This diary/memoir is by Catherine Mary Powell Noland Cochran. Footnotes [in brackets] were added for clarification by Lee Lawrence and are not in Cochran’s text. The original diary, along with other documents, was donated by family descendants to the Virginia Museum of History and Culture, Richmond, VA: Cochran, Catherine Mary Powell (Noland), Memoir, n.d. 2 volumes. Mss5:1C6433:1–2. Microfilm reel C589
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Middleburg, Loudoun County, Virginia
Feeling that everything connected with this war will be of interest to posterity, I regret that I did not earlier begin a record of my Yankee experiences, that my children’s children may know what we have seen and suffered here, in my home. The leading facts will be matters of history but they will be glad to know how it affected us individually. We, as well as wiser men, deluded ourselves with the belief that the conflict would be measured by days – sixty being the limit.
Now, when two years have passed, the end seems no nearer. When the Ordinance of Secession was passed, April 18, 1861, I was at the University of Virginia. Two military companies, composed of students, volunteered for duty and, the same day, were ordered to Harpers Ferry. Who that witnessed it can ever forget the enthusiasm with which the order was received? The brave boys in whom were centered so many hopes and loves, hurrying with excitement, every eye sparkling, every heart beating high – noble hearts now stilled in death – sparkling eyes now closed forever, bright faces upon which the sod is now resting. Poor boys! My heart ached as I looked on them then – it aches as I think of them now. Trains were pressed to carry them off in the night.
I followed, next morning, glad to avail myself of the accommodations afforded by temporary seats in the Postal Car[1]. The whole country was ablaze. Excited crowds at every depot saluted with cheers the soldiers in the coaches. Handkerchiefs waved from every door and window as we passed on. How little we knew of what war is [sic] then – with what magnitude were all the earlier incidents of this war invested, in themselves so trifling as compared with what we have since heard and seen. How we thrilled at accounts of the riot, in Baltimore, resisting the unauthorized passage of Federal troops thru the city. Patriotic impulses, soon to be crushed out by the iron hand of despotism.
Day after day came the melancholy train of refugees from Fairfax and Alexandria, flying before the threatened advance of the enemy. Time after time, we hear Alexandria is occupied. At midnight, we are aroused by the arrival of a friend who left Alexandria that morning at daybreak, just as the Yankees entered. Some marching down from Washington, others landing at the wharf. Our handful of soldiers retreating.
With what a thrill of horror we listen to the story of the first blood shed – alas, what torrents have since been poured forth. The gay, Secession flag, which for weeks had flaunted defiance in the faces of the despots in Washington, was the first object of attack. Ellsworth, with his brutal Zouaves, vow to level it. The heroic Jackson, over whose roof it floats, swears to kill the man who touches it. Ellsworth mounts the stair and tears it down with his own hand. But, on reaching the second floor, bearing the flag in triumph, a door opens, Jackson steps out and, with his gun shoots Ellsworth dead. A dozen rifles respond, a dozen bayonets pierce his brave heart and he falls, the first of a noble army of martyrs to the cause of truth and justice.2[2]
How busy we women were, all that summer, making coats, pants, shirts, caps for our brave soldiers. Fingers that had never plied anything stouter than an embroidery needle, tugging away laboriously upon heavy cloth. Occasionally putting in a sleeve hind part before or a pocket upside down but who heeded that when the intent was so good? What stores of pickles and preserves we made for the poor fellows in hospital, for the exposures of camp life, to the tenderly nurtured boys who composed so large a part of our armies, filled the hospitals before a battle did its bloody work. What barrels of bread and meat, what bottles of wine and brandies we sent off, until assured they rarely got beyond the surgeons and their assistants. What mountains of socks we knit. We had plenty of everything to work with, then, the Yankee door was closed against us. We had no new dresses nor bonnets, that summer, but what cared we? Groceries were not abundant but we felt intensely patriotic and self-sacrificing when we decided to dispense with ice cream, cakes and all such compounds. This we called putting our tables on a war footing.
19 July 1861 No one could tell the size of our armies at Centreville and Manassas. T’was well we didn’t know how very small they were, compared with the mighty hosts gathering in the North, whose transit, thru their cities was so loudly proclaimed in their newspapers. The Yankees have already advanced to Fairfax Courthouse, leaving the country behind them desolate. Such stories as we hear from the lips of the sufferers themselves – houses pillaged, families driven off, clothing, books, pictures, furniture packed up and sent North by the officers to their families. Such clothing as could not be carried off was torn to shreds, furniture cut to pieces, glass and china broken and men and women sent to prison.
On the 19th of July we hear of a fight at Bull Run, about 20 miles from us.[3] The Yankees are compelled to admit they are worsted but all that is to be made right in the general engagement impending. On Saturday, the 21st, we send off a wagon load of provisions and hospital supplies to Manassas. The fish afforded a breakfast to our 8th Virginia Regiment, on their way to the battlefield. All they got that day, poor fellows. In the evening, we hear they have been fighting all day but, with what results, no one can say. Some, who left about noon, report the battle as going against us. We can only hope and pray.
Next morning we hear Ashby[4] and his men are to pass thru our village and, at once, we begin to provide refreshments for them. How we bless the brave fellows, whose praise is on every tongue, for their gallant conduct in the Valley. They are the first body of Confederates we have seen and we cannot sufficiently testify our satisfaction. Baskets of bread and meat, buckets of milk and pots of coffee are flying around amongst the horses. What bright looks and gay smiles respond to our cheers and waving handkerchiefs. Preeminent amongst them, mounted on a fine, black horse, rides gallant Ashby, his grave face wearing a still graver expression from the recent death of his younger brother, Richard, only a little less brave and gallant than himself, and whose horse, fully comparisoned, is led near him. A constant memento, if one were needed, of the debt he owes the Yankees.
They pass on to Manassas, as yet ignorant if the battle be ended or with what result. ‘Tis days before the reality of our great victory comes to us. But that there has been a battle, we have ghastly evidence in the mournful train who, on Monday morning, bring, in a wagon, five dead bodies, all belonging to this immediate neighborhood, and deposit them in a church till coffins can be made for them.[5] Two of them young boys, cousins. Next day, two more are brought home to the town – brothers. One died on the road, the other, more dead than alive, with seven wounds. But, after months of suffering, his life is saved with the loss of a leg.
And ah! The dreary days that followed, each one bringing news of some friend who had fallen. The pomp and circumstance, with which that “Grand Army” set forth and the rout and panic of their return to Washington, are matters of history but, from eyewitnesses, we hear many incidents which were never recorded. An old lady describes the young lady selected to plant the Union flag on the Capitol at Richmond, (said to be the daughter of Thurlow Weed), as she passed on, in an elegant carriage, magnificently dressed, laughing merrily with some officers. She saw her return, mounted on a horse, cut loose from a vehicle, with bare head and hair streaming in the wind, making frantic efforts to get on faster. The Yankee women have found that a battlefield is no holiday pageant and have not gone forth with their armies since.
Everyone has heard of the desecration of the little Episcopal church at Centreville; taken as a hospital, the communion table used for amputating, the walls covered with obscene and blasphemous inscriptions. A lady, living near the church, saw, from her window, a soldier breaking the window with the butt end of his gun which went off, killing him instantly. Two other soldiers came out of the church – went to him – one turned him over with his foot and, finding him dead, they got spades, made a shallow hole, rolled him in and, in less than half an hour, he was buried under the window of the church he had so wantonly desecrated.
While profoundly grateful to Almighty God for the deliverance vouchsafed us, we could not exult in a victory that cost so many noble lives and brought desolation into so many homes. We felt that a hecatomb of Billy Wilson’s Zouaves or Garabaldi Guards couldn’t pay for the blood of one of our noble boys. It was long before the Yankees could rally after such a disgraceful rout but we were unable to follow up the victory. History will tell the fearful odds against us but the blessing of heaven and our own undaunted courage sustained us.
All that summer and winter disease was rife in our armies. The wretched sheds and shanties, dignified by the title of hospitals, were filled to overflowing. Men, accustomed to every luxury, groaned out their noble lives on beds of dirty straw, upon the bare ground. Tenderly nurtured boys, the pride and hope of happy homes, languished and died for lack of proper nourishment and needful remedies. Pestilence destroyed far more than the sword.
We had a small force at Leesburg and, across the Potomac, on the Maryland side was a large body of Yankees. From time to time the alarm was given that the enemy were crossing and it was conceded that we could make no resistance. Picket firing across the river became a fashionable amusement.
At last, one morning in November a stream of frightened women and children, from Leesburg, announced the Yankees had crossed and fighting was going on in sight of town.[6] Later in the day, a panic stricken fugitive asserted that, after a gallant resistance, our troops had fallen back and he had seen the enemy entering the town. Great was our consternation. That little band was all that stood between our homes and the foe and we felt the Philistines were upon us indeed. But, a few hours changed the face of affairs. More reliable intelligence brought the news of the victory at Balls Bluff which will stand as one of the boldest achievements of the war. Our loss was very small, the Yankees’ immense. Our 8th Virginia Regiment, stationed near Balls Bluff, bore the brunt of the fight. The 17th and 18th Mississippi Regiments, being sent to their support. We had, at no time, more than 1800 men with two full batteries. Their commander, Colonel Baker, was killed and the rout was complete; they fled, madly, to the river and were seen, by their comrades on the other side, tumbling, by hundreds, from the cliffs into the water below till it was filled with their dead. The result of this battle doubtless checked the advance of the Yankee army and left this section of the country undisturbed for the winter (1862).
There were rumours of fighting on the upper Potomac and in the Valley where Jackson[7] was laying the foundation of his world-wide renown by the brilliancy and success of his dashes upon the enemy. ‘Twas a merciful providence that restrained the Yankees from making a general advance for never were we in a worse condition to meet them. Measles, pneumonia, typhoid and camp fever prostrated thousands of our soldiers and filled unnumbered graves wherever our armies were found. And so passed the anxious, weary winter and, with the approaching spring, came uncertain rumours that Manassas was to be evacuated and all the fertile, inexhaustible country, between the Blue Ridge and the Potomac, given to the enemy. We refused to believe this appalling report but it soon became evident that it was a military necessity and, after many a bitter struggle, we accepted our destiny and bore it as we have done many hardships since, without complaint, feeling no individual interest is to be considered when the good of the cause, so dear to our hearts, is at stake.
Can we ever forget that gloomy 6th of March [1862] when D.H. Hill, with the heroes of Balls Bluff passed thru our village, falling back from Leesburg, burning the bridges behind them to prevent pursuit.[8] What a night that was. Our house was filled to overflowing with the tired soldiers who asked only for a roof to cover them and room to spread their blankets on the floor. Amongst others was Lamar Fontaine, the reputed author of “All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight” and the hero of so many marvelous adventures and feats of prowess and daring – rough and unpolished to the last degree but giving the impression of reckless courage. That he would brave all dangers and disregard all toil and suffering I can easily believe but, that he should write poetry – impossible! What a pleasure it was to me to shelter and feed the poor fellows. I couldn’t consent to have one turned away from the door.
Next day was Sunday – all passed on except the rear guard under Colonel Lay, whose headquarters was our house. Amid all the din and confusion, our little, two weeks old May was baptized, (Martha Maria Dudley, born February 20, 1862) as her father must leave with the troops. Then came the day that sent my precious boy forth to offer his young life in the service of his country. Of that bitter trial and the weary days that followed, I cannot write.
Geary[9], with his ruffian crew, held possession of Leesburg, where he remained a few days. The bridge, over Goose Creek burnt, he took another route and established himself at Upperville, eight miles beyond us. A few timid spirits proposed that a deputation should be sent to ask his protection and make terms with him. But the proposition was met by such stern indignation from the community that it was soon dropped. Every hour was waited in sickening anxiety, expecting them to make their appearance amongst us.
From an old letter, written at the time, I copy an account of their advent. “Well, we have seen the elephant, at last and the dust of our streets has been defiled by their detested footsteps. While in church last Sunday, an excited individual hastily entered and soon the whisper went round: the Yankees have come. I was the first to leave and got home as quickly as possible. I closed every door and all the blinds but one, keeping servants and children out of sight that the Yankees might not think that even an eye welcomed them. From the windows, I watched them pass. Had it been a regiment, I could have better borne the humiliation but, to see eight impertinent Yankees ride thru our streets, as if the town belonged to them, made my blood boil. I gnashed my teeth in impotent rage and, woman as I am, could have given each one a bullet as he passed, grinning and leering at the windows.
The object of their visit was to summon our chief magistrate to appear before Colonel Geary, in Upperville, the next day. They were elaborately polite to him and left without interfering with anyone but they received no encouragement from any quarter. The boys followed them with jeers and taunts, laughing at their awkward riding, which was much after the tailor of Brentsford pattern, saying: “You’ll have to learn to ride better before you catch our men.” “Are you afraid of us?” asked one. “No” replied the sturdy little rebel, “I’m not afraid of a demed Yankee.” From every gate, a saucy urchin hurrahed for Jeff Davis.
The magistrate, in due time, reported in Upperville and had an interview with Geary, who was too civil by half – requesting him, as presiding justice to carry on the courts as usual, ‘twas quite a mistake to suppose they meant to interfere with business or disturb private property. Indeed, he [Geary] had sent for him that he might convey to the citizens of Loudoun, assurances of their protection and friendly intentions. So as to quiet the public mind and prevent a panic, the rebellion was virtually quelled – past offences should be forgotten and Secessionists and Unionists fare alike. Said the magistrate: “I suppose, Colonel, you are aware that you have passed the line of sympathizers and, from henceforth, you’ll find the country a unit against reunion?” He replied: “I am aware of that.” Feeling they are in a hostile land, their present policy is conciliation but, in the disloyal portion of Loudoun,[10] where Unionists prevailed, their course was very different, all true men were made to suffer. And that is what we may expect when they have us firmly in their grasp. Tis very hard to see our fair land in their clutches but, if it is for the general good, we will not murmur but bide our time, as patiently as we may, crying: “How long, oh Lord, how long shall the ungodly triumph?” never doubting that He, to whom such a volume of prayer unceasingly goes up, from waiting hearts, will, in His own time, give us deliverance.
You must not believe, you must not let anyone believe they are welcomed, as they report themselves to be. The Baltimore Sun, of Friday, says they were received, most joyfully, in Winchester. The Advance Guard[11], a vulgar, little sheet, which they published in Leesburg, says the same of their reception there and actually contains a vote of thanks to the people for their hospitality and for the “welcome waved from the windows.” When the facts were that every door and window remained closed and not a sound was heard but the tramp of their troops. They hung their flags across the pavements and the women walked in the middle of the streets to avoid passing under them. We are yet to hear of the first man who has accepted their oath. If the men were willing to do it, the women would not let them. Despite their fair promises, the cloven foot began to peep forth.
Straggling parties spread thru the country, committing all sorts of depredations. They came so often to “Oakley” that Ida[12] at last directed the servants to tell them she didn’t mean to give them anything more to eat. They replied that they’d come the next day and if she didn’t have dinner ready, they’d come into the house to know the reason why. True to their promise they came, killed some stock cattle and carried off her only team, loaded with corn, after trying in vain to force open the blinds with their bayonets. They drove some fat cattle into the barnyard where they killed them and carried off all but the heads, from which they cut the tongues. She went to Geary, who promised redress, and told her to take her bill to the Commissary. She did so and he told her he would “settle the bill with Lieut. [Henry] Dulaney when they met, and the team was confiscated by Uncle Sam.”
A brigade of Banks division[13] came down the Snickersville Turnpike and camped below Aldie. Next morning, we heard Geary was marching down from Upperville and, sure enough, about eleven o’clock, the detested bluecoats began to show themselves. The advance, about 150 cavalry, scattered thru the village to feed themselves and horses. We were novices, then, and thought ourselves obliged to comply with their demands. But they certainly did not get the “dinner of herbs with love.”
I had my experience. My little boy ran in, “Mama, they are putting their horses in our stable.” I rushed forth, determined they should face me whenever they showed themselves. I called out in an indignant manner: “Logan, see what those men are doing.”
A head and blue shoulder emerged from the stable, and, as suddenly dodged back. Logan reported they were only feeding their horses. After a while, I was told some soldiers in the yard wished to speak with me. I walked out, feeling fierce enough to cut off the heads of the whole Yankee nation. I said curtly, “Do you want me?”
“Are you the lady of the house?”
“I am.”
“Can four of us get dinner here?”
“I suppose I’ve no choice as we are in your power now.”
The spokesman, a sergeant, and rather a decent looking man, replied: “I hope you won’t think we demand it – we ask it as a favour.” Seeing they were men who could feel it, I determined to feed them but with every circumstance of indignity I could devise. “Are you an officer?” I asked.
“A non-commissioned one.”
“Have you authority to demand food of us?”
“We do not demand it.”
“You know we have no power to refuse.”
“How soon can we have dinner?”
“My servants can get you something.”
“We will be back for it in half an hour.”
Some friends were spending the day with me. Logan was preparing some celery for dinner and they told him they would like to have some, doubtless thinking they would join us at our family dinner. But I had ordered cornbread, fried middling, cabbage and milk for their delectation. We deliberated where to seat them but concluded they would be more uncomfortable in the room with us, so we arranged ourselves en tableaux, my friends with averted faces, reading and sewing diligently, and I, in such an unspeakable state of indignation, I was ready to eat my own fingers off.
We had, as usual, secreted our silver, so the kitchen cutlery was brought in and the inhospitable board spread. Then, I directed Logan to bring them in, thru the pantry, but not to remain to wait on them. A clatter of sabres announced the advent of the four but we neither looked up nor uttered a sound. The blinds were closed and they seated themselves in the semi-darkness and ate in silence except when they asked each other, in an undertone, to be helped to the dainties before them. One requested another to give him some “gravy,” he answered there was no spoon. I was deaf to the hint – said he, meekly: “Madam, could we have a spoon?”
I called Logan in a venomous tone to bring one and, forthwith, he produced an iron one. At length, the melancholy repast was ended – they rose and, as they reached the door, the sergeant said: “Madam, we are obliged to you for your hospitality.” Human nature (or rather my nature) could stand no more. I had been fuming and swelling with wrath and then to be charged with hospitality to a Yankee was the drop that ran over. I rose bolt up and said: “I cannot say you are welcome!”
And so they left. My opposite neighbor said, as they passed out of the yard, they were convulsed with laughter – not so I. I cannot tell which predominated, anger at having to feed them or satisfaction at the opportunity of snubbing them. We were fearful they would spend the night but, so soon as their artillery and infantry came up, they took their departure.
It does rile me to see them so well equipped and to think of our poor fellows in their parti-colored raiment. The infantry had their dark blue clothes, oil cloth coats and fine, new blankets. A wagon following filled with light blue overcoats. Their horses large and fat, wagons strong and looking oh so different from our “shackelty” old farm wagons. But, when you come to the MEN, we have the advantage. Their officers were generally fine looking men, “dressed to kill” or rather, one might hope, to be killed. But the privates were small, stoop shouldered fellows, mostly quite young and lacking the resolute, determined look of our soldiers. They have never been in a fight and complain of being very tired of chasing Confederates who won’t stop to be whipped!
They were attended by numbers of runaway negroes. On reaching Aldie, they found a brigade from Banks waiting for them. General Abercrombie,[14] in command, had his headquarters in the Berkeley house. Soon after Geary joined him, a dispatch was received recalling them to Winchester and they went back faster than they came down.
We long to know what is going on in the Valley. Yesterday, there was scarcely a corporal’s guard left in Leesburg and, today, I doubt if there is a Yankee soldier in Loudoun. Of course, they pillaged on every hand and, as a result, many shaky Secessionists and rank Unionists avow themselves staunch Southerners, from this time out. I trust I may never look on another Yankee in peace or war. The events of yesterday seem like a horrid dream, all is so quiet and peaceful now.
Some of the servants, who left with the Yankees, have returned and the account they give of the treatment they received has checked the tide of emigration. Geary said they didn’t want the negroes, had no use for them but, by a law of Congress, were forbidden to return them to their owners.
We deluded ourselves with the hope we had seen the last of the Yankees and, the day after they left, our eyes were gladdened and our hearts cheered by the unexpected advent of a small body of our own cavalry, Colonel Munford[15] commanding, whose motley garb formed a refreshing contrast to the detested blue coats of the Yankees. We hailed them with cheers and blessing and refreshed them with the best our larders afforded. They vanished as suddenly as they came. Very early, next morning (March 23, 1862) we were roused by the clatter of cavalry and here were the blue coats again, about forty in number, dashing up street, pistols in hand. They were quickly followed by several companies of infantry and one of Zouaves, horrid, murderous looking wretches in their disgusting red breeches and hats, howling forth their blasphemous ditty: “John Brown’s Body.”
After airing their valour by frightening the half awake women and children, they retreated but returned again about mid-day in increased numbers, surrounding the town. While we were wondering what all this meant, the cavalry, who had gone up early in the morning, came racing back, at breakneck speed and then began a scene of the wildest confusion. Infantry running, loading guns, setting bayonets, yelling “blood! blood!” tossing off knapsacks and overcoats till the streets were strewn with them. Artillery was driven up at full speed and soon we heard the sound of cannon. No one could imagine what was going on and we were told that Stuart was advancing from The Plains with his cavalry and, if they had to fall back, they should fight their way thru this town. We had heard a rumour of some cavalry, at The Plains, so a battle seemed imminent and we were terrified at the idea of being “shelled out.” An hour of this terrible suspense and this tempest in a teapot resolved itself into the fact that the fierce guerilla, Lige White, with eight men, had encountered the forty Michiganders some miles up the road, charged upon them and drove them into the center of the town and then trotted quietly back, the Yankees thinking them the advance guard of the large body of cavalry they had been sent to demolish.
So here we had our first insight into the falsity of Yankee bulletins which remained a comfort to us to the end of the war. A week later, a stray copy of that veracious journal, “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated” gave us a graphic sketch of the “Battle of Middleburg, March 23, 1862” where frantic shop men were closing doors and windows, terrified women rushing round, tossing their arms in the wildest dismay, while the noble Geary, at the head of his splendid column, is driving before him a host of ragged, frightened rebels and we are told that “Colonel Geary charges the rebels and drives them thru the streets of Middleburg,” going on to relate how they had met General Stuart with 700 men and routed them completely with severe loss.[16]
Well, to our dismay, we found they meant to tarry with us, Geary knowing it to be a very safe place – and soon their tents were pitched on the outskirts of the village, by the Calendars. They stayed two days but, if we count time by heart throbs, it seemed two years. Soon they were swarming round us, climbing fences, creeping into hen houses, stables and kitchens like the frogs of Egypt, coming up into our ovens and kneading troughs, their impudent, meaningless faces leering into our windows with an incessant demand for something to eat, which was given, or refused, as indignation or policy prevailed. From the women, whose tongues no man can tame, they got bitter words and black looks, from the men, a stern resistance to all attempts at intimidation and a manly avowal of Southern principles.
Our house was searched for arms, our horses stolen, corn and hay taken, with promise to pay but, when bills were presented, the jeering answer was: “You can get it at Washington if you’ll take the oath of allegiance.” Saddles, bridles, harness and wagons were appropriated and the officers announced that, if they remained a day longer, they must draw on us for meat. They seldom came into the houses but found their way into the kitchens. I grew tired having their incendiary harangues rewarded with my viands so I kept them off by confronting them, as they entered the yard, and asking their business. Twas always, “kin I git some braad here?” My unvarying “NO” generally sent them off, but once, when I was off guard, a party effected entrance and demanded something to eat. I told them they could get nothing and they had best leave.
An impudent Irishman said if we were rebels “I’ll be bound we’d get something.”
“That is nothing to you and I wish you to leave my kitchen,” I replied.
“You are a damned Secesh,” said he, and went off cursing as far as I could hear him.
A respectable carpenter had his wagon stolen, at night, and went early to headquarters to try and recover it. An old negro, who had kept in their lines all night, was crouching over the fire. When Geary appeared, he walked up to the negro, mistaking him for a fugitive and extending his hand said: “Good morning to you,” then turning to the free, white Virginian, said rudely: “What do you want here? Be gone! You’ve been hanging about this camp all the time.”
“I never was in your camp before.”
“Be gone!” roared Geary. “What do you want here?”
“My wagon has been taken.”
“If it was taken, it was needed for military purposes,” and so dismissed him.
A poor gunsmith hid his tools, they heard of it, searched his house and, finding them, carried him off with them. Geary tried to induce the man to go with them, promising him good wages if he would take the oath and, when he indignantly refused, kicked and cursed him and burned his tools. Lieutenant Rogers, said by one of his men to have been a “seller of paynuts” in Detroit (let his name be handed down as the insulter of women) went, with two others to the house of a lady whose husband was absent and ordered her to prepare dinner for them. She told them her means were small and she kept no servant. They told her she must cook it herself then. She, being timid, feared to refuse and prepared the best she had. She spread the table nicely, hoping, by politeness, to escape insults. In due time, they came for their dinner, jeering at her and asking how much arsenic she had put in the food, telling her they had eaten one baby and tried to eat an old Secesh but he was too tough. With many such refined jokes, after scattering the viands left over the table, they rose to go and the gallant Lieutenant told her the reason they treated her so was that he heard her call him a “Yankee.”
Before we dismiss Lieutenant Rogers, let me mention a circumstance to show how little they understand the feelings with which we regard them. The sisters of this young buck had gone to school in Fairfax Courthouse so, when he came to Virginia, he had procured from them a list of the “nicest young ladies” amongst their old schoolmates, “as it would be pleasant to have some agreeable visiting places while South.” But he failed to gain admittance when he called on these “nice young ladies.”
The crowning outrage of Geary’s occupation remains to be told. A house, the home of General Rogers[17], was entered at ten o’clock at night to search for some boxes said to have been brought from Leesburg. A camp chest in the garret attracted their attention and they attempted to break it open. General Rogers assured them it contained only the clothes of two, lovely little grandchildren who had died very recently. As they persisted in opening it, he was forced to send to the bereaved mother for the key. Half frantic, she rushed in saying: “They are my dead children’s clothes,” but they would not be put off. Sue tossed them the key and they opened the box. The poor mother stood petrified by her agony, looking on while their ruffian hands rudely disturbed the garments of her tender nurslings, so sacred in her eyes. She bore it all till one of them picked up a shoe, still warm from the pressure of the little foot that so lately filled it. Then, shrieking, she fell and was carried back to her room. And these are the men who seek to rule the destinies of Southern men and women. God forbid!
“Time and the hour wear thru the longest day” and so these two, interminable days did come to an end and the blessed Sabbath morning rid us of the vermin who had blasted our sight by their presence and polluted the precious air of heaven by their breath. The Yankees remained at Upperville and we saw no more of them for two weeks until another summons to the Valley brought them down again. But General Geary had the happy knack of never getting to the scene of action until the emergency was over. Again they were remanded and, as they returned, camped just above town.
[May 1862] They came in just as we were returning from the funeral of our dear friend, Lucy Kinsolving,[18] denied even the poor privilege of burying our dead in peace. Soon the town was swarming with them but, towards night, they withdrew to their camp and everything became quiet. We had lighted the lamp at the usual hour and the children were still with us in the dining room. I heard voices in the street but didn’t suppose it concerned us – presently, I distinguished the tramp of a horse on the pavement and told the Doctor it must be someone for him. Just as he rose to go out, the back door burst open and the frightened women servants rushed in exclaiming, “Oh, do open the door, they say they’ll burn the house down if you don’t.”
Finding it was Yankees, I would not let the Doctor go and went out myself, followed by Fanny[19] holding a light. For we always kept the men in the background, fearing a collision. I unlocked the door and, before I could speak, was assailed by a man, very handsomely dressed and looking like a gentleman, one hand on his sabre and the other flourishing a pistol. In the loudest and angriest voice, he called out: “Why didn’t you open the door, I’ve been calling for five minutes – I say, why didn’t you open this door?”
Very much astonished at such an outburst, I answered, “Because I didn’t know who it was.”
“None of your insolence, Madam, woman as you are, I’ll not allow it – don’t you know that this town is in military occupation? You may be thankful that your house is not burnt over your head.”
I was looking him full in the face and I suppose my face must have expressed the ineffable contempt I felt for a man who, in the garb of a gentleman, could so address a woman for he added furiously: “None of your insolent sneers, Madam, broad and vulgar as they are, I understand your insolent sneers.”
I said, very cooly: “What is your business here?”
“To order you to put out your lights and, if there is one seen after five minutes I will fire at it.”
I shut the door on him without reply but, there before eight o’clock, we had to put out every light for he was brutal enough to carry out his threat. This polite individual, I afterward heard, was a Major Rapheal of Philadelphia, a retired merchant. Later in the night he stopped and thundered at Mr. Kinsolving’s door. A lady raised the window and asked what was the matter. “Put out that light and give me none of your jaw,” was the reply.
Mr. Kinsolving, hearing the knock, started down with a light. The brute yelled out to him, “Put out that light or I’ll fire.” How thankful we were that dear Lucy, dying moments before, had not been outraged by such conduct.
The next day (April 20, 1862)[20] was Easter Sunday and was passed, by them, in sending out foraging parties to collect corn, flour, meat and everything they could lay hands on from the surrounding country. We were only annoyed by the sight of the wretches, strolling about the streets and peeping in at the few windows we were obliged to keep open.
On Monday morning, they departed and established their camp at Rectortown. Then followed a time of great anxiety for me. We had a negro girl, about fifteen years of age, whose head had been completely turned by the Yankees. She became quite insubordinate and we were only constrained from sending her off by our regard for her mother who had been a very faithful servant. But we received certain information that she had betrayed, to other servants in town, the hiding place of our meat, silver, etc. and had boasted that she meant to send the Yankees after it.
The Doctor was just starting for Richmond to see Henry[21] and he was unwilling to leave her here to annoy me so determined to take her with him and hire her out. As he went on horseback, the Yankees were all along the Manassas road and he could only get thru by avoiding the pickets at night. He started just before sundown and, after his horse was at the door, I announced to her that she was to go.
The thing was so sudden that she was too frightened to make any resistance but, carrying some clothes in a bundle, mounted and they were off. He was obliged to stop for a gentleman who had promised to guide him thru the pickets. There, she went into the kitchen and told her story, that she was carried off because she looked at the Yankees as they passed and that Logan had falsely accused her of betraying our hiding places.
To my great relief, I heard next day that they had got safely thru. ‘Twas a very bold venture for, if the Yankees had caught them it would have been considered a gross offense to carry off a negro thru their lines. But, ‘twas a great point gained to show the negroes it could be done for, about that time, they had begun to think they had the world in their sling. Many were the threats against the Doctor of what the Yankees would do to him if he came back and against our faithful Logan for being, in their parlance “a Secesh nigger” until he really felt his life in danger. Reports were daily brought in of what the Yankees said they would do until all our friends took the alarm and many came to me and urged that I should write my husband not to come back. But, on tracing these stories, I found they came from negroes whose interest it was to make it appear a dreadful offense. I knew, if he stayed away now, he might be an exile from his home an indefinite time and I thought he had better take the chances and even risk a short imprisonment. Still, I felt great anxiety.[22]
About daylight, one morning, he arrived at home, having been met and warned by friends but wishing to consult with me. His own opinion was to stand his ground and I agreed with him. In an hour after his arrival, I had distributed the large mail he brought in with him and got rid of all contraband matter.
By advice of his friends, he determined to go to Geary’s Headquarters, next day, and ask what charges were against him as he heard they were on the lookout for him. He did so and saw the Provost Marshal who examined his books and assured him his name was not on them. So I joyfully saw him return and we congratulated ourselves that the danger was over. Next day he rode out to see a patient and great was my dismay, a few hours later, to see him return escorted by forty infantry.
I ran to the door asking what was the matter. He said, “Nothing, but these gentlemen have come to search the house for treasonable documents.” I felt easy then. The house was surrounded and no one permitted to come in or go out. Little Katey, with her nurse, was across the street and not allowed to come in. Our friends, greatly alarmed, crowded round but were not permitted to enter. Two officers came in the house and, fortunately, proved very decent men.
The search was thorough but not offensively conducted. Drawers, trunks and boxes were ransacked. They came to Henry’s trunk. ‘Twas the first time I had opened it since he left and, when I saw his school boy clothes, his books, his portfolio and letters, I burst into tears. The men seemed really touched and spoke very gently. They wouldn’t touch the things themselves but asked me to raise them.
One little incident amused me. In my writing desk were Henry’s letters. They asked who they were from. I said: “My son.”
“Is he in the army?”
“Yes.”
“Then we shall have to examine them.” He picked up one and read it, and then said, “That will do.”
I marked the letter and, after they left, examined it and found it contained this passage: “I’m glad to hear the Yankees behaved so badly in Middleburg, had they acted differently, it might have won over some weak spirits but this will only make us hate them the more and be more determined to fight them to the bitter end.” I enjoyed it very much. Tho we had no complaint to make of the officers, the privates were vulgar and insolent to the last degree, only kept out of the house by the presence of the officers, but forcing themselves into the milk cellar and helping themselves to the milk and butter and taking, from the kitchen, the dinner then cooking, even taking a kettle of dried fruit stewing on the stove.
May was only a few months old and became clamorous for some nourishment. Fanny, besides having her bosom stuffed full of Confederate bobds [sic] could find no spot in the house secure from intrusion so she gave the baby to a servant to take to a friend across the street. The men stopped her and she told them her business in very plain terms. They poked their bayonets almost into the baby’s face, calling out: “Baa, baar, hear the little Secesh sheep, let the damned little rebel starve,” and so turned her back.
But not a word was said by any of the party about the carrying off of the negro girl, much to the chagrin of the colored community. We afterwards learned that this party had come from The Plains, incited to the search by a negro boy who told them Dr. Cochran has just come back from Richmond with a large rebel mail.[23]
For several months the enemy occupied the lines of the Manassas railroad and we had little rest but, our chief trouble was with the servants. Scarcely a morning dawned that some stampede was not announced and it sometimes happened a family would wake to find every servant gone. But that was not so bad as the insubordination and treachery of those who, for their own convenience, remained. There were many notable and honorable exceptions and their fidelity was beyond praise. Owners generally attempted to exert no authority and were the servants of servants, literally. The negroes, presuming upon the presence of their protectors, worked when they pleased, roaming from farm to farm and to and from the Yankee camps, imparting whatever information they could obtain or manufacture and, if offended by any interference of master or mistress, bring a squad of Yankees who would carry off the negroes and all they fancied or claimed.
The masters who fared best were those who treated their servants as they had always done and made them understand if they did not behave properly, they should be sent off and sold and, in spite of the risk, many were sent off. Men, for a very large reward, would come upon them, suddenly, at night and carry them across the lines, tho’ every now and then, they ran afoul of the Yankees and the best they could hope was to escape by flight with the loss of wagon and negroes.[24]
[Spring 1862] When the campaign fairly opened, Geary and his command were withdrawn and, for a time, we were relieved from their detested presences. McClelland [sic] and his army were moving up the Peninsula and all interests were centered there. Mine surely were, for my boy was at Petersburg.
Then, in July (1862) came the memorable seven days fighting round Richmond and our only information was obtained from Northern papers which were brought regularly to Leesburg from Point of Rocks and, every other day, a mail carrier brought them to us. We had learned, by this time, to read their news aright, and could gauge the truth or falsity of their reports, official or unofficial, so, McClelland’s [sic] boastful telegrams didn’t alarm us when we saw that, after each “splendid victory,” he fell back still further from Richmond. But we couldn’t overlook the fact that our advantages had been gained by hard fighting and heavy losses.
‘Twas a week of deep anxiety but, on Saturday, we received letters and papers which relieved our minds. God had mercifully preserved my child and it had cost us no dear friend tho many valued acquaintances. Then, in August and September came the battle of Cedar Mountain [August 9, 1862] with that astounding flank movement which brought our army in the rear of the braggart Pope and culminated in the second battle of Manassas (August 29-30, 1862.) Oh, the wearing anxiety of those days, can we ever forget them! One hostile army coming down from the Valley, another up from Fredericksburg. How can our little band of heroes resist them, worn out, as they are, by the active, summer campaign.
One day, a soldier appeared with the news that [General Stonewall] Jackson’s corps would pass The Plains next morning and people were requested to send cooked supplies to that point. It seemed incredible but Jackson was always doing incredible things. And didn’t we cook! All along his route were vehicles of every sort, laden with edibles. Our party went to The Plains. Jackson, himself, had passed but ‘twas worth a much longer journey to see the hungry, merry fellows, ragged, barefoot, dirty but full of enthusiasm, confident of success, laughing, joking, eating, making fun of everything, even their rags, dirt and hunger.
They passed on and before many hours, the old Bull Run mountains echoed with roar of artillery. Longstreet was following in Jackson’s wake but would he arrive in time?[25] To our impatience, how tardily he moved. We listened to the roar of cannon, we feared he would be destroyed before reinforcements reached him.
The men all left us and betook themselves to the high hills where they could guess at the fortunes of the day by the direction the smoke took. Day by day that dreadful boom fell heavy on our hearts. But, Saturday evening, the last day of the fight, can I ever forget it. For four or five hours it was one continuous roar. I shut myself into a room, closed windows and doors and stopped my ears to be rid of the maddening sound.
At dark it ceased but who could tell the result. We sat in silence, awed by our deep anxiety. Presently, in rushed Tom, just from Richmond, radiant, triumphant, overflowing with excitement. “What is the matter with you all, don’t you know we’ve whipped the Yankees in every day’s fight and, this evening, Lee and Jackson have given them the finishing stroke?” Ah, the unutterable thankfulness of that hour. We don’t feel anything so acutely now.
The country, where the fighting occurred, had been completely devastated. Sparsely settled and now desolate after two years of war had scattered its people. So we set to work and improvised a hospital in the old Methodist church and made it quite comfortable with the scanty materials at our command. Then, we dispatched a wagon of provisions to the field with a request to have fifty wounded sent us. And soon the ambulances began to arrive with their ghastly freight and the church was filled to overflowing with men who hadn’t tasted food for days and were like famished wolves.
The abundant supplies we had provided vanished like magic and, to our dismay, we found that the greater number of the wounded would be brought here. No provision had been made for them, no commissary stores sent with them. But, day by day, rolled in the heavy army wagons, laden with mutilated and suffering humanity. Every vacant house and room were soon filled, even the churches. Then, the weather being warm, they were laid in the yards and on the pavements, upon bundles of straw with not even a pillow for their aching heads. But those fared best who could breathe the fresh air of heaven instead of the fetid odors of the close rooms.
Not only had we to feed the wounded but the multitudes of teamsters and attendants, all literally famishing. We cooked from morning till night but there was an unbroken stream of hungry men always passing and, when everything else was exhausted, I’ve gone into the kitchen and scraped the plates of the refuse scraps, from the servants’ table, which would be thankfully received and greedily devoured.
One night, ‘twas Sunday, and therefore the supply of food was not so abundant, and after the last morsel in the house was gone, a well dressed gentleman walked in and asked if he could get supper. I told him there was literally nothing left. He turned off wearily saying: “I never expected to be reduced to beg a meal but I’ve just arrived and haven’t had a mouthful today and don’t know where to seek it.”
I exclaimed, “I’ll find something for you,” and ran into the kitchen where the servants were at supper and brought him corn bread, milk, and meat which he ate heartily. I heard, afterwards, that he was a physician from Petersburg but I never saw him again.
As soon as the need was known, the country people sent loads of cooked provisions so we were able to feed them till commissary stores were collected but, as long as the hospital remained, they relied chiefly on our stores which luckily were more abundant then than afterwards. Our greatest difficulty was to find clothing to take the place of the rags, stiffened with blood and dirt, which were torn off to dress their wounds. But, after our supplies of old garments were exhausted, we cut up sheets, counterpanes, curtains, lounge covers, and old dresses to make shirts and drawers. Thank God we were better off in that line too than we are now.
How we worked! We took no account of days, Sunday shone no Sabbath day, no day of rest to us. Up with the dawn and first, breakfast for my own large family for we had as many wounded as our house could accommodate, then breakfast for the hospital. We had arranged that certain ladies should attend certain hospitals. Early’s division[26] fell specially to my lot tho I had some patients in the other hospitals in whom I took an interest.
There were huge baskets of bread, pitchers of coffee and buckets of milk, for general distribution, and more dainty viands for delicate appetites. Then, as I got to know the men individually and they to know me, much time was needed to hear the complaints and wants of each, to write letters for them, to read and talk to them to see who needed clean clothing, etc. Then dinner must be planned. Each day, I got beef from the commissary and made a huge cauldron of soup, which was particularly relished. They had their own cooks but they loathed so the heavy, sodden bread and the half cooked meat, always boiled, that I gradually came to have all the cooking for the patients done in my own kitchen. At each meal I had to distribute, with my own hands or I had no security that some were not neglected in the daily ministrations and, never any day until four or five o’clock in the evening did I find leisure to sit down and rest.
I am giving only my own experience but what I did, every woman in the village did likewise. The bodily labor fell upon the townspeople but the country people strengthened our hands by sending in repeated supplies of cooked food and twice, when our resources were at a very low ebb, did the people of Charlestown, who had been within the enemy’s lines for a year or more and only released by General Lee’s movement into Maryland, send us wagon loads of everything we needed; barrels of bread and of groceries, bales of half-worn clothing, sheets, towels, pillow cases, soap, butter, pickles, preserves, cake and even lamps and coal oil. How we blessed them for it. ‘Tis inconceivable how much a wounded man can eat, if he has no fever and, specially, if he has an amputated limb.
Never before did I realize the horrors of war. Not less than 1800 men were in the hospitals[27] here from time to time. The surgeons said there were comparatively few badly wounded and the mortality unusually small yet, the wounds seemed frightful to me and the long rows of hillocks in our cemetery attest that Death Reaped His Harvest.
I esteemed myself fortunate my labors fell “amongst mine own people.” There seemed so much more stamina with the Virginians – a greater power to resist disease. They were so cheerful – so uncomplaining – so much manhood and proper self respect. Thrown with them, as I was at all times and under all circumstances, I never heard a word or saw a sight to offend the most fastidious delicacy. I never feel like making invidious comparisons, where all have fought and bled in a common cause, but, I must say, the longer the war lasts, the prouder I feel of the dear, old Commonwealth.
As I came to know the names and histories of the men, what an interest I took in their cases and how often my feelings were tried when, after nursing and watching some poor fellow whose wounded or amputated limb seemed doing so well, I found him, some morning, shivering with a chill or showing symptoms of erysipelas and then sink rapidly. Poor fellows, how they need stimulants and nothing to be procured but fiery, new whiskey. In one house were four men, all from the same neighborhood and belonging to the same company. Each had lost a leg and all wounded by the same shell. What a history I might write of the different cases. Brave little Bob Watts, with his right arm amputated at the shoulder – the left so crushed as to endanger that too – son of the Governor of Georgia, now clerk of a bank and writing with his left hand.
Then, there was my special protégé, Capt. Byrne, an Englishman. One day a wagon stopped on the street before our door. As usual, I went out with some bread and milk to see if it was needed. As I got near, I heard someone singing and, looking in, I saw an animated face and pair of bright eyes looking out from the depths of a feather bed. I offered the milk and ‘twas accepted so gracefully that my curiosity was excited to ask who he was. I soon found that ‘twas the person whose case had been mentioned to me as one of peculiar interest. He had been wounded in that dreadful, Saturday fight and, after enduring unheard of suffering, had his leg clumsily amputated below the knee. I had him taken out at once. With his sensitive nature, he would have died speedily in one of our hospitals. He stayed with us three months and we were sorry to part with him.
Looking in at a window one morning, I saw a handsome boy with bright, black eyes, lying on the floor smoking a cigar. Said I: “You surely are not wounded?” He told me that he was shot through the knee, a clean bullet hole which gave him no pain. For several mornings, I’d stop at the window and talk to him and always found him merry and smiling. I spoke of him to the surgeon who said, “I believe he’ll lose his leg yet.” It should have been amputated at first but, he begged so hard to have it spared that this surgeon, with whom he was a pet, would not take it off.
One morning, when I looked in, I found his face clouded. He was suffering so much with his knee – he grew worse – I had him moved down to a room I had fixed for the purpose. He grew worse each day. The surgeon wished to take off the leg and he was willing but the inflammation was too great and, after weeks of protracted suffering, he died, haggard, emaciated, not a vestige of the bright, handsome boy left. How my heart yearned over those young boys. I could imagine my own, dear boy in their places.
[September 1862] Our army had passed into Maryland and Henry got a 24 hour leave to come by home – for the first time since he left it. After a while, we had news of the bloody fight at Sharpsburg and ‘twas two weeks before we had information of our boy’s safety. His battery had suffered severely but God’s mercy preserved him.
Thru October (1862) our hospital thinned out. Some got well and many were carried further on to be out of reach of the Yankees. Two or three times, parties came up from Fairfax. All the convalescents and the attendants hid in the woods, the rest were paroled. The last of October we hear that General Lee is falling back towards Richmond and McClellan following close after.
D.H. Hill’s division[28] moved down to Upperville, to guard that road and, with it came Henry’s battery. Late one evening, we hear that Stuart’s cavalry[29] are at hand, soon they come in. We bring into the streets all the provisions we have on hand for the hungry fellows. I had never seen the general and was standing with a gentleman, on the sidewalk, who promised to point him out. I had little Katey in my arms. Presently, rode up that peerless cavalier. I needed no one to tell me who he was. I said: “There’s General Stuart, Katey.”
I’d no idea he had heard me but he stopped and, bowing gracefully, said: “I’m General Stuart, Katey,” and stooping over, took the child’s hand. I raised her up and said: “Tell him he must give you a kiss.”
“Indeed I will” and stooping till his long plume almost swept her little face, he kissed her tenderly. I said: “There, Katey, that will be something to tell your grandchildren!” He laughed merrily and, after a few more pleasant words, rode on. The next morning I went to Upperville to see Henry. On my way I met General Hill and Staff and a grim looking old fellow he [Hill] was. A little further on, we met Stuart, bright and laughing, looking every inch the prince of cavaliers. Of course, no one could say how long the command would remain there so Henry was afraid to leave lest they should move and he be cut off. But, ‘twas a comfort to be able to carry him some edibles and some clean clothes and even to assure myself, by the sight of his dear face, that he was safe and well.
This was Friday. On Sunday morning we heard that the Yankees were advancing from Snickersville – indeed, their camp fires were visible the night before. Stuart was skirmishing with them and all the morning, the cannon was roaring in our ears. About dinner time, one scout came in and reported them coming in from Union.[30] Burr and Tom[31] were here and hurried off in a buggy. Burr still suffering from a severe fall which injured his ankle and unable to ride on horseback. They did not venture to take the turnpike but drove thru farms to Upperville and joined Hill’s Division which was falling back to Front Royal.
We received certain information that McClellan’s whole army had crossed at Berlin and were moving on every road that led in this direction. The Doctor was sent for, that evening, to go to Colonel Berry, of Georgia, who was wounded at Manassas and still unable to leave Mrs. Carter’s. [32]The Yankee cavalry had been on that road for several days but the messenger said they had all left. At Mountsville, he encountered a Yankee picket who only let him go on if he would promise to report to them by sunrise, next morning, to be carried to General Bayard’s headquarters at Mt. Zion, four or five miles below Aldie.
He stayed at Mrs. C’s that night, and, getting a piece of bread and glass of toddy, reported to the picket who took him on. He was taken to Bayard, a very young man who had been at West Point with Colonel Berry. My husband explained to him that he was visiting Col. B. [Berry] as a physician and delivered a message from him, asking that the Doctor might be given a pass to visit the Colonel while he needed attention.
To this General Bayard replied: “Colonel Berry of Georgia?” and ordered the prisoner to be taken to the rear, where he was kept standing in a bitter cold, November wind until the column moved at three o’clock. Bayard and his Staff ate their dinners in sight of him but not a mouthful was offered to him. Stiff, tired, hungry and half frozen, he persuaded his guard to take him to the General to try and get released. Bayard saw the Doctor approaching and, not wishing to hear a word, called out in a most insolent tone: “Take that man back.”
I supposed, of course, he was safe at Mrs. Carter’s and great was my astonishment when the Yankees came in, about five o’clock, to see him ride out from amongst them. I ran to the door and, when he told me where he had been and how treated, I could only stamp my foot in impotent rage and say, “Dogs, insolent dogs,” to the amusement of the blue coats.
The cavalry were passing till long after dark and camped a mile above town, playing havoc with corn, fences, etc. Early next morning, the full tide set in. Every lane, every by-road poured forth its stream all day long in one unbroken column from sunrise to sunset. We watched them pass our window, a surging sea of black caps and glittering bayonets till our heads grew giddy in looking. But our hearts never failed us. I never felt my faith stronger.
They camped near town but were not allowed to enter it. ‘Twas bright moonlight and not a sound was heard but the measured tramp of the sentinels. One had his station just across the street from us. Our horses, three in number, were put in the cellar and, in the profound stillness, their stamping seemed to my excited imagination to jar the house. I couldn’t sleep – I felt sure the sentinel must hear it. A dozen times I looked out of the window to see him walking his “lonely round” in the bright, cold moonlight.
Very early, next morning, a body of cavalry halted before our door and dismounted. I felt sure they had come for the horses. I threw on a few clothes and ran down and stood sentry over the cellar door for more than an hour in the cold. All the time assailed by their demand for bread, milk, eggs, apples etc. to which I returned an unvarying and emphatic “NO.” Meantime, on the other side of the house, they had broken in a cellar window, luckily, not opening on the horses and too small for a man to get thru, and abstracted some apples from a barrel within reach. It turns out this was a guard waiting for the wagon train which was passing all day and, on which we read the names so familiar since the war: Porter, Meade, Slocum, Franklin, etc.[33]
The main column had passed thru the day before without breaking ranks – only grinning, singing and looking like the demons they are. But, all this day, straggling parties would come into the yards, stealing fowls and vegetables. I was kept busy scouting from point to point wherever they tried to effect an entrance. The cistern seemed to draw them into the yard and I went and took off the handle but they frightened the servants into putting it on again. The yard was full of them, mostly Dutch.[34] I heard a great commotion and, going out, found them jabbering away, threatening to burn the house and scraping matches against the wall. I told them I’d heard that threat too often to be afraid. They then began to clamor for bread, milk, apples etc. I told them not one mouthful. One pulled out a cracker and said: “Aint got no bread, now have a cracker,” at which piece of wit the others raised a loud ha ha.
I went to the front door and asked if there was an officer there. Somebody from the crowd said, “Here’s the Colonel.” A big, fat, stupid Dutchman rode forward very reluctantly. I said, “Your men are behaving most insolently and I want them off my lot.” He rode into the gate and I went back to the cistern. He was evidently afraid to say anything to them except, “Come get water and go,” which they never heeded. One got after the fowls. I said, “Do you mean to let that man steal my fowls before my eyes?” The colonel called him off, the rascal saying, “I’ll have them tonight anyhow.” And, not till the street could he get them off.
I laugh now when I think of some of my conversations but I was too mad then. I couldn’t help quarreling with them, it seemed a relief to my rage. One fellow said, “Got any braad?” “No.” “Got any pies?” “No.” “Got any milk?” “No.” “Got any aigs?” “No.” “Got any apples?” “No.” “Waal, you must be poor off.”
I halted one clownish looking fellow as he was entering the kitchen. “Got any bread or pies to sell?” “No,” I said venomously, “I’ve nothing to sell or give, you’ve stolen everything from us and soon you will not even leave us air to breathe.”
“Waal, some people hadn’t oughter have none,” quoth he. A rather modest looking boy asked me if I’d sell him some bread. I said, “How can you ask me for bread when you are here to rob and murder my people?”
“Indeed, I don’t want to kill anybody and I never stole anything in my life,” he said innocently.
“Well, what did you come here for?”
“To restore the Union.”
“To do that, you will have to kill every man between this and the Gulf of Mexico. You look like a sweet, decent boy and, if you had come here differently, I’d take you into my house and give you as good a breakfast as I have myself but, as it is, I will not give or sell you a mouthful. I couldn’t feed a man who, perhaps before a week is out may kill my son.”
“Indeed I don’t want to kill your son or anybody else’s son.”
I felt half inclined to give him something but wouldn’t depart from my rule of never doing so voluntarily. We thought this horde demons but, we’ve learned since to regard them as “sucking doves.” They chastised us with whips, but, others, since, with scorpions.
Next day, a severe snow storm set in. All had passed but the sutlers and stragglers who took refuge in every unoccupied building, pulling down fences and gates and raiding woodpiles but did no other damage and so we gladly saw the last of McClellan’s grand army.
As they moved on, the generals would occupy some gentleman’s house as headquarters – take the best rooms, usually the parlors, and use them as if they were the roughest barracks. Not even affording the families protection from pillage. General Fitz John Porter, who, in former days, had the reputation of a gentleman, had his headquarters with a gentleman at The Plains, took possession of his parlors, in which he transacted all his business and received every dirty fellow who came to him.[35] His men, meantime, robbing indiscriminately and all complaints received with rudeness. He remained a day or two and left without offering any compensation or making acknowledgement of the trouble he had given, leaving a sick Yankee on their hands to be attended to. They had taken every horse and some more liberal Yank gave his little boy an old, broken down horse. About a week after, two Yankees came to see the sick man and carried the old horse off with them tho’ they were told twas their only means of sending for a doctor.
With this mighty host between us and Richmond, our communication with friends, there, was very much interrupted. How McClellan was displaced and how the armies found themselves face to face at Fredericksburg, history will tell. I only write what came under my own observation. The tenth of December, (1862) witnessed that bloody fray.
The Yankee papers told us that, after out-generalling Lee and annihilating Jackson, Burnside, by a masterly change of base, brought his army across the river triumphantly. We know that his army was only saved from utter destruction by crossing the river that Jackson advised, follow them up before they crossed and while they were utterly demoralized by the terrible defeat they had sustained.
Henry’s battery was not in that battle and, there, General Bayard met his fate. I believe I forgave him, then, for his insolence at Mt. Zion and felt sorry for the poor girl to whom he was to be married the next Wednesday. After that battle, for some reason, the blockade was relaxed. They professed to consider Loudoun as neutral ground and quite a free trade was allowed with Georgetown and Washington. This was a convenience to us, certainly, for our supplies of groceries and dry goods was running low.
We had an old man in our employ, a Virginian by birth but the greatest part of his life had been spent in Illinois. The war caught him on a visit to his relatives in Loudoun. He availed himself of his Northern citizenship and obtained a pass to bring out goods and made several successful trips. But the permission to trade was seized by speculators to bring large cargoes of goods for the Richmond market where they brought an enormous profit. Of course, this soon came to the knowledge of the Yankee authorities and many restrictions were put upon the trade.
Our old man had his pass taken from him, and after buying his goods, was not allowed to bring them up. But, nothing daunted, he went back and got his pass renewed. He bought an ambulance which did us valuable service in our trips to and from Richmond and brought it out laden. As a specimen of the tricks to which speculators resort, on investigating the numerous parcels, we discovered that many of our goods had been left and, in place of them, were large packages that we knew nothing about. It turned out that two young ladies, daughters of a noted speculator, had been in Georgetown for some weeks, trying to get these goods out. They applied to Mr. Williams to bring them. He told them he would if he had room for more than ours. A clerk in the store was a friend of theirs and they had their bundles marked with Mr. W’s name and the clerk took care to put them in first, the old man believing them to be ours. The young ladies afterwards had the face to come and claim the goods and resented sharply the bundles having been opened.
The old man had engaged a spring wagon and pair of horses in Georgetown and determined to go down, by the cars, and drive it up himself. So, armed with our memorandums and money, he went to the Point of Rocks where he was arrested, searched, all his money, memorandums etc. taken from him and he sent on to Ft. McHenry[36] where he was kept two days and then sent back to the Point of Rocks[37] and put across the river without ever having any charges preferred or any examination allowed and never hearing any more of his money. So there ended our Yankee dealings and well it was for us. We were spending a great deal of money at ruinous discount and, after our necessities were supplied, getting a great many superfluities. To be sure, our dealings were all with well known Southern men.
The first of March (1863) I saw Fanny and the dear children start for Richmond. A four horse wagon with baggage and provisions had preceded them by a day. The roads were dreadful and heavy rains had raised all the streams. About midday, a hard rain set in and, towards night, in the midst of it, I saw the party drive up to the door in an open wagon and soaking wet. The carriage wheel had smashed up near Salem.[38] The Doctor left them at a small house by the way and, going to Salem, hunted up this wagon to bring them home.
Fanny said she couldn’t venture to take the children on such roads and in such weather so she concluded to leave them with me but the baggage had gone on and it was absolutely necessary to follow. So, off they started, next morning, in the rain and reached Richmond safely after all manner of ventures and misadventures.
March 1863. Everything has been quiet around us this winter. The roads have been too bad for cavalry raids. A good deal of license has been allowed in trade between this country and Yankee land which, while it has been a convenience in enabling us to get family supplies for ourselves and friends farther South, has been a great disadvantage to the country by depreciating our own currency, (Confederate money being useless in this as trade) and sending out of the country vast quantities of our States money at a ruinous rate of discount.
But, the worst result has been to encourage a spirit of speculation disgraceful to us as a people fighting for all man holds dear. Many who ought to be in the service of our country are given up, soul and body, to this passion for making money. Large fortunes have been made out of the necessities of our people which tis to be hoped will brand their possessors to the latest posterity. The inconvenience and privations to which the blockade subjected us, was nothing in comparison with the demoralizing tendency of this traffic with the Yankees. It was allowed by the U.S. Government to a certain extent, and then winked at by their officials to almost an unlimited amount. But, every now and then, to keep up appearances, they would pounce down on some unlucky person and confiscate all his or her goods.
Some friends of ours crossed the river to buy goods. An officer said to the ladies: “Get off as quickly as you can for we must take somebody’s goods today for they are complaining of us as too lenient, we’ll have to confiscate the last wagon.” Upon this hint they moved off and, sure enough, an innocent woman had her team with its content seized, upon the old principle of Devil take the hindmost. Yet, with all its risks, tis surprising to see how the women do flock over, coming several days’ journey in open wagons thru the dreadful roads and inclement, winter weather – “dry goods” being a temptation few women are able to resist.
Once, since our army fell back to Richmond, Stuart with the two Lees[39] passed thru this place, after his raid round Dumfries, Centreville etc. How we do love to see the merry, dusty, reckless looking fellows. Such a contrast to the Yankees with their uniform complete, looking like “tailors on horseback,” all their energies being given to maintaining their seat and guiding their horses – oaths and imprecations the only sounds heard from them.
Capt. Mosby[40] came over some weeks ago with a small company detailed for the service to get recruits and horses. From time to time, he makes a dash upon the enemy’s pickets and comes back with a lot of prisoners and horses.
A week ago, he went to Fairfax Courthouse, passing between camp and headquarters, and carried off General Stoughton and twenty or thirty of his men and no end of horses. He surprised the general in his bed and woke him by pulling down the bed clothing. The general asked what the disturbance was. “Did you ever hear of Capt. Mosby?”
“Yes, have they caught the rascal?”
“No, but he has caught you and must take you to General Stuart.” The general had nothing to do but dress himself and follow and Mosby carried him off to Culpeper, passing directly under the enemy’s batteries at Centreville.
Next week a party of Yankee cavalry dashed thru our village, went on as far as Upperville. They stole any number of horses and carried off several wagons, catching several straggling soldiers who would have fared better if they had been at their post of duty. This time, Middleburg escaped and their principle spite was wreaked on Upperville and the country houses along the road.
Monday, March 12, 1863. The Yankee cavalry came in about eight o’clock in the morning. Catching sight of a gray overcoat, travelling up street, pretty fast, they dashed after it, uttering a faint yell, sabres drawn, pistols cocked. The graycoat turned a corner and vanished but, a little fellow from Baltimore, under seventeen, who had joined Mosby only a few days previous, was not so fortunate. Unacquainted with the country, he kept to the turnpike, trusting to the fleetness of his Yankee horse which we had seen him proudly bringing in a few days before. After a race of a mile, he was overtaken and captured. The only capture they made except the usual horse and chicken thefts.
The officer in command, Major Gilmore was beastly drunk but luckily disposed to be facetious rather than surly. Several gentlemen, from whom they had stolen horses, came forward to remonstrate. He promptly refused to restore the horses and ordered them to fall into line for he meant to march them to Washington.
They were constrained to obey, half mad, half amused. The order was given to march and they were stepped off to his “left, left.” After proceeding a short distance, he called “halt” and said, “Now you may go home” which they did, glad enough to escape so easily.
As he passed our door, the servants were collected at the fence looking on. Reeling from side to side, he called out: “Abe Lincoln would buy a nigger any day, I could sell him one tomorrow.” My fat, old cook, not expecting to be heard, said: “I always know’d that was all you wanted with us – to sell us.”
Fixing his eyes on her, with a drunken grin, he said: “Yes, I could sell him the biggest, black nigger.”
This raised her dander and she replied, “Here’s one you won’t sell.”
“Yes I will, I’ll catch you.” “No you won’t.” And the great, vulgar looking drunken brute rode off laughing.
They broke into and ransacked a store, searched a few houses and carried off seven horses. About an hour after they left, Capt. Mosby and nineteen men followed after, as we supposed to reconnoitre.
About one o’clock, an alarm was given, “Yankees coming back and have taken Mosby and all his men.” And, when they came in sight, there was such a preponderance of blue coats as to give countenance to the report. But the laughing faces of our men, and the rueful looks of the Yankees told who were the victors. There were twenty-three prisoners, a captain amongst them and many more horses. Unwilling to believe no effort would be made to recapture them, the Yankees were disposed to lag but, the application of a sabre to the horses and the sight of a pistol to the men quickened their pace.
It appears that Mosby followed our Yankee visitors to Aldie and there fell in with another party who had come up and were feeding their horses at Moore’s Mill, their number estimated at from fifty to sixty. Mosby charged on them. His horse, a very fine one captured from the Yankees a week before and TRICKY of course, ran off and carried him beyond the Yankees. He threw himself off, mounted another and got back to his men.
The Yankees fired from the mill which protected them but soon ran in every direction. Young Turner, of Maryland, shot the horse of a captain which fell with him, hurting his leg so as to disable him. He surrendered and, as Turner turned to secure a huge Irishman, standing by, the captain fired at him three times, slightly wounding him, the only casualty on our side. Not calculating sufficiently on Yankee discretion, they thought, of course, that the other body of Yankees, hearing the firing, would return. So, they hurried off with their prisoners and horses. They might safely have tarried for the last heard of the bluecoats they were going down at full speed with Mosby’s horse in advance of them.
March 15, 1863. We scarcely recover from the excitements of one raid before Mosby is off on another and we wonder at what point he will catch the Yankees napping this time.
Yesterday we saw him pass with a portion of his company, so small as to induce the belief that he would not attempt much. Today, they come back with blue and gray coats so intermingled it is impossible to say which color predominates. But, one bespattered hero, with his dark blue coat and broad shoulder straps, proclaims the Yankee officer. They travel on too quickly to be questioned but, later we learn that Mosby came in between Dranesville, where there is a considerable force, and a picket at Herndon station.
Securing the picket, he ascertained that Major Welles[41] [sic] had come up to inspect the post and was induced to remain by an invitation to dine with a “loyal” citizen. The house was surrounded and search made for him in vain. In the garret, was a dark cuddy, not floored. One of Mosby’s men, peering in, discerned the glitter of buttons and, eliciting no response to his calls to come out, he fired into the darkness which caused the Major to make an incautious movement and, the lathe and plastering giving way, he was precipitated on the astonished heads of Mosby and his men, in the room below, coming nearer “crushing the rebels” than ever before. Descending like Jupiter in a cloud (of dust) he surrendered and, leaving his dinner on the table, untouched, was borne off in company with one captain, two lieutenants and twenty three privates.
March 23, 1863. Today, a gallant band of our “Bushwhackers”[42] trot merrily by and we think somebody will be hurt this time for they number more than usual. They went towards Chantilly but, finding videttes posted, so as to make a surprise impossible, charged on as pickets captured five and killed one who pointed his pistol after he had surrendered.
The alarm being given, Colonel Johnston brought out two hundred cavalry and Mosby, finding himself too near their camp, fell back two miles and posted his men behind some felled trees. Colonel Johnston drew up a line of battle, threw out some sharpshooters and ordered a charge. Mosby dashed out with a yell, firing right and left. The Yankees turned and ran, carrying off the horses of the unlucky sharpshooters who were all captured.
A race of five miles followed which our boys described as “fine fun.” Colonel Johnston escaped by taking to the woods. Thirty-nine prisoners were taken and four or five men killed. Not one of our men was wounded, the only drawback was they captured only a few indifferent horses for, our men rate a horse higher than a Yankee.
April 1, 1863. The snowstorm had scarcely ceased, yesterday, when Mosby and his merry men were again wending their way towards Yankeeland. The night passed quietly and we were beginning to ask anxiously where they were when, about noon, a motley crew appeared, headed by the redoubted Dick Moran, “Blue spirits and gray too” but blue the prevailing hue. Thirty five prisoners and more coming on. “Any officers?” questioned someone. “No,” replied a Yankee, “the officers stay behind and make the men do the fighting.”
Squad after squad pass on with the usual intermingling of rival colors, Mosby, as always, bringing up the rear, looking as cool and nonchalant as if he had been partridge hunting.
Going round Dranesville, they found the enemy had fallen back. They stopped at a farmhouse, four miles from Dranesville, and two miles from the turnpike road. This morning, while the men were feeding their horses in a barnyard, their horses saddled but not bridled, notice was given that the Yankees were coming. Mosby, who was at breakfast, came out and, finding his horse not saddled, mounted another, collected the few men ready just in time to hear the Yankee captain order a charge. He met it by a similar order to his men who were bridled and mounting under a hot fire, but, nothing daunted, they dashed into the fight.
The Yankee captain, who fought bravely, was killed, the enemy gave way and finally fled. Mosby chased them seven miles and returned, leaving five dead on the field, fifteen wounded and bringing off eighty-six prisoners, two wounded so badly as to be left on our hands. From them, we learn that the attacking party was the 1st Vermont Cavalry, a brag regiment who fought Ashby in the Valley and have seen much service and consisted of three companies, one hundred fifty in all. Mosby had three men wounded – one mortally, the first killed in all his raids.
Each morning, since, we have looked out first thing, to see if there were any signs of “Yankees coming.” We feel sure they will not come except in large force for they imagine, from the boldness of Mosby’s attack upon them, that he must have a strong force to fall back upon. But, it does not do to measure Confederate daring against Yankee caution.
April 4, 1863. After a short interval of quiet, we are roused about six a.m. by the cry: “Yankees coming” and here they were. No time to run horses out of town, no chance for suspected individuals to take to the woods for safety for the wretches had surrounded the town and closed every outlet. Our fine gray mare who had so often found safety there before, was consigned to the cellar. Silver was put out of sight and money buckled on like armor.
In less time than it takes to write it, the town was filled with vulgar, insolent cavalry. No such ruffians had been here since Geary’s occupation of the country a year ago and we were not surprised to hear that part of these were the 1st Michigan Regiment who, under his command, had given us our first experience in Yankee rule. Presently an officer, tall, vulgar and overbearing in manner but evidently trying to be very dignified and impressive, knocked at the door.
I opened it. “Good morning madam.” I make no response, I never do to a Yankee salutation. “I am under the disagreeable necessity of searching your house.”
“Very well, you can do so but for what are you searching?” “For what am I searching? For anything I see fit, for arms!” This was said in a loud, insolent voice. I gave him a look of quiet contempt and said nothing. It seemed to have an effect for he changed his tone and, with pompous politeness, said, “Have you any cellars?”
“Yes.” “Will you make someone conduct me to them?” “I’ll go with you myself.” “Thank you madam.” Going down, he said, “Don’t be alarmed, we’ll treat you like gentlemen.”
“Oh,” said I, “I’m not at all alarmed,” but at that moment, my heart was in my boots. I knew the mare was gone. I opened the door and there she stood in full view. I deliberated whether to seize her and refuse to let him have her but she looked so big – I had never held a horse in my life and was dreadfully afraid she would bite or kick me and, still more, lest the brutal wretch would touch me with his hands. So she was led out with many flattering comments. I remonstrated, he said, “Your men have taken many horses from us.”
“Yes,” said I, “in fair fight but you steal them from stables and cellars.” I had to stand, in impotent rage, and see her led off and, forgetting dignity, propriety and everything else, I stood at the window and told them Mosby would have her back and I hoped she’d break the neck of every man who mounted her – which only made them laugh and jeer.
Every house in town was searched and pillaged. In some, they opened every chest and drawer and, with true Yankee curiosity, peeped into every corner. One corporal, after looking into all Sue’s wardrobes etc., told her he was glad to see she had so many good “wearing clothes.” “Yes,” she told him, “and when they are gone, I’ll do without.”
Every horse in the town that was considered able to reach Fairfax Courthouse was taken, every citizen seen on the streets arrested, every woman who appeared was jeered at and insulted. They camped in our barn field, tore off the barn doors, fed and waste twenty-five barrels of corn besides oats and wheat, killed ten hogs and four sheep, leaving most of it on the field – took all the fowls and even the bee-hives, stole gear, took a mule and old horse and had two young colts haltered twice but they got away.
They had come up from Fairfax Courthouse the day before, two thousand strong cavalry and mounted infantry under General Copeland[43] who seemed to have been selected as one of the best suited to do this dirty work. While the main body kept to the turnpike, large parties were scouring the country road, arresting men and loading the farmers’ wagons with what they could carry off and, destroying what they could not, saying they didn’t mean to allow any crops to be put in.
But the most aggravating thing was to see our citizens, of all ages, from the boy of fourteen to the old, gray-haired ministers of the gospel, marched on foot up and down the streets at the pleasure of their captain and, late in the afternoon, started to Aldie while their stolen horses were led empty by their sides. Not a dozen men were left in our village and they escaped by keeping out of sight.
About five p.m., the wind blowing furiously, flames broke out from the roof of Ned Brown’s store. The Yankees had broken into it and destroyed the few goods left there and then kindled a fire in a closet filled with old papers. We expected half the town would be in ashes. General Copeland was just mounting his horse – he looked for a few moments at the fire and then rode off with his guard, without a word. Colonel Johnston and some other officers came forward and compelled the men to dismount and put out the fire, denouncing the “atrocious scoundrels” who kindled it. When forced into it, the men worked like professed firemen and, but for their efforts, the fire could not have been subdued. The other men seemed to enjoy it, calling out, “Where’s your ingins, where’s your population?” as if they had not carried our “population” off.
Early in the day, a scout of five picked men had been sent up towards Upperville. At Goose Creek bridge, they encountered the two Hatchers and one of Mosby’s men who determined to give them a fight and a fierce one it was. Harry Hatcher’s horse was killed at the first fire and he wounded in two places. But, he disengaged himself and fought two Yankees, wounding both. Dan Hatcher was slightly wounded in the leg, Mosby’s man in the shoulder. One Yankee was left dead in the road, another dreadfully wounded and taken to Mr. Hatcher’s house, nearby.
Mosby’s man captured one and took him off but, finding his wound disabled him and afraid his prisoner would make the same discovery, he took the Yankee’s horse and arms and let him go. The other two fled. Harry and Dan got off and, for five hours, no Yankee came up the road. But, at last, a surgeon with ambulances, came and carried off the dead and wounded. As the ambulance with the dead man passed here, the unfeeling wretches struck up their John Brown melody, “Oh, he’s going home to glory.”
Well, night came at last and about eight o’clock they all moved off leaving us to lay our weary heads to rest, blessing Him who had mercifully delivered us “from the hands of them that hate us.” Prominent in favor and in command was Yankee Davis[44], directing attention to some citizens who had been overlooked. How thankful I was that my husband was in Richmond. He could not have escaped. That makes all our losses seem light to me.
April 6, 1863. All day yesterday, the Yankees were searching the mountains, arresting men, stealing horses and pilfering generally. Some were very poor men who left helpless wives and children unprovided for and unfortunately, out of reach of people able to help them. High Acre[45] escaped again and we told Mr. Lewis that, as providence had so favored us, he must feel the obligation to feed and help those not so favored. He says there is a widow woman living near him, as poor as tis possible to be, from whom they took everything, even killing her pig which they left at some house, showing it was killed as mere, wanton cruelty.
From Aldie, we hear that the prisoners, thirty in number, were put in an old greenhouse, then marched on to Yankee Davis, then countermarched to Aldie and carried, for the night, to William Berkeley’s house. The dead Yankee was laid on the floor in the passage, and, next morning, thrown on top of a wagon loaded with wheat which they had stolen. Truly, the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.
The prisoners were started from Aldie on foot but, after a few miles, were allowed to mount the stolen horses bare-backed. Several days have passed and we have heard nothing from the prisoners so we conclude they have been sent on to Washington.
April 13, 1863. Today, we hear that General Fitz Lee is at Salem with his brigade. Tis also said Jackson’s corps has moved from Fredericksburg so we may conclude the long expected fight between Hooker[46] and Lee cannot much longer be delayed.
Another rumor is that Hooker has fallen back to Centreville but we must know before long. Since the fourth, we have seen no Yankees and we forget our little losses in the mighty interests at stake in these impending battles. If God be for us, it matters little who is against us.
April 18, 1863. An anxious week. Rumors plenty as blackberries but nothing reliable. We hear, thru Northern papers, of their repulse at Charleston but, whether the attack was renewed and with what result, we cannot hear. On Tuesday, for three hours, there was rapid and heavy cannonading. Next day, two deserters brought in by Mosby’s men said ‘twas practicing at Fairfax and Centerville – to teach the raw hands to stand fire, I suppose.
April 22, 1863. No army news except from afar. The enemy repulsed at Charleston and Vicksburg. Such incessant rains as to prevent all movement in Virginia. Yankees improve the leisure to make thieving excursions into Fauquier, as far as they dare. Several of our captured citizens returned, having been exchanged as “Mosby men” tho they protested they were quiet citizens. The remainder are still in the old Capitol[47]. When captured, they were taken from Aldie in a severe snowstorm and marched on foot to Fairfax.
A surgeon, finding there were two physicians in the party, offered them seats in his ambulance, others were offered rides on the stolen horses, without saddle or bridle, led by a rope halter, which they declined. They were kept that night in the courthouse and carried, next morning, to Alexandria without breakfast and huddled into cold, filthy guardhouses without a mouthful to eat. As they were carried thru the town, the boys jeered the guards. “You went to take soldiers and could only catch citizens.”
When taken on, next day, to Washington, they were put into a common jail – no fire and windows destitute of glass. As they passed in, they recognized the faces of acquaintances at the gratings. “How long have you been here?” “Two, three or four weeks.” “Why were you arrested?” “I’ve no idea.”
After time they were taken to the old Capitol where they were comparatively comfortable. They had good fires and, such as had money, were allowed to improve their fare. After a day or two, these seventeen men were taken to Baltimore, thinking they were to be consigned to some Northern prison. But they were put on a boat, with many others, and brought round to be exchanged. The boat was crowded and filthy with three cases of smallpox on board.
At Fortress Monroe[48], they were detained twenty-four hours in a snow storm. Most of the prisoners were Texans from Arkansas Post and suffered intensely from the cold, several dying on board. Can a century obliterate our sense of wrong and outrage!
April 27, 1863. About ten o’clock this morning our soldiers came, announcing the Yankees in Aldie, marching in this direction. Scarcely crediting the report, we yet made our customary preparations. The day wore on and we saw nothing of them till our pickets were driven in, about five o’clock and, following close, a large force of Yankees. How cautiously they came on, halting for an hour in sight of town.
At length, they came pouring in, having along two pieces of artillery and five or six ambulances. What horrid looking creatures they were. The officers, to be sure, bedizened to the last degree but the men, dirty, stoop-shouldered fellows and so common and vulgar looking, holding on to their horses like “tailors on horseback.”
Last of all came a guard with seven or eight prisoners, chiefly soldiers caught at home – how I hated to see them led by. It is General Stahl’s[49] [sic] command but, whether they have brought out all this host to “catch Mosby” or are on their way to reinforce Hooker, we don’t know. They are camped tonight just above town. What they’ll do tomorrow remains to be seen.
April 28, 1863. About eight o’clock, last night, a party of Yankees went clattering down, saying, as they passed, that they had been fired on by Mosby and were resolved to have him before morning. In half an hour, they returned, bring up their reserve in hot haste – a thousand more cavalry and two more pieces of artillery. Then, I suppose they felt comparatively safe from Mosby and his forty or fifty “Bushwhackers” as they delight to style them.
They were then free to send out their plundering parties while the main body continued their line of march to Rectortown, dragging their prisoners along on foot and adding to their numbers every peaceful citizen they encountered. The Doctor had gone, on Sunday, to see Tom Turner who had been wounded the night before while on a scout within two miles of Warrenton. The wound was in the spine and a very serious one. But they had moved him to Kinloch[50] and, on Tuesday morning, the Doctor left him very quiet and comfortable and bearing up so well that he almost hoped his life might be preserved.
Hearing at The Plains, of this wounded soldier, a squad was sent to Kinloch to see if he could be removed. The officer, a Michigan captain, and his men were rude and insolent in the extreme, turning the poor boy over and handling him very roughly. The excitement was too much for him and, from that time, he began to fail. In the evening came a Yankee surgeon who showed much consideration and gave orders he should not be disturbed but, before morning, death removed him from their reach.
The Doctor heard the Yankees were near and remained concealed till next day which, again, saved him from arrest. At The Plains, Mosby tried hard to draw them from the cover of their guns but they remained several hours in line of battle and couldn’t be induced to come after him. So Mosby went on down towards Hopewell and General Stahl, fearing some deep stratagem, came back here in all haste, arriving about midnight and camping below town.
All day, foraging parties were scouring the country, stealing horses, meat, corn etc., in many cases pillaging houses. At Mrs. Chinn’s, they broke open doors and drawers with a flat iron, took clothing, house linen, everything on which they could lay their thievish hands and tearing up the children’s school books.
Next morning, they were swarming over the country, riding by with bags of corn and pieces of meat before them. The village escaped better than usual. I had our only horse hid in the cellar, taking the chance that they’d hardly suppose another would be put there so soon again. In the stable, they would certainly get it.
Presently two men came to the door. I met them and was told they had orders to search all the houses for two of Mosby’s men who had escaped from them the night before. They looked into all the rooms and were civil enough, assuring me, “We won’t take anything, we only want to find the soldiers.” But I took care to watch them closely. Luckily, they didn’t go into the cellar. They didn’t find the soldiers here or elsewhere.
Some of the searchers were less honest than mine; one I saw come down the street with a new saddle on his own back and several with pieces of meat and chickens. Well, we thought our houses, at least, would be undisturbed after this, but, an hour or two later, a party of twenty-five or thirty, with two officers, came riding up and dismounted at Burr’s[51] door, surrounding the house.
The officer announced that he was sent by General Stahel to search the house. “It has been searched once,” said Sue, “what are you looking for now?”
“That we’ll tell you when the search is over.” The girls were shut up in the parlor, under guard, and improved the opportunity to talk “secesh” to their hearts content. One of the officers and some men began to search. Every bed was turned up, every drawer, trunk and box opened, garments taken out and shaken, the pockets of dresses examined – even the padding pulled loose – furniture moved from the walls, every crack and crevice peeped into. The girls’ nightclothes taken from under the pillows and shaken out, the soiled clothes press dived into. One of the men picked up a doll and said, “Maybe this is it.”
Sue then remembered that, on one occasion, when General Stuart passed thru this place with some prisoners, the girls had taken a rag Zouave and hung it on one of the trees before the door with the inscription, “Death to Yankees.” The prisoners had remarked upon it, at the time, and since then, the Yankees have been heard to say, in passing, “That’s the house where they hung old Abe on a sour apple tree,” making threats against the house. Every child, also, was supplied with a Confederate flag and waved them freely but, by some legerdemain, on that particular occasion, both flags and Zouave were invisible.
After the search was over, in cellars and servants’ houses, Sue asked, “Now, will you please tell me why my house has been so torn to pieces?”
“To look for secession flags, Madam, which prisoners say have been displayed here.” Said one of the girls, “I made Major Mosby one, you can get that from him.”
They came upon a box of smoking tobacco, left there by a friend, which they pronounced contraband and carried off. I was standing in my door, very anxious to know what they were about but afraid to leave my own house unprotected. As they rode down, to my astonishment, the order to halt was given and down they got. A civil spoken lieutenant informed me that he had General Stahel’s orders to search my house. I said, “Very well, but I must request you to keep your men out.” They were crowding in, he ordered them back, taking one man with him.
We went upstairs. Turning into the first chamber, he began to pull the bed to pieces. “This is a very disagreeable duty, madam.”
“I should think it would be to a GENTLEMAN, far more disagreeable to you than to me.”
After satisfying himself, he went into my room and, opening a wardrobe, the first thing he laid hands on was my dear boy’s red artillery cap which he gave me when I saw him last in Upperville. I said, quickly, “You mustn’t take that, that is my boy’s cap which he left me.”
“I wouldn’t touch it for the world, madam,” he said, dropping it. Just at that moment, a soldier came clattering upstairs. “Lieutenant, the officer wishes to speak with you directly.”
Down he went, a picket had just come in reporting the rebels in sight. In a jiffy, they were mounted and off and, ten minutes later, the last one had left the camping ground. What they were looking for or what they might have found, if the search had not been cut short, must ever remain a mystery. The alarm was occasioned by Mosby and one man showing themselves on a hill.
That night, they encamped at Mt. Zion.[52] About ten o’clock, Dick Moran and four others charged on the camp. Dick, who is a roaring Methodist with a voice of thunder, yelling, “Here they are, General, bring up the reserve.” Where upon they incontinently took to flight, never looking back to see from what quarter the threatened “reserve” was to come and never stopping till they got to Fairfax Courthouse, and, taking vengeance by sending up, next day, and arresting all the citizens of that neighborhood. Stories of outrage and violence have reached us from the surrounding country which my pen utterly refuses to chronicle, not, tis true, committed by authority but by the hand of lawless ruffians who, during the night, were allowed to straggle from the main column.
May 15, 1863. After two weeks of such suspense and anxiety as wears out the very heart strings, we at length receive some details of the glorious victory with which God has blessed our arms at Fredericksburg and checked the boastful hordes who, once more, essay the “on to Richmond.” We knew the fight was going on and, day by day, the Yankee papers heralded the progress the Great Union Army was making. And, tho we have learned to distrust their statements, still, we could hear nothing from our side.
Indirect rumors come in of a victory and, if General Lee said so, it must be true. Blessed effect of the confidence in the man who has never deluded us by false reports of victory.
But, at what cost we have gained a victory, we know not. “Heavy losses on both sides” say the papers. Heavy loss to some if only one man had fallen. Our noble Stonewall Jackson wounded and his arm amputated, then, we hear nothing more. The silence becomes positively appalling. Our sons, our husbands, our brothers, not a whisper comes to tell their fates. Oh the weary waiting of those two, interminable weeks. If we “measure time by heart throbs,” we might say two centuries.
At last comes a man direct from the army. I am afraid to hear him speak, but, his smiling face reassures me. I throw up the window and can only say, “Henry?”
“Safe and well, I saw him yesterday.” Oh the load lifted off my heart. And yet the pressure has been so long continued, there is no rebound. My thankfulness to God seems too deep even for thought. Then came letters telling how he had been with our old hero when he made the rear movement, on Saturday, which drove the enemy from Chancellorsville, how, on Sunday morning, in the darkness, he got separated from his battery and acted, during the day, as aide to Colonel Carter, how his little mare, Dixie, was killed under him but, getting another horse, continued with the colonel until four o’clock. Then, he was struck on the stomach and hip by a shell which tore off the skirts of his overcoat, cut a large hole in his other coat, bent the pocket book and broke the pencil in his pocket and so bruised him as to disable and compel him to leave the field for some hours.
How the very depth of my thankfulness humbles me in view of my unworthiness. But few of our acquaintances are among the killed or wounded. Poor Wassy Stewart – the only man in his battalion killed. A purer, nobler spirit than his never left this earth.
But, all individual loss seems merged in the one, great national calamity – the death of our noble, brave, Christian hero, Jackson. He has gone to his reward and the tears of a nation fall on his bier. But, we feel that God, who raised him up, in our extremity, can supply his place to us. Perhaps He means to show us He will not give His glory to another and will make us lean on Him alone. Brave, noble, Christian hero, we shall miss your prayers even more than your strong right arm. General Lee wrote to his wife, after the battle, “General Jackson has lost his left arm and I, my right.” With Lee to plan and Jackson to execute, success seemed certain. (May 2, 1863)
During the past month, all interest seems to have been centered in Vicksburg and Fredericksburg. Meantime, we are subjected to weekly raids from Milroy’s command[53] who, now that the river has fallen, find it pleasant variety to run over for the chance of picking up a few unwary soldiers and third rate horses. To give the devil his due, I am constrained to admit they are better mannered than Stahel’s ruffians and much more bold and daring.
One day, I saw two, juvenile looking Confederates ride by. In a few moments, pistols were heard and these boys galloped back, pursued by a party of Yankees. I ran to the door in time to see one of them wounded and captured. As they brought him back, I asked them to let him stop and have his wound dressed. They readily consented and brought him onto our porch.
A ball had passed thru his arm. Be sure I made fuss enough over him bathing and bandaging his arm, giving him a thinner coat etc. Meantime, the other boy was caught and brought back unhurt. After I had dressed the arm, I brought out bread and meat and filled their pockets. I had taken no notice of the party on horseback before the door. One of them said, “Will you give me something to eat?”
Without looking up, I answered gruffly, “I’ve got nothing to spare.” Another said, “You won’t give it to him because you think he’s a Yankee.”
“Yes,” said I.
“He’s not a Yankee.” Looking up, I said, “Who are you?”
“A Confederate and a prisoner.” I rushed out with both hands full saying, “Do you think I’d refuse anything in my house to one of our own soldiers?” The Yankees laughed. One said, “We don’t beg for food, our government furnishes us with a-planty.”
“Then,” said I, “it’s strange you steal so much from us.”
“That’s because you are rebels.”
“Rebels! Yes we are – George Washington was a rebel.”
“George which?” drawled one.
“A name you shouldn’t dare take on your lips,” said I, ferociously.
They carried the wounded boy off in an ambulance and, next day, he came trudging back. The ambulance had broken down so they paroled him and let him go. Meanwhile, Mosby was not idle, attacking them at every exposed point, burning railroad trains and capturing sutlers’ wagons and picket posts till they think him ubiquitous.
One bright, moonlight night, a small party of graycoats rode in, enquiring for Mosby, saying they had important dispatches for him. Everybody was deceived but, luckily, no one knew anything to tell them. But great was the trepidation when twas found they were the advance of a larger body of Yankees for no one knew what information they might have obtained.[54] They went on up and returned next morning without molesting anyone.
June 1, 1863. We started, with the children, for Richmond. We made quite a calvacade – one ambulance – a four horse wagon, (we had horses then) with our baggage and supplies for Fanny and the Doctor on horseback. Our first stage was to Keysville and, the roads being good, we arrived there about three o’clock. About an hour after, a man rode up saying the Yankees were at Orleans and we were told they never missed coming to Keysville.
Our horses and cargo were far too valuable to be risked so we determined to go on and started about five without an idea where we should find a night’s lodging. The road was very rough and it became dark. The dear, little children had fallen asleep, fortunately. We had taken a young soldier in the ambulance, at Keysville, so the Doctor was able to leave us and keep behind with the baggage wagon.
About nine o’clock, we saw welcome lights gleaming from a house a few hundred yards off so we drove in and found ourselves before a comfortable looking place. I sent in my young soldier to ask if we could get lodging. He returned saying the house was full of soldiers and there was no room for us. I sent him back to say that I couldn’t take my children any further and, if they wouldn’t let us come in, we’d stay in the ambulance at the gate. So we were told to come in and they’d do the best they could and so they did and we were very thankful.
One bed served for myself and the children. I can’t say I SLEPT in it. They were very primitive in all their ways – gave me many charges about injuring the furniture. A door opened from my room into another. It was partly open and on top of it hung some coats and pants. An old lady informed me that no one slept there but a lame son of her sister and she couldn’t turn him out for he couldn’t get upstairs. Somehow, I got the idea, from her, that it was a child so I had the clothes pulled down and closed the door partially. I slept much more quietly than I would have done had I known, as I did next morning, that my neighbor was a hale, hearty soldier who had been wounded in the foot and was walking briskly with the help of a crutch.
Next night we got to Culpeper[55] which was thronged with soldiers. General Stuart was to review the cavalry next day and the evening train came in laden with gay girls to witness the show. Twas a pleasant sight to look down from the hotel balcony upon the joyous greetings as sisters, sweethearts and friends were recognized by the merry crowd of boy soldiers collected to receive them. Till a late hour, the hotel rang with their light laughter.
Next day we reached Richmond where I expected to stay a month but remained eighteen.
Very soon after I got there, our army moved up to the Valley and I did not have the satisfaction of seeing my dear boy. Coming from Loudoun, where everything like business or pleasure was entirely suspended, where every face looked care-worn and anxious, where a vehicle of any sort except an ox cart was rarely seen, no one can imagine how strange the busy hum and bustle of Richmond, its crowds of bustling, cheerful people, its handsome equipages and fine horses appeared to me. At first, it jarred upon my feelings – it seemed heartless, out of keeping with the times, it oppressed my spirits.
The Grove Road, on which we lived, was the fashionable drive and ride and, for some time, the clatter of horses’ feet would quicken my pulses. I could not get rid of the old association with Yankees and would look quickly out to see some gay party glittering with gold lace dash by. But, by degrees, a feeling of security came over me, very soothing after the constant excitement and anxiety in which I had been living on the border. A feeling of security which I have never had since the beginning of the war anywhere out of Richmond. Twas so comfortable to lie down and rise up with no dread of Yankees before one’s eyes.
Early[56] had captured Winchester and the whole army had pressed on as rapidly as possible. Meantime, Middleburg and the surrounding country had been, for two or three weeks, the scene of numerous cavalry fights. For a week the town was held by the Yankees and, of course, the people robbed and oppressed in every possible way. The condition of things became so unendurable that the Doctor determined to break up and establish himself more in the interior. So, about the first of July, he arrived in Richmond, telling me I must go back with him and make all the final arrangements for moving out.
We had watched, with much interest, the movement of our army into Pennsylvania. We could but take satisfaction in thinking the Yankees were feeling some of the evils of war, hoping it might check their zeal in the cause, somewhat. Yet, I never felt willing to see our army leave our own soil. Ours was a defensive war and, besides, the idea of our poor fellows wounded and suffering in an enemies (and such an enemy) land was terrible.
One great comfort to me was that I could hear so regularly from Henry. Then came news of the first day’s fight at Gettysburg. Twas Sunday when it reached Richmond. Not one of General Lee’s truthful dispatches but the exaggerated, telegraphic reports – Yankee routed – 40,000 prisoners en route for Richmond guarded by Pickett’s division. Positively the only drawback to this glorious news was the alarming idea of 40,000 prisoners. What should we do with them for there was scarcely a corporal’s guard left in the city.
But soon we learnt the sad truth – that our noble army had suffered the most unexpected and disastrous defeat of the war. Somebody had failed to do his part and the battle was lost after it was won. Never did General Lee seem so sublime as when he took the blame on his own, broad shoulders and said, “All this has been my fault – I lost this battle.” And, for the first time, no one believed his word. I heard an officer speaking once of the fact that General Jackson never appeared that he was not cheered so that it became a by-word, when any unusual noise was heard, “Tis either General Jackson or a rabbit.”
Whereas General Lee was always received with profound silence. The officer added, “The only time I ever heard the army cheer General Lee was as he passed the lines on the retreat from Gettysburg, when such a cheer went up as shook the very heavens.” They, at least, didn’t believe it was his fault. In a very few days, we received a telegram telling us of Henry’s safety. His battery had been in the thickest of the fight and suffered severely. It seemed that, for months after that fight, we were hearing of some acquaintance or friend who had fallen. No battle of the war cost us so many. I suppose twas because Pickett’s Division, which suffered most, was composed chiefly of Virginians. Nothing in all history surpasses that advance of his Division, “into the
Jaws of death,” up the blood stained hills of Gettysburg.
As soon as we had certain news of Henry’s safety, we started homeward, going first to Albemarle where our ambulance was left. We remained there two or three days and, starting the ambulance across to Culpeper, we took the cars. Soon after starting, we saw an acquaintance on board, just from the army, who gave us the disheartening intelligence that our army had crossed into Virginia and that Meade’s army[57] was crossing and his course would probably be through Loudoun. The probability was that we should find ourselves in the midst of the Yankees if we attempted to go home.
So I pursued my way back to Richmond and the Doctor went to Culpeper to send back the ambulance, determined to work his way cautiously home on horseback. This he accomplished, getting there on Saturday night. Finding the whole army coming thru Middleburg, he left early on Monday morning, carrying off some valuable stock to Albemarle and coming from there to Richmond. He spent a month riding about, looking for a location but could find nothing equal to Loudoun in his eyes. He returned home satisfied that he had better “bear the ills he had than fly to others he knew not of.” And so we have vibrated between the two places ever since.
The fall of Vicksburg and the defeat at Gettysburg had a most depressing effect on the people generally and the Yankees were elated beyond measure. Meade had nothing to do but chase this demoralized mob of fugitives within the defenses of Richmond and then starve them out. But Meade found a lion in his path, on the banks of the Rapidan, who held him at bay for many a weary month.
While the army was across the Potomac, we had several alarms in Richmond. Butler[58] made demonstrations from the Southside and once, got as near as Meadow Bridge where a slight engagement came off but he was easily repulsed. Then there was a raid upon the railroad which resulted in the destruction of the North Anna Bridge on the Central Road but, as the Yankees were whipped off by the guard at the South Anna Bridge,[59] it didn’t interrupt our communications.
It is strange that no more serious demonstration was made from the Southside for Richmond was very destitute of troops. Once, Butler was reported as advancing with 30,000 men but still, there seemed no apprehension felt tho I never heard the most sanguine say we could muster more than 3,000 for its defences [sic], counting the convalescents and nurses at the hospitals. Even a bold raiding party could have incalculable damage. The old men and boys shouldered their muskets and were off to the trenches and I suppose the proudest fellows in the Confederacy were the three or four boys who came in, one day, bringing as many Yankees whom they had captured.
In August, Henry was sent down to Richmond to copy the pay rolls of his company which had been lost when the Yankees captured part of Ewell’s wagon train. Henry lost, at the same time, all his own baggage and, for six weeks, had not a change of clothing except when one friend would spare him an old shirt, another a pair of socks, another a pair of drawers, etc. etc. He had nothing but what he carried on his back and that was ragged and dirty to the last degree. His hat was blown off his head, one stormy night, on the retreat, and he tied up his head in a handkerchief. A friend, whom he accidentally encountered, gave him an old, red, artillery cap in which he had sweltered thru the rest of the summer.
But I had heard of his losses and had a supply of clothing ready for him. I told him he should have supplied all his wants in Pennsylvania for the Yankee nation was our debtor for many thousands. But, he was proud to say that he came back empty handed, indebted to them for nothing but the huge slices of bread spread with apple or “cow” butter as the case might be. This, the frightened Dutch women and their barefooted daughters pressed so eagerly upon them, in the vain hope of saving their fat beeves and horses. Very different from the defiant scowls and bitter words with which Southern women meet their invaders. Indeed, when we think of all we have suffered, at the hands of the Yankees, since the beginning of the war, the moderation of our men and the respect shown to private property, while in the enemies’ country, is perfectly wonderful. That men whose houses have been pillaged and sometimes burnt, whose property of every sort has been swept off by this greedy horde, whose wives, mothers and daughters have been insulted, could be restrained from retaliating, shows the influence of General Lee over the army.
How completely such forbearance has been thrown away on a people incapable of feeling magnanimity themselves or appreciating it in others. When we complain of their wholesale pillage, they cry out, “Your men did so in Pennsylvania.” Perhaps some wretch, who has broken every lock in your house and carried off silver, jewelry, clothing, everything his greedy eyes can rest on, will say, “Your men took a horse from me in Pennsylvania.” As if, too, they hadn’t been doing this long before one of our men had ever crossed the Potomac.
When this war ends, whatever trophies we may hang upon our walls, they will not be silk dresses, rings, watches, pianos, spoons and forks stolen from defenceless [sic] women.
Book 1 Part 2
October 20, 1863. Leaving Richmond on Tuesday, October 20th, (1863), we in due time reached Gordonsville, by railroad, where we found our wagon waiting to carry us on to Loudoun. The destruction of the bridge over the Rapidan had cut us off from Culpeper. To save ourselves and horses, we concluded to take the cars to Orange Courthouse and let the wagon follow us.
We found ourselves landed on the platform of that forlorn looking village without an idea where we should get a night’s lodging unless we could work on the compassion of a widow lady with whom some of our friends had boarded the year before. She kindly consented to receive us, at great inconvenience to herself, for the country has been so stripped by the continued presence of two armies that hospitality is, in truth, a virtue.
Our supper, the best that could be procured, consisted of bread, sorghum molasses and Confederate coffee. Our room, an out house[60] without carpet or even a chair but we were only too thankful for a shelter for our heads. It was freely accorded to us and, next morning, twas with difficulty we induced our kind hostess to accept compensation, tho every mouthful we and our horses consumed had been obtained by her with great difficulty and at enormous cost.
Unwilling to disturb the family, we made our own tea and drew upon our well-filled baskets for breakfast and, by sunrise, were jolting on to Culpeper. Soon, we came upon traces of Yankee occupation, fences thrown down, new roads made thru the fields. Every house was deserted, from the humble cabin of the day laborer to the stately mansions from which had been dispensed the elegant hospitality of the Virginia gentleman; both unable to endure the insults and outrages of the invaders.
Stakes driven in the ground and the charred remains of rails and logs marked the cavalry camp. Bones of dead horses[61], bleached on the roadside and, ever and anon, the hillock with a head and foot stone, gave token that some victim of this cruel strife slept beneath – whether Yankee or Confederate, there was nothing to tell. For miles, the country, once a garden spot, was perfectly desolate, no vestige of cultivation nor even of habitation and, but for the empty houses and the jaunty gray coated cavalrymen, trotting along by twos and threes, we might have imagined ourselves in some hitherto unexplored region.
As we neared Culpeper, the Yankee trail became more apparent. Houses dismantled to build camps. If of brick or stone, the doors and windows carried off, if of wood, only the beams and rafters left – in some cases, the buildings leveled to their foundations.
The Yankee can’t fight well but he can work. Their deserted camps were models of neatness and regularity. General Lee hurried them, so they had not time to complete their houses but, enough was done to show how comfortable they would have made themselves had he let them alone. Some were of small pine logs, daubed with mud, some of plank but all with well hung doors and windows and many made picturesque by enclosures of wattled pine boughs.
On a beautiful, green slope was a circular enclosure of green pine branches and, in the center, a tall flag staff, from which floated the gal-or-ious flag, waving, for the time at least over “The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.” How I longed to replace it by our pure white banner with its star-gemmed red cross.
Large cornfields had been planted but truly “one soweth and another reapeth” for the Yankees had gathered in the grain and only the gaping husks hung empty on every stalk.
About five miles beyond the town, we halted to take dinner and feed our horses. An old man, bent and tottering, hobbled down from a small house to ask for news. He told us he owned nothing but that house and a small patch of ground. His sons were in the army and he had planted his corn, leaning on his cane and digging holes in the hard ground, dropping in the seed and looked to that crop to give him bread and fatten his two pigs for meat. And said he, “Now it is all gone and, if I had money, I couldn’t buy more and, how I am to live, I don’t know.” The rich of his abundance and the poor of his poverty have been equal sufferers and one cannot help the other.
As we sat on the grass, resting, a cavalry man rode up, just from Loudoun, and gave us the unwelcome intelligence that a large body of Yankee cavalry were in our front and we knew that, in the amiable mood induced by their run from General Lee, they would show us no mercy. So, there was nothing left us but to make our way back, as best we might, to Culpeper. There was a very doubtful prospect of getting accommodations for ourselves and the certainty of nothing for our horses. The stripped cornfields offered us no relief but here, the unequalled resources of our negro driver, Dan, as a forager, helped us out. Active as a monkey, he soon cleared a fence and, diving about through a large field, he discovered that on the stalks crushed down by the wagons in their passage, a stray ear was to be found.
These, he incontinently appropriated and soon had the bottom of the wagon pretty well filled. Driving first to a large hotel, we found it closed and the owner could do nothing more for us than promise stable room for our horses if we had our own feed. The place thronged with Confederates. We passed a large building where the sentinels at the door and the odious bluecoats, peering out of every window, told us the Yankee prisoners were deposited there.
After hopelessly wandering about the village, we, at length, secured lodgings. We determined to send on our wagon and trust to the promise of the very obliging agent to send us on, next morning, to Gordonsville, in the freight train which brought supplies down to our army. General Lee was falling back from Brandy Station and the enemy advancing. As a matter of precaution, the cattle, intended for our army, were being driven back and the lowing of hundreds of beeves and the yells and whoops of the drivers added to the panic.
Our landlady advised everyone who could to get out of the way that night for she was sure the Yankees would be on us before morning. But, as we knew General Lee and his veterans were between us and them, we made our minds easy and got what sleep we could. The train ran so irregularly that we had to be on the spot and so waited from eight a.m. till two p.m. at the little, crowded depot. On a platform opposite were laid some twenty of our wounded and four Yankees and a weary waiting it was to them, poor fellows.
To beguile the time, I stepped into a house nearby. The poor woman’s husband, an employee of the railroad, had been carried off by the Yankees when they retreated. Her garden was destroyed and her cow killed. She told me there was scarcely a servant left in the place. She had a free woman in her employ but the Yankees threatened her if she remained so she went with them, most unwillingly. Some were intimidated by threats, others persuaded by promises and, when other means failed, they were assured that President Davis had issued a proclamation, ordering our army to carry off every negro, slave or free, and send them South.
A gentleman who escaped from Alexandria said that he was at the depot when the negroes were brought in from Culpeper – a crowd of three or four hundred women and children, the men being retained in their army. The helpless creatures were emptied out, not knowing where to find food or lodging and their tears and entreaties to be taken back to their homes were piteous.
At length we were fairly started – I seated on my bonnet box, the only woman aboard. The cars were crowded with soldiers, sick and well. Twas dark when we reached Gordonsville and we were relieved from the disagreeable alternative of spending the night in the car in the wretched “Ladies Saloon,” by the kindness of the indefatigable Post Quartermaster, Major Richards whose generous hospitality cheered many a weary traveler.
Next day, we took the train for Charlottesville. One of our horses had fallen lame and our kind friend, Major R. put at our disposal an old, government horse which, though rawboned and dull, seemed strong enough to take us on. Another one of our horses had been stolen out of the pasture by some straggling cavalryman, (notorious horse thieves that they are) and was replaced by an old mare who had done good service, in her day, but, whose best days were past.
We concluded to flank the Yankees by taking the Valley route so, with two such steeds and a lumbering sutler’s wagon, well laden, we set forth. Desiring to spare the horses, we sent them across Brown’s Gap to our friend, Mrs. Grattan’s while we took the train for Staunton. Owing to some detention on the way, the cars didn’t reach Ivy[62] until dark so it was nine o’clock before we reached Staunton.
An omnibus, whose windows were guiltless of glass, after much delay, with a cold wind whistling around us, landed us at the “Virginia House.” The far-famed hospitality and comfort of the Old Dominion were but poorly represented by this Virginia house, certainly. Such an idea as supper, at that hour of the night, was too unreasonable to be entertained, so we limited our wishes to a bed and fire. A supercilious chambermaid showed us our room and evinced such astonishment, when we complained of having no fire, that we tumbled at once into the chilly looking bed before she had coaxed a few green logs into a smoke.
Twas too late to get passports, that night, but early next morning, the Doctor started out to secure them as we were to go, in the stage, at eight o’clock. The officials at the Provost’s office said that passports for the Valley, could only be given by the Provost himself.[63] There stood the old-fashioned four-horse coach at the door, the driver very impatient to be off and I half frantic at the idea of being detained at that comfortless hotel.
At length, by diligent effort, the Provost was induced to repair to his office and issue our passports. They were assumed to be so important and no human being required us to show them in our journey down the Valley tho we were instructed to have them renewed at Harrisonburg. No time was allowed for breakfast and, for the privilege of freezing in an apartment ten by twelve, covered with our own shawls and cloaks, we paid six dollars. Our fellow passengers comforted us with the assurance that we missed but little. One said he asked for a cup of tea and was told he must wait until “someone was done with a cup” as cups and saucers were scarce. A placard in our room informed us that board, in that delectable establishment, was “ten dollars a day and meals sent to rooms extra.”
Our coach had its full complement of nine inside passengers and as many outside as the top would hold but, with four good horses and the beautiful Valley turnpike, we went merrily on and, tho breakfastless, enjoyed the early morning drive thru that exquisite scenery. At one point, we took in an old man, ragged, dirty and blind. An old haversack, tied with a rope round his shoulders. He took out a roll of papers, which he said he sold for a support. I purchased one and found it headed: “Satan’s Marriage with Babylon’s Infernal Queen – A Warning to all States and United States, Insurrectionists, by an American Unionist.”
I made an exclamation of disgust at the authorship and told him he had better take his wares off to Yankeeland. He assured me this was written before the war and was directed against the abolitionists. When I took time to read it, I found it to be but the title was a most unfortunate one. The name of Unionists is an offense to all Southern nostrils.
Fifteen miles brought us to our stopping place where we found a hearty welcome, bright fire and good cheer presenting a Virginia house in another aspect. The next morning, we took our line of march down the Valley, intending to keep the turnpike to Strasburg but, even that tempting level couldn’t seduce our horses into a trot. Passing a store door, we saw a group of soldiers and, after a few minutes, one clattered after us and enquired if that was not a government horse, pointing to the C S[64] branded on the shoulder of our old sorrel.
We explained how it came into our possession but he said they were out, by order of the Quartermaster General, to take government horses wherever they found them. We remonstrated and he said he would call his captain, who, fortunately for us, was a gentleman. After hearing our story, he let us go on. How we should have fared had our steed been a better one, I don’t know. But, to guard against further risk, I made Dan dismount and plaister over the tell-tale C S with mud.
Near New Market, we discovered our hind wheel alarmingly bowed and stopped at a blacksmith’s for repairs. The smith was sick and nothing could be done but we were told that, with careful driving, it might last several day’s journey, tho a jolt might crush it at any time. Considering the state of the roads, when we left the Turnpike, there was every probability of a catastrophe. There, too we were told the Yankees had been in Strasburg the day before.
So we turned off thru the Luray Valley, venturing, reluctantly, upon the steep, mountain ascent with our weak wheel and weaker horses. To lighten the load, we walked miles of the way but no power could quicken the pace of the old Confederate. As night came on, he waxed duller – no square in of his hide escaped the flip of Dan’s whip but, he might have been tenderly brushing off flies with a feather duster for the effect it had.
We reached the Shenandoah, the bridge across which had been burned during the Valley campaign. We knew nothing of the ford and plunged in. When almost over, the stream became very swift and deep. Here, the wretched, old Confederate, as if to revenge himself upon us, stopped, and no amount of whipping could move him until Dan climbed out on his back and, by dent of kicking and pulling, brought us thru.
Night came on dark and cloudy, the road could scarcely be seen. Presently, the old Confederate halted with such dogged determination we felt twas in vain to urge him on. But his instinct had guided him. On one side of the road was a stable and, on the other a gate which led to a good looking house where friendly lights were gleaming. We sent in to ask accommodations and soon a friendly voice invited us in, saying they couldn’t turn anybody away in these times.
One needs to have taken such a day’s journey as ours to appreciate the blessing of a roof to cover you and a seat by the fire side. But, much more than that was accorded us here. The young daughter and her old father and mother vied with each other in making us comfortable. Buried in the mountains, one would surely suppose this secluded valley would escape invasion but Seigle’s [sic] corps[65] was encamped on this farm for two weeks and many were the tales they told us of strong and wanton outrage, fences burned, stock and poultry stolen and the family obliged to feed the clamorous horde all the time. Leaving hastily on hearing of Jackson’s approach, orders were issued to burn all stores that couldn’t be removed.
The old gentleman asked permission to buy groceries and flour as all his family supplies had been consumed by the soldiers. The officer in charge told his subordinates that, as Mr. Young had suffered such losses, it was only fair to make him some compensation, and, therefore, what they couldn’t take off must be left for him. They were able to get off everything but a few barrels of flour, some sugar, molasses, etc. and the old man was congratulating himself on having secured some provision for his family.
But, as soon as the officer left, the malicious wretches rolled the barrels into the fire and destroyed it all. Living on the road, this worthy couple were heavily taxed in entertaining our soldiers – but, they had boys in the army, themselves, and they couldn’t turn a soldier away. But the old man complained that they would burn his rails and feed their horses in his cornfield. “Well,” would the old lady say, “ain’t they our own soldiers and ain’t we bound to feed them and mustn’t their horses have corn and mustn’t they have fires to warm them?”
Nothing strikes me so much as the unfailing cheerfulness of the women under all their privations and hardships. They drink their rye coffee, with or without sugar, munch their butterless bread and scanty meat, wear their old dresses, turned upside down and wrong side out, show bright faces under their three-year-old bonnets, are never faint hearted, never discouraged, have an unfaltering trust in Jeff Davis, an idolatrous worship of General Lee and, an undoubting belief that “our men” can whip any number of Yankees brought against them. They never croak, never criticize and would as soon “doubt that the sun doth shine, doubt that the stars are fire” as that the ultimate success of the Confederacy is not a fixed fact.
Men sometimes say: “if we succeed,” women say: “when we succeed.” If the men were willing to give up, the women wouldn’t let them.
We started, next morning, in a rain which didn’t improve the travel, aiming to reach Front Royal by night. Two miles brought us to Luray[66] which looked very dismal thru the drizzling rain. Our way was over a graded road, winding round the mountain, and, after driving, as I though, several miles, an opening in the wood revealed the little village, just below us, seemingly within stone’s throw.
The clouds dispersed, a bright sunshine was resting upon it and, never did I see a more striking illustration of the enchantment which distance lends. The houses, which in passing, showed a whitey brown outside, glorified by the sunshine, looked dazzlingly white and the huge, foursquare, brick buildings, pierced with innumerable windows and surmounted by a cupola, a style of architecture chiefly affected by the Dutch School of the Valley, looked intensely picturesque.
Our poor horses toiled painfully along. For miles we saw no house nor appearance of cultivation. We passed a roadside hovel from which emerged an old woman who shouted after us, “Have you got any salt to sell?” We assured her we had none. “Well,” said she, “I’m outen salt and I thought ef you had any I’d like to buy a pound.”
Evening was closing in and we were looking anxiously for some house that promised refreshment for man and beast. Our old Confederate, more obstinately than ever, refused to do his share of the pulling. We dismounted and walked ahead till, looking back, we saw the wagon had stopped on a steep descent and returning, found the poor, old fellow had tumbled into a gully and broken his leg[67]. Here was a fix! But, a good providence was with us still for, at the foot of the hill was a house and, better still, a stable.
We enquired of a woman who was milking, if we could hire a horse to take us further on. In a pleasant tone, she said, “Oh, yes, we must help each other in such times as these,” and called her son to “hitch up.” But, after a little parley, we found they kept a sort of wayside tavern and would take us in if we would put up with plain fare.
“Put up” indeed! As if we were not only too thankful for a roof to cover us. She took us into her kitchen where the warmth of a bright cooking stove soon thawed me out while the menfolk detached the wagon and put it away. But, the unlucky C S was wedged so tightly into the gully, no power could release him.
Our hostess was a fair-faced, fresh looking woman with four sturdy, unruly boys whom she quieted from time to time with huge slices of pie. But, nothing disturbed her equanimity. Our supper consisted of bread and butter, sorghum and cornstalk molasses, apple pie, preserves, cold, boiled cabbage and the inevitable, Confederate coffee with no stretch of patriotism can induce me to imbibe. No signs of starvation here, certainly. They had no candles but, the brilliant light of pine knots supplied their place. One silver spoon, all they possessed, did service for the whole party. Tea and loaf sugar were brought out from our stores and I made the woman happy by giving her all we had left – the first she had seen for many months.
But the want, most sorely felt by her, was a set of hoops! I had divested myself of mine and hung them to the top of the wagon. When brought in, with the other baggage, she’d pick them up from time to time, half jestingly proposing to buy them and, I rather suspect she tried them on after we retired for I found them unfastened next morning. I sympathized so much with her feminine weakness that, had I been sure of replacing them, I should have given them to her. But, the blockade was rigid and I was not strong minded enough to appear before my old friends without hoops.
Our sleeping apartment was a loft, reached by a ladder from the outside. In one corner was their supply of corn, in another, a huge pile of wheat, while boxes, barrels, saddles, harness, etc. left only room for the bed and, round the walls hung the entire wardrobe of the family. But the fire burnt brightly and the bed was clean so I turned in and slept as sweetly as if I “dwelt in marble halls.”
In the morning light, I found at my head an opening in the wall thru which I might have crawled out with others of lesser dimensions. Our first thought was for the horse and we were relieved to find death had terminated his troubles. Fortunate did we esteem ourselves to be able to hire, from our host, a horse to take us home, at the rate of $100. We, sending him back and assuming all risk from Yankees and all other accidents.
Before we started the woman made another appeal for the hoops, saying, of all things in the world, she wanted hoops most; begging me, if possible to send her a set for which she would pay any price. Here was a commentary of female vanity. A woman living in the heart of the mountains, rarely seeing any but her own family, having but one teaspoon which was passed around for everyone to take a stir, and yet, what she wished for most on earth was hoops! If ever the patriotism of our women succumbs, “dry goods” will be her tempter.
We had still thirty-five miles to travel and roads worse than ever but our fresh horse renewed our courage. Front Royal shows unmistakable signs of Yankee occupation – churches, depots, stores divested of doors and windows and, as we passed, we could see the walls covered with their filthy scrawls – heartless miscreants “foaming out their own shame”[68] by inscribing their detested names upon the places they so wantonly make desolate.
It was nearly dark when we emerged from the river road at Berry’s Ferry[69] but “my foot was on my native heath” and I gave no thought to tired horses and broken wheels. There were friends now, at every turn, to help us in case of accident so home we were resolved to reach that night and so we did at eleven o’clock. Cold, tired, and hungry but, what mattered that, we were at home again. And so ended our journey which, three years ago, in the good, old times, we were wont to make between four p.m. and four a.m. It now took us two full weeks to accomplish and I have recorded it so minutely that, in after times, it may be known what hundreds of women and children endured to rejoin the dear ones from whom they could no longer endure separation.
Back again in the old town after five month’s absence. How dreary, how desolate, how lifeless everything looked. Men looking dispirited and listless, women, careworn and anxious, children turned loose upon the streets for lack of schools. Nothing to break the monotony of life except when some of Mosby’s men dash in or some traveler, arriving from the South, collects a squad at the street corner to listen to his news.
It gains no credence because we know, by experience, that the next comer may contradict it all. One ray of comfort was that no Yankees had been there for two months and people began to breathe freely. Everyone had some tale of wrong and outrage to relate, endured while Meade’s army was passing or during the cavalry fights of the summer.[70]
A gentleman and lady, living about two miles distant, chanced to be in town when General Stuart and his men came in. Naturally, they remained to see them pass and before they could get out, in came the Yankees who cut them off from their home, where they had left five little children in charge of the servants. The mother, almost frantic, went day after day to beg permission to go to her children. This was rudely denied her and, for the week they occupied her home, she was kept away, hearing nothing from her children except that some of the men, pitying her distress, brought her word they were safe and well. And when, at last, they moved on and she was permitted to go home, it was to find everything portable carried off, carpets cut up for saddle cloths, the keys of the piano broken off, the beds ripped up, glass and china broke, the well-filled storehouse empty and their comfortable home so destroyed that they had to leave it.
Our own servants, who were left to protect our house, had their story of trials and vexations. While Meade’s army was passing, General Newton sent a party to search our house for meat, saying he had been informed we had a large supply concealed and that Logan, our faithful house servant, knew where it was. He refused to give them any information and, finding neither threats nor persuasion availed, they put him under arrest while the house was searched from top to bottom.
Finally, the meat was discovered in a dark loft and drawn out with the joyful cry, “Here it is, nice, old Virginia hams, too.” Some friends remonstrated with them saying it was barely enough for our own family use and told them, too, what we should never have done, that the Doctor had been very kind to their wounded. But nothing availed, the order had come from headquarters and the hams were needed for General Newton’s own use. And he was the man who, some fifteen years before, married a girl in this immediate neighborhood and, year after year partook of the hospitality of the people he now so ruthlessly pillaged.
Logan’s reward, for his faithfulness to us, was to be kept under guard while the meat was being stolen and then admonished as to his future conduct.
Another day, a requisition was made on each housekeeper in town for thirty loaves of bread to be ready in five hours. The ladies said it couldn’t be done, loaf bread could not be made in so short a time. An impertinent, young puppy, who issued the order said it could and should be done or the head of the house would be held responsible. So there was nothing to do but comply. One man can lead a horse to water but a hundred cannot make him drink. So, General Newton could order the bread but he couldn’t control the quality and a precious lot of bad bread they got, leavened with malice and wickedness on the part of the women and seasoned with many a root of bitterness.
At the appointed hour, it was collected by a wagon with an armed guard and the exasperated women, still further enraged on being told that, if they were “loyal” (save the mark) they would be paid for it. And many a scornful look and bitter gibe made reply to their offer.
Some of Mosby’s men caught two, little drummer boys and stopped, with them, at Papa’s[71] blacksmith shop to have their horses shod. He was coming from town and, seeing the boys, stopped and got into conversations with them, sending them their dinner from the house. These little rascals were afterwards released and, upon some information given by them, Papa was arrested that night, taken to General M’s headquarters and kept till next morning.
Meantime, a party was sent to his house who took all his horses, oxen, milch cows and killed hogs and sheep, breaking up his farming utensils. Then they demanded meat. Mama stood in the door and told them she wouldn’t give it to them. They pushed her aside and took every piece out of the meat house.
Going back to the house, she found another party trying to effect an entrance there but Lena, (eleven years old) who was staying with her, planted herself in the door and wouldn’t let them pass. Mama took her place, holding in her hand the key to the empty meat house – as big as the key to the Bastille. On her refusal to let them enter, one seized her by the arms and pinioned her.
She KICKED him until he released her and, the moment her arms were free, she gave him a blow in the face with the key that made him retreat in double quick, saying it was “equal to a sabre.”
The week of the passage of Meade’s army was a time that tried the souls of men and, specially, women. Every petty insult that only Yankee malice could devise was heaped on the people, together with the wanton destruction of property and the appropriation of anything that came in their way. Since then, this country has been free of Yankee inroads, and the people took time and heart to breathe freely.
Even Mosby’s raids failed to bring them up but this was quite too good to last. One Saturday, a bruit arose that the Yankees were out on the creek. Later in the day, they were reported in the Millsville wood. We learnt that they were a party of 150, guided by Charles Binns[72], a Loudoun man by birth, a wretched scamp, the disgrace of a respectable family who had lived in Fairfax County and, from his vagabond habits, was familiar with every hog path through the country.
For six months, he had acted as guide to Mosby. In a drunken fit, he had set fire to some hay stacks. Mosby ordered his arrest but he escaped and went off to the Yankees and brought them up in the night, leading them to all the secluded haunts of Mosby’s men, capturing twelve in their beds.
About four o’clock, on Sunday morning, the clatter of sabres announced their presence in town, an additional 150 coming up to join them but no other captures were effected. The alarm had been given and the wily partizans [sic] were on the alert. Mosby was off on a raid with most of his men or more of them might have been captured. He never has a camp – his men scatter over the country and only concentrate when he needs their services.
The body of men had moved up the turnpike but, later in the day, returned, bringing their prisoners with them. A knock on our door brought me out and there I saw one of our neighbors, Mr. Gulick, whom they had arrested and dragged on foot with them since Saturday morning. He was sitting on the step, spitting blood profusely and begging for some salt. I was greatly shocked and excited and asked the Yankees if they were going to carry off a man in that condition. They answered that it rested with the officers, not them.
Looking around, I saw Yankee Davis and sent a man to request him to come to me which he wouldn’t do, so I went to him, passing thru their ranks to get to him. I asked him if it were possible that they intended carrying that poor man off – that he was dying of consumption and, at that moment, was spitting blood and unable to travel. Looking down upon me with such a look of cold malice as I never saw before on human face, he said, “He is not too sick to be bringing wagon loads of salt into this country, you know he does that.”
“I know nothing of what he does, I only know the man is dying and tis cruel to take him from his home and family.”
With the same, malignant look, he said, “Tis because he does such things that you ladies are interested in him,” and turning, rode off.
As I came back, I met the poor fellow, creeping along with his guards to an ambulance. He took my hand and said, “Farewell, I shall never see you again, I go to my death.” I said, “He will die before he reaches Washington” – a brute sang out, “If he dies, we’ll have him decently buried.”
Just as they left town, an ambulance[73] halted at the door of one of my neighbors and every servant he owned walked out and, throwing their bundles in, followed on foot, men, women and children – their owners, of course, powerless to prevent. And soon after came a wagon containing two women and seven children, the property of another neighbor. They had asked to be carried off so, pressing into service two stolen horses, they took the wagon belonging to the owners of the servants to carry them off.
Two days later, I again turned my back on my dear, old home and friends and started for Richmond. The reported advance of the Yankee army on the Rappahanock made me anxious to get back to my children. My wagon was heavily laden with valuable supplies for them and I was kept very uneasy by stories we heard, at every stopping place, of the dangers that beset our way. But, we always found they had been greatly exaggerated. Still, we went cautiously and, after three and a half days of weary traveling, we arrived, without let or hindrance, at Gordonsville.
There, we heard our army was in line of battle along the Rapidan and that Johnston’s division had engaged the enemy the evening before at Mines Run. Of this, we had ghastly evidence in the bloody bandages of a few wounded who had come in. It was raining in torrents and Gordonsville, forlorn and dirty under the brightest skies, was one huge mud hole.
I was forced to take refuge in the railway station which was crowded with the poor, tired, dirty soldiers and the most wretched, squalid women and children I had even seen who, I was told, were North Carolinians who had come on to see friends in the army and been turned back by the Yankee advance.
I reached Richmond by rail, to the relief of my friends, who had been alarmed by a report that the train had been captured at Beaver Dam. I must admit that the apprehension of such a catastrophe had kept me nervous all the way but, the same goodness and mercy that have followed me all the days of my life, brought me safely thru.
end of book 1
Cochran Diary book 2
Christmas 1863. Another year closing on us and peace, apparently, further off than ever. Our people disheartened by reverses, our enemies, always boastful, now perfectly intoxicated by a few doubtful successes, marshaling their hosts for the coming spring campaign, more arrogant, more unrelenting, more bitter and malignant than ever.
But our hearts do not quail; we must gird up the loins of our minds, remembering the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong – that the issue of this conflict remains now, where it was from the first, in the hands of Him whose right hand and mighty arm giveth the victory. We have made our appeal to Him, let us be content to leave it there.
Two years ago, our prospects were darker than now but, we have been spoilt by success and do not bear our failures with the fortitude we did then. We have accustomed ourselves to think our armies invincible, we believed the war spirit, at the North, was exhausted and we flattered ourselves that an honorable peace was not far off. But, He who sees not as we see, has been pleased to disappoint our hopes and we are impatient that our schemes have failed and cry all these things are against us, forgetting that His time is the best time and that when He sees fit to give us deliverance, the way will be made both plain and easy.
Our greatest danger is the insufficiency of supplies for our armies.[74] Cut off from the rest of the world by a blockade that would never have been allowed by European nations had it not been to their interest to suffer this cruel, inhuman, unnecessary war to continue until both North and South shall be so crippled as to be no longer feared as a rival.
We have been thrown, suddenly, on our own resources while agriculture has been impeded in every way and large portions of our most productive regions are devastated by the enemy. Then the difficulty of transportation, losses in the large supplies still to be found at remote points. But tis not from our brave soldiers in the field, with their scanty rations, that the complaints of scarcity are heard but from the sleek civilians who stay at home to grow rich on the misfortunes of their country, who hold back the meat and bread stuffs, hoping for still more exorbitant prices and grumble if government impresses their stores to feed the starving soldiers.
They denounce the poor workman who charges them $150 for a pair of boots, just what they ask for a barrel of flour. How we have wondered at prices during our first Revolution, as recorded in history, little thinking it would all be repeated in our time. It is a common saying that one used to go to market with his money in a pocket and a basket for the marketing. Now, you must take your money in a basket and bring home your marketing in your pocket. There is more truth than jest in this – turkies [sic] range from $20 to $50, chickens from $4 to $5, oysters from $15 to $25 a gallon, butter $6 to $8 a pound, beef $2.50 and bacon $3.50 a pound, flour $200 a barrel, calico from $6 to $8 a yard, brown cotton $5 and bleached cotton $8, common flannel $12, fine $20 a yard, ladies shoes $50 a pair, children’s from $20 to $40 and men’s boots $200.
How people are clothed or fed is a mystery but egg nog parties and oyster suppers and entertainment of all kinds go on as usual. At market, the poorest looking men and women bear off their plates of butter and full supplies of meat. Where people have anything to sell, they can afford to buy and so with the tradesmen. The barber who charges $4 for cutting your hair or the dressmaker, to whom you must pay $25 for making the plainest dress, can afford to buy butter at $8 a pound and sugar at $4.50.
But, with the men of fixed income, the case is different and those are generally the ones accustomed to plenty and comfort. I know instances of clerks, whose incomes were barely sufficient, when prices were lower, to feed and clothe their families, who now expend all they can spare, each morning, in a supply of baker’s bread which constitutes the sole diet of the family; where children have to be kept indoors for lack of shoes and fire is an unwonted luxury.
The city has been agog, lately, over the sale, at auction, in the rooms over his small shop on Main Street, of the furniture of a Jew who is about to take flight from the Confederacy with his ill-gotten gains. Crowds gather to inspect and bid for his luxurious belongings. A set of rosewood chamber furniture brought $4,000, a stately, mirrored etagere, $6000 and the toys and gewgaws upon it, proportionate prices. A carpet was cried off at $1,500 to a fancy shop keeper, an embroideress of military frippery.
The negroes, chartered extortionists in all ages, run riot now. The veriest, [sic] grinning ragamuffin would roll his white eyes in supreme contempt if you offered him less than a dollar to hold your horse or carry a parcel across the street.
Kris Kringle, himself, caught the infection and Christmas toys ranged so high as to be heartbreaking to the poor, little Confederates. One window exhibits an ordinary doll, seated in a crimson, cotton velvet chair, and adorned with bogus jewelry, bearing the modest inscription, “$1,000 for this doll without the jewelry.” If a purchaser were found, he was discreet enough to keep his own secret. Dolls at $100 were quite common and gradually diminished in price till they terminated in the little, china dolls, a finger long, at $15.
Time would fail me to tell of the rough, Barlow knives[75] at $5, the tin horses and dogs at the same prices, candies, at $6 a pound, cakes, slightly flavored with sugar, at 25 cents each. But, I must put on record an eight in tin wagon with horses and driver valued at $150. Still, we managed to fill the stockings of our little ones without quite impoverishing ourselves and they, at least, were happy.
The arrival of the Doctor with his usual load of Loudoun supplies refreshed both our bodies and spirits. Then too, my dear boy obtained his first furlough and, once more, thru God’s mercy, we were all reunited. In the midst of it all, little Alice[76] made her advent into this weary world and, at the end of another year, I record an Ebenezer for hitherto the Lord hath helped me.
1864 opens dark and dreary – supplies diminishing and prices daily rising, Congress floundering hopelessly, aimlessly, nothing but talk and such mighty issues at stake. The nation looking anxiously to them for some action to relieve this dreadful pressure, finding them spending precious time in long discussions of frivolous points, voting themselves a long recess at Christmas, wasting breath in angry personalities or worse.
Still, traitorous denunciations of the administration, eagerly seized on by our enemies to encourage the belief, at the North, that we are a divided people and that the despotism of a party is the only obstacle to reunion and submission to Yankee domination. “Where is the wise?” truly may we cry.
Each morning paper is filled with details of crime. A few nights ago, Camp Winder set on fire and several hospital buildings burnt with their stores of beds and bedding. All so difficult to replace. The President’s house robbed and fired – peaceful citizens knocked down and robbed on the streets. All these follow, necessarily, in the train of war.
General Morgan, just escaped from the Ohio Penitentiary to which the Yankees consigned this brave soldier, is here now, the honored guest of the city. Well may all Yankeedom gnash its teeth at his escape for he has a heavy debt to pay them.[77]
February 1864. The two last weeks of January were warm and bright as May weather, making fires uncomfortable – a blessing to the poor, wood is $35 a load and coal $50 a load, and welcome to the brave soldiers, blanketless and shoeless but cheerful and uncomplaining. What a reproach to the skulkers who, under various pretexts, shirk their duty and devolve, on others, the protection of their homes and liberties. Those substitute men, who for a paltry sum, have secured three years of exemption from the toils and dangers of the camp and battlefield and now grumble that the government, needing their services, calls them to take part in the defense of their country.
In contrast to these are the war worn veterans whose homes and families are dear to them, sighing for peace, enduring the three years of perils and hardships of war. When their term of service expires, a time they have looked forward to as releasing them from their toilsome duties and restoring them to their homes, at the call of their suffering country, they come forward, with a shout, and re-enlist for the war with no other inducement than love of their country and true glory. Their action has infused new life into the whole land. The timid are strengthened, the disheartened are encouraged and croakers and grumblers shamed into silence.
The fine weather has dried the roads and the warm sun has drawn out the Yankees, as it has the wasps and hornets, buzzing and stinging. Some days ago, a deserter reported to our authorities that they contemplated a raid up the peninsula.[78] Other circumstances gave consistency to the story and measures were taken to anticipate them.
This was not generally known till Sunday morning, when we were made aware that something was astir by the clanging of the alarm bell, summoning the local troops to the rendezvous. Of course, wild and extravagant rumours were rife. Butler was advancing with 30,000 black troops, a large force was reported at Hamilton’s Crossing, Meade was crossing the Rapidan at three different fords. Nobody could give any certain account of the state of affairs. Troops were passing down all day. Fighting was going on at Bottom’s Bridge. Yet, nobody seemed alarmed and so the day passed.
Next day, twas known that a force of the enemy drove in our pickets at Bottom’s Bridge. This was the signal for an advance of our men who, in expectation of a raid, had constructed fortifications at the Bridge which they held till reinforcements arrived. Skirmishing kept up all day till the Yankees retreated in the evening.
Tis generally believed the object was a raid on Richmond for the release of prisoners. Prisoners taken say they had three regiments of white and two of colored infantry, six regiments of cavalry and sixteen pieces of artillery and, to aid in this raid, Meade made demonstrations at three fords on the Rapidan but was driven back. All is quiet again but, for how long, who can say.
The approach of spring is to be dreaded as the harbinger of renewed fighting and bloodshed. Yesterday morning, on calling the roll at the Libby Prison,[79] it was found that, out of 1100 officers confined there, 109 were missing. On examination, a tunnel was discovered, three feet in diameter and sixty feet long, thru which they had wormed themselves, one by one, coming out in a lot far distant from any sentinel’s post. The work was all done at night and all traces of it cleared away before morning and must have occupied several months. Four were recaptured today and measures taken to overhaul the others. (64 of the number were afterwards recaptured.)
February 18, 1864. Congress adjourned. The result of their deliberation was the Currency Bill, the Tax Bill and the Military Bill, all very stringent but accepted by the people as necessary to meet the exigencies of the times. Of course, there is grumbling, running to and fro to find some refuge from the threatened depletion of their money bags and property holders and producers are groaning that they are required to pay back, in taxes, some of their ill-gotten gains to carry on the government.
But, the great heart of the people beats true. They recognize the necessity for active measures and come up willingly to the work with their blood and treasures – counting not their lives dear to them, still less their property, in comparison with our independence.
In anticipation of the cutting down of the currency, the 1st of April, prices have risen beyond all limits – indeed, people are unwilling to sell at any price and all supplies are withheld, by the farmers so that the markets are almost bare. Beef is $3.50 a pound, poultry the same, butter, $8, sugar, $15, coffee $14, tea, $40, calico, last week, $10 a yard, this week, $15. Last Friday, I bought a pair of lady’s kid boots for $65. Sending back, next day, for another pair, we found them $75. Hesitating about giving so much, we waited till Monday but, on going to them, we found they were up to $80.
Our turkey, today, cost us $54 but that was as cheap as anything else. The boarding houses are charging from $150 to $200 a month for meals alone and wretched ones at that. The first class hotels charge $30 a day. How the immense multitude crowded into the city (Richmond) are fed and clothed is a mystery and yet, nobody dies of starvation. People look as healthy as usual – the streets are filled with hearty, happy looking children and sleek, comfortable looking negroes.
As a proof that the scarcity is more apparent than real, a person with gold or silver could live cheaply here, now, than in time of peace and plenty. I wished to buy an article costing $60, Confederate – before the war, its value would have been $5. I gave the merchant three gold dollars and received twelve Confederate in change. I was buying some oysters at $16 a gallon. I showed the vendor a silver quarter and he filled my bucket, holding three pints, for it.
February 29, 1864. Heard in town, this morning, an uncertain rumor that the Yankees had made a raid on Frederick’s Hall[80] where a large portion of our artillery was in winter quarters. Of course, I felt anxious about Henry whose battery is there.
Next day, the papers tell us that Meade had sent out two columns of cavalry and artillery, one of which went towards Charlottesville and the other towards Frederick’s Hall, reaching that depot not half an hour after a train, bearing General Lee, had passed. As the telegraph was out, no reliable accounts could be obtained.
About eleven o’clock, we heard firing but, as it was raining, we supposed they were cleaning the guns at the batteries all round us. This continued all morning and until three o’clock. We thought it rather strange but concluded that, as a raid was talked of, they must be getting guns in position, finding range etc.
Sometimes it was so near that our windows rattled but remained in happy ignorance till Tom came out, at four o’clock. In reply to our question, “Any news?” he informed us that the Yankees were on Brooke Turnpike and our troops had been fighting them all day, not half a mile from us. Just before that, the fighting had ceased but, whether we had driven them back or they had captured our guns, we didn’t know.
Our position was regarded as very unsafe if they got to fighting at the batteries near us. We were just within the inner lines of defenses and could not escape shelling. We were urged to come into town but it was now raining hard and we were afraid to expose the children. Besides, if we left the house it was liable to be robbed for, if it was unsafe for us, it was equally so for the servants who were frightened out of their senses. So we concluded to stand our ground and set to work secreting jewelry, silver etc.
Just at dark, a wagon dashed by, filled with women and children enveloped in blankets. They called out to us to fly as fighting was going on at the batteries, one of which was deserted, two men and five horses lying dead at Camp Lee gate, within sight of our house. They had been sent away, by our officers, as their house was to be torn down etc. etc. All of which, we found later, was simply bosh. But it might be so and, to avoid the risk of capture, we insisted Tom should go into town.
He soon sent out a messenger to tell us the enemy was retreating towards Mechanick Bridge Road. Then we stood and watched the long lines of soldiers filing by on four different roads in sight, going to man the defenses. Most of them were local troops from the various departments, unaccustomed to exposure but a fine, soldierly looking set of men, marching gaily on in the pouring rain. One of our servants, looking on said, “Poor fellows, they ought to have umbrellers.”
We heard a muffled sound, like firing of some sort, and, next morning, a gentleman who breakfasted with us, told us that, as soon as they reached the ground, hearing the Yankees were in front, they threw out skirmishers who had barely time to draw up in line of battle before the enemy was charging them, yelling, “Shoot the damned rebs, cut down the melish.”
Our men knelt and received the fire which passed over their heads, then, waiting till they Yankees were close to them, they delivered their fire which quickly routed the enemy. Twas so pitchy dark, nothing could be seen. Our loss was one man killed, the Chief Clerk in the 2nd Auditor’s Office and four or five slightly wounded. But, at the time, we knew nothing of all this and were secure in the idea that the Yankees had retreated after the fight on Brooke Turnpike.
About midnight, we were roused by the boom of cannon and were not a little frightened at the idea of being shelled out on such a stormy night. But after listening, we concluded the firing was distant as we could see no flash. But our repose was disturbed by the fear of renewed fighting in the morning. But, when the long, anxious night was over, everything was quiet, the storm was over, the sun shone out brightly and, but for the soldiers passing, we might have supposed the alarms of the previous day and night were a dream.
Later in the day, we heard that the firing of the night was an attack made by Hampton’s cavalry[81] on the Yankee camp, in which they captured 75 prisoners. The newspapers tell us that, at Frederick’s Hall, the enemy captured Colonel Jones, four captains and two Lieutenants who were holding a Court Martial.
They came on down, towards Richmond, and were the party engaged in the fight on Brooke Turnpike. The other column came thru Goochland, burning and stealing as they passed. We little estimated, at the time, the escape we made. Later disclosures proved that the two columns numbered 12,000 and the object of the raid was the capture of the city and release of the prisoners. And, while one column engaged our forces, the other should attack Belle Isle and liberate the prisoners there.
A negro, whom they captured and who escaped from their hands, informed our authorities that he learnt, from their talk, that the column that came thru Goochland had been carried, by mistake, out of the way and failed to cooperate with the others. They were piloted by a negro who lost his way, and suspecting treachery, they hung him on a tree.
This morning, they have all disappeared and our troops withdrawn from the batteries. The papers report that the party, sent towards Charlottesville, got within two miles of the town where they burnt the wooden bridge across the Rivanna and a large flour mill, carrying off many negroes and horses. We only took a few prisoners and cannot understand how they escaped so easily. There was also a reported raid by Butler, from the Peninsula, intended, it is supposed, to cooperate with this raid.
I learnt, yesterday, from an officer, perfectly acquainted with the facts, that the Libby Prison was undermined and everything in readiness to blow it up if any attack were made on it by the Yankees. Well might the poor prisoners exclaim, “Save me from my friends.” It seems hard on them but what alternative have we in dealing with people so faithless and what would be our fate if the thousands, in our prisons, were turned loose to pillage and murder at their will?
Yesterday, came from town, the exciting news that the alarm bells were ringing and Butler was coming from the Peninsula with a force, variously estimated from five to sixty thousand – a wide margin. The poor locals, who had only been disbanded for a few hours, were sent back to the batteries, going with alacrity, having found it such an easy matter, on Tuesday, to drive back the enemy.
This movement, on their part, was meant to cooperate with Kilpatrick but, finding that scheme had failed, the Beast and his minions retraced their steps. A large part of the force was negro. It was ascertained, later, that the column who had the fight, on Tuesday night, with the locals, was commanded by Colonel Dahlgreen[82] [sic] who, on his attempt to make his way back, was intercepted by Lieut. Pollard and a small body of men and negroes who had been carried off on the raid.
Papers found on his body revealed the diabolical purpose of the Yankees in this last “on to Richmond.” In his address to his men, he tells them that they had been selected for a desperate purpose which, if successful, would write their names on the hearts of their countrymen in letters which time could never erase. They hoped to release the prisoners who were to be turned loose being exhorted to “burn the hateful city and not to allow Jeff Davis and his traitorous crew to escape.” Those who were not willing to sacrifice life in such a glorious undertaking, might step out and go home to the arms of their sweethearts and read of the braves who swept thru the streets of Richmond.
The general orders revealed still more of their plans. Pioneers with oakum, turpentine and torpedoes, scouts in Rebel uniform to go ahead and burn every bridge and mill, destroy the canal and all that can be of any use to the rebels. The bridges burned and the prisoners released, “the city must be destroyed and Jeff Davis and his cabinet killed.” Horses and cattle not needed must be killed rather than left. The pioneers must be supplied with turpentine and torpedoes and oakum for burning, rolled in soaked balls. Destroy the Arsenal and everything except the hospitals.
Man proposes but God disposes. Thru His mercy, this city has been preserved from a fate which has no parallel in the history of civilized warfare. Cities have been sacked after the passions of men had been inflamed by an obstinate resistance but here, the purpose was to steal in and take, by surprise, the place they have never been able to win by valour, turning loose upon a defenseless and unresisting city, thousands of reckless men, un-officered, to sack and burn and riot at their will, exposing thousands of helpless women and children to the storms of winter and the still worse brutalities of their fiendish soldiers.
How signal has been our deliverance and how a merciful Providence restrained them in their purposes. They hoped to destroy our artillery at Frederick’s Hall and didn’t get within sight of the guns. The damage done the railroad was so slight that the cars were running, as usual, the next Sunday. The diabolical raid, on Richmond, was prevented by a mistake in getting to a wrong ford. We captured three hundred of their men and many more horses, killed and wounded a hundred more. In Yankee parlance: “It didn’t pay.”
The long talked of first of April (1864) has passed and the new currency, which was to bring relief to the disorders of the Confederacy, has gone into operation and the result has been an increase of prices on all sides, so soon as it was made public, that the currency was to be discounted one third. That third was immediately added to the prices by producers and holders of stores. Financiers tell us it will soon work right, scarcity of money must reduce prices.
Meanwhile, the necessaries of life rule at frightful figures – meal, $50 a bushel, flour, $1.50 a pound. Tis said, half of Richmond subsists on pea soup but nobody talks of submission and the people were never more unanimous, more resolute, more hopeful and our noble army seems to have infused its spirit into the whole nation, while they are living on their rations of 14 oz. of meal and ½ lb. of meat a day. God will not let them starve. If He be mindful to give us our independence, he will, if need be, open the windows of heaven and rain down manna.
Nothing but the usual inclemency of weather, for the past month, has prevented the renewal of hostilities. Both sides seem to consider this campaign as the final struggle. The Yankees, boastful, blustering, bragging, proclaim their power and intention to crush us out immediately. Their latest hero, Grant,[83] is irresistible and already have our land and homes been offered as reward to the brutal Dutch and ignorant negroes whom they have forced to fight their battles for them.
Every day brings reports of the gathering of their forces. On our side, all is silent preparation. We are content to leave all under God to our brave and sagacious leaders. “They come with sword and spear and shield – we come in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the armies of Israel!”
This week, my dear boy left his winter quarters and moved up to the front and, to me, the campaign has already begun.
Yesterday, I went, with a friend, to Rocketts[84] and got my first view of the Libby Prison. I had supposed, if I saw the Yankees in captivity, I should feel some emotions of pity but, when I looked up at the grated windows and saw the odious blue jackets and the insolent, cunning, leering faces, my blood boiled and I felt, as I have often done at home, when they rode by in such security, bent on pillage, as if I could gladly see the earth open and swallow them in the soil. “The sacred soil,” as they scoffingly call it, which they have so ruthlessly invaded and drenched with blood of our best and bravest. Tis dreadful to realize such bitterness of hatred in one’s own heart but, who can wonder? In front of the door were numberless bales and boxes, recently opened, doubtless filled with dainties for the starving heroes.
May 1, 1864. Another month of comparative quiet but, on all sides we hear the muttered thunders that precede a storm. Each day, a battle is said to be imminent and the Northern papers teem with accounts of the vast preparations they are making for the coming campaign. The silence and secrecy, on our side, of all army movements, is remarkable.
We know nothing of the position of our army or the provision made to meet this mighty host which is gathering against us. And well it is our leaders are able to veil their purposes so completely for we have still too many traitors amongst us – not Southern men, I am proud to say, but a number of Northern work people, disloyal negroes and crafty Jews who, having enriched themselves at our expense, are now willing to sell their country, as they did their Lord, for thirty pieces of silver.
But, this pause and stillness has in it something appalling and we are in daily dread that the two armies, confronting each other, have joined battle. All feel that we have reached a great crisis – that results of stupendous magnitude are imminent, affecting the interests of millions of yet unborn.
Meantime, God has encouraged our hearts by giving us success at various points. Fort Pillow has fallen before Forest and his brave men. Banks has been defeated in Louisiana and Plymouth taken in North Carolina. We pray these may be earnests of yet greater victories. But, what a heavy price we pay for them.
Poor, little Frank Powell fell at the storming of Plymouth – God help his stricken parents. But not alone from the battlefields comes the voice of mourning. Our president was called on to give up a bright little boy of five who fell from a porch into a brick area and was killed instantly. The immense crowd who attended his funeral was a silent testimony of the deep sympathy felt by all classes of the community.
May 11, 1864. A week of intense anxiety. Last Wednesday, the fighting began upon the Rapidan. Each morning paper was anxiously waited for. On Thursday, General Lee telegraphed: “By the blessing of God, we were enabled to repulse the enemy at every point.” And we know it was no lying telegram but meant what it said.[85]
Each day the report was favorable – the Yankees falling back towards Fredericksburg, our army following. The churches were open every day for prayers and, on Friday, all day long. Meantime, we hear that the James River is full of vessels of all sorts – gunboats, ironclads, transports landing troops at City Point and threatening both Petersburg and Drury Bluff.
The local troops were called out Friday and, on Saturday, the dismal clangour [sic] of the alarm bells summoned the militia. Troops under Butler are said to be in heavy force on the Southside. On Saturday, they were repulsed with two gunboats blown up by torpedoes and one captured and burnt.
Heavy skirmishing each day, in that quarter, and great anxiety lest our small force should be unable to keep them back till reinforcements arrive.
On Saturday, a cavalry raid burnt a bridge below Petersburg, seriously affecting our supplies from the South. On Monday, we hear another raid has captured two trains of commissary stores at Beaver Dam, cut the telegraph and torn up the track a short distance, also a fight on the Petersburg road where our men fell back, being largely out-numbered.
Yesterday was a blue day – nothing could be heard from General Lee. The raiders were reported advancing on Richmond, 10,000 strong, fighting going on at the Southside and fears felt that Beauregard and his forces had not arrived. The alarm culminated, last night, in a report that the enemy was advancing in large force, on all sides, and expected to take the city that night. Of course, official circles were better informed but we were in happy ignorance of these rumours till morning dispelled them. The locals were sent to the west of the town to man the fortifications as the raiders were said to be on the Brook Turnpike and the Mechanicksville road.
Tom [Dudley] came in after we had all gone to bed, to get something to eat, but didn’t tell us any of the alarming rumours afloat. No one knew where Stuart and Fitz Lee were tho they were said to be in hot pursuit of the raiders. Fighting is going on, on the Southside, but certainly the Yankees are not getting nearer Richmond for we cannot hear the firing.
About dinner time, Tom dropped in and comforted us by the information that the defenses were well manned, that our cavalry had whipped the raiders at Ashland, today, and were trying to hem them in. The raiders had separated and were supposed to be trying to get to the Southside and effect a union with Butler, which our men were trying to prevent.
About six o’clock a storm came up which lasted half an hour and then we heard musketry and, more remotely, cannon. This startled us a good deal. But, a gentleman, coming from the batteries, told us that about 500 Yankees were on the Brook Road, about two miles off, where the rest were, no one knew. But the drums were beating at all the batteries and men cheering. He assured us that we had men enough, on the defenses, to keep back any number of cavalry.
We were also cheered by hearing that Beauregard had certainly arrived on the Southside with a sufficient force.[86] So we lie down, tonight, hoping that our merciful God does not mean to give us over to the will of our enemies. We can get no news of General Lee but hope all is going well with him.
Up to Sunday, I had assurances of my dear Boy’s safety. Since then, I can hear nothing of him. Our losses, up to Sunday, were comparatively small, in killed, but many wounded, generally, slightly, tis said. Yet, we have to mourn the loss of many of our best and bravest. General Longstreet was wounded, like our ever-lamented Jackson, by the fire of our own men. His wound is not thought to be serious.[87] We wait, with much anxiety, to see what tomorrow will bring forth – trying to leave all to Him who doeth all things well.
May 12, 1864. A day of intense anxiety and excitement. We were roused about four o’clock, this morning, by the thundering of cannon and rattle of musketry. The sound seemed further east than the firing of yesterday evening and, not familiar with the localities, we rather feared that Butler had crossed the river and was making an attack on the city. The firing continued all around us. A thunder storm came up but its peals were deadened by the roar of artillery.
After a while, we learnt that the raiders were on the Brook Turnpike and the morning papers say that our cavalry, yesterday, overtook the enemy at Ashland and drove them out. For several hours we lost sight of them but, at 6 p.m., encountered them on the Brook Road, four miles from the city.
Night closed the fight that was renewed this morning. General [J.E.B.] Stuart was brought to the city seriously wounded, great fears are felt for his life.
A telegram from General Lee, dated Spottsylvania Court House: “General Grant’s army was intrenched on each side of the Brook Road and had made several assaults on our line but were repulsed, casualties small.” Thank God for his help! But the great struggle is yet to come.
The enemy has fallen back to Bermuda Hundred[88] but, with what design, no one knows. Strong hopes are entertained of capturing the raiders and large reinforcements have been sent out but, we know by experience, raiders are hard to catch.
Towards night, firing was heavy on the river and, mingled with it, the wildest yells and cheers from the city. What it portended, we did not know. Was it a note of triumph from the victorious Yankees? Presently, came by a body of troops who came in for water. They had just left the battlefield and said the Yankees were retreating, pursued by our cavalry and the cheering was for Hoke’s Brigade[89] who had just arrived. But we have yet to learn the result of the hard fought battle of today, lasting from 3 a.m. to 9 p.m. Firing has ceased, the mischief to railroad repaired and communication established with General Lee.
May 13, 1864. No cannonading this morning. News from the city very blue. Yankees escaped last night having repaired Meadow Bridge and tis supposed, having joined Butler. It seems to have been more a formidable demonstration than we supposed, numbering 12,000 with a large supply of artillery and ammunition, sent out to cut the communications round Richmond and make a dash at the city itself.
The damage to the Central Road was trifling, to the Petersburg Road, more serious. But that can soon be repaired. A large body of the enemy on the Danville Road but, if General Lee can succeed in keeping Grant back, these minor injuries can soon be remedied. The public are clamoring against General Bragg for allowing the raiders to escape but the public are not usually well informed and, therefore, not competent to criticize military movements.
General Stuart died last night.[90] His wound was a pistol shot thru the abdomen, received in leading a charge, where his impetuous courage always carried him into danger. He sent for a minister and expressed his perfect resignation to death – his only regret was for his helpless wife and children.
His staff surrounded his dying bed, every face bathed in tears. His wife arrived about four hours after he died. Whatever opinions may be held as to his ability, as a Major General, there is but one as to his splendid gallantry and courage. Personally, he was universally popular and, tho perhaps the loss to the Confederacy is not so great, yet, with the exception of our one, peerless Lee, no general would be so lamented by all classes of men. In the border Country, specially, he was the popular hero and his occasional dashes thru were always ovations.
Heavy firing on the river tells of fighting at Drewry’s Bluff. Oh, this boom of cannon – how our last thought at night is thankfulness if it is silent and our first in the morning an anxious dread lest it begin again. And for how many days and nights must this last before the end come? God help us all, He is our rock of defense and our only refuge.
A courier from General Lee came in but his dispatches were not made public. On his own responsibility, he announces all going favorably there.
May 14, 1864. All quiet this morning but, about eleven o’clock, firing began at the Bluff and continued until after night, at times very rapid and loud. Tis a land attack and this firing, which seems so dreadful to us, is said to be only skirmishing preliminary to a battle tomorrow. Beauregard is in command, the president and General Bragg were there this evening.
Great uneasiness has been felt in Richmond in reference to the dispatch from General Lee which was not made public. A dozen rumours were afloat – one that he was falling back toward Richmond. The people are in such an excited, feverish state of mind that they are easily affected by these flying rumours. This evening an extra was issued in which was an account of a severe battle on Thursday in which we are represented as repulsing the enemy with small loss to us and heavy to them. But, as this is only from the Associated Press, it does not carry conviction like a word from General Lee. The absence of anything official, from him, creates uneasiness.
Grant is said to be holding his ground and bringing on fresh troops each day but, if God be with us, numbers do not avail, He saveth by many or by few. My heart is sick for tidings of my dear boy from whom I have heard nothing for a week.
Sunday, May 15, 1864. All quiet this sweet Sabbath day. No general engagement yesterday, only picket firing and skirmishing. At one o’clock, Burr came out to dinner and is very urgent that we shall all go to Bloomfield tomorrow and remain there until things quiet down. Fanny urged that I should go, taking the girls and children – she remaining to take care of the house and promising to join me if affairs grow more threatening.
I refused, at first, because I could not consent to be separated from her and perhaps cut off from Henry. Burr reasoned that, if affairs improved, we could come back – if they got worse, it might be impossible to get off with so large a family, however desirable it might be to do so. Besides, we were so near the batteries that, if the city were invested and firing began, we should be obliged to leave and go into town. This last consideration decided me.
Tom was sent for and he promptly and to my great relief, said Fanny must go too. So, about ten o’clock that night, we began our preparations, oh, with what heavy hearts, going forth, not knowing what would befall us, whether we should ever get back to that sweet home again, leaving behind so much that was valuable to us. Fortunately, as the cars were running, we were able to carry away a great deal.
Morning found us still busy packing but it was all done in time for the cars at six o’clock. When we got to town, the first news we heard was that most of the guns and men of Henry’s battalion had been surprised and captured on Thursday morning. The list of casualties did not contain my dear boy’s name but the probability was he had been captured.
Everything short of the loss of his life seems now comparatively a small matter and I tried to leave him in God’s hands. At four o’clock, that morning, the firing on the Southside had commenced and I was thankful to get out of the dreadful sound.
We arrived at Ivy Depot[91] about three o’clock and were fortunately able to send word to Bloomfield and soon found ourselves safe at that lovely place. The quiet and brightness, there was a strong contrast to what we had left behind us. But, our thoughts cannot be detached from those fearful scenes where all our interests are centered.
Tuesday’s papers brought us full accounts of Monday’s fight when the gallant Beauregard and his brave men drove the Yankees back to Bermuda Hundred, tho at a heavy loss to us. Tuesday’s mail also brought me a letter from Henry, forwarded from Richmond, only stating: “Our battery was captured but I am safe, the mail is just starting.” I thank God and take courage. I can form no idea of what his position is now, with his battery captured. I only know he will find some place to do his duty in this hour of his country’s peril and I would not have him fail.
Thursday’s papers report only skirmishing on the Southside and marches and counter marches with Lee and Grant – the latter edging on towards Richmond, General Lee presenting to him an unbroken front whichever way he turns. The North in an uproar of excitement that Grant is getting nearer and nearer to Richmond, tho confessing immense losses in the operation.
We cannot understand all this strategy but it is beautiful to see the confidence reposed in General Lee by the entire country. He tells us that, in each attack made on his army, the enemy has been repulsed and that our loss is comparatively small. We accept his statement without a moment’s doubt and are satisfied to leave all in his hands, believing that, under God, he will do all that tis possible for man to do. So far, Grant has showed nothing but a determination to get to Richmond if it takes the life of every man in his army to accomplish it.
Friday and Saturday, the trains were taken for military purposes and we could get no news. Then came the report that a raiding party had again cut the railroad at Beaver Dam and our only communication, with Richmond, was by Lynchburg.
Monday and Tuesday we could hear nothing – on Wednesday, papers from Lynchburg, told us that Grant has wheeled round and established himself at Noels on the Central Road, making it necessary for General Lee to fall back on Hanover Junction so as to keep between Grant and Richmond. Here, a great battle is said to be inevitable and we can only wait with anxious hearts to see the result, trusting in Him who has so often delivered us and who will never fail those who put their trust in Him.
Oh! These weary, anxious watchings and waitings – when will they be over. “I had verily fainted unless I had believed to see the goodness of God in the land of the living.”
A letter from my dear boy tells of his escape when his battery was captured. The mud was very deep and a gun, of his section, stuck fast. He remained to try to extricate it and the rest of the battalion passed on to the position they had been ordered to occupy in Johnston’s division. This left him in the rear, about a hundred yards from the position. A caisson, in front of him stuck and he could not pass it. While waiting for it to move, the attack was made on the position by an overwhelming force and every gun captured except the one he had in charge, which he turned and got off as quickly as possible. A section of Fry’s battery had been sent in a different direction and so escaped. To that, he has been assigned for the present.[92]
June 1, 1864. May has passed – never to be forgotten May, a whole month of terrific fighting and the contest undecided still. What a month of heart-sickening suspense with its fearful alternations of hope and fear. But, hitherto, the Lord has helped us and our noble army still presents an unbroken front.
Grant seems unwilling to hazard a general engagement. Tis said that he cannot get his demoralized troops up to it and that his instructions from the North are to avoid a battle but get as near to Richmond as possible, then move upon it after the manner of Vicksburg.
From the Southside, tis reported that Butler is sending off most of his force to Grant and that he is being reinforced by the new levies called out for a hundred days. The plan is evidently to besiege the city and, if possible, destroy our communications with the South and so cut off our supplies.
Breckenridge and Imboden at New Market, has been suspended, by Hunter, and his command has again advanced up the Valley. At different times, they were reported as coming across the mountains towards Charlottesville but it seems they have not diverged from the Valley Turnpike and, for two days past, the trains have been running, carrying reinforcements to Imboden and we hope all danger is over from that quarter.
In north Georgia, Johnston and Sherman are confronting each other. The earth shakes with the continued reverberations of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the clang of sabres and the tramp of hundreds of thousands of armed men.[93]
Saturday, June 4, 1864. Another bloody fight, yesterday, at Gaines Mill and, thank God, a successful resistance on our part. General Lee says: “By the blessing of God, our success has been all that could be expected.”
Fighting behind breast works, our loss was small but that of the enemy immense. In front of our battery, the dead and wounded were piled so high the balls passed through the mangled flesh, but, what recks [sic] Grant of that? There are plenty more men where these came from. Their blood is upon their own heads.
Sunday, we hear firing in the Valley where black hearted Hunter is leading back his forces, so lately whipped by Breckenridge and Imboden. Averill and Crook are advancing on Staunton, from the west, and we can only pray Hunter may be defeated before they can effect a junction. The firing increases, Hunter is trying to flank Imboden and Jones and the fight is at Port Republic.
Next day, comes the unwelcome news that Jones[94] is killed and our troops fallen back to Waynesborough. No one knows if Staunton or Charlottesville will be the point of attack next, both are exposed and we, just between them. So we make ready, packing and hiding valuables, collecting stock to drive off if needs be. Of course, first accounts are always exaggerated.
Later in the day, a gentleman came in, direct from the fight. His account was that, expecting the Yankees up the Turnpike road, our men had taken a strong position and fortified near Mt. Crawford, when it was discovered that the Yankees had moved round towards Port Republic.
So off we started to try and get there first. General Jones, always impetuous, exposed himself and was killed. A sudden panic seized his men. They broke and fell back, making a retreat of the rest unavoidable. Contrary to all expectations, the enemy made no attempt to pursue and they reached Waynesborough in good order.
Yesterday, the enemy entered Staunton but, as we have sent reinforcements up, we trust their occupation will be short. This disaster opens to them a very rich country and one they have never penetrated till now and doubtless they will do much mischief under the lead of the renegade Virginian, Hunter. But the great issue is Richmond and, if God gives us victory there, we can afford to lose Staunton.
On Friday, we hear Sheridan’s raiders are, again, on the Central Railroad with Hampton and Fitz Lee in pursuit but there is nothing to keep them from Charlottesville and Gordonsville. So there is great panic in both places.
Sunday, we hear that Hunter, Crook and Averill, having effected a junction, are marching on Lynchburg and that a small cavalry force crossed the mountains and cut the railroad and telegraph between Lynchburg and Charlottesville, destroying our last communication with Richmond. Breckenridge is marching by a shorter road, hoping to get between them and Lynchburg. All Commissary stores were sent there when Charlottesville was threatened some weeks ago. Much anxiety is felt about feeding our troops. Supplies are loaned the government by the people.
Our cavalry have been fighting Sheridan all day at Trevylean’s Depot.[95] 150 prisoners have been received at Charlottesville who, impudent dogs, are clamorous at being put on half rations, after burning all the mills in that region and destroying the grain.
On Monday, the 12th (June 1864), we hear the Yankee cavalry are whipped at Trevylean and in full retreat. 600 prisoners have been sent and more reported coming on. The object of this raid was to sweep over the country, expecting no opposition, following the Lynchburg road, tearing it up and burning bridges, uniting with Hunter in the attack on Lynchburg. Again, we humbly trust a merciful providence has frustrated their schemes. The injury done the Lynchburg road was so slight it is hoped communication may be renewed today.
Before we were up, this morning, a messenger from a neighbor informed us that the Yankees were at Rockfish Bridge the night before and would probably be along in a few hours. We scarcely believed it but thought it the part of prudence to make ready. It brought back my old Middleburg experiences to be hiding meat and silver, running off stock and clearing off the decks, generally, for an encounter with the enemy.
But the day wore on and no Yankees came so we concluded it must have been Breckenridge’s train that was seen. Tis said the Yankee loss at Trevillian was very severe. Our men were so exasperated by the tales of suffering and outrage in the country thru which they passed and the sight of the wanton destruction that they fought with desperation and showed but little quarter. Who can wonder!
Piteous stories come to us from all that region of country – homeless women and children, wandering off in search of food – large families stripped of every mouthful of food – horses stolen, cattle killed, farming implements destroyed, barns burnt and standing crops trampled down. While they were at Beaver Dam, after tearing up rails and ties, they compelled the farmers to haul rails and combustible material to burn them and then wantonly killed their oxen and burnt their wagons.
Capt. Minor heard, in Richmond, of the death of his only child, an infant. He went to Hanover to his wife and, before the baby was buried, the alarm was given that the Yankees were advancing. Two boys carried the little baby to the grave and buried it, a young lady of the family reading the burial service. Capt. M. and his wife, meanwhile, packing their trunks and making ready for flight – all of which was scarcely accomplished before the Yankees were at the house, pillaging and destroying.
The destruction of property was so complete that families of wealth are reduced to beggary and many are now in Richmond, soliciting food to keep them from starving. Tis hard to believe that, three years ago, these men were our fellow-citizens and fellow Christians.
The alarm of Yankees at Rockfish Bridge[96] turns out to be the panic stricken report of a lad who came in sight of a large company of refugees, encamped for the night, at that point. Hunter is pressing on to Lynchburg which Breckenridge has reached by a shorter route.
The Second Army Corps, under command of General [Jubal] Early, is now advancing towards Lynchburg and we hear the trains running day and night. We have been prevented from returning to Richmond, which we are beginning to think now the safest place in the Confederacy, and regret we were ever persuaded to leave, by the destruction of the Central Railroad. So, we have determined to go to Scottsville and take the packet boat down the James River.
By sunrise, on Saturday morning, we bid adieu to lovely Bloomfield with its shade and verdure, its quiet and comfort, its loved inhabitants and turn our faces towards poor Richmond. We fill a two horse ambulance and, our baggage a farm wagon and so we jolt on over the roughest mountain road I ever encountered. When we reach the railroad crossing, it was blocked by a train, exactly across it, and several more at intervals down the road. Some were filled with troops and some waiting to take up those who were marching on foot.
An old citizen gave us the comforting assurance that they wouldn’t move for several hours and, until they did, we couldn’t get by. As we were already traveling against time to reach the packet boat, we seemed to be in a bad way.
Presently, came by a pleasant faced soldier to whom we confided our predicament. He said General [Robert E.] Rodes was at the depot and he would ask him to have the train moved out of our way. This was speedily done and we got safely over. I was much struck with the healthy look of the soldiers, seeing scarcely a feeble one among them.
Again we were detained by a Quartermaster train that had run off from Staunton and taken refuge in Tye Valley, never dreaming that would be the route the Yankee army would take. They were now retracing their way back to Staunton. We also met long trains from Augusta County, refugees with wagons, stock and servants who had fled before the Yankees and were now trying to get back to their homes.
By dint of our early start and brisk driving, we reached Scottsville just in time to get ourselves and baggage on the boat which we found uncomfortably crowded. But, when we settled ourselves and cooled off, it proved the most comfortable way of traveling with children, albeit very slow.
We started at 2:30 p.m. and, later in the evening, went on deck and feasted our eyes on the luxuriant fields of wheat, corn, rye, oats and hay and the beautiful hedges and wild shrubbery of the farm famed James River bottoms. During the night, which was bright moonlight, we passed four boats, laden with Yankee prisoners from Charlottesville. I could but think how their eyes would gloat over such a fertile region, as yet free from the foot of the invader.
As we neared Richmond, the horrid boom of cannon saluted our ears and we were congratulating ourselves on having accomplished our journey safely when it was announced that the water had been let off the last lock and we should have to walk three miles to Richmond or wait until late in the evening. But, finding we were not more than a mile from our own house, we decided to walk over, where we arrived about one o’clock, tired and dirty to the last degree but, oh, so thankful to be landed at “the haven where we would be.”
Then we heard both armies were across the river, Grant threatening an attack on Petersburg. There had been quite a fight on Friday in which the enemy was again repulsed. Monday’s papers tell us Hunter made an attack on Lynchburg but was driven back and, on our reinforcements coming up, he beat a hasty retreat, our troops following him.[97]
July 4, 1864. There has been a general expectation that Grant would signalize this day by a fierce attack on our lines, hoping to accomplish another Vicksburg surrender. Indeed, his repeated boasts of spending that day in Richmond and the tone of the Northern press all show that he has deluded himself and his nation with that hope. But, on closer acquaintance with the strength of our fortifications, and the mettle of our men, has changed his views and the day has been more than usually quiet. There has been little change in the position of the two armies for ten days.
A raiding party, under Wilson and Kautz[98], was sent out to cut our Southern railroad and inflicted much damage and put us to serious inconvenience but they have paid for it. Followed and attacked by our cavalry, met and resisted by local troops at various points, they have lost many killed and wounded. Scattered over the country, they are making their way back to Grant as best they may, losing all their artillery and a third of their men, besides ambulances filled with silver, jewelry and clothing, the fruit of their pillage. Three thousand horses and scores of stolen negroes.
Hundreds of happy homes were destroyed by them, their owners reduced to absolute destitution – a business much more to their liking than to meet the absent fathers and brothers on the battlefield. They have been persistently shelling Petersburg all this time, with but little loss to us but, making the city so unsafe for noncombatants that the population of that place is being added to this poor, crowded city and so increasing the difficulty of procuring supplies and adding fearfully to their cost.
And, as the country is suffering greatly for lack of rain, the crops of vegetables, on which the markets depend, are almost destroyed. Tomatoes sell for $15 a dozen, cabbage, $6 a head, flour $400 a barrel and meal, $100 a bushel. As a record of the times, I give a bill of our dinner today. A cold ham, weight 15 pounds, $135, a small hind quarter of mutton, $38, a quart of potatoes, $4.50, three small tomatoes, fifty cents each, a dish of rice, $2.50. For dessert, a caramel cream, eight eggs, $10 a dozen, 1 pound sugar, $10, three quarts of milk, $4, a peck of ice for freezing, $4, salt, $1.50. We are not often so prodigal but this was the anniversary of Fanny’s marriage.
July 10, 1864. Grant seems to be forgotten in the deep interest we feel in [Gen. Jubal] Early’s movements in Maryland. Our last, reliable accounts are that, after running [Union Gen. Franz] Sigel out of Martinsburg and capturing his stores, he has crossed into Maryland and now we can only hear of him thru the Northern papers, which seem to be completely mystified as to who or what it is that has frightened them so in those regions.[99]
Hagerstown in possession of rebel cavalry, [John Singleton] Mosby has shelled the Yankees out at Point of Rocks [Maryland], cut the telegraph, captured the mail and no end of supplies, Harper’s Ferry taken and the enemy driven to Maryland Heights. General Wallace, driven out of Frederick City, makes a stand at Monacacy Bridge and Secretary Stanton telegraphs General Dix: “Our forces overpowered by superior numbers were forced to retire in disorder,” which means they were badly beaten. Farmers running off their stock and refugees pouring into Baltimore and Washington.
No one can guess the number or design of the invaders. Sometimes they[100] designate it a contemptible raid to get supplies for the famishing rebels or to draw of troops from Grant. Then tis said to be a formidable force of 40,000 advancing on Washington or Baltimore and, the Washington Chronicle dignifies them as “haughty invaders” instead of ragged rebels.
Stirring appeals to all citizens to volunteer for the defense of the Capital and pathetic complaints made that there is such a feeble response. Then we read of the rebels within seven miles of Baltimore, burning Governor Bradford’s house[101] in retaliation for the burning of Governor Letcher’s house by Hunter.
Gunpowder Bridge is burnt and a train captured at Magnolia, then they are throwing shells within two miles of the center of Washington. Troops are being massed in Washington, Grant sends them two corps. Evidently our boys, for the time, are having everything their own way.
We, here in Richmond, are as ignorant of the design of this movement as are the terrified Yankees. We know Early’s force is not large enough to do more than make a “big scare” but we have the wildest rumours. Baltimore is taken, the citizens, to whom its defense was entrusted delivered it to the Confederates. But only very sanguine folks credit that. We believe that the will of the Baltimoreans is good to do so but the risk is too great – they desire to keep the war from their own doors.
After we have poured out all our blood and spent all our treasure to secure our independence, Maryland will gladly cast in her lot with us.
Next comes a rumour that we have taken Washington. Only the very credulous accept that but it is something to know that our shells and musketry are sending terror to the souls of Lincoln and his minions. Then, tis announced that the rebels have disappeared from before Washington and now all Yankeedom howls that they have been allowed to cross the Potomac unmolested with their spoils, which are said to be enormous.
Why they went and what they accomplished by going, we know as little as the Yankees. Sometimes their papers call it a “miserable fiasco” and then a “serious demonstration.” But we have enjoyed thoroughly the fright of the Yankees and, while we have said our men should pillage and burn, as THEY have done for us, yet, in our heart of hearts, we are pleased and proud they didn’t. We should like the Yankees to feel some of the suffering they have inflicted on us but, we’d prefer that the hands of our husbands and sons and brothers should not be defiled by such dirty work. The truth is, Southern men cannot turn thieves and house burners at a moment’s notice.
The calm about Petersburg has been so great, for a week past, that it is reported and believed by some that Grant is dead, that he was wounded in the arm by a shell and died after the limb was amputated. Very circumstantial but too good to be true. The greatest anxiety now is for the Georgia campaign which seems rather unpromising right now.
July 25, 1864. All very quiet today but yesterday was fruitful of rumours. The most exciting of which was that Grant was crossing the river to advance on Richmond from this side. Local troops were ordered to be in readiness and twas said all available transportation had been sent to Petersburg to bring up troops. Officers, who were assumed to know the truth, asserted a battle would take place today, that important movements were going on but, as yet, there is nothing to confirm it tho we feel the storm may burst at any moment.
We hear of a reverse in the Valley. From Georgia the news is more cheering. Hood and Forrest having great success.[102] Perhaps, by this time, the fate of Atlanta is decided. We have a double interest in the result of these battles – not only the desire for success to our army but the hope that defeat, to our enemies, may strengthen the Peace Party at the North and, by breaking the power of the dominant party, put an end to this dreadful war.
August 1, 1864. For two weeks, the Yankee papers have been blowing over some deep laid scheme which Grant would bring to light soon. As usual, exulting in the brilliant success in store from them and danger impending for us. Meantime, he is throwing large bodies of men across the river, to be met with corresponding movements on our part, and it looked as if the tide of battle were to surge back to the old ground on the Northside.
On Friday last, all the mighty strategy culminated in the springing of a mine under our works round Petersburg which resulted in the loss of four guns and twenty or thirty men who were blown up in the explosion.[103] The movements, across the river, were only a feint and Grant evidently thought that, by dividing our forces in the confusion of the explosion, he could rush thru the breach and capture Petersburg. But he reckoned without his host. He succeeded in taking the breach but, in a short time, was driven back and we recovered our entire line.
For the first time, our army of Northern Virginia were brought face to face with negro soldiers who, poor wretches, stimulated by whiskey and induced to think they would meet no resistance, were put in front. They came rushing on their doom yelling, “No quarter! Remember Fort Pillow.” They were met on their own terms and no quarter was given them till they lay in black piles, almost filling the hole their mine had made. Then, they threw down their arms crying: “I surrender. Massa, no quarter,” showing they did not comprehend their own battle cry, put in their mouths by the false friends who lure them on to destruction.[104]
Our loss is put at 1,000 – the enemies, [sic] 4,000 and we have taken 10,000 prisoners and so ends the mighty scheme which was to electrify all Yankeedom and bring dismay and confusion to the rebels.
Then came good news from the Valley. Early had fought the enemy at Kernstown and driven them thru Winchester and Martinsburg to Harper’s Ferry and is again threatening Baltimore and Washington. Good news too from Georgia. Hood holds Sherman in check at Atlanta and Iverson has captured the notorious Stoneman and 500 of his raiders on one of the railroads. Truly, God is good to us. Then too, He has sent most refreshing rains which have saved the corn crop and the markets are abundantly supplied with vegetables tho prices still run high.
August 15, 1864. Since the failure of Grant’s scheme, to blow up a road for himself to Richmond, everything has been quiet on the Southside and, not till the howl of disappointment set up by Northern papers told us, did we know what mighty expectations were based upon that “mine.” All the Yankee nation was agog to witness the developments of that wonderful scheme which was to crush the rebellion and, when it resulted in the loss, to us, of a few earthworks and not more men than often fall in an unrecorded skirmish.
But to them, it has proved an overwhelming defeat and slaughter – hundreds falling into “the pit which their own hands have made.” No wonder they rave with disappointment – “somebody blundered,” they say. Of course somebody did and that was their own hero, Grant, who was green enough to suppose General Lee was deceived by the shallow device of sending troops across the river.
We get but meagre accounts of Early, in the Valley. Tis said a very large force is pressing him near Strasburg. My chief interest is there now for, ten days ago, my dear boy’s battalion was sent up with Kershaw’s division.
On Saturday and Sunday was heavy firing which proves to be a demonstration against our forces at Deep Bottom and an attempt to capture New Market Hill and Chaffin’s Bluff. But, tho compelled by overpowering numbers to fall back for a time, thru God’s help, we were enabled to repulse them and, being reinforced, we regained our lost ground and still hold it.
Refreshing rains have brightened our parched ground and vegetables are abundant. Watermelons sell from $4 to $10 and yet, everybody eats them.
August 25, 1864. Summer fast waning and yet the end seems as far off as ever. On Sunday last, we met our first repulse since Grant crossed the Rapidan. The Yankees moved on the Weldon Road and, with their usual expedition, fortified immediately. We attempted to drive them off and failed, thereby giving them time to entrench so strongly we must either leave them in possession or retake the ground at a terrible sacrifice. Of course, this small success will suffice to dissipate despondence, in the North, and make them as hopeful and boastful as ever.
We shall hear less now of the Peace Meetings, of the Armistice which even the more rabid war men are urging Lincoln to offer. That a large party, at the North, desires peace is certain but, they can do little against the whole power of Federal patronage, against the host of shoddy contractors who are growing richer each day the war lasts, against the thousands of needy foreigners who have come over to fight the battles which the Yankees are not willing to fight themselves.
And what terms do they offer us? That, in the midst of a campaign signally unfortunate, for them, we shall suspend hostilities, with our ports blockaded and our land groaning under the tread of their greedy hordes and so give them time to organize and discipline the new levy of half a million for which Lincoln calls and also give his hired mercenaries time to go to their homes and control the coming elections.
An armistice would be a blessed breathing spell to our weary people. Our ports must be opened and every hostile foot withdrawn before we can talk of peace. The only peace we can accept is one that leaves us free to govern ourselves.[105]
Passing along the street, some days ago, just after the arrival of the Petersburg cars with their freight of wounded men, I saw a poor boy, bloody and dirty, his pale face and drooping head bandaged, supported by a man and woman, probably his father and mother. The man was strong and rough, his stalwart arm around the boy’s waist, the woman, on the other side, lending her feeble aid, her bonnet pushed back, face red and streaming from the heat – both oblivious of everything passing round them. They were only intent on getting home with their boy who had an arm around the neck of each. I almost envied them their son, to be nursed and tended, safe, for a time, from the peril of battle.
September, 1864. For some weeks past, the public mind seems to have been absorbed by the working and counter-working of the great political parties in the North, in the nominating of candidates for the approaching presidential election.
Lincoln, having carried out so faithfully the views of the Republicans, is still their choice and, the great Peace Party, of which we have heard so much and on whom we have based such hopes of a speedy termination of this war, has settled down upon McClellan as the most available man to defeat Lincoln. That settles the question of peace, for us, as he [McClellan] avows himself an uncompromising, Union man.
No doubt our unfortunate reverses at Mobile and Atlanta, coming just at this time, have modified considerably the views of the so-called Peace Party – tho, in reality, exercising but little influence upon the military status of affairs. And our people have again to learn the oft-repeated lesson, that they have nothing to look for except from God and their own, strong arms – that we can only hope for peace, with its attendant blessings, by defeating our enemies on every field.
Sanguine people thought it was within our grasp, others saw, all the time, that this cry for peace, from the North, was the result of their disappointment over their summer’s campaign and that any trifling success would make them as rampant as ever for the “Glorious Union and the old flag.” Well, no doubt God sees that we are not ready for peace yet – in His own, good time it will come and we should not desire it sooner.
On the 7th of this month, we left Richmond for Loudoun. Arrived at Culpeper about four o’clock where we found the old ambulance and a baggage wagon waiting for us. This took us ten miles on our way that night and home before dark the next evening. The country being clear of Yankees, we took the old Warrenton road, passing the ruins of the once famous Warrenton Springs which the Yankees burnt in the campaign of ’62 – a melancholy picture of desolation.
The whole country, from the Rapidan to Loudoun has a desolate, forsaken look – fences all gone, houses burnt, dismantled or unoccupied.[106] Villages of log huts, the remains of Yankee occupation remain standing tho hundreds, round Culpeper, have been hauled off for firewood.
But the wonderful fertility of the country is seen in the sea of verdure which has obliterated the traces of military movements and every fruit tree is bending under the load of ungathered fruit.
Our poor, little village presents a painful contrast to busy, bustling, noisy Richmond. Half the houses are unoccupied – no business is transacted, fencing falling down for lack of nails to repair it. Everything looks unkept [sic] and neglected – everybody dull and hopeless. Raids have been frequent of late, more insolent than ever. Numerous citizens have been carried off without regard to age or condition – ministers, physicians, mechanics, armers. Once, since our return, an alarm was given and every man disappeared as if by magic.
In the absence of all law, there is no security for life, liberty or property. A man helps himself to what he wants of his neighbor’s property and, unless you can reclaim it by force, there is no redress.[107] The greater abundance of the necessities of life, here, is counterbalanced by the feeling of insecurity which is ever present. Education is suspended, the teacher of our only school having been carried off a prisoner.
Last Sunday, the funeral of a young soldier was preached in the Methodist Church by an army chaplain and the town was picketed, reminding one of the times of the Covenanters.[108]
On Monday last, cannonading was heard all day, in the direction of the Valley. Soon, news came of a severe fight near Winchester and the defeat and retreat of [Maj. Gen. Jubal] Early. But, we can get no reliable account of it. One straggler asserts we were badly beaten and sustained heavy losses – another follows and says we only fell back to a stronger position and inflicted great loss on the enemy.
My anxiety about Henry was relieved by hearing, at the same time, that his division had been sent back to Richmond and he had been out of the fight for that time. We must wait for reports from Richmond and, meantime, rumour runs wild.
An immense army is pressing Early – another landing at Fredericksburg and marching on Gordonsville – a large cavalry force has gone from Alexandria to Culpeper – non-combatants have been ordered to leave Richmond – General Lee is to give up Virginia and winter in North Carolina. I should be desperate if I did not see that no one knows any more than I do myself.
One thing is sure, the Yankees are straining every nerve to make up for their unsuccessful summer campaign and we shall need all our strength to resist the onset. But our trust is in the same, almighty arm that has so often delivered us. We have yet to fight many battles before we can hope to be let alone. If the Yankees have ever faltered in their bloody purpose, it has only been when they have been repeatedly defeated and begin to think it won’t pay. But, give them the smallest success and there comes the cry for more blood from twenty millions of throats.
September 26, 1864. Last night, about eight o’clock, there was a knock at our door and a frightened voice whispered in the darkness: “Yankees about.”
“Where?” said I.
“A large force with baggage train is at The Plains and a man has just come up to give the alarm.”
Now The Plains, being nine miles off, we concluded they’d scarcely be upon us before morning so slept quietly. This morning, twas ascertained to be about 300 cavalry with some wagons and that they had gone to Salem.[109] So we set our houses in order, expecting them in the evening. The Doctor determined to stay at home, keeping in the house and putting his horse out of sight but every other man left town.
About four o’clock, the cry was made that the Yankees were coming and I found the Doctor had walked out on the farm. I sent off for him but he couldn’t be found and I was in terror lest he should be caught and carried off as a bushwhacker. But it turned out that he got the alarm and hid in the cornfield.
It had been so long since I had seen any of the creatures that they looked unusually disgusting – indeed, they were a miserable looking set of ruffianly foreigners with an admixture of boyish, lantern jawed Yankees. As they passed, a surgeon, with his green sash, rode up and asked if Doctor Cochran was in. I said, “No,” and asked what he wanted. He told me Mr. Coombs was in one of the wagons and wished to speak to him.
I stepped out and there was the poor fellow who told me he had been taken out of his sick bed and was sure he was going to have typhoid fever. I asked if I could do anything for him and he said he’d like to have some money. The wagon would not wait and he called to me to give it to the surgeon.
When I went in to get it, Fanny asked the surgeon to remain until they had all passed which he did and was very civil, expressing much regret at the condition of affairs and promising to do all he could to have Mr. Coombs released. I asked why he was arrested and he said some ill-disposed person had told that he was a guerilla.
I told the surgeon that was all nonsense, charging citizens with being guerillas and that the few men left were old men who stayed at home and attended to their business. In rather a confidential manner, he asked me what was the sentiment of this neighborhood. I told him every man, woman and child, black and white was true to the South and would die rather than see the Union restored. He took it very quietly, and, after a little more talk, left us as the last of the column passed. His question satisfied me that they were from Alexandria.
After night, we were startled by the clatter of horses and listened in dread, satisfied the Yankees were returning but, to our relief, we found twas part of Mosby’s men who had gone round to intercept them below town but found they had passed. From them, we learned that the object of this expedition was to burn Mr. Blackwell’s house, barn and out-buildings because it had been Mosby’s headquarters.[110]
Mosby himself was wounded slightly about two weeks ago and has gone further South. His reckless courage is always bringing him into danger. With only two men he went down into Fairfax and fell in with seven Yankees and, without hesitation, offered them battle. They killed one Yankee and were chased by the other six, Mosby receiving a flesh wound in the thigh which will keep him out of the saddle awhile.
The war, in this section, is assuming a very savage aspect. Two months ago, Mosby came upon a squad of 30 Yankees in Clarke (county) in the act of burning a house, (the third one that day.) He fell upon them, giving no quarter and only one escaped. Since then, his men have been murdered, when captured, and that has led to retaliation until the black flag is virtually raised.
Last week, a party of Mosby’s men captured a wagon train in the Valley and were bringing off their prize when they encountered a large cavalry force of the enemy and were forced to fly in every direction and, unwilling to relinquish their prisoners, shot several of them. It is not to be wondered at that, when the Yankees heard it, they murdered the prisoners they held. Two were hung, four tied to trees and shot and one dragged to death thru the streets of his home, Front Royal, tis said, after being allowed to say farewell to his mother.
Two of the bodies were sent back with placards on their breasts: “No quarter to Mosby’s men.” Where it will end, God only knows. In this case, we have no right to complain for our men were the aggressors, I am sorry to say. Their only excuse, the wrong they have had to endure.[111]
September 27, 1864. We can no longer shut our eyes to the fact that we have met with a most serious defeat in the Valley. Early, after a complete rout at Winchester, has been driven far up the Valley and his army, from all accounts, disorganized and scattered over the country. Some of them say he was drunk all the time but this may be a slander. But, that he is a drinking, swearing, Godless man is a well-known fact and renders him liable to the suspicion.
Other accounts acquit him and attribute his defeat to the withdrawal of Kershaw and Anderson’s divisions to Richmond and the overwhelming superiority of the enemies [sic] numbers, Sherman having taken advantage of the armistice, granted by Hood, to send 20,000 of his men to reinforce Sheridan.
One thing seems certain, unless we can raise troops enough to stop him, he will be in Lynchburg soon and the siege of Richmond will begin in earnest. This is by far the most complete defeat we have had since the beginning of the war and puts Richmond in great peril. We are sorely tried by getting no letters from Richmond.
Last night, I was roused by the tramp of cavalry and, going to the window, could only discern, in the darkness, the figures of men but, their perfect silence and slow measured movement told they were Yankees. After they passed, we settled down to sleep again, concluding we should have them back in the morning.
Breakfast was scarce over before here they were and, in the light of day, we could appreciate their gorgeous outfit. The blue and gilt, untarnished by camp life, horses fat and sleek, many of the gallants with jaunty little cloaks, hooded and tasseled, thrown over their shoulders. Knights, doubtless, airing their valour by a little excursion thru a peaceful country.
We were not surprised to hear they were the Washington Life Guards[112] and thankful that their city manners caused them to ride quietly on without molesting anyone or emptying our meat house. We gnashed our teeth that Mosby was not at hand to show those gents the county didn’t belong to them. We rather wondered they should have ventured out with so small a force but, we afterwards heard, they had many wagons left below Aldie, filled with infantry and they hoped to entrap Mosby into following them and draw him into an ambuscade.
We can get no news from Richmond and are sick with anxiety. We hear nothing but thru Northern papers and straggling cavalry who always make the worst of things to excuse their own absence from duty. We know both to be utterly unreliable and yet cannot help fearing their accounts may be true in the absence of proof to the contrary.
October 3, 1864. Mosby has reappeared, limping from his wound, but ready for action. A report comes from The Plains of the arrival of 10,000 Yankees there which dwindled down to 800 who have been sent to repair the Manassas Gap railroad that they may send men and supplies to Sheridan.
This brings them into most disagreeable proximity to us but, they will require a large force to guard the road if they expect Mosby to leave them in quiet possession of its advantages.
To our inexpressible relief, we have received letters and papers from Richmond. How thankful we are to find our reverses have been so exaggerated and are now in a fair way to be repaired. Sheridan has fallen back beyond Harrisonburg and Early reinforced, is moving toward him. Richmond has had a rather exciting time. Grant repeated his favorite maneuver of throwing a large force suddenly across the river and, this time, succeeded in taking a battery on Chaffin’s farm which had to be evacuated by the small force holding it. But the alarm was given and their further progress stopped.
The news, too, from Georgia is encouraging so we thank God and take courage. In the evening comes a letter from my dear boy who had been ordered back to Richmond just before the battle of Winchester but only got to Charlottesville when they were ordered back to the Valley and, by this marching and counter-marching, were kept out of the fights and spared the mortification of retreat.
October 9, 1864. Today, a body of cavalry has passed up to help the infantry who are rebuilding the Manassas road. They did not stop.
October 12, 1864. We hear a large force is holding the road which is picketed up as far as Front Royal so that Mosby must, perforce, keep quiet for the present. Large fires are seen in that direction so we fear the people are suffering. This will probably last till sufficient supplies are sent to Sheridan.
General Auger is in command and has his headquarters at The Plains.[113] This cuts us off completely from Richmond. There is a rumour of a signal success, to our army, at Petersburg. Indeed, some soldiers claim to have seen a dispatch, from General Lee, but soldiers are not very good authority. What encourages us to hope it may be true is a similar report in the Yankee papers and, Lincoln being appealed to, comes out in a statement denying that there had been any fighting in that quarter.
Today, we hear that Lomax cavalry, with a brigade of infantry, are in Warrenton and, if so, our mountains will so re-echo the cannon’s roar.
October 17, 1864. Each day we have rumours that the Yankees are coming but, as yet, they have not come nearer than two or three miles. Yesterday, they came to John Patterson’s, tearing up clothing and taking his watch from his pocket.
They have found their occupation of the Manassas road so disturbed by guerillas that their papers say it is to be abandoned. But, a more probably reason is that Sheridan has been obliged to fall back so far that the road is useless to them.
Twice, during the past week, Mosby was here in high spirits, just back from a raid on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. (Since I began to write this, I was startled by the appearance of a squad of Yankees passing the window. It seldom happens they get into the town without our having warning. There seemed to be not more than twenty and, in less than ten minutes, they left, carrying off a citizen whom they found hiding in a corn patch. Unluckily, Mosby’s battalion went off on a raid yesterday, a fact of which the Yanks were doubtless apprised.)
He had taken 80 men and, while the Yankees were looking out for him on the railroad, he struck off for the Valley, passed that road and lay in wait for a train which was thrown from the track and, before they knew it, the Rebs were on the cars which they speedily emptied and fired.
One car was filled with raw Dutch. Mosby ordered them out but, not understanding a word of English, they couldn’t take in the situation till a bundle of New York Heralds, in full blaze, was thrown in amongst them, when they tumbled out in double quick.
They were too far within the enemy country to cumber themselves with prisoners but they secured a quartermaster with $165,000 in greenbacks which, with the rest of their plunder, enabled them to divide out $2,500 to each man.[114] Mosby, as usual, refusing to take a cent. His only trophy was a gorgeous pair of red slippers, one of which he sported on his wounded foot.
A friend came thru from Baltimore and Washington last night. She says Lincoln’s election is considered certain, the polls being under military control, but even Southern sympathizers prefer him to McClellan.
The Northern papers describe the Valley as perfectly desolate; crops, mills, dwellings, factories all burnt and gloat over the suffering of the starving multitudes of women and children. But they will not starve. God will send his ravens to feed them when the cries of His outraged people rise up before Him.
October 19, 1864. Yesterday morning, in came the Yankees again. Having been warned of their approach, we were standing at the door and saw two men riding down the street. The foremost one was dressed in drab clothing and had an unmistakable Southern look. We asked, “Any Yankees coming?”
“They are that,” he answered. Close on his heels came another who, we saw at a glance, was a full-blooded Yankee. They rode about town, 150 in number, and left in half an hour. We found, afterward, that the drab-coated gent was a mountaineer named Lunsford[115] who, being captured, took the oath and was now leading the Yankees through the country. He had belonged to Mosby’s command.
After leaving here, they turned off toward the mountain. A poor fellow, a blacksmith with seven children, was riding quietly along. They wantonly fired at him with a long range rifle and rode on. The ball passed thru his head and he fell dead. They amused themselves firing at every man they saw. They stopped at a mountain shanty where there was to be a wedding, next day, and ate all the cake prepared for the occasion.
All day we have been hearing heavy firing towards Winchester. Later, it sounded so much nearer we can but hope Sheridan is being driven back. We can only wait, with anxious hearts, praying God to protect our dear ones and give us success.
October 24, 1864. A week of great anxiety. The cannonading was, as we surmised, a fight in the Valley of which we can get no reliable account. We hear that Early attacked the enemy at 3 a.m., surprising them in their entrenchments, driving them ten miles back and capturing many prisoners, guns and wagons. In the evening, the fight was renewed and night closed it without any decided results. We held the ground till 10 p.m. and then fell back with all our booty.
Today, a Yankee paper has Sheridan’s official dispatch, in which he admits they were whipped, in the morning, but claims a great victory in the evening. I don’t regard that at all for I remember that this same Sheridan, after his complete loss at Trevillian, and, while five or six hundred prisoners were at Charlottesville, claimed to have routed the rebels with no loss to himself.
But this evening, a straggling cavalryman says our army was defeated and is in full retreat up the Valley and, tho I know that class to be as little reliable as the Yankee generals, yet it has made me very unhappy.
My poor boy, if he has escaped unhurt, I know how he chafes under such a disaster as that. I should be more inclined to believe it but that I cannot feel that God’s blessing will rest on such a Godless man as Early. Oh, for one hour of our praying Jackson in that Valley again! The same Northern paper, in its extracts from Richmond papers, tells of another bloody repulse which Grant encountered on the 13th, for which we thank God.
A little episode has occurred worth recording as characteristic of the times. For several months, a vulgar, insolent fellow has been trading between this place and Washington. A Jew named Worsley – bringing up goods for which he charges exorbitant prices and carrying off tobacco and Yankee money.
Everyone distrusted him for they couldn’t believe that, with the blockade so stringent everywhere, he should be allowed to pass in and out without doing the Yankee government some service in return. But, the necessities of the people were so great, they were constrained to deal with him.
It is now ascertained that he was a Yankee detective, allowed to carry on this trade in order to detect the Southern sympathizers among the merchants of Washington and also to get information of Mosby’s movements. He professed to buy for Southern people and so got his goods at a greatly reduced price and sold, here, at enormous profits.
All this has come out in the trial of one of the merchants and, this wretch, Worsley avows himself employed by General Auger and relates the means by which he entrapped these poor merchants. He has gone off largely in debt to the people here but we deserve that for trading with him. Later information leads to the suspicion that Worsley was only an agent for General Auger and other officials in Washington who connived at this blockade running and divided the spoils and, now that it has been discovered, Worsley is brought forward as a detective and the whole scheme is represented as an ingenious Yankee trick to detect disloyal merchants. [116]
We hear, on all sides, threats to depopulate this “guerilla infested” region as they term the country between the Potomac and the base of the Blue Ridge and, after the presidential election is over, and the campaign closed, it will be agreeable winter work for Sheridan’s ruffians to burn our houses and send shivering women and children out homeless.
We feel sure that, if able, they will be very willing to engage in this business. But they cannot go one step further than God allows. We made our appeal to Him, when we entered this war, and leave our cause in His hands.
If a vile, thieving Yankee is killed while prowling about in his work of devastation, it is spoken of in Yankee papers as “fiendish atrocity,” “cold blooded murder.” I read such a tale a few days ago when some of Mosby’s men were charged with taking out a peaceable, inoffensive citizen of Fairfax, an old man, lame, with a large family, shooting him and then cutting his throat.
From Mosby, himself, I heard the true story. They were scouting in Fairfax when two of his men came upon this old man and a negro, both armed and lying in the bushes. Pretending to be Yankees, his men rode up and called out: “Come out you Rebels.”
“Don’t shoot,” cried the old man, “I’m no rebel but the captain of the Home Guards,” which Home Guard was composed of runaway negroes and his business was to give the alarm to the Yankee camps by blowing a horn.
They shot him and the negro, said the colonel, but it was a lie about cutting their throats.
Every day we hear of some savage act of retaliation. Lt. Glasscock, of Mosby’s command, was in Leesburg, the other day, when the Yankees came in[117]. A Union man, named Hole, told them where the lieutenant was and he narrowly escaped capture. A few days later he met Hole in the street and shot him dead.
The Yankees still hold the Manassas road and have many of the prominent citizens kept on the cars all the time for their protection from Mosby’s operations. Scouting parties are out every day, stripping the country for miles around.
A fresh impetus is given to the running off of negroes who find it impossible to resist the influences brought to bear upon them. The Yankees are telling them now that Lincoln has issued an order that all negroes, who remain with their masters, shall not share the benefit of the Emancipation Act.
This has great influence over them for many have remained, thinking they would eventually be free and preferring to remain in their comfortable homes to venturing into a strange land. Many cases occur where men who ran off, early in the war, have returned with a Yankee guard and carried off their families, taking from their masters whatever they chose to claim as their own.
At High Acre[118], were three men – two hirelings and one belonging to the farm. All professed to be in mortal terror of the Yankees and hid whenever they appeared. Yesterday they were all missing, one quite an old man and deformed. If the Yankees occupy the country much longer, there will be none left. But we are beginning to consider them the lightest losses we are called on to endure. I am sure I should have cared much more if they had taken Henry’s horse than I did for the missing men.
One excitement follows another so fast we scarcely have breathing time. Soon after I had laid down my pen, a cry was raised, “Yankees coming.” Anna Noland[119] had just come in from a ride on a little, gray horse, a great pet with her. Fearing to lose it and not aware how near the Yankees were, she mounted a boy upon it and started him off to the country. He had scarcely gone a hundred yards when the Yankees dashed in and, catching sight of him, soon overtook and brought him back.
Meanwhile, an officer came in to search Sue’s house which was very civilly conducted. Sue, who had gone thru the house with him, saw a negro man, mounted on a very fine horse with an officer on each side of him ride thru the woodhouse into the garden and stop at the wash house. She soon discovered he was one of the negroes who left High Acre yesterday and whose wife belonged to her.
She went forward and asked what he wanted there. Said he, “I’ve come to get my wife,” and, sure enough, Sue had to stand and see his wife and two children and boxes innumerable packed in an ox cart, stolen on the road, and driven off.
She then spied Anna’s horse which was led by one of the men. Poor Anna appealed to the officer who had searched the house to get it back. He promised to do what he could but said he must apply to his superior officer. Anna and Sue said they would go with him. At first, the captain refused very roughly. Anna lost her temper and damaged her cause. Sue told him, quietly, that it was her daughter’s riding horse, totally unfit for cavalry service – that it was the only horse left them – that she had never asked a favour of a Yankee before but, for her daughter’s sake, did so now.
He made many objections, it seemed chiefly to worry her for, when she turned and said, “Come, my daughter, it is useless to say more,” and, patting the horse said, “Poor little thing, you’ll have to go,” he called her back saying the horse was too small for cavalry use and she might keep it.
A pert, little private sang out, “It’s got a cavalry bridle.”
“Tis not,” said Sue.
“Yes it is,” he repeated. She stamped her foot saying, “How dare you contradict me?”
“Hi,” said he, “you must have been on the stage.”
Sue was furious and said, “You impudent, little rascal, you are beneath notice.” An officer, standing by said to him, “No more of that, sir.” But, every now and then, he would jeer Anna who stood angry and crying and quarrelling by turns. At last, the horse was given up and Anna, seizing him, soon mounted and held on. Sue said, “Thank you sir, will you tell me your name?”
“Captain McPherson.”
“Well, sir, when I hear Yankees spoken of, I can say I have seen one with some heart,” and turning to the little, saucy popinjay, she said, “And what is your name?”
He answered, impudently, “Doodle Dandy.”
“The name suits you exactly,” said she which raised a laugh at his expense among the men. Tho we know our heads are in their mouths, the temptation to revile them is irresistible.
We got off with less loss than usual. An impudent boy with bugle on his back rode up to “You come here and open this ba-a-rn door,” drawled he.
“I certainly shall not,” replied I.
“Yes you shell, you better had er I’ll make you.”
Make me indeed! He dismounted, fastened his horse, climbed the garden fence and prowled round till I threatened to call an officer and he decamped. Meanwhile, another vagabond had broken into the stable and carried off an old saddle which the servants had carelessly left there.
On their way back to The Plains, they were led to High Acre by Charity’s husband. There, they drove off thirty fine sheep and stole the poultry. But the rascal never made enquiry for his oldest child who he knew was left there and who was sent to a place of safety immediately after.
Next day, Mosby and his men were in town. They were just off a raid in the Valley where a small number of the command had captured a Brigadier General[120] who was traveling at his ease in an ambulance with about ten aides, orderlies, etc., never dreaming of danger. Mosby’s business in town was to notify half a dozen old, free negro women, who had long been suspected of giving information to the Yankees, that they must leave town next day. They [Mosby and his men] halted before our door and my husband was seen talking to them. We suppose the negroes thought he was informing against them when, in fact, he was pleading for one woman whom he considered unjustly accused. But, about 11 at night, we were roused to find our carriage house in full blaze. In it were a carriage, a buggy and an ambulance, none very handsome, tis true, but valuable to us.[121] The night being still, the flames didn’t spread and we were only thankful it was not our house. This border life is too exciting to be pleasant.
November 1, 1864. Yankees! Yankees! Nothing but Yankees, day and night they are prowling round, pillaging, burning, carrying distress and desolation thru a defenseless country. If they are not in our sight, we are hearing such tales of wrong and outrage that our souls are stirred to their depths.
We hear of them in Leesburg, stealing everything they could lay hands on, meeting men on the streets and despoiling them of hats, coats, watches and money. They went to the house of the Episcopal minister and divested him of hat, coat and the very spectacles on his nose which he cannot see without.
Along the railroad, the people are almost destitute. Servants, corn, meat, cattle all gone and, in some cases, furniture taken and sent by rail to Alexandria to be transported North as trophies of their prowess.
On Wednesday last, they were in upon us without a moment’s warning. They remained in and around town for several hours – searched a few houses pillaging as they went. The Doctor had ridden to the mountain and, for security, I insisted that Fanny should accompany him. I was in terror lest they should encounter these Yankees who went back on the road they would have to take in coming home. So I was greatly relieved to see them ride up soon after the Yankees left.
But they had not quite escaped, it seemed. Riding leisurely up a hill, great was their consternation to come in sight of some Yankee pickets. Putting on a bold face, Fanny accosted them. “I suppose we shall be allowed to pass to our home?”
They questioned her and were told her father was a physician, had been to see a patient and she was riding with him. A picket offered to go on with them and get them thru and they rode on together, he talking very politely until they reached the wood near town where there was the officers’ headquarters. A captain examined them and was very gruff.
The Doctor was riding a young horse left with him for safekeeping by a lady. The captain said one of his men was dismounted and must have the horse. The Doctor told him twas rather hard on him to take his horse as he had ridden a long way to attend their wounded and had a letter at home from one of their surgeons requesting that his horse might be left him as he was frequently called on to go and see their wounded.
The men crowded around Fanny, commenting on her horse, bridle etc. She talked to them pleasantly and they were very civil. At last, they were allowed to leave and were congratulating themselves on their good luck when a man came riding after them and said, “You must swap horses with me, I must have a better horse.”
They remonstrated in vain. He said he was sorry to take it but the captain had sent him. So the Doctor dismounted and took, in exchange, a huge plough horse which they had stolen that day. The Doctor said, “This horse will do me no good, its owner will claim it.” The man told them he had left his horse with a strained shoulder at a house nearby, the Doctor could have that and, if it got well and he could come for it, he would pay $100, if he never came, the Doctor might keep it.
“But,” said Fanny, “the people at the house will not let us have it unless you go with us.” So he started off with her, full gallop across the field till they came in sight of the house. He evidently thinking it not safe for him to venture himself, sent Fanny forward to claim the horse. By this time the Doctor had trotted up on his steed and they slowly led in this beautiful, Yankee horse which will probably live but will be lame. If Fanny had not been along, the Doctor would, perhaps, have been carried off to The Plains.[122]
November 5, 1864. Well, we hear that the Yankees have really left The Plains and are moving down the road. It has been a severe scourge to the country, having them so long, and we doubtless shall hear many tales of hardship from those who have been within their lines all the time.
On Tuesday, we heard that they had been at High Acre and carried off stock. So, the Doctor and a servant started off, about dark, to find out the extent of the damage and bring back, before day, any cattle that might be left. He returned with a cow and a calf. They had left the milch cows but driven off numbers of fine, young cattle and fat beeves.
Yankee Davis, who was with them, said he had orders to take every hoof on the place and was coming back for the oxen. But they were securely hidden in the mountains as were the work horses. They could not have found all the cattle except that they were guided by a runaway negro, perfectly acquainted with the mountain paths. We have taken fresh lessons in negro treachery. We persuaded ourselves that those who voluntarily remained with us were true to us and so it seemed until the protracted presence of the Yankees unsettled their childish, unreasoning minds. They cannot stand out against the alternate threats, promises and bribes used to corrupt them.
Two weeks ago, we saw a boy belonging to William Turner of Kinloch, whose master had implicit faith in him. He boasted largely to us of his skill in outwitting the Yankees and hiding his master’s property. Since then, he went to the Yankees and betrayed all these hiding places, leading them to the ice house where all the private papers were buried.
A few days ago, we were startled to hear that Ida Dulany, whose husband is in our army, had been carried off a prisoner. After a skirmish with Mosby, they took an ox cart from Oakley to carry off their wounded. Having recovered her riding horse, by personal application to General Auger, Ida was encouraged to go to him to get back her cart.
A negro man, who had a wife at Oakley, applied to General Auger to send for his family. General A. told Ida he would restore her cart if she would give the man a pass which would secure him from interruption in bringing off his wife. This she consented to do and did give him the pass but he fell in with some of Mosby’s men who disregarded it and carried the whole party South.
The Yankees soon heard of it and forthwith arrested Ida and carried her to Rectortown a prisoner. She has since been released. Henry Dulaney was away from home.[123]
Yankee papers report a severe repulse to Grant on the Northside, at Richmond. Oh! If only Early had managed better in the Valley! What a valley of humiliation it has proved to us of late. It is conceded, on all sides, that our first disaster, at Winchester, was the result of bad generalship. Scattered on too long a line, our army was whipped in detail tho each division fought well.
November 11, 1864. I had always vowed that no destitution of dry goods should ever tempt me to put myself in a position to be bullied and insulted by insolent, Yankee officials but, being told that our neighbors, in Clarke County, were crossing the river to Sharpsburg[124] and getting goods unquestioned, I concluded to make a venture, especially as I was obliged to go to a factory in Clarke to exchange our wool for servants clothing.
So off I started in a spring wagon, seated on the woolsack like a Lord High Chancellor, and got safely to our friends, the McCormicks, where I spent the night.[125]
Next morning, Mrs. Mc and I took up our line of march for Yankeeland. She had been over three weeks before and got what she wanted without any difficulty. Leaving our wool at the factory, we went on.
Mrs. Mc soon found herself bewildered about the road and twas new ground to me. So we had to ask our way of the people we met and no two gave us the same direction. We were aiming to reach Shepherdstown without falling in with Yankee pickets but we soon took the wrong road and, meeting an old negro, received the agreeable information that the pickets were just ahead of us. And, sure enough, the next turn showed us videttes[126] on every hill, but they took no notice of us.
On the Smithfield pike, we were halted by the outer picket who, on hearing where we were bound, passed us thru. These were guarding the Harper’s Ferry and Winchester railroad which they were repairing. Congratulating ourselves on getting safely thru, we pushed on.
Twas getting late in the evening and we thought we were near Shepherdstown[127] when, to our dismay, just ahead of us, we saw a regular picket post; tents and all. We could do nothing but go forward.
I left Mrs. Mc to do all the talking for I can’t speak civilly to a Yankee and this was no time to provoke thin ice. She politely asked if we could go on and was told that she could get a pass from the Provost Marshal, half a mile further on. Now nothing was further from our thoughts than falling into the hands of a Provost Marshal.
She enquired where we were and was horrified to be told it was near Kearneysville[128], the most obnoxious post on the whole road, one which we were specially warned to avoid. But we went on, finding the picket posts about a quarter of a mile apart. At the third, we encountered a captain who, on hearing we wanted a pass to cross the river, told us we could have one if we would take the oath of allegiance. This, Mrs. Mc declined on the score of not being willing to take any oath.
So the captain delivered us an oration on our obligations to this great and beneficent government which protected us, (Mrs. McCormick having had her delightful house burnt to the ground a month before by order of General Custer.) If we were not willing to take the oath it showed that we sympathized with its enemies and did not deserve to receive any favors.
I was anxious, here, to retrace our steps but Mrs. Mc thought, as we had come so far, it would be a pity to give up without further effort and, asked to be taken to the Provost and we were sent, under guard. My heart died within me when the huge Kearneysville Depot loomed up before us with a long train of cars being laden with provisions for Sheridan’s army. I felt myself in the lion’s mouth and, worst of all, had put myself there.
We were taken before the Provost who was a good-looking, young fellow and we hoped good treatment from his appearance. We made known our errand – oh yes, we could go on if we took the oath. Mrs. Mc spoke doubtfully tho, in fact, no power could have induced her to take it. So long as there seemed any prospect of our doing so, he was civil enough but, so soon as he found we were resolute, his manner changed.
He questioned us closely as to our names and residences, doubted the truth of our answers, gave us another rigmarole about our duty to this good government and his suspicion that we sympathized with the wicked rebellion, indulged in invective against Jeff Davis and his atrocious rebels. All which I was constrained to listen to in silence, afraid to trust myself to utter a word lest the floodgates of my wrath might be opened, yet feeling as if silence were treachery and compromised my loyalty to my own government. Luckily, he asked us no direct questions as to our sentiments.
We told him, if he did not let us pass on to Shepherdstown, there was no house for miles back where we could stay and night was coming on. “What I generally do with ladies like you is to send them on to Martinsburg,” he replied. On this hint, I told Mrs. Mc we had best go back as twas getting so late.
The Provost walked with us to the door, not as an act of civility but, to inspect our horses, manifestly. Unluckily, I had driven a very fine pair of work horses which had been hidden from the Yankees most carefully, from time to time. These evidently attracted his attention for he said something to our guard and moved off.[129]
We climbed, hastily, into the wagon, hoping we were at liberty to depart but were told that we must await the captain’s return from the colonel’s tent. There we sat, quaking, not knowing why we were detained – night coming on and we far from any house – train after train thundered by. After a long delay, the captain returned with the colonel, neither looked towards us but went into the office. Another long delay and the colonel walked out but took no notice of us.
Mrs. Mc called him and he came up to us. She renewed her request to be allowed to go on. In the blandest manner, he told us we could do so by taking the oath and urged it on us in most persuasive tones, going over the same, old story of the beneficent government and the glorious flag that had so long protected us – sugaring the nauseous dose with politeness of manner at least, then left us saying, “I would advise you ladies to take the oath.”
Then came up a sergeant who said he had orders to search the wagon, to which we willingly assented, quite unconscious that our colored driver had secreted, under the straw, a box of tobacco, on his own account which he hoped to trade off for goods across the river. The discovery of which would have confiscated wagon and horses and, perhaps, consigned us to prison.
The captain ordered our hand satchels, which contained only our night clothes and brushes, to be taken in for examination. I said, “Give me my gown, I can show you there is nothing in it,” and, shaking it open, I then rolled it up and held it in my lap. The satchels were taken and thoroughly searched, tearing open the linings.
Out came the sergeant, again, saying, “The captain says you must send in your NIGHT SLIP.” So in it had to go. What treason they suspected lurked in its folds, I can’t say but time enough was consumed in examining it to have made a counterpart of the garment.
Mrs. Mc, wishing to be very civil, said, “Captain, the wagon is filled with hay, do you wish to examine that?” He became furious, asking her what she meant; did she intend to insult him etc. which she earnestly disclaimed. She little dreamed what a risk she had run with the tobacco under our feet. Our driver was a free, mulatto boy who had drifted into our service from the army – very bright and cunning but the most mendacious liar. He was then called in and questioned as to our names and residences and many offers of high wages were made him and appeals to enlist with them.
Never so well pleased as when an opportunity afforded of telling a falsehood, he assured them we were good, Union people. This they doubted saying they knew we were rebels, especially the “little woman.” I must have a most rebellious face for I rarely opened my lips to them. Then they enquired if we had sons in the army and the veracious Alfred assured them we had not. I almost felt like going back, when he afterwards related the conversation, and telling them I had but one son and he was in our army and, if I had twenty, they’d be there too.
The colonel told them to find out if we had sons in the army and, if so, take the horses and told the sergeant to go out and see if the horses were fit for service and, if so, to take them and let the ladies get back as they could.
Alfred said, “No sir! That sorrel horse belongs to me, you can’t take that and the other is ruptured.” And, being of the privileged color, his claim was respected and, after a weary time, he came out and we were allowed to depart.
We took one guard, a well-disposed boy, into the wagon and put out at full speed. The guard, very kindly, coming with us to the outer picket and then we flew, afraid every moment to hear the clatter of horses after us. For we saw now the cause of our detention was the desire to find some excuse for taking our horses.
We drove ten miles back before we saw any resting place and twas long after dark when welcome lights gleaming told of a house at hand. We drove in and were most kindly received by the owners, very plain people but abundantly provided with provisions for man and beast. They seemed much surprised at our scruples about taking the oath. Everybody took it when they wanted goods, at least all the women did and a good many men.
I asked if it was because the people sympathized with the Yankees. No indeed, they were true Southerners and hate Yankees but they don’t mind the oath, say it isn’t binding. A deplorable state of morals, truly. They promised to give us breakfast very early for they were to “butcher, (kill hogs) that day. They had overslept themselves, that morning, and didn’t get up till five o’clock. So, some hours before day, we were stirring, the earlier the better for us. Had a most abundant breakfast and pursued our journey home without further adventures.
It was most fortunate that we lost our way for, had we taken the one we were after and crossed the river, twas scarcely possible we could have returned without falling in with the Yankee pickets at some points and being caught. Coming out, without a pass, we should have forfeited wagon, horses and goods and been lucky if we didn’t land in the old Capitol prison. And now, all the dry goods in the United States wouldn’t tempt me again into the power of these insolent upstarts.
On my return home, I heard that the very day I left, a large body of Yankee cavalry came down, from the Valley, under General Powell[130], who discredits our name by claiming kin with us, to drive off, by Sheridan’s order, every hoof in Loudoun and upper Fauquier. Horses, oxen, milch cows, sheep, hogs were seized and carried off. They came only to the upper end of the town so we escaped.
Most of the town cows were on the common, above the town, and went at one fell swoop, the owners in blissful ignorance of what was going on. But, when it became known, the women rushed forth, en masse, in some cases, bonnet-less and shaw-less, following in the track of the departing cows.
The cavalcade gathered as it went, for, from every farmhouse came forth an excited female and, by the time they reached the cross roads where the general had his headquarters, their numbers were so formidable that he surrendered, at discretion, and restored the cows.
But they carried off immense numbers of cattle. For two or three weeks we had no rumours of Yankees
And began to think they had stripped the country so completely that we should be relieved of their presence. But alas, we reckoned without our host. All our former experiences were child’s play to what was before us.
First, we heard the Yankees were crossing the Blue Ridge, then, we heard they were in Upperville. On Tuesday night, a man came down and said they were certainly there and had burnt several houses.
Next morning, we heard they were at the Cross Roads but, we so frequently have such rumours, without foundation, that we paid little attention to it. Fanny and her father were going to the mountain and thought it well to start early and get their horses out of the way. Soon, fires were reported all along the base of the Blue Ridge. We made everything ready, as usual, but thought it likely they might not come this low down.
About one o’clock, they entered town and, to all appearances, were passing quietly thru. Suddenly a full band struck up and sent forth its lively strains and, at the same moment, half a dozen fires burst forth at different points. We supposed the town was to be burnt and began to think of saving our valuables.
But, twas soon ascertained that the burning was confined to barns and stables and God, who so mercifully tempers the wind, kept it from spreading the flames. They said the orders were strict not to burn houses and, as an east wind was blowing, all the stables on that side were spared.[131] The roaring and crackling of the flames, the fumes of burning hay and corn, the tramp of the ruffian soldiers on their devilish errand can never be forgotten.
Pale-faced women and children looked forth from doors and windows with speechless indignation. Above it all was presently heard the lowing of frightened cattle and we found that they were driving off cows and oxen again.
The streets were soon filled with women rushing after their cows. I could not leave the house and the little children and concluded all our cows and young cattle were gone too. Some had shut their cows up in stables but they were hunted out.
What were all the hungry babies to do for milk and then so many without groceries depended on their cows. All the oxen were taken – how were the people to be supplied with wood? These were serious questions. We remonstrated with the officers. They professed to regret it but read us Stanton’s orders that not a hoof should be left and all grain and forage destroyed. Because, they said, this country subsisted Mosby.
Twas a subject of remark and the only instance we had ever seen when the privates seemed to feel for the people and tried to help them, slipping back a cow now and then when unobserved.
They had taken all Sue’s cows and her oxen. She went to the colonel who refused to restore them. After awhile, she heard where her cows were and went to the guard and asked for them. He told her to take them and, with the help of a little boy, she drove them off home and, that night, her oxen broke loose and came home. Either the guard was remiss or the cows and oxen were unmanageable for, next morning, several hundred had escaped and were wandering over the country till reclaimed by the owners.
Till a late hour, that night, fires were blazing in every direction. The country people, as usual, suffered most.
A large body of Yankees went to Papa’s (Glenora) and, while his barn and haystacks were burning, carried off all his hogs which had been butchered that morning, except four which were begged off by the servants, and came riding into town. Some had half a hog, some a quarter before them, calling themselves, with great propriety, the “Hog Brigade.” “Wolf” would have suited better.
Our losses were the barn, containing the crop of wheat and all the farming implements, harness etc; our whole flock of sheep, two farm horses, one with a fine colt, and every spire of hay on the farm. They drove off our fattened hogs but all but one came back, fortunately.
Next morning, we could trace their course by the smoke, the further they went, the greater the destruction. In vain the Quaker pleaded his neutrality, the Union man his loyalty – all fared alike.[132] They argued, if they did not burn the grain, the rebels would get it and, as we couldn’t be whipped into submission, we must be starved.
Just before this raid, the agent of the Confederacy had bought up large supplies of cattle and hogs which, most unwisely, had been allowed to accumulate in this neighborhood. In one field were 900 fat hogs, paid for in gold. The cattle were started the day before the Yankees came in and got off safe but the hogs were still here and [we] congratulated ourselves that the Yankees had not discovered their hiding place.
We thought the country clear of them when a large force returned, having heard from the faithless negro where the hogs were concealed. Then the burning began again and many farms, which had escaped before, were perfectly devastated.
Of course, these fat hogs were hard to drive and hundreds were shot down on the roadside. A few stragglers were recovered by the agents but most were carried off to feed these thieves and barn burners. Hundreds of old horses, taken from the people, were killed as not worth the trouble of carrying off. And this, they tell us, is but a foretaste.
The next move will be to depopulate this country, sending all the inhabitants either North or South. No doubt they will if they can. We have found out, by this time, that the only limit to their fiendish malice is their power to work us ill.
And these are the men who talk to us of re-union – the very word is an offense to our nostrils. And in the light of our blazing homesteads and in the blood of our slaughtered brethren, we record our determination to be free or perish.
December 1864. Last week, with a heavy heart, I saw my dear children depart. My dear
boy [Henry] came home for a week, looking so well after all his hardships. How thankful I am to be able to supply his wants, which we couldn’t do if he were further from us, and to send him back warmly clad for the winter exposure.
Fanny and the dear children left for Richmond. What an undertaking such a journey is now. Sherman’s bold move thru Georgia is giving us much anxiety. If he can be headed off and his army destroyed, the individual suffering caused by his march will be a small matter.[133] We can hear nothing from Richmond except at long intervals.
The conscription has frightened off the speculators and blockade runners who were our medium of communication. Our sympathies are much excited for our imprisoned citizens who are suffering much since the cold weather set in. At first, they were allowed to buy from sutlers and so eke out their scanty rations with what they bought. Now, by a refinement of cruelty, they are refused that privilege and have only the hard, prison fare and sleep on the bare boards. Friends at the North are not allowed to assist them and they can receive nothing, from the South, that does not come by flag of truce.
December 21, 1864. Yesterday, I heard someone say, “The Yankees will be here today, they come every three weeks and tis just three weeks since the barn burners were here.” I laughed but, sure enough, they were rumoured as coming in from The Plains about the middle of the day, and, at four p.m., entered the town.
The first I saw of them, they were breaking into Logan’s room, saying they saw a man’s head. They searched the whole house, which was quite empty, and stole two blankets off Logan’s bed. Twas quite a large force, the dreaded 8th Illinois, and most passed on. But some remained to watch the movements of eight or ten saucy Confeds on a neighboring hill.
Presently a small drove of cattle passed and soon came poor Kate and Anna, breathless, they had taken their oxen and cows again. We started in pursuit but my feet got so soaking wet and I remembered I had left the children alone and Yankees all around. As I came back, I met Yankee Davis, to whom I appealed. He was grim but civil. Said he they had no orders to take the cows and he would do what he could.
Meantime, Anna and Kate overtook the colonel half a mile below town, the mud over their shoe tops. He was rough and rude, refused to release the oxen saying they were fat and would make good beef but gave her the cows.
The Yankees had come round by The Plains and stopped at Kinloch where they captured one of Mosby’s men, young Steele of Baltimore, and wounded Lt. Grogan so severely that they were obliged to parole and leave him. We did not see Mr. Steele til he spoke and I cannot recall his sweet, boyish face without a pang, thinking of the loathsome, weary captivity to which he is consigned.
Poor Anna, she came back completely unnerved by her long, fatiguing walk thru the snow, by the insolence of the colonel and vulgarity of the men who taunted and jeered at her – with true Yankee malignity, enjoying the sight of a pretty, ladylike, Virginia girl humiliated more at having to ask a favour than by having it refused.[134]
As they moved down, the Confederates, on the hill, followed in an interchange of pistol shots, hurtful to neither party, winding up the scene.
December 22, 1864. Last night, the clatter of cavalry made me put out my light and go upstairs where I watched quite a large force pass by. This was another column of the same command who had taken a different route.
Today, we hear they committed many depredations on the country people, taking their pork, which has been lately put up, fowls etc.
But, worst of all, Colonel Mosby is severely wounded – indeed, we heard, this evening, that he was dead but this is not credited. The Yankees came suddenly on a house where he was getting supper. One story is that they fired in at the window. The Colonel had time, tis said, to slip off his jacket and one of the ladies tore the stars off the collar.
At all events, they did not recognize him and, thinking they had killed him, went off. Pray God his life may be spared. We could ill spare him. We wait anxiously for more news. Poor fellow, he had just returned from Richmond where he had been made full colonel.
The cold is so intense that but few people are passing so we get but meagre accounts of what has gone on out of town. Today, we were all rejoiced by the return of the captured oxen which were left near Dover; probably because the Yankees found it less trouble to rob meat houses than to kill beeves.
Christmas 1864. Another Christmas and the glorious, angel song of “Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Men” is lost in the din of battle. “The confused noise and garments rolled in blood” and the longed for peace further off than ever. As if to shut out the least gleam of cheerfulness from the day, we have a batch of woeful rumours, whether true or false, time will develop. But we have no means of ascertaining.
Our president dead, Hood’s army utterly defeated and utterly routed – all Sheridan’s cavalry on a raid towards the Central Railroad – Sherman carrying all before him with Savannah closely invested. It may be so but “The Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.” How I’d like to see that inscribed upon our national banner and, still more, on the hearts of our people.
December 27, 1864. All day yesterday, we had rumours of Yankees about Salem and Rectortown but night came without bringing them. Before I was dressed, the rapid movements and excited looks of some passers by, betokened their coming and I heard that they were very near, so I made ready for them.
Before breakfast time, the town was filled with them but they did not enter any houses. They were Sheridan’s raiders who had gotten within two miles of Gordonsville when they were pretty severely whipped back and took their revenge by pillaging every house they passed on their way back.
The party who came thru here, about 2,000 in number, was under the command of General Torbert[135] who made his headquarters at General Rogers house. The servants told him their master was a prisoner but he pushed rudely in and made his way into the dining room and behaved very insolently.
His long wagon train and artillery were two or three hours passing us. Meantime the wretches had scattered all over the country, driving off cattle and horses and pillaging generally. Every now and then, a squad would come in, driving a lot of cows and oxen and young cattle. Our oxen, three cows and other cattle went. The loss of oxen, now is a serious matter. No one expected to keep horses, and oxen were relied on to do all farm work. Until this fall, they were not molested. But there are not enough left now, in the country, to supply the town with wood.
These were, I think, the most ferocious rascals who have ever been here; dirty and ragged and utterly insensible to any feeling of pity for the helpless women and children. They were despoilers.
At papa’s (Glenora) they burst open the doors and the house was speedily filled with them. Every lock was broken and every place ransacked. One bureau, which they could not open, they threw down and kicked out the back. They took the hat off his gray head, his overcoat, gloves and, indeed, everything they wanted or could carry.
But many others fared still worse. At Robert Beverley’s, while his barn, stable, wheat, corn and hay were blazing, his house was filled with hundreds of these greedy devils who never stopped till there was nothing left to steal. Fourteen barrels of flour, all his meat, every grocery, all the clothing of his large family except what they had on. All his bedclothing was carried off – he had not a knife or fork left, not a kitchen utensil that was portable.
They rode off with piles of plates and dishes – he even saw them grind the children’s dolls under their feet. The demijohns of molasses and vinegar were broken and their contents flooded the floors. Into it, they poured the feathers out of the pillows they emptied that the cases might be used to carry off their plunder.
Mr. B. [Beverley] appealed to the officers. Their reply was: “The men have permission to take what they want.” And this is one of hundreds of similar cases for every country house in their route was completely sacked.
We were very uneasy about Colonel Mosby who was still in the neighborhood but the Yankees, fortunately, don’t know it. His wound proved to be a superficial one and, from a high point, he watched, with his glass, the Yankees search a house he had just left. The circumstances of his wounding, from his own lips, are these.
He had been skirmishing with the Yankees and, with his customary recklessness, stopped at a farmhouse to get his supper, tho strongly advised not to tarry. While at the table, the house was surrounded by Yankees, making his escape impossible. The Colonel pulled off his coat and asked a lady present to cut off the stars which she did, hiding them in a bed.
They came in, seizing him and one of the Yankees asked him who he was. He said he was a lieutenant in the First Virginia Cavalry. Just at that time, he was fired at from the outside, thru a window. The ball entered just under the ribs on the left side and passed out at a similar point on the right. He lay down and his captors rolled him over, examining his wound which they pronounced mortal, in which the colonel concurred.
So, after pulling off his boots and rifling his pockets, they left him for dead, never dreaming of the prize they were surrendering. They carried off his overcoat and pocket book. Officers lent a hand to this robbery of a dying man for a Yankee letter writer, in telling of the affair, says: “Some of the men proposed killing him but Captain Taylor, having examined the wound, pronounced it mortal and Major Frazier, of the 13th New York Cavalry, having examined it also, declared the man must die.”
So, apparently, nothing prevented the murder of a prisoner but the conviction that he would die anyhow. They left and, at the next halting place, an examination of the pocket book disclosed the fact that it was the redoubtable Mosby. But it was too late to go back to recover the body and all Yankeedom exulted, for a time, over the killing of that troublesome “bushwhacker.”
He was immediately hurried to a place of safety, tho the situation was hazardous from the slow movement which his wound made necessary. A rigid search was made for him, when the mistake was discovered, but in vain.[136]
January 15, 1865. Well, we have had a hard time, since Christmas. Yankees all the time. After we were rid of Sheridan’s raiders, came 250 of the notorious 8th Illinois, stationed at Fairfax Courthouse. This expedition was for the purpose of capturing Mosby who, by this time, they found was not so dead as they hoped. The whole country was searched but the wily guerilla was too cunning for them. They were often much nearer him than they dreamed. But they didn’t find him so returned by Thoroughfare Gap and, next day, the Colonel was off for Dixie, much to the relief of his anxious friends.
Twas a very anxious time for me for, that day, I expected the Doctor back from Richmond and feared much that he might fall in with the Yankees. But he heard of them in time to avoid them and got safely home, after night.
He brought discouraging accounts of the state of affairs. The Yankees pressing us at every point with more than usual activity. Wilmington threatened by sea and land, Hood badly defeated at Nashville, Savannah evacuated and Sherman free to press northward, Gordonsville in great danger. All this created much anxiety but God, who is always so much better to us than our fears, has, again, interposed for our relief.
The Gordonsville raid was a failure, at Wilmington, the enemy repulsed, have withdrawn, Sherman at a standstill, Hood’s defeat greatly exaggerated.[137] Last Thursday, we had notice that 1,000 Yankees had left Fairfax, bent on mischief. We could hear of them at different places.
On Sunday, while we were in church, a soldier entered, calling: “Get away as fast as you can, the Yankees are coming,” and a general stampede ensued. The day wore on and still they came not and, in the evening, we received certain information that they had gone back to Fairfax.
But, tho they passed us by, this time, they left their mark on the neighborhood thru which their course lay. An indiscriminate pillage of houses furnished them with a miscellaneous cargo. Persons who met them describe them as almost overshadowed by huge bundles they carried. Whole pieces of unbleached cotton, boxes of tobacco, both articles much used in trade here. Men’s, women’s and children’s garments and bed clothing which they offered for sale. Hams of bacon and poultry of every kind hung from their saddles.
They passed thru High Acre without molesting anything but a miserable, old negro hag, an incubus on us and rejected by the Yankees who had frequently refused to carry her away, informed them the horses were hidden but would be brought in at night.
So, very early in the morning, the Yanks came back. Two of our soldiers were there with their horses and two sisters of the overseer’s wife had ridden over on very fine horses. The soldiers took to the woods and all but one escaped. But their horses were taken and so were those of the young ladies who pleaded, in vain, for their saddles and bridles.
Then the house was sacked, meathouse broken open and forty hams carried off, all the clothing of the family and every spoon, knife, fork, cup and pan taken. They wound up carrying off all the keys of the various outhouses.
That Sunday, General [Asa] Rogers returned home from his five months captivity, released by the efforts of Colonel Woods, Superintendent of the old Capitol prison, who had been very kind to him during his previous imprisonment.[138] A perfect wreck of his former self, he spent a week in Washington, trying to effect the release of the twenty-five other citizens captured with him.
He even carried the matter, in person, to old Abe, himself, but could only succeed in getting a sixty day parole for the Rev. Mr. Kinsolving to go to Richmond and try to negotiate an exchange.
Their quarters, at Ft. Delaware, consisted of board shanties of unplaned planks which left large apertures which the prisoners stuffed with paper, as well as they could, to keep out rain and cold, their lodgings the floor with only one blanket. Their fare, at nine o’clock in the morning, a small piece of cold bread, made of meal and flour and baked to a crust, a bit of meat, about three inches square, either tough beef or rusty bacon and a tin cup of cold water.
At four, in the evening, the same except that, in place of water, they had a broth of beans, peas or rice from which they had to pour off a skim of bugs before it could be eaten. Those who had money were generally allowed to purchase from the sutlers, at most exorbitant prices. And, these men were not confined for any offense but simply picked up, at random, and carried off. And they talk of Libby and Andersonville!
They say these hardships are inflicted in retaliation for the treatment of the prisoners we hold. They are rioting in abundance with the supplies of the world open to them while, by closing our ports and laying waste out country, they deprive us of the means of feeding and providing for our prisoners who, in fact, fare better than many thousands of our people and quite as well as our soldiers in the field. And yet they clamour about the privations of their prisoners whom they so cruelly and persistently refuse to exchange.
February 1, 1865. Clouds and darkness seem to have gathered round our Confederacy. The Yankees have had a run of good fortune which has discouraged the hearts of the people.
Sherman’s march thru Georgia, Hood’s disaster at Nashville and the closing of the Port of Wilmington by the fall of Ft. Fisher are heavy blows. The question of supplies presses heavily. We received a large part of our meat and clothing thru Wilmington.
The devastation of the Valley lost us grain enough to supply General Lee’s army and the destruction of the railroads, in the South, cuts us off from the abundant supplies from that quarter. But, the most discouraging feature is the spirit of dissatisfaction and fault finding, the want of confidence in the government and its officials. Things are going wrong and somebody is in fault so the president is held responsible for every disaster from the loss of a battle to the washing away of a railroad bridge.
But fortunately he is not a man to be swayed by popular clamour. All sorts of rumours gain credence: Richmond is to be evacuated, Virginia given up, Georgia and North Carolina making terms for themselves with the United States Government.
Then for a fortnight past, the country is agog about the Peace Commission. Blair, a rabid Republican and Singleton, a Peace Democrat, have been in Richmond on an informal mission. Blair goes back to Washington and, in a few days, returns to Richmond and now we have sent three commissions to Washington.[139]
Hopeful and credulous people believe we shall have peace immediately. The rest of us suspect some Yankee trick and do not believe they will offer us a peace that we can accept. Recognition and intervention are again held out to delude us. The United States are evidently stirred up by some apprehended danger for, even their best friends could not credit them with the magnanimity that would induce them to offer favorable terms while, according to their accounts, they are on the full tide of success and giving the death blow to the “so called Confederacy.”
February 10, 1865. Both North and South seem to have centered all interest, for the past two weeks, on the result of the much talked of Peace Commission. On both sides, the popular heart throbbed high with hope.
But the bubble burst and the whole thing turns out to be a trick, the design of which was to deceive both sides. First, by sending Blair, again and again, to Richmond to solicit President Davis to appoint commissions to negotiate peace, trusting they would treat for it on fair terms and then, using the fact that they had been sent, to induce the United States Congress to adopt an amendment to the Constitution, abolishing slavery in all the states.
The North seems to have been as ignorant as we were of the terms to be offered. When our commissioners, Vice-President Stephens, Judge Campbell and Hon. R.M.T. Hunter passed from our lines into Grant’s, they were cheered by both armies.
Tis said the state of popular feeling, in Washington, made it inexpedient they should be allowed to go there. Lincoln and Seward met them at Old Point. The terms were soon made known. “Unconditional submission” to the Union and all existing laws – the laws of treason and confiscation and the abolition of slavery.
But Abraham the first magnanimously hinted that he would not hang ALL our traitors and would make the confiscation as light as could reasonably be expected. So our commissioners simply told him their mission was at an end and came home. They little knew the service they have done us. Our people had been somewhat divided. Many believed the Yankees would give us an honorable peace and, under that belief, a growing party insisted on negotiation – a conciliatory course on the part of the U.S. Government might have ended the war by reconstruction.
But all eyes are opened now. The true issue is before us and it has united the people of the Confederate states as the first call for troops to coerce us back into the Union did in 1861.
Our commissioners returned on Saturday. On Sunday, Grant made an advance towards the Southside railroad. On Monday and Tuesday, there was severe fighting, tho not a general engagement. The enemy advanced their lines and entrenched but, next day, were driven back with heavy loss to them. Our loss in killed was small.
Evidently they thought their peace proposition would throw us off our guard but they found General Lee with his eyes wide open. Large and most enthusiastic meetings have been held in Richmond to express our sense of the indignity offered us by these mock peace propositions and to pledge the country to a hearty support of the war until our independence is secured.
February 22, 1865. Last Friday, Saturday and Sunday, we were kept stirred in rumours of Yankees all round us. One party came up in the night from Fairfax and caught eleven soldiers napping and did a large amount of pillage.
Next, we heard of a party from the Valley scouring the Upperville neighborhood and getting many prisoners. But Major Richards[140], of Mosby’s command, intercepted them, tis said, recovering most of the prisoners and killing and capturing all but fifteen of the raiders.
Neither party paid us a visit but yesterday, before sunrise, about a dozen men rode in and, for a while, we were in doubt whether they were our own men or Yankees. But their movements soon settled that question and, when I saw one ride into our alley gate, I slipped on enough clothing to cover me and ran down.
But he had passed thru after peeping into the stable which, luckily, was so dark he didn’t see the horses. So we watched our opportunity and, when none were in sight, slipped it into the cellar and so saved it.
Then came a large squad with four or five prisoners, amongst them, Bev Turner, a non-combatant who had been captured by them while they held the Manassas railroad and who, with five others, jumped from the train near Philadelphia as they were taking him to Ft. Delaware.
He got off to Nassau and succeeded in running the blockade at Charlestown and arrived at home Wednesday. His mother died on Saturday and, on Monday, the poor fellow was recaptured.
Very soon the wretches began plundering meathouses. I had found time to dress myself and was at breakfast when the servants told me the Yankees were coming into the yard. I begged the Doctor to keep out of sight and, running out, found a skulking fellow trying the door of the hen house.
Soon he discovered the meat house but I got before him and mounted guard with my back against the lock. Four or five others came in. I told them that, if they got into that house, they’d have to take me away by force. They protested they would get in but I stood my ground and they turned to leave.
Just at that time, I saw one going up into the back porch and, fearing he would get upstairs, I left my post and rushed after him, seizing him by the arm just as he was opening a closet where my husband’s saddle and bridle were secreted. To my surprise, he made no resistance as I pushed him down the steps.
But the others had taken advantage of my flight to get possession of the meat house door and I could not regain my position as they did not hesitate to push me aside. The lock was very strong and resisted their blows. At last, I saw the staples yielding and consented to unlock the door.
They rushed in and such a scene of confusion! Knocking down the hams and scrambling for the larger till they got as many as they could carry. All I could do was to revile them but my impotent resistance seemed rather to amuse them. They had scarcely gone when two more came. I flatly refused to let them in.
They argued the matter. All they wanted was one ham, each, for their dinner. I told them I’d had sixteen taken already so they said if I had given the others so many I might give them some too.
“Given!” I said, “Do you suppose I’d have one of you a mouthful – they took it by force.” There is nothing that strikes me more than the cool assurance of these rascals. They actually reproached me for not being willing to give them my meat, attempted to appeal to my sympathy, saying, “We are starving and, if you could see us sleeping in the snow and getting nothing to eat, you’d give us some meat.”
As if anything could please me better than to know they were freezing and starving. I was sorry to know it was not the truth. Finding their persuasions in vain, they tried another tack and told me if I didn’t give them the hams they’d go and get twenty men and strip the house.
This I knew they were able and willing to do so I let them each take a ham and, to give the devil his due, I did hear them tell a party who met them coming out and asked if there was any more meat in there, “No, we’ve cleaned them out.”
But I was not done with them yet. I had got my back against the door when, like Aesop’s swarms of flies, some more came and we went over the old argument. These were even ruder than the others and tried to shove me off. I wouldn’t move. I told them I hadn’t more than half a dozen hams left.
At last, one, more decent, apparently, said, “Let us look in and, if you have only a few, we won’t take them.” I must plead guilty to great greenness but I said, “Will you promise?” and he said, “On my honor.” (the honor of a Yankee!)
I opened the door, in they rushed and, without taking count, knocked down as many more as they wanted and each man took one. I got them out and locked the door, resolved to be torn to pieces before I’d open it again.
Presently, in rode an ill looking fellow of about eighteen and dismounted. Said I, “What do you want?”
“Meat.” I told him he’d not get it. He vowed he would and tried to push open the door. He blustered and cursed but I felt myself more than a match for him. After much debate, he said, “Well, I’ll go and bring in men enough to take you away from that door and we’ll take all your meat to pay you.”
“When they take me from the door they’ll get in and not before,” I said. He left and I waited for the expected onslaught but I reckon he found a door more easily opened for I saw no more of him.
They took, in all, twenty-four fine hams. I believe that, if I had not been obliged to leave my post, in the first instance, I should have kept them out of the meat house. At last, they all departed, laden with meat and bundles of blankets and cotton, stolen in the country and several fine horses, one with a side saddle on it.
Some of our neighbors lost even more meat than we did; the rich of their abundance and the poor of their poverty.
This proves to have been a volunteer scout, gotten up to procure supplies for a grand 22nd of February[141] supper that these patriots propose to give at Fairfax Courthouse. I wonder what the Father of His Country would have thought of such a celebration of his nativity. But Yankee patriotism, Yankee morality and Yankee religion are all of a piece and this is a fair sample.
March 1, 1865. The past month has been one of such deep anxiety, such sickening suspense, that I’ve had no heart to write. Never since the war began has our situation seemed so critical. Never has there been such despondency and gloom, one reverse after another.
Savannah, Charleston, Wilmington gone in quick succession. Sherman desolating Georgia and South Carolina and pressing closer and closer to Richmond. Railroads torn up for hundreds of miles, cutting off the supplies for our armies. The evacuation of Richmond seems inevitable.
If we give up Richmond, we give up Virginia and, we have been constrained to feel, of late, that, if Virginia is given up, there is nothing left worth fighting for. The most sanguine have yielded to discouragement and men talk of what they’ll do “when we are subjugated.”
Our letters from Richmond have been very disheartening – indeed, the danger seemed so imminent that Tom [Dudley] thought it best to arrange to send Fanny and the girls to Loudoun. This hurried my movements, somewhat, as I was to take Katey down to see her father[142] and meet my dear boy who expected to get a furlough the first of March.
We made arrangements to start on the fourth and, a few days previous, were rather unsettled by hearing that all Sheridan’s cavalry, variously estimated from five to twelve thousand, had gone up the Valley on a raid. But, as Gordonsville might not be their destination, I determined to risk it.
The night before we started, came a dispatch to Colonel Mosby, saying the Yankees had reached Charlottesville. But I would not give up. Under escort of a disabled captain, we set off in a covered spring wagon.
When we had gone some twelve miles and were about three miles this side of Salem, we were told that the Yankees were at Dr. Peyton’s and had run a soldier off from there. This was very near us so we drove towards the house for information. A man came running out saying, “Drive in and unload as quick as possible, the Yankees will be here directly.”
So in we went and, with much difficulty my heavy trunk was lifted out to the house, I feeling all the time it would be infinitely safer traveling in the wagon. But, as the horses were not ours, I couldn’t risk them. My driver and escort ran off into the woods with the horses.
Every soldier who passed told the same story, “A soldier run off from Dr. Peyton’s by the Yankees.” We could see squads of soldiers watching out from the high hills round. Presently, came an old codger, jogging quietly along and he was just from Dr. Peyton’s and there hadn’t been a Yankee near there. The brave soldier who spread the alarm had been frightened off by a party of Mosby’s men, returning from a scout.
Without taking time to ascertain who they were, he had stirred up the country for twenty miles round and occasioned us a delay of three or four hours when every hour was invaluable to us. In consequence of his, we only got as far as Mr. Rixey’s that night.
As we went on, next day, rumours of [Confederate Maj. Gen. Jubal] Early’s defeat at Waynesborough met us. The old story – Early flanked and more than half his men captured, he, to the great regret of the country, escaping. Having handed over to Sheridan, since last September, one of the best corps in our army with all the artillery and wagon trains.
We stopped at Little Washington that night to decide, from what we heard, whether to venture on or not. Everyone asserted that the Raiders[143] had certainly gone on to Gordonsville but no one could prove it. It seemed certain, tho, that no cars were running on the road. So, with a heavy heart, I retraced my steps, forced to give up my only chance for seeing Henry and quite overwhelmed at the idea of Fanny not being able to get out of Richmond.
I arrived home, broken down by the four days useless travel and the fears and anxieties that beset me. But it turned out the Yankees did not go to Gordonsville but moved towards Lynchburg. All this time I had been congratulating myself that Henry was out of the way for, in January, he had left Early and gone to southwestern Virginia as adjutant to the Chief of Artillery in Breckenridge’s Division.
We had seen no Yankees here since the Bacon Raid but, last Monday, there was a rumour of a force above us who had gone as far as Little Washington[144] and were returning.
On Tuesday, about 150 came thru town but a party of four dismounted at our door. I was in the back yard and the Doctor, hearing the knocking, went to the door and unlocked it. In rushed the wretches and, when I got in, I found the Doctor trying to push one of them out and the whole party swearing and blustering and threatening to shoot him.
I always try to keep him from coming in contact with them because it is hard for a man to submit to insult in his own house and they are such brutes that they do not hesitate to shoot a man on the most frivolous pretexts.
We asked what they wanted. They said something to drink. We told them we had nothing for them. They “wanted something to eat and drink and would have it too.” One said, “Search the cellars for something to drink.”
So, to get them off the track, I opened the dining room door. Our dinner was on the table – In they rushed. We had removed the forks and spoons and their perplexity was ludicrous. There was nothing they could pick up with their fingers and no spoons or forks to help them.
They moved from dish to dish, and at last settled down on a turkey hash, dipping in their filthy hands, taking the slices of bread in it and then piling the turkey on top. All this time, the Doctor was protesting against them and looking out for an officer. This hurried them very much for they put off with their hands full of hash, the gravy streaming thru their dirty fingers upon the carpet.
Just as the last one was mounting, an officer came up and ordered them off in the most peremptory manner. I had the rest of the hash emptied to the dogs and the dish thoroughly cleansed. We hear they plundered the country extensively.
Letters from Richmond come telling us that our dear boy, whom we thought far removed from present danger, had been captured at Charlottesville. He had obtained a furlough and, en route to Richmond to meet me, dear child, was met by the Confederate raid in Albemarle.
He, at once, offered his services to the general in command and was sent on a scout. He tied his horse in the wood and was going towards a house to ask some information and came suddenly on a squad of Yankees. They carried him to Charlottesville and suffered him to stop at Mrs. Colston’s, at the University, where, they write us, he talked with them for some time.
That evening, he came back, accompanied by his guard who allowed him to stay until nine o’clock and promised the girls that, if they didn’t leave in the morning, he’d “fetch the Lieutenant back to see them.”
But they did leave in the morning and, unless he made his escape, has been dragged round with them. This letter, today, has been an unspeakable relief to me. We had only heard, before, that he was captured but there was enough uncertainty to make me very anxious.
How I thank God for the assurance of his safety and that He inclined the hearts of his captors to be kind to him. The same, merciful power that has brought him so often thru the perils of the battlefield can follow him to prison too. I cannot distrust Him now.
Our latest news from Richmond was more cheering. One branch of Sherman’s army has been defeated near Kinston, N.C. Johnston[145] was in command, there, which increases public confidence.
Hampton[146] had routed Kilpatrick, capturing all his wagons and artillery and many prisoners. The people were responding nobly to the call for voluntary contributions of food for the army and twas hoped the supply would be sufficient in spite of the efforts made to cut it off.
Sheridan’s Raiders were rampaging round somewhere, one body coming down the canal, demonstrating against Richmond on the Northside. We wait anxiously for further news.
The General Exchange is going on and the returned prisoners are coming in every day. God grant nothing may occur to stop it.[147] Day before yesterday, the Doctor started to Richmond to bring Fanny and the children back with him. Today, I got a letter from him telling me that, on getting to Culpeper, he found the raiders were still on the Central road, which they were tearing up between Hanover Junction and Louisa Courthouse. He was going on to Charlottesville to try and hear something of Henry and to communicate, if possible, with Fanny. We are now cut off from all Southern news.
March 24, 1865. For a day or two, we have had rumours of a force of Yankee cavalry and infantry who came from Harper’s Ferry and were making the circuit of Loudoun with a wagon train, taking grain and meat, tis said, in retaliation for the supplies which Mosby’s men have taken from the Union men in upper Loudoun.
Day before yesterday, there was a fight near Purcellville[148] when Mosby whipped their cavalry and ran them back to the infantry. They are estimated at 700 infantry and 400 cavalry. Since then, Mosby has been following them round. We have heard no reports of their depredations on the country above us as yet.
About dinner time, they were announced as coming down the road from Upperville. We never doubted but we should be terribly plundered and so set our houses in order. But they passed quietly on – four coming into our kitchen to get something to eat, which the servants gave them.
They had scarcely reached the edge of the village when the streets were filled with Mosby’s men who yelled and fired and taunted in vain to get them to leave their infantry support and come after them. The Colonel was very conspicuous in his suit of bright blue and shows to great advantage on horseback when roused, by excitement, from his usual don’t-care-ish manner.
Tis the first time I ever saw the Battalion in force. They are a fine-looking body of men; well-dressed, well-mounted and ride splendidly. The Yankees drew up in line of battle but, after awhile, went on towards Mountsville. Mosby followed but, since dark, has returned with the Battalion.
Yesterday, I had the unspeakable satisfaction of hearing that my dear boy had made his escape from the raiders and was in Richmond but could get no particulars.
March 25, 1865. Sitting in an unusual state of security, this morning, someone rushed in saying, “The Yankees are all coming back and are now in sight” and, sure enough, soon the town was full of them. We supposed it was the same, old party and, not till they left, did we find out that they were our old friends, the 8th Illinois and the two New York regiments from Fairfax.
It appears that, after Mosby whipped the other party at Harmony, on Tuesday, they sent back to Harper’s Ferry for reinforcements and these others were telegraphed to come on immediately as Roper, White and Mosby were all here. Mosby received information of their coming the night before and disbanded the Battalion or rather the 160 men he had been able to bring together.
The Yankees stayed a very short time and did no damage in town. Two came into our yard with a bag to get “haams.” Logan opened the meathouse door and showed a beggarly account of jowls and middlings and they left in disgust.
The people of Harmony say that, when Mosby drove in the cavalry on Tuesday, the panic was so great the infantry threw down their guns and ran in every direction, some taking refuge in cellars and under the els[149]. Unluckily, Mosby did not suspect such a state of affairs and drew his men off. He followed them so closely that they were afraid to stop to pillage and so the country was saved incalculable damage. Certain it is they looked like whipped hounds when they passed here.
April 1, 1865. The Doctor got home tonight, having ridden, on horseback, nearly four hundred miles since he left. But he got to Richmond and had the satisfaction of spending several days with our dear boy who, in consideration of his capture, got fifteen days extension of his furlough.
He [Henry] says he met with kind treatment from the Yankees, fairing [sic] better than most of the prisoners who were robbed of money, overcoats and boots. He only lost pistol, haversack and gloves.
Finding, on his scout, that he had got into dangerous proximity to the Yankees, he tied his horse in the wood and walked on in search of information. He told the gentleman where he had left the horse, in case he was captured but, in the confusion, it was forgotten and, several days after, found by some negroes who carried it to their master as a fine, Yankee horse.
He had to walk to Charlottesville and was put in the jail where he stayed two nights and then was carried off with the column to Scottsville and, from there to Columbia.[150]
For the first two days he was mounted but, for three days they were marched on foot, 24 miles a day thru mud up to their knees. There they halted a day, the prisoners were put in the Episcopal church. The morning they left, he slipped by the guard and went round the church, got into a cellar window where he found six others secreted.
They were not missed and, after the raiders had all left, they got a boat and crossed the river and made their way to the Danville road. The people along the route sending them from point to point till they got to the cars which took them to Richmond.
The repairs to the Central road were nearly finished and the injury to the canal is not so great as to prevent its being made available soon.
April 4, 1865. The Doctor started, today, with his wagon to meet Fanny who expected to get to Culpeper tomorrow. A great deal of cannonading has been heard since twelve o’clock last night. Most of it in the Valley but some towards Washington. It sounds like the knell of doom in our ears when we fear it may be rejoicing, in Washington, over some great victory. But it has gone on all day Sunday, and at intervals yesterday and today.[151] Rumours are afloat of a general engagement at Petersburg. We wait anxiously for the further news. The tide of success has been somewhat in our favor, of late, and we trust God has heard the prayers of His people in their extremity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Typed under last entry:
This was the last entry in the journal. On April 9, 1865, General Lee surrendered the army of Northern Virginia, to General Grant, at Appomattox Courthouse.
The Doctor, presumably, met Fanny and the children and took them back to Middleburg as on September 23, 1865 her fourth daughter was born. One week later, on September 30th, Fanny died. Her mother raised the four little girls. Tom Dudley expected to study law but decided to enter the ministry and became the Episcopal Bishop of Kentucky in 1875.
Footnotes
[1] Railroad carriage specifically for mail and packages
[2] May 24, 1861 young Union Colonel Elmer Ellsworth removed a Confederate flag flying above Alexandria, Virginia innkeeper James Jackson’s property. Jackson shot Ellsworth dead, then Ellsworth’s men immediately fired on and killed Jackson in return. The event was early in the war and a brutal, face to face harbinger of things to come.
[3] The First Battle of Bull Run/Manassas actually took place on July 21, 1861; Cochran is slightly misremembering the day-long battle date.
[4] Turner Ashby (d. June 6, 1862) commander of the 7th Virginia “Black Horse” cavalry; a local hero from next door Fauquier county, Ashby early on displayed the courage that tempts fate on a battlefield.
[5] Middleburg resident Catherine Broun’s war diary mentions the old Methodist Church on Jay Street being used for bodies brought into town after the July 21, 1861 battle – mentioned here in Cochran’s memoir. The Jay Street building, still standing today, had been disused in 1859 after a new Methodist church was built on the town’s main street. It reopened as a Methodist church for town’s black residents.
[6] Cochren is again slightly off in her memory of the date of a battle: Ball’s Bluff occurred on October 21, 1861.
[7] This is Cochren’s first, but in no way her last, mention of Confederate General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson.
[8] Confederate General D.H. Hill had defended Loudoun County through the winter of 1861-1862.
[9] Union Colonel John W. Geary commanded Pennsylvania Infantry Regiments, and in April 1862 was promoted to Brigadier General. A lawyer before the war, he had been San Francisco’s first mayor, then governor of Kansas, and after the war was two-term governor of Pennsylvania. He was an ardent abolitionist and hated secessionists. Recurring occupations of Loudoun County by Geary and his troops created extreme hostility toward him by citizens such as Catherine Cochran. Their hostility could only be matched by Geary’s own, directed back at them.
[10] Western Loudoun county was heavily settled by Quakers and German immigrants, neither group supporting slavery or secessionism. They suffered during the war, having no political allies within the Confederacy. Cochran refers to them as “the disloyal portion of Loudoun.”
[11] Advance Guard was a Union Regimental newspaper written by soldiers of the 17th Illinois Infantry.
[12] Located near Upperville, “Oakley” was a plantation farm belonging to the Dulanys. Ida Powell Dulany wrote a war diary and in it referred to Catherine Cochran as “Cousin Cat.” Ida ran Oakley while her husband, Henry Dulany, served in the 6th Virginia Cavalry Regiment, equipping and leading that regiment’s Co. A.
[13] Union General Nathaniel Banks served as a commander in the Army of the Shenandoah, scrambling up and down the Valley in pursuit – or dodging – Confederate Gen. Stonewall Jackson. It was hard to make Jackson and his brigade look even more adept, heroic and scrappy, but Banks somehow managed to do it.
[14] Union Brig. General John Joseph Abercrombie
[15] Thomas Munford was a Richmond, Virginia native, Virginia Military Institute graduate and now Colonel of the 2nd Virginia Cavalry
[16] Both Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper and the equally popular Harper’s Weekly were published in New York City, and were strongly pro-Unionist. They had journalists and artists traveling with U.S. armies, day-by-day covering the war. Their artists’ scenes of battles, life in army camp, etc. were turned into famous engravings. As the war progressed and Southern newspapers were closed down or confiscated, more and more war news came to Confederate citizens from these, and other, Northern newspapers. Southerners needed, but also resented, them.
[17] Asa Rogers was a lawyer, merchant, politician and now commissioned Brigadier General. He and wife Ellen Lee Orr Rogers lived east of Middleburg on “Mill Hill” farm, members of a big, prosperous and influential local family.
[18] Lucy Lee Rogers Kinsolving, 28 years old daughter of Asa and Ellen Rogers, died after childbirth. She was married to Emmanuel Episcopal rector of Middleburg, Ovid Kinsolving; the Cochrans lived near the Kinsolvings and were members of Emmanuel Episcopal church.
[19] “Fanny” was Catherine’s 23-year-old daughter, Frances Berkeley Cochran Dudley, married to Thomas Underwood Dudley. Fanny and Tom were parents of three young daughters mentioned in Catherine’s writing: Katie, May and Alice.
[20] Catherine is recollecting this part of her war experience and is slightly off on the dates; Lucy Kinsolving’s death came in May, after this April Easter entry.
[21] John Henry Cochran, aged 18, was the son of William and Catherine. He had enlisted and was a young officer in Montgomery’s Co. Virginia Light Artillery Battalion.
[22] Catherine’s memoir shows that Middleburg residents, both white and black, knew about the young girl the Cochran’s punished by taking her to Richmond to be “hired out.” The action was harsh. Black residents’ distrust and resentment toward the Cochrans was shown, later in Catherine’s diary, to have consequences.
[23] Carrying mail back and forth from the Confederacy into Union controlled territory such as Loudoun County was considered smuggling. Catherine wrote (above) of “distributing the large mail he brought…” when her husband returned from Richmond. Letters carried across enemy lines could have contained important military information, and if caught both Catherine and certainly her husband, William, would have been arrested.
[24] It was a huge financial loss to Virginia slave owners when enslaved men and women fled to nearby Union camps or regiments. Catherine mentions the “men, for a very large reward” who would kidnap enslaved individuals at night, taking them further south to be sold. (Richmond slave auctions lasted into 1865, bringing prices of over $1600 for a healthy male.) Threat of kidnapping surely caused anxiety among enslaved workers, making them even more likely to flee to safety with the Union army.
[25] Catherine needn’t have worried: Major General James Longstreet and his corps of 28,000 men got to the Battle of 2nd Manassas/Bull Run in plenty of time to play a decisive role in the resounding Confederate victory.
[26] General Jubal Early’s Division was in Stonewall Jackson’s 2nd Corps. In a last assault of the battle, Early’s men dislodged Union soldiers with a bayonet charge.
[27] The “hospitals” were Middleburg’s various churches, as well as private homes or any vacant, empty buildings.
[28] Confederate Major General Daniel Harvey Hill was a division commander in Stonewall Jackson’s 2nd Corp. (Hill was married to Jackson’s wife’s sister.) D.H. Hill had a difficult temperament, eventually falling out with President Jefferson Davis and losing his command.
[29] Confederate cavalry General J.E.B. Stuart needed no introduction to Catherine Cochran, and probably needs no introduction to readers; he is in the Civil War military pantheon. Many books have been written about Stuart’s sometimes controversial but always heroic and compelling war service.
[30] Union (now named “Unison”) is a small village about six miles northwest of Middleburg.
[31] Burr Powell Noland was Catherine’s brother, Tom Dudley was her son-in-law.
[32] “Mrs. Carter’s” was possibly Elizabeth Carter’s estate, Oatlands, located ten miles northeast of Middleburg and located on a route to Washington and Alexandria.
[33] Army of the Potomac commanders: Fitz John Porter, George Meade, Henry Warner Slocum, and William Buel Franklin passed with tens of thousands of men and endless wagons, armaments, livestock and supplies. Middleburg resident Catherine Broun mentions first hearing Union army marching drums and regimental bands for hours coming closer and louder, before finally seeing the men. These men were on their way to a horrific, bloody defeat December 11th – 13Th in Fredericksburg.
[34] Maj. General Franz Sigel – himself German American – commanded the XI Corps, made up of many German immigrant soldiers. They were colloquially called “Dutch.” Usually from New York, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin or Ohio, the men often spoke little or no English and received an extra dollop of contempt in Cochran’s and other Loudoun diaries.
[35] General Fitz John Porter was arrested on November 25th, and court-martialed in a convoluted dust up with Major General John Pope. How pleased Catherine Cochran must have been to read about that in the otherwise despised Northern papers.
[36] Ft. McHenry, near Baltimore, was being used as a Confederate prison.
[37] Point of Rocks, on the Maryland shore of the Potomac River, is 30 miles from Middleburg.
[38] Salem (now named “Marshall”) is a town 11 miles south of Middleburg.
[39] William Henry Fitzhugh “Rooney” Lee, son of Commander Robert E. Lee, was a cavalry general in the Army of Northern Virginia. A nephew of Robert E. Lee, Fitzhugh Lee, was also a cavalry general in the ANV. Both served under Maj. General J.E.B. Stuart.
[40] With this entry, Catherine casually introduces “Capt. Mosby” to her readers. John Singleton Mosby commanded the Virginia 43rd Battalion, Partisan Rangers, and became central to northern Virginia’s experience of the war. His leadership and the men of his battalion took on an almost iconic role of underdog defiance against the Federal army. Mosby himself came to be referred to as “the Gray Ghost.” He had extraordinary military skills. As for the anecdote of Mosby capturing Union General Edwin Stoughton in bed – how could the General ever live this down? The answer to that is simple: he didn’t.
[41] How did 1st Vermont Cavalry Major William Wells live down the ignominy of falling out of the ceiling and landing at the feet of his captors? He dusted himself off and after a stint in Richmond’s Libby Prison, was exchanged and headed back to war. Wells lead a charge at Gettysburg, where he has two monuments erected in his honor.
[42] Mosby’s 43rd Battalion were called “bushwhackers” and “guerillas” by Union troops.
[43] Brig. General Joseph Copeland led the famed and aggressive Michigan Brigade, the “Wolverines.” Though Catherine found him “best suited to do the dirty work” of arresting citizens and carrying off wagon loads of goods, Copeland would be shortly removed from command, replaced with someone perhaps even more suitable for the “dirty work”: George Armstrong Custer.
[44] Alexander G. “Yankee” Davis (1814-1901), was Connecticut born but had lived for years with his family on a farm outside of Aldie, a village five miles east of Middleburg. He worked as a civilian scout for the Union Army. This earned him the hatred of his Confederate neighbors but he didn’t back down. He survived threats, attacks and murder attempts.
[45] “High Acre” farm was family property a few miles outside Middleburg, on the way to The Plains.
[46] Major General Joseph Hooker had taken over the leadership of the Army of the Potomac from the hapless Ambrose Burnside. Hooker’s equally disappointing tenure included a resounding defeat at the April 30-May 4, 1863 Battle of Chancellorsville.
[47] Washington’s Old Capitol Prison was where Southern citizens, spies and a few Confederate soldiers were kept. Washington’s local n’er-do-wells (prostitutes, pick-pockets, etc.) were thrown into Old Capital prison, and a few Union officers even ended up there. Justice is still meted out on the site: today, the U.S. Supreme Court sits where Old Capitol was located.
[48] Fort Monroe was in Hampton, Virginia, a military installation now serving as a Union prison.
[49] Hungarian born Major General Julius Stahel –also known as Count Sebastiani – had been commanding a Union cavalry regiment protecting Washington. He lived in New York City prior to the war and by spring of 1863 commanded a division of the 11th Corps.
[50] Kinloch farm was owned by the Turners, and located near The Plains, a village about 8 miles from Middleburg.
[51] Burr Powell Noland, Catherine’s 44-year-old brother, also had a home in Middleburg.
[52] Mt. Zion Methodist church is located 7 miles east of Middleburg, along the much traveled turnpike that ran from Alexandria, through Middleburg (becoming its Main Street) and on west over the Blue Ridge mountains to the town of Winchester.
[53] Major General Robert H. Milroy, leading a Division of the VIII corps.
[54] The “small party of graycoats” were engaged in a dangerous business: they were spies. If they had been caught by Mosby’s men, whom they were seeking, they would have been summarily hanged, under accepted military protocol.
[55] Culpeper is 43 miles south of Middleburg.
[56] Major General Jubal Early was an outstanding commander, though not without faults. He was irascible and quick tempered; Robert E. Lee called him, “my bad old man.”
[57] Union Major General George Meade and the Army of the Potomac were back in Virginia after their victory at Gettysburg. The diary entries here show Catherine added commentary at a later date. She wrote: “It seemed that for months after that fight [emphasis mine] we were hearing of some acquaintance or friend who had fallen.” She focused on the character of Robert E. Lee, as if this war would, somehow, come down to a personality test: “Never did General Lee seem so sublime as when he took the blame on his own, broad shoulders…” After such a monumental defeat for Lee’s army and huge victory for the North, Catherine expressed no doubt over the Confederate cause. A strong case could be made that she was writing for a later audience, rather than using the diary for her own reflections.
[58] Union Major General Benjamin Butler led the Army of the James (Union armies tended to be named after rivers.) He wasn’t a talented general, but his early and inspired pronouncement that freedom seekers leaving slavery could be considered “contraband of war” guaranteed Butler a chapter in the history books.
[59] “Southside” refers to the section of Richmond south of the James River. “North Anna Bridge” and “South Anna Bridge” are two river locations about 36 miles north of the city of Richmond.
[60] Not an “out house” lavatory but a small shed or storage building near the main house.
[61] According to Civil War historian Eric Wittenberg, over a million horses and mules died in the war. Both armies were constantly having to replenish horses, often taking them from one another – as Catherine could attest.
[62] Ivy was a little village 7 miles northwest of Charlottesville, and 32 miles east of their destination, Staunton.
[63] Union army Provost Marshals were used to maintain order among both soldiers and civilians. They were military police. Because Catherine and her family were re-entering Union controlled territory, they had to receive permission to travel buy receiving a paper “pass” that could be shown if they were stopped again along the way.
[64] “Confederate States”
[65] Major General Franz Sigel’s XI Corps, the dreaded “Dutch” corps
[66] Front Royal, where Catherine hoped to rest for the night, is 24 miles further north from Luray. Once in Front Royal it is another 30 miles travel to Middleburg. Both Front Royal and the little town of Luray are in the beautiful, mountainous Shenandoah Valley. Luray is famous for nearby caves and caverns.
[67] Add to the overwhelming suffering of this war one more small, horrible death.
[68]“They are wild waves of the sea, foaming up their own shame…” is a Bible verse from the book of Jude, chapter 1 verse 13.
[69] Berry’s Ferry, 14 miles west of Middleburg, was a ferry crossing of the Shenandoah River on Ashby’s Gap turnpike.
[70] “…the cavalry fights of the summer” were Loudoun county’s fiercest battle: the June 19-21st, 1863 Battle of Aldie, Middleburg and Upperville. Part of the campaign to Gettysburg, the battle involved thousands of men under the command of cavalry generals: Confederate Maj. General J.E.B Stuart and Union Maj. General Alfred Pleasonton.
[71] Catherine’s “Papa” was Lloyd Noland, her “Mama” (two paragraphs down) was Ann Whiting Powell Noland, both living at Glenora farm located between Middleburg and Upperville. “General M’s headquarters” referred to Union Major General George Meade, passing his army through their victorious battle at Gettysburg.
[72] Charles Binns was born into a respected Virginia family. He joined John Mosby’s famed Confederate 43rd Battalion Partisan Rangers soon after it was established, then fell out with Mosby and turned against him and battalion comrades. Binns then offered himself to the other side to work as a Union army scout. He led Union troops to Mosby battalion hide outs and safe houses. He showed Union regiments all the back roads and cow paths used by Mosby’s men to ambush or slip around Federal units. Charlie Binns earned the heaping hatred of every Civil War diary writer in Loudoun County, including Catherine Cochran. Mosby’s battalion attempted to pay Binns back in every skirmish he turned up at, now fighting with his Union cavalry colleagues. But Binns had the luck of the devil – never killed, wounded or captured.
[73] Ambulance wagons during the Civil War were not standardized, but they shared a basic look: covered wagons could accommodate four patients on stretchers and up to six seated, the driver sitting up front on a bench seat.
[74] Catherine’s focus on commissary needs of the Confederate army is based on her knowledge of the facts. Her brother, Burr Powell Noland, and her son-in-law, Thomas (“Tom”) Dudley both worked in the Confederate Department of Commissary, trying to meet the vast needs of the Southern army from dwindling supplies.
[75] A Barlow knife was a style of folding pocket knife; they are still in production today. First made in England, they became popular in the U.S. and by the 18th and 19th century every boy wanted one.
[76] Another baby girl for Fanny and Tom Dudley: Alice Harrison Dudley, born December 29, 1863
[77] “Yankeedom” was more surprised than endangered by General John H. Morgan’s hapless venture into Ohio. Known as “Morgan’s Raid,” the endeavor accomplished little and was carried out against orders. Morgan, along with most of his men, was captured. He did escape his Ohio prison and achieved the distinction of leading Confederates to the northernmost point of the war. After his return south, Morgan got into more escapades before being killed in battle September 1864 in Greeneville, Tennessee. This war was full of characters in shoulder straps, and John Hunt Morgan was one of them.
[78] The Virginia peninsula is land bounded by the York River, the James River, Hampton Roads, and Chesapeake Bay.
[79] Richmond’s Libby Prison was located on the James River waterfront; before the war it had been a warehouse.
[80] Frederick Hall was a small community with a train depot, 47 miles northwest of Richmond.
[81] Confederate Cavalry General Wade Hampton’s Legion was a highly praised South Carolina cavalry unit.
[82] The Kilpatrick-Dahlgren Raid (Feb.28-March3, 1864) into Richmond was an attempt to free Union prisoners of war held there, then attack the Confederate capital. The raid ended in failure and fiasco almost before it began. Colonel Dahlgren was killed and papers discovered on his body which the Confederates claimed – and Federalists denied – detailed plans of assassination of Jefferson Davis and his cabinet, plus the burning of Richmond.
[83] Ulysses S. Grant, now Lieutenant General of the United States Army, is mentioned here by Catherine Cochran for the first time. However, his service and reputation must have been well known to her. Grant’s western exploits as an army commander, in particular his successful siege of Vicksburg, made him a familiar war adversary to Southerners, and particularly one as well read and engaged in war news as Catherine.
[84] Rocketts was a dockyard and warehouse area of Richmond, along the James River.
[85] The armies of Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant were in a series of the most brutal, treacherous battles of the Civil War, the “Overland Campaign” of May 4 – June 24, 1864.
[86] Confederate General Pierre Beauregard, fighting the Union army’s overwhelmingly superior numbers, did an excellent job of protecting Petersburg, to the south of Richmond, thus – for now -saving the capital city.
[87] Lieutenant General James Longstreet, Lee’s “Old War Horse” was, contrary to Catherine’s information, very badly injured in the Battle of the Wilderness. He would now be out of the war for a crucial five months.
[88] Bermuda Hundred was a small community on the James River, about 23 miles south of Richmond.
[89] A North Carolina brigade under Major General Robert F. Hoke
[90] “Age shall not weary him….” Stuart, mortally wounded at age 31, was a uniquely gifted and irreplaceable cavalry officer. As a commander inspiring trust and devotion from his men he was only equaled by Lee himself. The single time Robert E. Lee is recorded as having shed tears during the war was at the news of Jeb Stuart’s death.
[91] Ivy Depot was a wide spot in the road with a train station, about 80 miles northwest of Richmond. Bloomfield was a family owned farm property located nearby.
[92] Henry Cochran served in artillery batteries – demanding high skills – during the entire war. He now was with Captain Charles Fry’s Light Artillery Battery which had been formed in Richmond. “Light Artillery” was guns or howitzers of no more than 105-millimeter caliber shells. Horses pulled the weapons which weighed up to 700 lbs.
[93] Seven generals – Confederate and Union – are mentioned in this single diary entry. Catherine was in the midst of the war’s vortex, the increasing whirl of violence taking its toll.
[94] Cavalry General William “Grumble” Jones was killed leading a charge in the Battle of Piedmont, 5th of June. Now even one less piece on Lee’s chess board.
[95] Trevilian Station, located 55 miles northwest of Richmond, was scene of the two day, largest all-cavalry battle of the war. Union Major General Philip Sheridan’s cavalry (Catherine called them “Raiders”) fought against Wade Hampton’s regiments. By this stage of the conflict, all cavalrymen on both sides were adept in the brutal ballet of fighting on horseback.
[96] Ninety miles west of Richmond
[97] Major General David Hunter was considered by the Confederacy to be a “felon to be executed if captured.” His crime: being the first military leader to enlist black soldiers into a Union Army regiment. Having lost the Lynchburg battle against Jubal Early’s Corps on June 18, Hunter resigned his command. After the war, he had the sad distinction of being head of the military commission that tried the Lincoln assassination conspirators.
[98] Union Brig. Generals James Wilson and August Kautz cut railroad supply and communication lines between Lynchburg and Petersburg, in a raid that lasted from June 22-July 1, 1864. They were only partially successful, coming up against three Confederate cavalry generals (“Rooney” Lee, Wade Hampton and William Mahone) who used clever ruses, surprise ambushes and relentless pursuit to inflict heavy casualties.
[99] Jubal Early led his 2nd Corps on a wild escapade through the Shenandoah Valley and knocked on the door of Washington, D.C. All hell broke loose. Early’s goal was to lead Grant in pursuit, pulling the Union army away from Richmond. That scheme didn’t work. In spite of early victories, the whole campaign went downhill with losses that eventually wiped out most of Early’s Corps.
Jubal Early, a cussing, boozing, ungodly man, will become Catherine Cochran’s least favorite Confederate.
[100] “they” is a reference to Northern newspapers, speculating on Confederate raids into Maryland.
[101] Confederate cavalry under General Bradley Johnson did indeed burn down the Maryland governor’s home.
[102] In a roster of extraordinary characters in command of this war, here are two more: John Bell Hood, now leading the Army of Tennessee, and his cavalry commander, Nathan Bedford Forrest. They were taking the fight to William Tecumseh Sherman’s Army of the Tennessee. All men on both sides were fighting over every foot of ground on the march to Atlanta. Hood and Forrest will have no “great success.”
[103] July 30, 1864 Petersburg’s Battle of the Crater: a tunnel was dug and explosives blown up under Confederate lines, resulting in a rush of Union troops, mainly U.S. Colored troops, killed when unable to escape the deep pit created in the explosion. Union casualties were 3,798 and Confederate casualties were 1,491.
[104] The Fort Pillow massacre in Tennessee on April 12, 1864 occurred when 300 Union African American troops were killed after surrendering to Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s Confederate cavalrymen. The ensuing Northern outrage resulted in the Union’s refusal to participate in prisoner exchanges.
[105] Months of efforts in “Peace Conferences” led up to the November 1864 election. Lincoln, doubting he would be re-elected, hoped the peace efforts would lead to something good – which would also strengthen his election prospects. But both sides, North and South, refused to accept terms offered by the other side. Peace talks were overtaken by events in the field, particularly Sherman’s success in Georgia. Southerners had a weaker and weaker hand, and few cards left on the table. It all fizzled out.
[106] The Rapidan river, near Culpeper, is 55 miles south of Middleburg.
[107] Catherine touches on a consequence of living in a war zone: civil society breaks down. Common theft and banditry became frequent in Loudoun county and are mentioned in other local diaries, letters and memoirs. Loudoun law enforcement officers were gone to war. The occupying Union army, enforcing civil laws and well as military rule, were seen as unhelpful or outright enemies.
[108] The 17th century British monarchy oppressed Scottish “Covenanters” of Presbyterian faith, who had to worship in secret.
[109] Salem, now named Marshall, is a town 11 miles south of the village of Middleburg.
[110] Sept. 23, 1864, the 13th New York Cavalry learned that a large store of Mosby’s ammunition and supplies was kept at Joe Blackwell’s farm, in neighboring Fauquier County. The Union men went to the Blackwell property, rounded up the occupants and burnt the buildings and all supplies.
[111] John Mosby blamed Union cavalry General George Armstrong Custer for this starting this gruesome tit for tat killing, though he wasn’t present for any of the deaths. Both sides backed away from the cold-blooded murders.
[112] Washington Life Guards was the colloquial name for a military unit formed during the American Revolutionary war, selected by George Washington’s order to be his personal guard and escort. He specifically requested the best men to be chosen by their commanders, to serve in the role. Kept active after the nation’s forming and down through the decades, the unit was known as the 3rd Infantry, Company A, and kept in service to guard the Washington metro area. It is still active today.
[113] Christopher Augur, now a Major General, was in command of the XXII Corps.
[114] The “Greenback Raid” of October 14, 1864 in Jefferson County was one of the Mosby 43rd Battalion’s best know raids. They broke up the railway line, entered the train and scared up two Union paymasters carrying cash for General Philip Sheridan’s cavalry troops. Mosby’s men divided up the $172,000.
[115] Mosby 43rd Battalion private John Lunceford, 18 years old, had been captured Oct. 14, 1864 by Union Colonel Gansevoort’s regiment and Lunceford took the oath of allegiance to the United States. He now was leading Federal troops to various locations Mosby used for storing artillery.
[116] Merchant and self-proclaimed spy, Pardon Worsley, wrote a memoir about his association with Union General Auger, in which he (Worsley) attempted to track down Mosby’s battalion men by selling goods to Middleburg residents, listening to their talk, hoping to meet Mosby rangers coming to town to buy supplies…it all came to nothing. And yes, as Catherine writes, Worsley also became a trial witness against Washington merchants willing to sell to Confederate citizens.
[117] Alfred Glasscock had been in Turner Ashby’s 7th Virginia Cavalry. After joining Mosby’s 43rd Battalion, Partisan Rangers. Glasscock rose to the position of Captain.
[118] High Acre was a family owned farm about five miles south of Middleburg, on the way to The Plains.
[119] Anna Noland was a daughter of Catherine’s brother Burr Powell Noland and hesister-in-law Sue Noland. The Nolands had a house in Middleburg.
[120] Union General Alfred Duffie was picked off like a prized turnip by Mosby rangers Boyd Smith and John Dickson. When hearing of the capture, Maj. Gen. Philip Sheridan requested Duffie be dismissed from service and added, “I think him a trifling man and a poor soldier. He was captured by his own stupidity.”
[121] This diary entry sheds a little light on a dark corner of Southern history: the uneasy relationship between races that occasionally broke out in retaliatory violence. Having Union troops nearby must have helped the black community’s feeling of power.
[122] This is the eighth incident in the diary where a horse is central in a hostile scene between Catherine or family member and the Union enemy; it won’t be the last.
[123] Ida Powell Dulany, was a cousin of Catherine’s. The Dulanys lived 8 miles west of Middleburg on 850 acre Oakley farm, outside Upperville. 25 year old Ida wrote an excellent war diary. In it she mentioned her 1864 arrest by General Auger in detail, though she leaves out the role of Mosby’s men. Henry “Hal” Dulany was Ida’s husband. Hal Dulany was an ex-officer in the Confederate cavalry but early in his service had been blinded in one eye. When the other eye became affected he was forced to leave the cavalry.
[124] The battle of Antietam had been fought near Sharpsburg, Md, Sept. 17, 1862, 40 miles as the crow flies from Middleburg. The river Catherine refers to crossing is the Potomac, a boundary between Maryland and the recently formed state of West Virginia.
[125] More information about Province and Ann McCormick can be found in the epilogue at the end of this publication of the Cochran diary. Ann McCormick (“Mrs. Mc”) will be Catherine’s traveling companion on what will turn out to be a rollicking, close call trip into Yankeedom.
[126]A “vidette” was a mounted sentry who rode between pickets, all on watch for enemy movement.
[127] Shepherdstown, West Virginia is alongside the Potomac river and only four miles from Sharpsburg, MD.
[128] Kearneysville is five miles southeast of Shepherdstown.
[129] The lifespan of a Civil War artillery horse was 7 months. The lifespan of a cavalry horse was 6 months. They died in battle, but also from exhaustion, injury and disease. Both armies were desperate to replace horses and also mules; they were the engines of war.
[130] Union Brigadier General William Henry Powell led the Army of West Virginia; he had war bravado and dare-devilry. If he was indeed “kin” to Catherine, it would be a sign that her own daring-do ran in the Powell family.
[131] This is a unique reference: Catherine writes that the barns and stables in the town of Middleburg were burned by Union cavalry troops as part of the “Burning Raid.”
[132] The numerous Quaker and German farmers of western Loudoun county were Union supporters, anti-secessionists, but none were spared by the Federal army during the “Burning Raid.”
[133] Union Maj. General William T. Sherman’s “March to the Sea” (November 15-December 21, 1864) with 60,000 soldiers went 285 miles. Sherman presented Savannah and its 25,000 bales of cotton to President Lincoln as a “Christmas gift.” Many attribute Sherman’s success in Georgia, particularly his taking of Atlanta in September, as responsible for Lincoln’s successful re-election as President; northerners saw war coming to a victorious end.
[134] Anna and Kate were Catherine’s nieces, the daughters of her brother Burr Powell Noland and his wife, Sue. Anna was twelve years old at the time of this incident, and Kate was 16 years old.
[135] Union cavalry general Alfred Thomas Torbert, served as Cavalry Corps commander under Philip Sheridan during the Shenandoah Valley campaign.
[136] Catherine wrote that Mosby’s wound “proved to be a superficial one,” however, this incident from December 21, 1864 was the 43rd Battalion commander’s closest brush with death. Union regiments had been searching for Mosby for over a year, and now here he was, badly wounded on the floor. But the 13th New York Cavalry – in the area looking for Mosby! – walked away from him, having fallen for the guerilla leader’s quick-thinking subterfuge.
[137] The enemy was not repulsed, Sherman was not at a standstill, Hood’s defeat was not exaggerated: Catherine’s hopes, in these last months of war, were running on misinformation and wishful thinking.
[138] Ft. Delaware was a Union prison, on the Delaware River, 180 miles from Middleburg. Asa Rogers, a lawyer and former member of the Virginia legislature, had been serving as a General of a Virginia militia. He was arrested in August of 1864 and taken to Old Capital Prison, then transferred to Ft. Delaware. From a letter Col. Woods wrote to Lincoln in Feb. 1865, there is some evidence that Asa Rogers may have been “caught“ by Pardon Worsley, who claimed he found several men in Middleburg who were illegally trading goods between North and South. Rogers was eventually released with the help of Colonel William Wood, who ran Old Capital Prison. Worsley had, by January 1865, been discredited.
[139] Hampton Road, Virginia was the scene of the protracted “Peace Conference.” From January-February 1865 both Lincoln and Secretary of State William Seward as well as Francis Blair, met with three commissioners from the Confederacy: Vice-President Stephens, Senator Robert Hunter and Assistant Secretary of War John Campbell. The sticking point proved, no surprise, to be slavery. The conference was a genuine effort on both sides. But the issue of slavery in a reunited nation was still too big a divide to be settled with words, no matter how well intentioned.
[140] Major Adolphus E. Richards was one of the 43rd Battalion’s most prominent and successful rangers, second only to John Mosby himself. Richards’ battle accomplishments and escapades were numerous. The Richards family lived at Green Garten farm, near Upperville; a younger son and brother to Adolphus was also in the 43rd Battalion. After the war Richards moved to Kentucky, went to law school and became a judge. He was probably good at that, too.
[141] George Washington’s birthday was being celebrated. It must have been slim pickings at Fairfax Courthouse, a town 28 miles east of Middleburg, if Union men were coming all this way on a forage expedition.
[142] Katey’s father was Burr Powell Noland, Catherine’s brother. As a commissary officer, he was in Richmond.
[143] The “Raiders” Catherine is referencing are Union Major General Philip Sheridan’s cavalry corps. They had been responsible for the Burning Raid of the past autumn, as well as earlier sweeps through Shenandoah Valley. Sheridan was on his way to block General Lee and his Army of Northern Virginia’s escape route, action which will force Lee to surrender at Appomattox.
[144] Little Washington, so called to distinguish it from the nation’s capital, is 35 miles southwest of Middleburg.
[145] Confederate Joseph E. Johnston was leading the Army of Tennessee.
[146] Confederate Lieutenant General Wade Hampton had taken over as cavalry commander after J.E.B Stuart’s death in May 1864 at Yellow Tavern, during the Overland Campaign.
[147] The General Exchange was an agreement between the two warring governments to release prisoners from their wretched, over-crowded prisons.
[148] Purcellville is a town 14 miles north of Middleburg. The skirmish was actually at a small village called Harmony, near Purcellville. John Mosby’s 43rd Battalion ambushed a party of Federal cavalry sent to Loudoun county to eliminate them. The Confederates were outnumbered, the skirmish was inconclusive.
[149] Attic trusses
[150] Scottsville is a small town 20 miles south of Charlottesville. Columbia is 22 miles east of Scottsville.
[151] Richmond was evacuated by Jefferson Davis and his cabinet on Sunday, April 2nd. By April 4th Abraham Lincoln (along with young son, Tad) toured the still burning, clamorous city. The sounds Catherine was hearing, all the way from Washington, was indeed the sound of rejoicing.
Catherine's War 