Enter the fourth. Inhuman butchery! wonder they did not kill you! Take three drops a day out of this tiny bottle, and presto! in two weeks you are walking! A fifth, in the character of a friend, says, “My dear young lady, if you do, your case is hopeless.” What wonder that I am puzzled? A wiser head would be confused. I want to believe all, but how is it possible? “What will be, will be.”

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Bon! here comes a note from Mr. Halsey! Ah ça! Lend him “Zaidee”? Certainly! Here is a postscript three times the length of the note; voyons. Will Miss Sarah make the annotations he requested, in “Kate Coventry”? He is anxious to have the lady's opinion on the questions of taste and propriety which so frequently occur in the book. ... I'1l not attempt such a display; yet there are several passages I am dying to mark. One in particular, speaking of the peculiarities of men, of how they are always more at ease when they have their hands employed, drawing confidence and conversation from a paper-knife and book to tumble, a pair of scissors and a thread to snip, or even from imbibing the head of a cane, I am anxious to call his attention to. If I dared add to the list, “or a cord and tassel to play with”! This nervous Mr. Halsey is wearing out my pretty blue tassel that Frank admires so much; he says he can talk better when he dangles it. Think the hint might save it in the future!

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 312-6

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Tuesday, March 28, 1865

We have had pleasant weather for several days, but today it is cloudy, with some rain. The men drew new clothing today just as fast as the quartermaster could receive the supply from the general quartermaster. Nearly every man in the regiment is drawing a full suit, out and out. Some of the men have to get new knapsacks, canteens and haversacks, while all are getting new shoes. I drew a pair of pants and a blouse, a pair of drawers and a pair of socks. Our regiment out on dress parade has the appearance of a new regiment.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 265

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: May 21, 1862

There are skirmishes every day, and we can hear both the artillery and musketry from the hills on the outskirts of the city, whither some of us repair every afternoon.

But the Provost Marshal's administration is abominable. Mr. Garnett, M. C., told me that in an interview with the President, the latter informed him that he had just received a letter from Gen. Johnston, stating that the enemy not only knew everything going on within our lines, but seemed absolutely to know what we intended doing in the future, as if the most secret counsels of the cabinet were divulged.

Count Mercier, the French Minister residing at Washington, has been here on a mysterious errand. They said it referred to our recognition. He had prolonged interviews with Mr. Benjamin. I think it was concerning tobacco. There are $60,000,000 worth in Richmond, at French prices. For $1,000,000, Mr. Seward might afford to wink very hard; and, after distributing several other millions, there would be a grand total profit both to the owners and the French Emperor. I smile at their golden expectations, for I know they will not be realized. If one man can prevent it, the South shall never be betrayed for a crop of tobacco. This is a holy cause we are embarked in, worthy to die for.

The British Minister, Lord Lyons, has embarked for England, to report to his government that “the rebellion is on its last legs,” and must speedily succumb. He is no prophet, or the son of a prophet.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 127

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: Saturday, July 4, 1865

Saturday I was in bed with one of my worst headaches. Occasionally there would come a sob and I thought of my sister insulted and my little sweet Williams. Another of my beautiful Columbia quartette had rough experiences. A raider asked the plucky little girl, Lizzie Hamilton, for a ring which she wore. “You shall not have it,” she said. The man put a pistol to her head, saying, “Take it off, hand it to me, or I will blow your brains out.” “Blow away,” said she. The man laughed and put down his pistol, remarking, " You knew I would not hurt you.” “Of course, I knew you dared not shoot me. Even Sherman would not stand that.”

There was talk of the negroes where the Yankees had been — negroes who flocked to them and showed them where silver and valuables had been hid by the white people. Ladies’-maids dressed themselves in their mistresses' gowns before the owners’ faces and walked off. Now, before this every one had told me how kind, faithful, and considerate the negroes had proven. I am sure, after hearing these tales, the fidelity of my own servants shines out brilliantly. I had taken their conduct too much as a matter of course. In the afternoon I had some business on our place, the Hermitage. John drove me down. Our people were all at home, quiet, orderly, respectful, and at their usual work. In point of fact things looked unchanged. There was nothing to show that any one of them had even seen the Yankees, or knew that there was one in existence.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 402-3

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: May 26, 1864

We are now anticipating a fight at Hanover Junction. General Lee fell back to that point on Sunday last, for some good purpose, no doubt. Our army is in line of battle on the Cedar Hill plantation. The ladies of the family have come to Richmond to avoid the awful collision about to take place. That house, I sadly fear, is to be another sacrifice. Our successes have been wonderful, and evidently, I think, directed by God. We have, however, just met with a sad reverse in Charles City County. General Fitz Lee, commanding two brigades, fought a much larger body of men, who were strongly fortified, and was of course repulsed. Alas, alas for our gallant army! bravery cannot always contend safely against overwhelming numbers. We are very uneasy about our dear ones who were in that fight. Strange stories are told of the wounded having been bayoneted. It is difficult to believe that men of human hearts could do such things; and while I feel unhappy about the rumour, I cannot credit it.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 274-5

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Monday, January 19, 1863

That blessed Mr. Halsey like an angel of mercy sent me “Kate Coventry” yesterday, just when I was pining for a bonne bouche of some kind, I did not care what, whether a stick of candy or an equally palatable book. It is delightful to have one's wishes realized as soon as they are made. I think it rather caused me to relent towards Mr. Halsey; I did not feel half so belligerent as I did just the Sunday before. At all events, I felt well enough to go down in the evening when he called again, though I had been too indisposed to do so on a previous occasion. (O Sarah!)

Wheeled into the parlor, there I beheld not my friend alone, but several other individuals whose presence rather star tied me. I found myself undergoing the terrors of an introduction to a Colonel Locke, and to my unspeakable surprise, Major Buckner was claiming the privilege of shaking hands with me, and Colonel Steadman was on the other side, and — was that Mr. Halsey? O never! The Mr. Halsey I knew was shockingly careless of his dress, never had his hair smooth; let his beard grow as it would, and wore a most ferocious slouched hat. This one had taken more than one look at the glass, a thing I should have imagined the other incapable of doing. He had bestowed the greatest care and attention on his dress, had brought his beard within reasonable limits, had combed his hair with the greatest precision, and held lightly in one hand an elegant little cap that I am sure must be provokingly becoming. Why, he was handsome! Ah cat some mistake, surely, I cried to myself. My Mr. Halsey was not, certainly! “If it be I, as I hope it may be, I’ve a little dog at home who will surely know me,” I kept repeating. I resolved to test the little dog's sagacity, so I pretended to know this apparition, and thanked him for the pleasure he had afforded me by sending me “Kate Coventry.” He looked conscious and pleased! The “little dog” had found out his identity! I was more puzzled than ever. How account for this wondrous change? . . . But metaphorphosed “John” talked! He was expatiating at a most extraordinary rate, and had been doing so for an hour after supper, when Gibbes drew his chair near me (Gibbes likes to hear what visitors say to his little sister); whereupon timid Mr. Halsey drew his slightly back, and very soon after asked for his horse. O Gibbes! you wretch! what an amusing tête-à-tête you spoiled, you innocent! And the General, of course, only waited for his exit before beginning to tease me unmercifully. I must put an end to this; they shall not bring such unjust charges against him. Yet how am I to make them see reason?

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 310-2

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Monday Night, January 19, 1863

I am more pleased to-night than I could well express. I have been talking to an old and dear friend, no other than Will Pinckney! His arrival was as unexpected as it was agreeable. The cry of “Here comes Will Pinckney” sent me back to August, ’60, when the words were always the forerunner of fun and frolic. . . . He told me what he called his secrets; of how he had been treated by the War Department (which has, indeed, behaved shockingly towards the Colonel).

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 312

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Sunday, March 26, 1865

Pleasant weather. The Eleventh Iowa was sent out with a foraging train to get corn and fodder for the mules and horses of our brigade. They had to go a distance of thirteen miles to get the feed. I being on camp duty did not go. A train of cars came in from Newbern loaded with supplies for the army, and our quartermaster received some clothing for the regiment.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 264

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Monday, March 27, 1865

We cleaned up our camp today, and are building "ranches" with the expectation of staying here a while. We have a fine camp ground and plenty of water. Large foraging parties are sent out for corn and fodder. All is quiet in the front. No news of any importance.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 264

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: May 20, 1862

The President, in response to the Legislative Committee, announced that Richmond would be defended. A thrill of joy electrifies every heart, a smile of triumph is on every lip. The inhabitants seem to know that their brave defenders in the field will prove invincible; and it is understood that Gen. Lee considers the city susceptible of successful defense. The ladies are in ecstasies.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 127

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: June 27, 1865

An awful story from Sumter. An old gentleman, who thought his son dead or in a Yankee prison, heard some one try the front door. It was about midnight, and these are squally times. He called out, “What is that?” There came no answer. After a while he heard some one trying to open a window and he fired. The house was shaken by a fall. Then, after a long time of dead silence, he went round the house to see if his shot had done any harm, and found his only son bathed in his own blood on his father's door-step. The son was just back from a Yankee prison — one of his companions said — and had been made deaf by cold and exposure. He did not hear his father hail him. He had tried to get into the house in the same old way he used to employ when a boy.

My sister-in-law in tears of rage and despair, her servants all gone to “a big meeting at Mulberry,” though she had made every appeal against their going. “Send them adrift,” some one said, “they do not obey you, or serve you; they only live on you.” It would break her heart to part with one of them. But that sort of thing will soon right itself. They will go off to better themselves — we have only to cease paying wages — and that is easy, for we have no money.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 401-2

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: May 23, 1864

Our young relative, Lientenant G., a member of General Stuart's staff, who was always near his person, has just been giving us a most gratifying account of General Stuart's habits. He says, that although he considered him one of the most sprightly men he has ever seen, devoted to society, particularly to that of the ladies, always social and cheerful, yet he has never seen him do any thing, even under the strongest excitement, unbecoming his Christian profession or his high position as a soldier; he never saw him drink, or heard an oath escape his lips; his sentiments were always high-minded, pure, and honourable, and his actions entirely coincided with them. In short, he considered him, whether on the field or in the private circle, the model of a Christian gentleman and soldier. When speaking of his gallantry as an officer, Lientenant G's admiration knows no bounds. He speaks of the devotion of the soldiers to him as enthusiastic in the extreme. The evening before his fatal wound, he sent his troops on in pursuit of Sheridan, under the command of General Fitz Lee, as he was unavoidably detained for some three or four hours. General Lee overtook the enemy, and a sharp skirmish ensued, in which Sheridan's rear suffered very much. In the mean time, General Stuart determined to overtake General Lee, and, with his staff, rode very rapidly sixteen miles, and reached him about nightfall. They were halting for a few moments, as General Stuart rode up quietly, no one suspecting he was there, until a plain-looking soldier crossed the road, stopped, peered through the darkness into his face, and shouted out, “Old Jeb has come!” In an instant the air was rent with huzzas. General Stuart waved his cap in recognition; but called out in rather a sad voice, “My friends, we won't halloo until we get out of the woods!” intimating that there was serious work before them. At that hour the next night he was pursuing his weary and suffering way to Richmond. A friend, who knows how much I regretted not being able to serve General Stuart in any way, or even to be at his funeral, has been so kind as to write me a minute account of his sickness, death, and burial. "Perhaps (she says) it is not generally known how entirely General Stuart sacrificed his life to save Richmond. An officer of high rank, who knew the circumstances, told me that in all the war there was not one man more truly a martyr to our cause. In the many raids upon Richmond there was none in which we seemed in such imminent peril as the one in which General Stuart has just fallen. How we listened, and watched, and prayed, as the cannon sounded nearer and nearer, and even the volleys of musketry could be heard out on the roads by which the enemy were approaching! We knew that General Stuart had a band of about 2,000 cavalry against overwhelming odds on the Yankee side, and that he knew that upon this 2,000 men alone it depended to bar the enemy's approach on that side. He met the Yankees, 5,000 strong, beat them back, and fell in the encounter! It was with difficulty that he could be rescued from those who were bearing him away, but one of his own troopers saved him, and with his staff and surgeon (Dr. John Fontaine) bore him to the city. We heard that he was dying, and, in spite of the anxiety and confusion reigning at such a time, many of us rushed to Dr. Brewer's house to hear tidings of the beloved commander, whose gallantry, whose youthful gayety and chivalrous character, made him the prince among our cavalry officers. His life was ebbing out from internal hemorrhage; but his senses were as clear and his mind as calm as noontide. He asked repeatedly for his wife, who, though but fifteen miles away, could not be reached, so completely was the city hemmed in by the enemy. By his side stood our President, who, upon hearing of his situation, had hastened to thank him in the name of his country. “I have but done my duty,” was the soldier's reply. And near him was the minister of God, good Mr. Peterkin, of whose church (Episcopal) General S. was a member. He asked for his favourite hymn, and joined his feeble voice with the touching words: “I would not live alway.” From time to time, he turned his head to ask, “Is she come?” But she, for whom his loving heart so yearned, came not till that heart was stilled forever. At the funeral — at the head of his coffin — sat the soldier who had rescued him, all battle-stained and soiled; and near by, the members of his staff, who all adored him. Upon the coffin lay a sword, formed of delicate white flowers, a cross of white roses, and above these the heavenly crown, symbolized by one of green bay-leaves. We followed him to the church, where, after appropriate ceremonies, attended by many persons, his body was taken to Hollywood Cemetery. No martial pomp, no soldier's funeral, but —

“‘Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.'

Everybody was struck with the resemblance to the funeral so beautifully described in the lines just quoted. As we passed, in slow procession—

“‘We knew by the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.'

These guns were his funeral knell, sounding at intervals the solemn peal, with which, in the haste and uncertainty of the time, it was impossible for us to honour him.”

One of the morning papers has some lines on the same subject, more poetic, though not so graphic, as the account given by my friend:

“J. E. B. STUART.

"We could not pause, while yet the noontide air

Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing,

The funeral pageant, fitly to prepare,

A nation's grief revealing.

"The smoke above the glimmering woodland wide,

That skirts our southward border with its beauty.

Marked where our heroes stood, and fought and died.

For love, and faith, and duty

"And still what time the doubtful strife went on,

We might not find expression for our sorrow;

We could but lay our dear, dumb warrior down,

And gird us for the morrow.

"One weary year ago, when came a lull

With victory, in the conflicts' stormy closes,

When the glad Spring, all flushed and beautiful,

First mocked us with her roses—

"With dirge and bell, and minute-gun, we paid

Some few poor rites, an inexpressive token

Of a great people's pain, to Jackson's shade,

In agony unspoken.

"No wailing trumpet, and no tolling bell,

No cannon, save the battle's boom receding,

When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell

With hearts all crushed and bleeding.

"The crisis suited not with pomp, and she,

Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration,

Had wished his Christian obsequies should be

Thus void of ostentation.

"Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to twine

Above his form, so still, and cold, and painless,

Whose deeds upon our brightest records shine,

Whose life and sword were stainless.

"We well remembered how he loved to dash

Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers

How like a fountain's spray, his sabre's flash

Leaped from a mass of flowers.

"And so we carried to his place of rest,

All that of our Paladin was mortal;

The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast,

That opes the heavenly portal.

"No more of tribute might to us remain;

But there will come a time when freedom's martyrs

A richer guerdon of renown shall gain

Than gleams in stars and garters.

"I claim no prophet's vision, but I see,

Through coming years now near at hand, now distant,

My rescued country, glorious and free,

And strong and self-existent.

"I hear from out that sunlit land which lies

Beyond these clouds which darkly gather o'er us,

The happy sounds of industry arise,

In swelling, peaceful chorus.

"And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim

Of millions, undisturbed by war's afflictions,

Crowning each martyr's never-dying name

With grateful benedictions.

"In some fair, future garden of delights,

Where flowers shall bloom, and song-birds sweetly warble.

Art shall erect the statues of our knights,

In living bronze and marble.

"And none of all that bright, heroic throng

Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander,

Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song,

Than the beloved commander.

"The Spanish legends tell us of the Cid,

That after death he rode erect and stately

Along his lines, e'en as in life he did,

In presence yet more stately.

"And thus our Stuart at this moment seems

To ride out of our dark and troubled story,

Into the region of romance and dreams,

A realm of light and glory.

"And sometimes when the silver bugles blow,

That radiant form in battle reappearing,

Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe,

In victory careering."

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 269-74

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Thursday, January 15, 1863

From my sick bed, this 15th day of January, 1863.

Linwood, Thursday.

Am I not glad to get another blank book! On Sunday my old one gave out, to my unspeakable distress, and I would have been désolée if I had not had three or four letters to answer, as writing is my chief occupation during my tedious illness. O that unfortunate trip to Port Hudson! Have I not cause to remember and regret it? Two months last Sunday since I have been lying here a cripple, and I am not yet able to take a step. However, on Monday mother sent Dr. Woods as my fourth physician, and I have made up my mind that either he or Nature will effect a cure before long. Wonder how it feels to walk? It makes me weary to see others try it; I always fear that the exertion must be very painful — an absurd idea which I endeavor to keep to myself. . . .

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 310

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Saturday, March 25, 1865

We remained in camp all day. Large foraging parties were sent out to get feed for the mules and horses. Our train loaded with supplies returned from Kingston, down on the river. A construction train came in from Kingston, repairing the railroad. The Twenty-third Corps from Schofield's army has been moved to Kingston. All the troops are in camp in and around Goldsboro, and it will be but a short time until all our supplies will be brought in from the coast by the railroad. The Thirteenth Iowa received three hundred recruits today.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 264

A Woman's Diary Of The Siege Of Vicksburg

JUST a quarter of a century ago a young lady of New Orleans found herself an alien and an enemy to the sentiments of the community about her. Surrounded by friends and social companions, she was nevertheless painfully alone. In her enforced silence she began a diary intended solely for her own eye. A betrothed lover came suddenly from a neighboring State, claimed her hand in haste, and bore her away, a happy bride. Happy, yet anxious. The war was now fairly upon the land, and her husband, like herself, cherished sympathies whose discovery would have brought jeopardy of life, ruin, and exile. In the South, those days, all life was romantic. Theirs was full of adventure. At length they were shut up in Vicksburg. I hope some day to publish the whole diary; but the following portion is specially appropriate to the great panorama of battle in which a nation of readers is just now so interested. I shall not delay the reader to tell how I came by the manuscript, but only to say that I have not molested its original text. The name of the writer is withheld at her own request.

 

Geo. W. Cable.

 

 

We reached Vicksburg that night and went to H––’s room. Next morning the cook he had engaged arrived, and we moved into this house. Martha's ignorance keeps me busy, and H–– is kept close at his office.

 

SOURCE: George W. Cable, “A Woman's Diary Of The Siege Of Vicksburg”, The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 5, September 1885, p. 767

A Woman's Diary Of The Siege Of Vicksburg: January 7, 1863

I have had little to record here recently, for we have lived to ourselves, not visiting or visited. Every one H–– knows is absent, and I know no one but the family we staid with at first, and they are now absent. H–– tells me of the added triumph since the repulse of Sherman in December, and the one paper published here, shouts victory as much as its gradually diminishing size will allow. Paper is a serious want. There is a great demand for envelopes in the office where H–– is. He found and bought a lot of thick and smooth colored paper, cut a tin pattern, and we have whiled away some long evenings cutting envelopes and making them up. I have put away a package of the best to look at when we are old. The books I brought from Arkansas have proved a treasure, but we can get no more. I went to the only book-store open; there were none but Mrs. Stowe's “Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands.” The clerk said I could have that cheap, because he couldn't sell her books, so I got it and am reading it now. The monotony has only been broken by letters from friends here and there in the Confederacy. One of these letters tells of a Federal raid to their place, and says, “But the worst thing was, they would take every tooth-brush in the house, because we can't buy any more; and one cavalryman put my sister's new bonnet on his horse, and said ‘Get up, Jack,’ and her bonnet was gone.”

 

SOURCE: George W. Cable, “A Woman's Diary Of The Siege Of Vicksburg”, The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 5, September 1885, p. 767

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Thursday, March 23, 1865

An order from General Sherman was read this morning, stating that the campaign was over,¹ and that we should now prepare to take a short rest. We left the rifle pits at 7 o'clock, marched fifteen miles, and bivouacked within five miles of Goldsboro. Our army is concentrating there, and we are to get supplies, rest up, and prepare for another campaign.

_______________

¹ This battle proved to be our last, and it is known as the battle of Bentonville. We took part later in the surrender of Johnston's army at Raleigh, N. C. but there was no battle then, or before the surrender, only a little skirmishing. — A. G. D.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 263-4

Diary of 5th Sergeant Alexander G. Downing: Friday, March 24, 1865

We left bivouac at 7 a. m. and marched to the Neuse river, which we crossed near Goldsboro on a pontoon bridge. As we passed through town, we were reviewed by General Sherman, passing him by platoon form, and marching to martial music. The men looked pretty hard after such a long raid, ragged and almost barefooted; but we felt repaid, for we had accomplished the task which we had set out to do when we left Savannah. We went into camp north of town just outside of the town limits. Our corps, the Seventeenth, occupies the right center and the Twentieth Corps the left center, while the Fifteenth Corps occupies the right and the Fourteenth Corps the left. General Schofield's army, the Twenty-third, Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth Corps, is going into camp in the vicinity of Clinton.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 264

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: May 19, 1862

We await the issue before Richmond. It is still believed by many that it is the intention of the government and the generals to evacuate the city. If the enemy were to appear in force on the south side, and another force were to march on us from Fredericksburg, we should be inevitably taken, in the event of the loss of a battle — an event I don't anticipate. Army, government, and all, might, it is true, be involved in a common ruin. Wrote as strong a letter as I could to the President, stating what I have every reason to believe would be the consequences of the abandonment of Richmond. There would be demoralization and even insubordination in the army. Better die here! With the exception of the business portion of the city, the enemy could not destroy a great many houses by bombardment. But if defeated and driven back, our troops would make a heroic defense in the streets, in the walled grave-yards, and from the windows. Better electrify the world by such scenes of heroism, than surrender the capital and endanger the cause. I besought him by every consideration, not to abandon Richmond to the enemy short of the last extremity.

The legislature has also passed resolutions calling upon the C. S. Government to defend Richmond at all hazards, relieving the Confederate authorities, in advance, of all responsibility for any damage sustained.

This will have its effect. It would be pusillanimous to retire now.

But every preparation had been made to abandon it. The archives had been sent to Columbia, S. C., and to Lynchburg. The tracks over the bridges had been covered with plank, to facilitate the passage of artillery. Mr. Randolph had told his page, and cousin, “you must go with my wife into the country, for tomorrow the enemy will be here.” Trunks were packed in readiness — for what? Not one would have been taken on the cars! The Secretary of the Treasury had a special locomotive and cars, constantly with steam up, in readiness to fly with the treasure.

Nevertheless, many of the old secessionists have resolved not to leave their homes, for there were no other homes for them to fly to. They say they will never take the oath of allegiance to the despised government of the North, but suffer whatever penalties may be imposed on them. There is a sullen, but generally a calm expression of inflexible determination on the countenances of the people, men, women, and children. But there is no consternation; we have learned to contemplate death with composure. It would be at least an effectual escape from dishonor; and Northern domination is dishonor.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 126-7

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: June 12, 1865

Andy, made lord of all by the madman, Booth, says, “Destruction only to the wealthy classes.” Better teach the negroes to stand alone before you break up all they leaned on, O Yankees! After all, the number who possess over $20,000 are very few.

Andy has shattered some fond hopes. He denounces Northern men who came South to espouse our cause. They may not take the life-giving oath. My husband will remain quietly at home. He has done nothing that he had not a right to do, nor anything that he is ashamed of. He will not fly from his country, nor hide anywhere in it. These are his words. He has a huge volume of Macaulay, which seems to absorb him. Slily I slipped Silvio Pellico in his way. He looked at the title and moved it aside. “Oh,” said I, “I only wanted you to refresh your memory as to a prisoner's life and what a despotism can do to make its captives happy!”

Two weddings — in Camden, Ellen Douglas Ancrum to Mr. Lee, engineer and architect, a clever man, which is the best investment now. In Columbia, Sally Hampton and John Cheves Haskell, the bridegroom, a brave, one-armed soldier.

A wedding to be. Lou McCord's. And Mrs. McCord is going about frantically, looking for eggs “to mix and make into wedding-cake,” and finding none. She now drives the funniest little one-mule vehicle.

I have been ill since I last wrote in this journal. Serena 's letter came. She says they have been visited by bushwhackers, the roughs that always follow in the wake of an army. My sister Kate they forced back against the wall. She had Katie, the baby, in her arms, and Miller, the brave boy, clung to his mother, though he could do no more. They tried to pour brandy down her throat. They knocked Mary down with the butt end of a pistol, and Serena they struck with an open hand, leaving the mark on her cheek for weeks.

Mr. Christopher Hampton says in New York people have been simply intoxicated with the fumes of their own glory. Military prowess is a new wrinkle of delight to them. They are mad with pride that, ten to one, they could, after five years' hard fighting, prevail over us, handicapped, as we were, with a majority of aliens, quasi foes, and negro slaves whom they tried to seduce, shut up with us. They pay us the kind of respectful fear the British meted out to Napoleon when they sent him off with Sir Hudson Lowe to St. Helena, the lone rock by the sea, to eat his heart out where he could not alarm them more.

Of course, the Yankees know and say they were too many for us, and yet they would all the same prefer not to try us again. Would Wellington be willing to take the chances of Waterloo once more with Grouchy, Blucher, and all that left to haphazard? Wigfall said to old Cameron¹ in 1861, “Then you will a sutler be, and profit shall accrue.” Christopher Hampton says that in some inscrutable way in the world North, everybody “has contrived to amass fabulous wealth by this war.'”

There are two classes of vociferous sufferers in this community: 1. Those who say, “If people would only pay me what they owe me!” 2. Those who say, “If people would only let me alone. I can not pay them. I could stand it if I had anything with which to pay debts.”

Now we belong to both classes. Heavens! the sums people owe us and will not, or can not, pay, would settle all our debts ten times over and leave us in easy circumstances for life. But they will not pay. How can they?

We are shut in here, turned with our faces to a dead wall. No mails. A letter is sometimes brought by a man on horseback, traveling through the wilderness made by Sherman. All railroads have been destroyed and the bridges are gone. We are cut off from the world, here to eat out our hearts. Yet from my window I look out on many a gallant youth and maiden fair. The street is crowded and it is a gay sight. Camden is thronged with refugees from the low country, and here they disport themselves. They call the walk in front of Bloomsbury “the Boulevard.”

H. Lang tells us that poor Sandhill Milly Trimlin is dead, and that as a witch she had been denied Christian burial. Three times she was buried in consecrated ground in different churchyards, and three times she was dug up by a superstitious horde, who put her out of their holy ground. Where her poor, old, ill-used bones are lying now I do not know. I hope her soul is faring better than her body. She was a good, kind creature. Why supposed to be a witch? That H. Lang could not elucidate.

Everybody in our walk of life gave Milly a helping hand. She was a perfect specimen of the Sandhill “tackey” race, sometimes called “country crackers.” Her skin was yellow and leathery, even the whites of her eyes were bilious in color. She was stumpy, strong, and lean, hard-featured, horny-fisted. Never were people so aided in every way as these Sandhillers. Why do they remain Sandhillers from generation to generation? Why should Milly never have bettered her condition?

My grandmother lent a helping hand to her grandmother. My mother did her best for her mother, and I am sure the so-called witch could never complain of me. As long as I can remember, gangs of these Sandhill women traipsed in with baskets to be filled by charity, ready to carry away anything they could get. All are made on the same pattern, more or less alike. They were treated as friends and neighbors, not as beggars. They were asked in to take seats by the fire, and there they sat for hours, stony-eyed, silent, wearing out human endurance and politeness. But their husbands and sons, whom we never saw, were citizens and voters! When patience was at its last ebb, they would open their mouths and loudly demand whatever they had come to seek.

One called Judy Bradly, a one-eyed virago, who played the fiddle at all the Sandhill dances and fandangoes, made a deep impression on my youthful mind. Her list of requests was always rather long, and once my grandmother grew restive and actually hesitated. “Woman, do you mean to let me starve?” she cried furiously. My grandmother then attempted a meek lecture as to the duty of earning one's bread. Judy squared her arms akimbo and answered, “And pray, who made you a judge of the world? Lord, Lord, if I had 'er knowed I had ter stand all this jaw, I wouldn't a took your ole things,” but she did take them and came afterward again and again.

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¹ Simon Cameron became Secretary of War in Lincoln's Administration, on March 4, 1861. On January 11, 1862, he resigned and was made Minister to Russia.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 398-401