 | Diary of a southern refugee during the war |  |
1865.
January 1st, 1865.—At St. James's Church this morning.
Our children came over from Union Hill yesterday, to take
their dinner from the contents of the captured box, and
were detained by snow and rain. We were too much
pleased to have them with us not to make it convenient
to accommodate them, which we did with the assistance of
our kind friend Mrs. P. To-morrow F. and myself will
return to our offices, after a good rest, for which we are
very thankful.
2d.—This bitter cold morning, when we entered the
office, we found that our good "Major" had provided
us a New Year's treat of hot coffee. Of course we all
enjoyed it highly, and were very grateful to him; and when
I returned home, the first thing that met my eye was a box
sent from the express office. We opened it, and found it
a Christmas box, filled with nice and substantial things
from a friend now staying in Buckingham County, for whom
I once had an opportunity of doing some trifling kindness.
The Lord is certainly taking care of us through His people.
The refugees in some of the villages are much worse off than
we are. We hear amusing stories of a friend in an inland
place, where nothing can possibly be bought, hiring a
skillet from a servant for one dollar per month, and other
cooking utensils, which are absolutely necessary, at the
same rate; another in the same village, whose health seems
to require that she should drink something hot at night,
tea, coffee, sugar, nor milk. These ladies belong to wealthy
Virginia families. Many persons have no meat on their
tables for months at a time; and they are the real patriots,
who submit patiently, and without murmuring, to any privation,
provided the country is doing well. The flesh-pots
of Egypt have no charms for them; they look forward
hopefully to the time when their country shall be disenthralled,
never caring for the trials of the past or the
present, provided they can hope for the future.
8th. — Some persons in this beleaguered city seem
crazed on the subject of gayety. In the midst of the
wounded and dying, the low state of the commissariat, the
anxiety of the whole country, the troubles of every kind by
which we are surrounded, I am mortified to say that there
are gay parties given in the city. There are those denominated
"starvation parties," where young persons meet for
innocent enjoyment, and retire at a reasonable hour; but
there are others where the most elegant suppers are served—
cakes, jellies, ices in profusion, and meats of the finest kinds
in abundance, such as might furnish a meal for a regiment of
General Lee's army. I wish these things were not so, and
that every extra pound of meat could be sent to the army.
When returning from the hospital, after witnessing the
dying scene of a brother, whose young sister hung over him
in agony, with my heart full of the sorrows of hospital-life,
I passed a house where there were music and dancing. The
revulsion of feeling was sickening. I thought of the gayety
of Paris during the French Revolution, of the "cholera
ball" in Paris, the ball at Brussels the night before the
battle of Waterloo, and felt shocked that our own Virginians,
at such a time, should remind me of scenes which
foreign society. It seems to me that the army, when it
hears of the gayety of Richmond, must think it heartless,
particularly while it is suffering such hardships in her defence.
The weddings, of which there are many, seem to be
conducted with great quietness. We were all very much
interested in a marriage which took place in this house a
short time ago. Our sweet young friend, Miss A. P.,
was married to a Confederate States' surgeon from South
Carolina. We assembled in the parlour, which was brilliantly
lighted, before the dawn of day. The bride appeared
in travelling costume; as soon as the solemn ceremony was
done the folding-doors were thrown open, revealing a beautifully
spread breakfast-table in the adjoining room. Breakfast
being over, the bride and groom were hurried off to the
cars, which were to bear them South. But, as usual in
these war-times, the honeymoon was not to be uninterrupted.
The furlough of the groom was of short continuance—the
bright young bride will remain in the country with a sister,
while he returns to his duty on the field. As soon as the
wedding was over and the bridal party had gone, the excitement
of the week had passed with us, leaving a blank in the
house; but the times are too unquiet for a long calm—the
gap was closed, and we returned to busy life. There seems
to be a perfect mania on the subject of matrimony. Some
of the churches may be seen open and lighted almost every
night for bridals, and wherever I turn I hear of marriages
in prospect.
In war he mounts the warrior's steed,"
and I do not think that our modern warriors are a whit
that they find the time for the love-making amid the storms
of warfare. Just at this time, however, I suppose our
valiant knights and ladies fair are taking advantage of the
short respite, caused by the alternate snows and sunshine
of our variable climate having made the roads impassable
to Grant's artillery and baggage-wagons. A soldier in our
hospital called to me as I passed his bed the other day,
"I say, Mrs. —, when do you think my wound will be
well enough for me to go to the country?" "Before very
long, I hope." "But what does the doctor say, for I
am mighty anxious to go?" I looked at his disabled limb,
and talked to him hopefully of his being able to enjoy
country air in a short time. "Well, try to get me up, for,
you see, it ain't the country air I am after, but I wants to
get married, and the lady don't know that I am wounded,
and maybe she'll think I don't want to come." "Ah,"
said I, "but you must show her your scars, and if
she is a girl worth having she will love you all the better
for having bled for your country; and you must tell her
that
That is fondest and truest in love.' "
passed him again he called out, "Lady, please stop a
minute and tell me the verse over again, for, you see, when
I do get there, if she is affronted, I wants to give her the
prettiest excuse I can, and I think that verse is beautiful."
11th. — Every thing seems unchanging in the outer
world during the few past days. We were most delightfully
surprised last night. While sitting quietly in the
Colonel's room, (in the basement,) the window was suddenly
Northern captivity. Finding that we had changed our
quarters since he was here, he walked up the street in search
of us, and while stopping to ascertain the right house, he
espied us through the half-open window-shutter, and was
too impatient for the preliminaries of ringing a bell and
waiting for a servant to open the door. He was in exuberant
spirits, but much disappointed that his wife was not
with us. So, after a short sojourn and a cup of tea, he
went off to join her on "Union Hill." They both dined
with us to-day. His confinement has not been so bad as
we feared, from the treatment which many other prisoners
had received, but it was disagreeable enough. He was
among the surgeons in Winchester in charge of the sick and
wounded; and when we retreated before Sheridan after
the battle of the 19th of August, it fell to his lot, among
eighteen or twenty other surgeons, to be left there to take
care of our captured wounded. When those duties were
at an end, instead of sending them under flag of truce to our
own army, they were taken first to the old Capitol, where
they remained ten days, thence to Fort Delaware, for one
night, and thence to Fort Hamilton, near Fortress Monroe,
where they were detained four weeks. They there met
with much kindness from Southern ladies, and also from a
Federal officer, Captain Blake.
16th.—Fort Fisher has fallen; Wilmington will of
course follow. This was our last port into which blockade-runners
were successful in entering, and which furnished
us with an immense amount of stores. What will be the
effect of this disaster we know not; we can only hope and
pray.
21st.—We hear nothing cheering except in the proceedings
the latter. Both bodies look to stern resistance
to Federal authority. The city and country are full of
rumours and evil surmising; and while we do not believe
one word of the croaking, it makes us feel restless and
unhappy.
29th, Sunday.—As usual, we attended Mr. Peterkin's
church, and enjoyed his sermon. Every thing looks so
dark without that our only comfort is in looking to God for
His blessing. The Union Prayer-Meetings are great comforts
to us. They are attended by crowds; ministers of all
denominations officiate at them. Prayers for the country,
hymns of praise, and exhortations, fill up the time. Some
of the addresses are very stirring, urging the laity to work
and to give, and to every branch of the Christian Church
to do its duty to the country. Our brave old Bishop
Meade, on his dying bed, admonished one of his presbyters
to speak boldly to the people in behalf of the country; and
I am glad to hear the ministers do it. They speak cheerfully,
too, on the subject; they are sanguine of our success,
depending upon the Lord and on the bravery of our troops
—on the "sword of the Lord and of Gideon."
February 8.—I feel more and more anxious about Richmond.
I can't believe that it will be given up; yet so many
persons are doubtful that it makes me very unhappy. I can't
keep a regular diary now, because I do not like to write
all that I feel and hear. I am constantly expecting the
blessing of God in a way that we know not. I believe that
all of our difficulties are to be overruled for good. A croaker
accuses me of expecting a miracle to be wrought in our favour,
which I do not; but we have been so often led on in a
manner so wonderful, that we have no right to doubt the
up under such hardships and trials, which require the most
sublime moral as well as personal courage to endure, that
I cannot avoid expecting a blessing upon them!
Sherman moves on in his desolating path. Oh for men
to oppose and crush him!
In the midst of our trials, Hymen still comes in to assert
his claims, and to amuse and interest us. We have lately
seen our beautiful young friend, M. G., led to his altar;
and two of our young office associates are bidding us farewell
for the same sacrifice. One of them, Miss T. W.,
has sat by my side for more than a year, with her bright
face and sweet manners. She will be a real loss to
me, but I cannot find it in my heart to regret that she will
bless with her sweetness one of our brave Confederate officers.
28th.—Our new Commissary-General is giving us brighter
hopes for Richmond by his energy. Not a stone is left
unturned to collect all the provisions from the country
Ministers of the Gospel and others have gone out to the
various county towns and court-houses, to urge the
people to send in every extra bushel of corn or pound of
meat for the army. The people only want enlightening on
the subject; it is no want of patriotism which makes them
keep any portion of their provisions. Circulars are sent
out to the various civil and military officers in all disenthralled
counties in the State,—which, alas! when compared
with the whole, are very few,—to ask for their
superfluities. All will answer promptly, I know, and generously.
Since I last wrote in my diary, our Essex friends have
again most liberally replenished our larder just as they did
reward them!
March 10.—Still we go on as heretofore, hoping and
praying that Richmond may be safe. Before Mr. Hunter
(Hon. R. M. T.) left Richmond, I watched his countenance
whenever I heard the subject mentioned before him, and
though he said nothing, I thought he looked sad. I know
that he understands the situation of affairs perfectly, and I
may have fancied the sad look, but I think not; and whenever
it arises before my mind's eye, it makes me unhappy. I
imagine, too, from a conversation which I had with Mr. Secretary
Mallory, that he fears much for Richmond. Though
it was an unexpressed opinion, yet I fear that I understood
it rightly. I know that we ought to feel that whatever
General Lee and the President deem right for the cause
must be right, and that we should be satisfied that all will
be well; but it would almost break my heart to see this
dear old city, with its hallowed associations, given over to the
Federals. Fearful orders have been given in the offices to
keep the papers packed, except such as we are working on.
The packed boxes remain in the front room, as if uncertainty
still existed about moving them. As we walk in
every morning, all eyes are turned to the boxes to see if any
have been removed, and we breathe more freely when we
find them still there.
To-day I have spent in the hospital, and was very much
interested in our old Irishman. He has been there for
more than two years; first as a patient sent from Drury's
Bluff, with ague and fever. Though apparently long
past the military age, he had enlisted as a soldier in a
Georgia regiment, but it was soon discovered that he was
physically unable to stand camp-life; he was therefore
at the Bluff with vegetables. He got well, and returned to
his post, but was soon sent back again, too sick for service.
The climate did not suit him, and when he again recovered
Miss T. employed him as gardener and marketman to her
hospital. We all became interested in him, because of his
quiet, subdued manner, faithfulness to his duty, and respectful
bearing. Some months ago his health began to decline,
and day after day he has been watched and cared for by
the surgeon and ladies with deep interest; but he steadily
declines in strength, and is now confined to his cot, and it is
but too evident that his end is approaching. We had all
remarked that he never alluded to his early history, and
was singularly reserved with regard to his religious faith;
yet, as long as he was able to go out, he might be seen
every Sunday seated alone in a corner of the gallery of St.
James's Church. This evening, as I was walking around
the room in which he lies, and had just administered to
him some nourishment, he said to me: "When you get
through with the men won't you come back and let me talk
to ye?" When I returned and took my seat by him, he
looked earnestly in my face, and said: "Mrs. —, you
have an Irish name—have you friends there?" "No, my
husband's grandfather was from Ireland, but we have no
relatives there now." "Yes," was his reply, "it is a good
name in Ireland, and you have been kind to me, and I
want to talk to you a bit before I die. You know that
I am a Protestant, and I have been constantly to Mr
Peterkin's church since I came here, because I like the
church, and I like him; and I hope that now I am
prepared to die. But I was not brought up an Episcopalian
in the old country—our house was divided, like.
neither went to the church of the other,
but they were a loving couple for all that. He said
to her, when we were but wee things: `Mary,' said
he, `the children must go to your church sometimes, and to
mine sometimes; you may teach them the Bible; but when
they are old enough, they must judge for themselves.'
And so it was; we were obliged every Sunday to go to
one church or the other, but we determined for ourselves. I
most always went with mother, because she was so good and
gentle, and I loved her so much. We grew up a cheerful,
happy family. My father was a gardener, three-quarters of a
mile from Londonderry; he had a good little farm, and sold
his fruit and vegetables in Derry, and had made a great deal
of money; and we had a good house, and were so comfortable.
We all went to school, and kept on so until I, the eldest
child, was grown. In the neighbourhood was a man that
my father hated. Oh, how he hated that man! But I loved
that man's daughter; with my whole heart I loved that
girl."
Here his voice became excited, his eyes were suffused with
tears, and his emaciated, pock-marked face almost glowed
with animation. The room had become still; the sick and
wounded and visitors to the room were all listening with
deep attention to the old man's story. "I knew," he continued,
"that my father would see me dead before he would
agree to my marrying into that family, and he was a stern
man, and I was afraid to let him know; and I tried to get
over my love; but I saw her whenever I went to church,
and at last I told her that I loved her, and she said she
would marry me, and then, Mrs.—," he said with energy,
"no mortal man could have made me give her up. After
and must work for yourself now; I will give you ten acres of
my farm; begin early in spring, break it up, and make a garden;
in a few years you will be an independent man.' Said
I, `Father, may I put a house on it?' `No, my son; when
I die you will have this house; can't you live now with
your mother and me?' `But, father,' said I, `suppose I get
married, where can I live then?' `If I like the match,'
said he, `you may live here.' I said no more then, but I
saw Mary Dare,' (he added, in a subded voice, `her name
was Mary Dare,) and I told her I would try my father
again, and if he would not agree to what I said, I would
go to America, and make a home for her. She was distressed,
and I was in misery. Towards the spring my
father said to me every now and then, `Johnny, why don't
you break up your ground? I have seeds for ye; it is time
to begin.' But I could not begin; and I could not tell him
why, I had such a dread of him. At last he said, `Johnny,
you are behindhand; why don't you go to work?' I knew
from his look that I must speak now, and my mother looked
so tender-like into my face, that I said, `Father, I can't
live here, unless I can bring my wife here, or build a house
for her. I am going to marry Mary Dare, and if you object
to it, I will go to America.' My father looked
sternly at me, and said, `I will not have you in my house
or on my land, if you marry that girl; think about it; if
you will give her up, you may live here and be well off; if
not, you can go to America at once, and I will bear your
expenses. Let me know to-morrow morning.' My mother
looked heart-broken, but she did not speak. She never opposed
my father. This was Sunday. Next morning he asked
me if I had made up my mind. I said, `Yes, sir; to go to
go to Derry and get you ready.' On Wednesday he called
me to get his pony, and to walk to town, and meet him at
a tailor's. He was there before me, and selected cloth to
make me two good suits of clothes. We then went to a
draper's and got linen (for we wear linen in Ireland, not
cotton) to make me twelve shirts, and other clothes besides.
Then we went to the packet office, where we were told that
a packet would sail on that day week for Liverpool, to meet
an emigrant ship just ready to sail for New York. He paid
my passage without saying a word to me, though his manner
was kind to me all the time. As we turned to go home
he said, `I have four pounds to give you for pocket-money,
and I shall deposit fifty pounds in New York for you,
which you can draw if you are in want; but I advise you
not to draw it unless you are in want, for it is all I shall
give you.' When we got home my mother collected her
friends and neighbours to make my clothes. She and
my sisters looked sorry enough, but not a word did they say
about it. I knew that my father had told them not to do
it, and my heart was too full to speak to anybody except
to Mary Dare—she knew that as soon as I could come for
her that I would come. When I took leave of my mother
she almost died, like. I told her, `Mother,' said I, `I am
coming back when I am independent, and can do as I
please. Write to me, mother dear; I will write to you
and my sisters when I get to New York, and tell you where
I am;' and I did write to Mary and to my mother. I could
not write to my father; I could not forgive him, when I
thought how he had grieved Mary and me; and I could not
be deceitful. As soon as I got to New York, I engaged
with a gentleman at Williamsburg, on Long Island, to work
wages; and not a single letter came for me. I grieved and
sorrowed, and thought about Mary—I thought maybe her
letters were stopped by somebody. I knew she would not
forget me. Sometimes I thought I would go home to Ireland,
and see what was the matter. At last, one day, my
employer came into the garden with a newspaper in his
hand. `Mr. Crumley,' says he, `here is something for
you;' and sure enough there was a line to John Crumley,
asking me to meet an old friend that had just come from
Derry. I could not work another stroke, but went to the
city, and there he was. I asked him first about my mother.
`All well; I have a letter from her to you.' `And haven't
you another letter? Didn't Mary Dare write to me?'
`Mary Dare!' he said; `don't you know that Mary Dare
died soon after you left the old country?' " The old man
stopped a moment to recover himself. Then, striking the side
of his cot with his hard, sunburnt hand, he added, "Yes,
she was dead, and I was then left the lone man that you see
me now, Mrs. —. My mother had not written before,
because she hated to distress me, but she wrote to beg that
I would come home; my father's health was failing, and he
wanted me, his first-born, to come and take the homestead.
But Ireland and home were nothing to me now. I wrote
to her that my next brother must take the homestead, and
take care of my father and her, God bless her! I should
never see Ireland again, but I loved her and my sisters all
the same. The next letter was long after that. My mother
wrote, `Your father is dead; come back, Johnny, and
take your own home.' I could not go; and then I went to
Georgia, and never heard from home again. I tried to
fight for the South, because the Southern people were good
care for me."
His story was done. He looked at me, and said, "You
have all been so good to me, particularly Miss T. God bless
you all for it! I am now almost at my journey's end."
When I looked up I found the men subdued and sorrowful.
The story, and the weak, sad tones with which it was told,
had touched them all, and brought tears from some.
11th.—Sheridan's raid through the country is perfectly
awful, and he has joined Grant, without being caught. Oh,
how we listened to hear that he had been arrested in his
direful career! It was, I suppose, the most cruel and desolating
raid upon record—more lawless, if possible, than
Hunter's. He had an overwhelming force, spreading ruin
through the Upper Valley, the Piedmont country, the
tide-water country, until he reached Grant. His soldiers
were allowed to commit any cruelty on non-combatants
that suited their rapacious tempers—stealing every thing
they could find; ear-rings, breastpins, and finger-rings were
taken from the first ladies of the land; nothing escaped
them which was worth carrying off from the already desolated
country. And can we feel patient at the idea of such
soldiers coming to Richmond, the target at which their
whole nation, from their President to the meanest soldier
upon their army-rolls, has been aiming for four years?
Oh, I would that I could see Richmond burnt to the ground
by its own people, with not one brick left upon another,
before its defenceless inhabitants should be subjected to
such degradation!
Fighting is still going on; so near the city, that the
sound of cannon is ever in our ears. Farmers are sending
in produce which they cannot spare, but which they
offering their jewelry, their plate, any thing which can be
converted into money, for the country. I have heard some
of them declare, that, if necessary, they will cut off their long
suits of hair, and send them to Paris to be sold for bread
for the soldiers; and there is not a woman, worthy of the
name of Southerner, who would not do it, if we could get
it out of the country, and bread or meat in return. Some
gentlemen are giving up their watches, when every thing
else has been given. A colonel of our army was seen the
other night, after a stirring appeal had been made for food
for the soldiers, to approach the speaker's stand with his
watch in his hand, saying: "I have no money, nor provisions;
my property was ruined by Hunter's raid last summer; my
watch is very dear to me from association, but it must be
sold for bread." Remembering, as he put it down, that it
had been long worn by his wife, now dead, though not a
man who liked or approved of scenes, he obeyed the affectionate
impulse of his heart, took it up quickly, kissed it,
and replaced it on the table.
12th.—A deep gloom has just been thrown over the city
by the untimely death of one of its own heroic sons. General
John Pegram fell while nobly leading his brigade against
the enemy in the neighbourhood of Petersburg. But two
weeks before he had been married in St. Paul's Church, in
the presence of a crowd of relatives and friends, to the celebrated
Miss H. C., of Baltimore. All was bright and beautiful.
Happiness beamed from every eye. Again has St.
Paul's, his own beloved church, been opened to receive the
soldier and his bride—the one coffined for a hero's grave,
the other, pale and trembling, though still by his side, in
widow's garb.
31st.—A long pause in my diary. Every thing seems
so dark and uncertain that I have no heart for keeping
records. The croakers croak about Richmond being
evacuated, but I can't and won't believe it.
There is hard fighting about Petersburg, and General A.
P. Hill has been killed. Dreadful to think of losing such
a man at such a time; but yet it comes nearer home when
we hear of the young soldiers whom we have loved, and
whose youth we have watched with anxiety and hope as
those on whom our country must depend in days to come,
being cut down when their country most needs them. We
have just heard of the death of Barksdale Warwick, another
of our E. H. S. boys—another son of the parents who
yielded up their noble first-born son on the field of battle
three years ago. He fell a day or two ago; I did not hear
precisely when or where; I only know that he has passed
away, as myriads of our young countrymen have done before
him, and in the way in which our men would prefer to die.
A week ago we made a furious attack upon the enemy's
fortifications near Petersburg, and several were taken before
daylight, but we could not hold them against overwhelming
numbers, and batteries vastly too strong for any thing we
could command; and so it is still—the enemy is far too
strong in numbers and military resources. The Lord save
us, or we perish! Many persons think that Richmond is in
the greatest possible danger, and may be evacuated at any
time. Perhaps we are apathetic or too hopeful, but none
of us are desponding at all, and I find myself planning for
the future, and feeling excessively annoyed when I find persons
less sanguine than myself.
April 3.—Agitated and nervous, I turn to my diary
to-night as the means of soothing my feelings. We have
(it seems a week ago) we went, as usual, to St. James's
Church, hoping for a day of peace and quietness, as well as
of religious improvement and enjoyment. How short-sighted
we are, and how little do we know of what is coming, either
of judgment or mercy! The sermon being over, as it was
the first Sunday in the month, the sacrament of the Lord's
Supper was administered. The day was bright, beautiful,
and peaceful, and a general quietness and repose seemed to
rest upon the congregation, undisturbed by rumours and
apprehensions. While the sacred elements were being administered,
the sexton came in with a note to General
Cooper, which was handed him as he walked from the chancel,
and he immediately left the church. It made me anxious;
but such things are not uncommon, and caused no excitement
in the congregation. The services being over, we left
the church, and as the congregations from the various
churches were being mingled on Grace Street, our children,
who had been at St. Paul's, joined us, on their way to the
usual family gathering in our room on Sunday. After the
salutations of the morning, J. remarked, in an agitated voice,
to his father, that he had just returned from the War
Department, and that there was sad news—General Lee's
lines had been broken, and the city would probably
be evacuated within twenty-four hours. Not until then did
I observe that every countenance was wild with excitement.
The inquiry, "What is the matter?" ran from lip to lip.
Nobody seemed to hear or to answer. An old friend ran
across the street, pale with excitement, repeating what
J. had just told us, that unless we heard better news
from General Lee the city would be evacuated. We could
do nothing; no one suggested any thing to be done. We
hour J. (who is now Professor of Mathematics in the
Naval School) received orders to accompany Captain Parker
to the South with the Corps of Midshipmen. Then we
began to understand that the Government was moving, and
that the evacuation was indeed going on. The office-holders
were now making arrangements to get off. Every car
was ordered to be ready to take them south. Baggage-wagons,
carts, drays, and ambulances were driving about
the streets; every one was going off that could go, and
now there were all the indications of alarm and excitement
of every kind which could attend such an awful scene. The
people were rushing up and down the streets, vehicles of all
kinds were flying along, bearing goods of all sorts and people
of all ages and classes who could go beyond the corporation
lines. We tried to keep ourselves quiet. We could not
go south, nor could we leave the city at all in this hurried
way. J. and his wife had gone. The "Colonel," with
B., intended going in the northern train this morning—
he to his home in Hanover County, and she to her father's
house in Clarke County, as soon as she could get there.
Last night, when we went out to hire a servant to go to
Camp Jackson for our sister, we for the first time realized
that our money was worthless here, and that we are in fact
penniless. About midnight she walked in, escorted by two of
the convalescent soldiers. Poor fellows! all the soldiers will
go who can, but the sick and wounded must be captured.
We collected in one room, and tried to comfort one another;
we made large pockets and filled them with as many of our valuables
as we could suspend from our waists. The gentlemen
walked down to the War Office in the night to see what was
going on. Alas! every sight and sound was grievous and heavy.
A telegram just received from General Lee hastened the
evacuation. The public offices were all forsaken. They said
that by three o'clock in the morning the work must be completed,
and the city ready for the enemy to take possession.
Oh, who shall tell the horror of the past night! Hope seemed
to fade; none but despairing words were heard, except from
a few brave hearts. Union men began to show themselves;
treason walked abroad. A gloomy pall seemed to hang
over us; but I do not think that any of us felt keenly, or
have yet realized our overwhelming calamity. The suddenness
and extent of it is too great for us to feel its poignancy
at once. About two o'clock in the morning we were
startled by a loud sound like thunder; the house shook
and the windows rattled; it seemed like an earthquake in
our midst. We knew not what it was, nor did we care.
It was soon understood to be the blowing up of a magazine
below the city. In a few hours another exploded on the
outskirts of the city, much louder than the first, and shivering
innumerable plate-glass windows all over Shockoe Hill.
It was then daylight, and we were standing out upon the
pavement. The Colonel and B. had just gone. Shall we
ever meet again? Many ladies were now upon the streets.
The lower part of the city was burning. About seven
o'clock I set off to go to the central depot to see if the cars
would go out. As I went from Franklin to Broad Street,
and on Broad, the pavements were covered with broken
glass; women, both white and coloured, were walking in
multitudes from the Commissary offices and burning stores
with bags of flour, meal, coffee, sugar, rolls of cotton cloth,
etc.; coloured men were rolling wheelbarrows filled in the
same way. I went on and on towards the depot, and as
I proceeded shouts and screams became louder. The rabble
are those shouting? What is the matter?" I seemed to be
answered by a hundred voices, "The Yankees have come."
I turned to come home, but what was my horror, when I
reached Ninth Street, to see a regiment of Yankee cavalry
come dashing up, yelling, shouting, hallooing, screaming!
All Bedlam let loose could not have vied with them in
diabolical roarings. I stood riveted to the spot; I could
not move nor speak. Then I saw the iron gates of our
time-honoured and beautiful Capitol Square, on the walks and
greensward of which no hoof had been allowed to tread,
thrown open and the cavalry dash in. I could see no more;
I must go on with a mighty effort, or faint where I stood.
I came home amid what I thought was the firing of cannon.
I thought that they were thundering forth a salute that
they had reached the goal of their ardent desires; but I
afterwards found that the Armory was on fire, and that the
flames having reached the shells deposited there for our
army, they were exploding. These explosions were kept
up until a late hour this evening; I am rejoiced they are
gone; they, at least, can never be turned against us. I
found the family collected around the breakfast-table, and
was glad to see Captain M's family with them. The
captain has gone, and the ladies have left their home on
"Union Hill" to stay here among friends, Colonel P. having
kindly given them rooms. An hour or two after breakfast
we all retired to our rooms exhausted. No one had
slept; no one had sought repose or thought of their own
comfort. The Federal soldiers were roaming about the
streets; either whiskey or the excess of joy had given some
of them the appearance of being beside themselves. We
had hoped that very little whiskey would be found in the
evening in the streets, and it flowed like water through the
gutters; but the rabble had managed to find it secreted in
the burning shops, and bore it away in pitchers and buckets.
It soon became evident that protection would be necessary
for the residences, and at the request of Colonel P. I went
to the Provost Marshal's office to ask for it. Mrs. P. was
unfortunately in the country, and only ladies were allowed
to apply for guards. Of course this was a very unpleasant
duty, but I must undertake it. Mrs. D. agreed to accompany
me, and we proceeded to the City Hall—the City
Hall, which from my childhood I had regarded with respect
and reverence, as the place where my father had for years
held his courts, and in which our lawyers, whose names
stand among the highest in the Temple of Fame, for fifty
years expounded the Constitution and the laws, which must
now be trodden under foot. We reached it. After passing
through crowds of negro soldiers there, we found on
the steps some of the elderly gentlemen of the city seeking
admittance, which was denied them. I stopped to speak
to Mr. —, in whose commission house I was two days
ago, and saw him surrounded by all the stores which usually
make up the establishment of such a merchant; it was now
a mass of blackened ruins. He had come to ask protection
for his residence, but was not allowed to enter. We passed
the sentinel, and an officer escorted us to the room in which
we were to ask our country's foe to allow us to remain
undisturbed in our own houses. Mrs. D. leant on me
tremblingly; she shrank from the humiliating duty. For
my own part, though my heart beat loudly and my blood
boiled, I never felt more high-spirited or lofty than at that
moment. A large table was surrounded by officials, writing
that brought us. I approached the officer who sat at the
head of the table, and asked him politely if he was the
Provost Marshal. "I am the Commandant, madam," was
the respectful reply. "Then to whom am I to apply for
protection for our residence?" "You need none, madam;
our troops are perfectly disciplined, and dare not enter your
premises." "I am sorry to be obliged to undeceive you,
sir, but when I left home seven of your soldiers were in the
yard of the residence opposite to us, and one has already
been into our kitchen." He looked surprised, and said,
"Then, madam, you are entitled to a guard. Captain,
write a protection for the residence on the corner of First
and Franklin Streets, and give these ladies a guard." This
was quickly done, and as I turned to go out, I saw standing
near me our old friend, Mrs. —. Oh! how my heart sank
when I looked into her calm, sad face, and remembered that
she and her venerable and highly esteemed husband must
ask leave to remain in peace in their home of many years.
The next person who attracted my attention was that
sweet young girl, S. W. Having no mother, she of course
must go and ask that her father's beautiful mansion may
be allowed to stand uninjured. Tears rolled down her
cheeks as she pressed my hand in passing. Other friends
were there; we did not speak, we could not; we sadly
looked at each other and passed on. Mrs. D. and myself
came out, accompanied by our guard. The fire was progressing
rapidly, and the crashing sound of falling timbers
was distinctly heard. Dr. Read's church was blazing.
Yankees, citizens, and negroes were attempting to arrest
the flames. The War Department was falling in; burning
papers were being wafted about the streets. The Commissary
already. Warwick & Barksdale's mill was sending its
flames to the sky. Cary and Main Streets seemed doomed
throughout; Bank Street was beginning to burn, and now
it had reached Franklin. At any other moment it would
have distracted me, but I had ceased to feel any thing.
We brought our guard to Colonel P., who posted him;
about three o'clock he came to tell me that the guard was
drunk, and threatening to shoot the servants in the yard.
Again I went to the City Hall to procure another. I
approached the Commandant and told him why I came.
He immediately ordered another guard, and a corporal to
be sent for the arrest of the drunken man. The flames had
decreased, but the business part of the city was in ruins.
The second guard was soon posted, and the first carried
off by the collar. Almost every house is guarded; and the
streets are now (ten o'clock) perfectly quiet. The moon is
shining brightly on our captivity. God guide and watch
over us!
April 5.—I feel as if we were groping in the dark; no
one knows what to do. The Yankees, so far, have behaved
humanely. As usual, they begin with professions of kindness
to those whom they have ruined without justifiable
cause, without reasonable motive, without right to be here,
or anywhere else within the Southern boundary. General
Ord is said to be polite and gentlemanly, and seems to do
every thing in his power to lessen the horrors of this dire
calamity. Other officers are kind in their departments, and
the negro regiments look quite subdued. No one can tell
how long this will last. Norfolk had its day of grace,
and even New Orleans was not down-trodden at once.
There are already apprehensions of evil. Is the Church to
except as we pray for all other sinners? But I pause for
further developments.
6th.—Mr. Lincoln has visited our devoted city to-day.
His reception was any thing but complimentary. Our people
were in nothing rude or disrespectful; they only kept themselves
away from a scene so painful. There are very few
Unionists of the least respectability here; these met them (he
was attended by Stanton and others) with cringing loyalty,
I hear, but the rest of the small collection were of the low,
lower, lowest of creation. They drove through several
streets, but the greeting was so feeble from the motley
crew of vulgar men and women, that the Federal officers
themselves, I suppose, were ashamed of it, for they very
soon escaped from the disgraceful association. It is said
that they took a collation at General Ord's—our President's
house!! Ah! it is a bitter pill. I would that dear old
house, with all its associations, so sacred to the Southerners,
so sweet to us as a family, had shared in the general conflagration.
Then its history would have been unsullied,
though sad. Oh, how gladly would I have seen it burn!
I have been nowhere since Monday, except to see my dear
old friend Mrs. R., and to the hospital. There I am not
much subjected to the harrowing sights and sounds by which
we are surrounded. The wounded must be nursed; poor
fellows, they are so sorrowful! Our poor old Irishman died
on Sunday. The son of a very old acquaintance was
brought to our hospital a few days ago, most severely
wounded—Colonel Charles Richardson, of the artillery.
We feared at first that he must die, but now there is a
little more hope. It is so sad that after four years of
bravery and devotion to the cause, he should be brought to
gladly given his life, dangerously if not mortally wounded,
when its sad fate is just decided. I love to sit by his bedside
and try to cheer him; his friends seem to vie with each
other in kind attentions to him.
We hear rumours of battles, and of victories gained by
our troops, but we have no certain information beyond the
city lines.
10th.—Another gloomy Sabbath-day and harrowing
night. We went to St. Paul's in the morning, and heard a
very fine sermon from Dr. Minnegerode—at least so said
my companions. My attention, which is generally riveted
by his sermons, wandered continually. I could not listen;
I felt so strangely, as if in a vivid, horrible dream. Neither
President was prayed for; in compliance with some arrangement
with the Federal authorities, the prayer was used as
for all in authority! How fervently did we all pray for our
own President! Thank God, our silent prayers are free
from Federal authority. "The oppressor keeps the body
bound, but knows not what a range the spirit takes." Last
night, (it seems strange that we have lived to speak or
write of it,) between nine and ten o'clock, as some of the
ladies of the house were collected in our room, we were
startled by the rapid firing of cannon. At first we
thought that there must be an attack upon the city; bright
thoughts of the return of our army darted through my brain;
but the firing was too regular. We began to think it must
be a salute for some great event. We threw up the
windows, and saw the flashes and smoke of cannon towards
Camp Jackson. Some one present counted one hundred
guns. What could it be? We called to passers-by: "What
do those guns mean?" Sad voices answered several times:
"General Lee has surrendered, thank God!" Of course we
did not believe him, though the very sound was a knell.
Again we called out: "What is the matter?" A voice
answered, as if from a broken heart: "They say General
Lee has surrendered." We cannot believe it, but my heart
became dull and heavy, and every nerve and muscle of my
frame seems heavy too. I cannot even now shake it off.
We passed the night, I cannot tell how—I know not how
we live at all. At daybreak the dreadful salute commenced
again. Another hundred guns at twelve to-day.
Another hundred—can it be so? No, we do not believe it,
but how can we bear such a doubt? Where are all our
dear ones, our beloved soldiers, and our noble chief to-night,
while the rain falls pitilessly? Are they lying on the cold,
hard ground, sleeping for sorrow? or are they moving
southward triumphantly, to join General Johnston, still
able and willing—ah, far more than willing—to avenge
their country's wrongs? God help us!—we must take refuge
in unbelief.
Tuesday Night.—No light on our sorrow—still gloomy,
dark, and uncertain.
I went to-day to the hospital, as was my duty. My dear
friend S. T. cheers me, by being utterly incredulous about
the reported surrender. As usual, she is cheerfully devoting
her powers of mind and body to her hospital. For four
years she has never thought of her own comfort, when by
sacrificing it she could alleviate a soldier's sorrow. Miss
E. D., who has shared with her every duty, every self-sacrificing
effort in behalf of our sick and wounded soldiers, is now
enduring the keenest pangs of sorrow from the untimely
death of her venerable father. On the day of the evacuation,
by a piece of falling timber, and the blow soon closed his
long life. Alas! the devoted daughter, who had done so
much for other wounded, could do nothing for the restoration
of one so dear to her.
Wednesday Night.—We have heard nothing new to-day
confirming the report of the surrender, which is perhaps
the reason my spirit feels a little more light. We must
hope, though our prospects should be as dark as the
sky of this stormy night. Our wounded are doing well—
those who remain in our hospital and the convalescents
have been ordered to "Camp Jackson." Indeed, all the
patients were included in the same order; but Miss T. having
represented that several of them were not in a condition to
be removed, they have been allowed to remain where they
are.
Colonel R. is improving, for which we are most thankful.
Thursday Night.—Fearful rumours are reaching us from
sources which it is hard to doubt, that it is all too true, and
that General Lee surrendered on Sunday last, the 9th of
April. The news came to the enemy by telegram during
the day, and to us at night by the hoarse and pitiless voice
of the cannon. We know, of course, that circumstances
forced it upon our great commander and his gallant army.
How all this happened—how Grant's hundreds of thousands
overcame our little band, history, not I, must
tell my children's children. It is enough for me to
tell them that all that bravery and self-denial could do
has been done. We do not yet give up all hope.
General Johnston is in the field, but there are thousands
of the enemy to his tens. The citizens are quiet.
The calmness of despair is written on every countenance.
few casualties.
Good-Friday.—As usual, I went to the hospital, and
found Miss T. in much trouble. A peremptory order has
been given by the Surgeon-General to remove all patients.
In the opinion of our surgeon, to five of them it would be
certain death. The ambulances were at the door. Miss T.
and myself decided to go at once to the Medical Director
and ask him to recall the order. We were conducted to
his office, and, for the first time since the entrance of the
Federal army, were impolitely treated. On two occasions
we had been obliged to make application to officials, and
had been received with great respect and consideration, and
we believe it has been uniformly the case; and we were,
therefore, very much surprised when a request which seemed
to us so reasonable was at first refused most decidedly.
We could not give up our application, as it seemed to be
a matter of life and death; so we told him what our surgeon
had said, and that we hoped he would reconsider his
order. He replied, that he should send a surgeon with the
ambulances, and if in his judgment they could be removed,
it should be done without hesitation, as he was determined
to break up the small hospitals which you have all about
town, (ours is the only small hospital in town,) and that he
had ordered neither rations nor medicines to be issued to
them. Miss T. told him that nothing of the sort was necessary;
she had never asked nor received rations from the
Federal Government; that she had now but five men under
her care, and they were desperately wounded, and she would
greatly prefer that the hospital should be considered in the
light of a private establishment, which we could take care
of without asking help. A change came over his countenance,
would "see about it." In an hour afterwards the surgeon
and the ambulance came, but after what seemed to me
rather a pompous display of surgical examination and learned
medical terms, addressed to the lady-nurses, he determined
to leave our dear mangled soldiers to our care. One
of them is in a dying condition; he cannot survive many
hours.
We had no service in our churches to-day. An order
came out in this morning's papers that the prayers for the
President of the United States must be used. How could
we do it? Mr. — went to the hospital by the request
of Colonel Richardson, and had prayers in his room. Ambulances
are constantly passing with horses in the finest
possible condition—even finer than ours were in the beginning
of the war. It seems to me passing strange that, with
all their advantages, we kept them at bay so long, and conquered
them so often. Had one port been left open to us—
only one, by which we might have received food and clothing—Richmond
would not now be in their hands; our men
were starved into submission.
Sunday Night.—The Episcopal churches being closed, we
went to the Rev. Dr. Hoge's church. The rector was absent;
he went off, to be in Confederate lines; but the Rev.
Dr. Read, whose church is in ruins, occupied the pulpit.
Strange rumours are afloat to-night. It is said, and believed,
that Lincoln is dead, and Seward much injured.
As I passed the house of a friend this evening, she raised
the window and told me the report. Of course I treated
it as a Sunday rumour; but the story is strengthened by the
way which the Yankees treat it. They, of course, know
all about it, and to-morrow's papers will reveal the particulars.
an assassin, though it would seem to fulfil the warnings of
Scripture. His efforts to carry out his abolition theories
have caused the shedding of oceans of Southern blood,
and by man it now seems has his blood been shed. But
what effect will it have on the South? We may have much
to fear. Future events will show. This event has made
us wild with excitement and speculation.
General Lee has returned. He came unattended, save
by his staff—came without notice, and without parade;
but he could not come unobserved; as soon as his approach
was whispered, a crowd gathered in his path, not boisterously,
but respectfully, and increasing rapidly as he advanced
to his home on Franklin Street, between 8th and
9th, where, with a courtly bow to the multitude, he at once
retired to the bosom of his beloved family. When I called
in to see his high-minded and patriotic wife, a day or two
after the evacuation, she was busily engaged in her invalid's
chair, and very cheerful and hopeful. "The end is not
yet," she said, as if to cheer those around her; "Richmond
is not the Confederacy." To this we all most willingly
assented, and felt very much gratified and buoyed by
her brightness. I have not had the heart to visit her
since the surrender, but hear that she still is sanguine, saying
that "General Lee is not the Confederacy," and that
there is "life in the old land yet." He is not the Confederacy;
but our hearts sink within us when we remember
that he and his noble army are now idle, and that we can
no longer look upon them as the bulwark of our land. He
has returned from defeat and disaster with the universal
and profound admiration of the world, having done all that
skill and valour could accomplish. The scenes at the surrender
was profoundly respectful; General Lee's as courtly and
lofty as the purest chivalry could require. The terms, so
honourable to all parties, being complied with to the letter,
our arms were laid down with breaking hearts, and tears
such as stoutest warriors may shed. "Woe worth the
day!"
Tuesday Night.—I try to dwell as little as possible on
public events. I only feel that we have no country, no
government, no future. I cannot, like some others, look
with hope on Johnston's army. He will do what he can; but
ah, what can he do? Our anxiety now is that our President
and other public men may get off in safety. O God! have
mercy upon them and help them! For ourselves, like the
rest of the refugees, we are striving to get from the city. The
stereotyped question when we meet is, "When and where
are you going?" Our country relatives have been very
kind. My brother offers us an asylum in his devastated
home at W. While there we must look around for
some other place, in which to build up a home for our declining
years. Property we have none—all gone. Thank
God, we have our faculties; the girls and myself, at least,
have health. Mr. — bears up under our difficulties with
the same hopeful spirit which he has ever manifested. "The
Lord will provide," is still his answer to any doubt on our
part. The Northern officials offer free tickets to persons
returning to their homes — alas! to their homes!
How few of us have homes! Some are confiscated; others
destroyed. The families of the army and navy officers are
here. The husbands and sons are absent, and they remain
with nothing to anticipate and nothing to enjoy. To-day I
met a friend, the wife of a high official, whose hospitality
in Virginia, which has been confiscated and used as a hospital
for "contrabands." Our conversation naturally turned
on our prospects. Hearing where we were going, she replied,
"I have no brother, but when I hear from my husband
and son, I shall accept the whole-souled invitation of a relative
in the country, who has invited me to make his house
my home; but," she added, as her beautiful eyes filled with
tears, "when are our visits to end? We can't live with
our ruined relatives, and when our visits are over, what
then? And how long must our visits of charity last?"
The question was too sad; neither of us could command
our voices, and we parted in silence and tears.
20th.—The cars on the Central Railroad will run tomorrow,
for the first time, under Federal rule, and the day
after we will use our passports and free tickets to leave
the city—dearer than ever, in its captivity and ruin. It is
almost impossible to get current money. A whole-hearted
friend from Alexandria met me the other day, and with the
straightforward simplicity due to friendship in these trying
times, asked me at once, "Has your husband any money?"
I told him I thought not. He replied, "Tell him I
have between twenty-five and thirty dollars—that's all—
and he shall have half of it; tell him I say so." Ten dollars
were accepted, for the circumstances of want which pressed
so hard, and for the kindly spirit in which it was offered.
Two other friends came forward to share with us their
little all. God help the warm hearts of our conquered but
precious country! I know they will be blessed, and that
light will yet shine through the blackness of darkness which
now surrounds them.
W., 24th.—On Saturday evening my brother's wagon
in its ruins. We have not been here since the besom of destruction
swept over it, and to us, who have been in the
habit of enjoying its hospitality when all was bright and
cheerful, the change is very depressing. We miss the respectful
and respectable servants, born in the family and
brought up with an affection for the household which seemed
a part of their nature, and which so largely contributed to
the happiness both of master and servant. Even the nurse
of our precious little J., the sole child of the house, whose
heart seemed bound up in her happiness, has gone. It is
touching to hear the sweet child's account of the shock she
experienced when she found that her "mammy," deceived
and misled by the minions who followed Grant's army, had
left her; and to see how her affection still clings to her,
showing itself in the ardent hope that her "mammy" has
found a comfortable home. The army had respected the interior
of the house, because of the protection of the officers.
Only one ornament was missing, and that was the likeness
of this dear child. Since the fall of Richmond, a servant
of the estate, who had been living in Washington, told me
that it was in the possession of a maid-servant of the
house, who showed it to him, saying that she "looked at it
every day." We all try to be cheerful and to find a bright
side; and we occupy the time as cheerfully as we can. The
governess having returned to her home in Norfolk, I shall
employ myself in teaching my bright little niece here and
the dear children at S. H., and feel blessed to have so pleasant
a duty.
25th.—J. P. arrived to-day direct from Mosby's command,
which is disbanded, but has not surrendered. He is
full of enthusiasm and visions of coming success, and is bent
fected me, and aroused a hope which I am afraid to indulg
28th.—We have no mail communication, and can he
nothing from General Johnston. We go on as usual, but ar
almost despairing. Dear M., in her sadness, has put som
Confederate money and postage stamps into a Confederat
envelope, sealed it up, and endorsed it, "In memory of ou
beloved Confederacy." I feel like doing the same, an
treasuring up the buttons, and the stars, and the dear gra
coats, faded and worn as they are, with the soiled and tat
tered banner, which has no dishonouring blot, the untar
nished sword, and other arms, though defeated, stil
crowned with glory. But not yet—I cannot feel that all i
over yet.
May 4.—General Johnston surrendered on the 26th of
April. "My native land, good-night!"
| Diary of a southern refugee during the war | |