Colonel Lyon’s Letters.
Huntsville, Ala., Feb. 26, 1865.—I took command of the post and brigade again yesterday. General Doolittle has taken command of the district. So I have plenty of work on my hands again and am likely to have for some time to come. I am getting my heart so set on your coming that I begin to feel almost nervous for fear that we shall be ordered away.
February 26.—All is at a stand-still again. Our people seem to have revived after our late disasters. The Tennessee army has scattered—many of its troops are here. As nearly all of its cannon were lost, many of the men of the batteries are here drilling as infantry; among them Garrety’s battery.
I am told that there is a good deal of dissatisfaction on account of this, as artillerymen do not like being taken from their guns. A lady friend told me the other day, that two or three members of a Louisiana battery had deserted on this account.
Fenner’s battery, from New Orleans, is here. It has been in active service nearly throughout the whole war, and has suffered much. On the retreat from Dalton three brothers in it were killed; two were shot down, at one time, along side of the third; and, as it was in the heat of battle, he could not leave his post to go to their rescue. Not long afterward he also fell, a martyr for his country. Alas I we have many such self-immolations to record in the pages of our history; and what more glory do we need than such records? None. These martyrs shall live in future story, and ages yet unborn shall sing their requiem. Youths shall listen, with quivering lip and glistening eye, to gray-haired sires, recounting their deeds of heroism, and tell how nobly freemen shed their blood in defense of liberty.
It is reported that General Johnston has taken command of the Tennessee army, or rather what is left of it. This has given universal satisfaction, but no one can tell for how long, as that hydra-headed monster—the people—is a little inclined to be fickle. I have been told that before General Hood took command, the people of Georgia sent many a petition to the president, asking him to remove General Johnston, as he was permitting the enemy to lay waste the country.
There is scarcely a town in the Confederacy where there has not been a meeting held, approving of the answer given by the peace commissioners, and passing resolutions never to yield while there is one man left to strike a blow.
Mobile has had a very large, enthusiastic meeting; and I see by the papers that Newnan has not been behind any in this respect. It is rumored that Vice-president Stevens has said he is fully convinced that there is but one way to have peace, and that is to conquer it.
Mobile never was as gay as it is at present; not a night passes but some large ball or party is given. Same old excuse: that they are for the benefit of the soldiers; and indeed the soldiers seem to enjoy them.
The city is filled with the veterans of many battles. I have attended several of the parties, and at them the gray jackets were conspicuous. A few were in citizen’s clothes, but it was because they had lost their uniforms.
The Alabama troops are dressed so fine that we scarcely recognize them. A large steamer, laden with clothes, ran the blockade lately, from Limerick, Ireland.
Notwithstanding the gayety, nearly all the churches are daily opened for special prayers, imploring the Most High to look down in pity on us, and free us from this fearful scourge.
“The Lord will not cast us off forever; but though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion, for he doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.”
Fullersville, S. C., Sunday, February 26, 1865.
Sixty hours of rain terminated at daylight this morning, but it has not hurt the sandy roads a particle. We made 11 miles in four and one quarter hours, and are now waiting for a bridge to be completed over this creek, “Lynch’s.” We think now we are on the road to Wilmington. The map shows a good deal of railroad to be destroyed on the way, but I think we will get through by the 15th of March. Expect “you uns” are getting anxious about “we uns” again. This is, I think, a much longer thing than the Savannah campaign. Our 4th division took 103 prisoners here last night and our 2d took 200 more to-day. They are State Line Troops and muchly demoralized. It is a fact about that murdering yesterday. Sherman is out in a big retaliation order to-day. Wilmington is reported ours. Thunder and lightning last evening. Hear that the rain has raised the creek until it is three-quarters of a mile wide, and we won’t get across to-morrow. I think I’ll put down our principal campaigns:
1st. Dec, 1862, The Tallahatchie River Campaign 120 miles.
2nd. April, 1863, The Panola, Miss., 9 day’s march 180 miles.
3rd. July, 1863, Jackson, Miss., Campaign… 100 miles.
4th. Oct. & Nov., ’63, Memphis to Chattanooga, and in
5th. Dec. to Maryville, Tenn., and back to Scottsboro, Ala 800 miles.
6th. Jan., ’64, Wills Valley Campaign 100 miles.
7th. Feb. & March, ’64, Dalton, Ga., Campaign 300 miles.
8th. May until Sept., Atlanta Campaign 400 miles.
9th. Oct., 1864, Atlanta to Gadsden, Ala., and return 300 miles.
10th. Nov. & Dec, Atlanta to Savannah…. 300 miles.
Jan., Feb. & March, ’65, The Carolina Campaign 400 miles.
Total 3,000 miles.
A captain and seven men who went foraging yesterday are still missing, supposed to be captured or killed. And 20 men of the 97th Indiana who went out this morning are reported all killed by a 46th Ohio man, who was wounded and left for dead by the Rebels. He says the 97th boys paid for themselves in dead Rebels before they were overpowered. Our corps has now 500 prisoners, three times as many as we have lost.
Sunday, 26th—We had another all-night rain, but it cleared off this morning. We started at 8 a. m. and marched ten miles, going into camp near the Big Lynches creek. Our division is still in the advance; the First Division did not yet come up with us. We have level country now, but for about twenty-five miles on each side of the Wateree river the land is very rough and covered with pine timber.
Chattanooga, Sunday, Feb. 26. A bright, beautiful day, affording us an opportunity to dry our clothes and blankets. On guard, second relief. Had to stay in camp. Griff went to church. The day passed quickly. Read Christian Enquirer which the mail brought me, and wrote to John. In the beautiful twilight the boys turned out to enjoy athletic, sports, jumping, running, etc. All apparently as merry as though a sorrow they knew not, a picture for the weeping ones at home.
26th. Every preparation made to move. Ordnance and Q. M. stores condemned and turned in. Several orders and circulars came around. All bustle and commotion. Wrote home.
February 26 — The lengthening days are beginning to furnish a little more sunshine and of a warmer brand, that has a slight touch of beautiful spring. According to expectation a boatload of prisoners was called out to-day for exchange, and as usual the call missed me all over.
There are acts and scenes transpiring within these prison walls which necessity rightly claims as its own true children, the divulgence of which may some day cause a blush of shame to creep over the cheeks of those who are directly responsible for the seemingly incongruous innovation of American usages in the steady light of this nineteenth century, even on the light and North side of the Potomac. Right now as I am writing these words there is a rat vendor going along the street carrying three large rats by the tail, and every few steps I hear him cry: “Here are your rats, fresh and fat! I just now caught them at the commissary department, and I warrant them to be in fine order. Three for five cents, cheap! here are your rats!” Talk about the heathen Chinee eating dogs,— here men buy and eat rats to satisfy craving hunger right under the shadow of the proud Star-Spangled Banner and in a so-called Christian country and in a land of plenty. I have been hungry for six months now, and I could and would eat rat or snake on toast if I just had it. Only he who has been hungry for a long period knows what hunger is. I saw a man fish a scrap of beef from a slop barrel and devour it as if it were a morsel from a king’s table.
One day I drew for my meat ration the upper part of a sheep’s head, his eyes still holding their old position and the eyelids decorated with cleanly washed hairy-like wool, cleansed nicely by boiling the meat. I shaved off the wool and ate the eyes, lids and all; the eyes were certainly delicious. Oh, you fastidious epicureans that love to feast on rich and rare delicacies dressed in the livery of champagne sauce, try sheep’s-eye boiled in bad well water and garnished with wool, and see whether it is not fit for a king! There are a great many prisoners here who are tobacco chewers, and the weed is a scarce article inside of prison, yet there is some little in the camp. I see it every day for sale, cut up in small square blocks about twice the size of a common dice. The little blocks are nicely arranged on a board and offered for sale at retail, a small slice of bread, weighing about an ounce and a half, buying one chew of tobacco. I have seen men walking along the street gathering up chewed cuds of tobacco for smoking purposes. They pick the little ground-up quids to pieces and spread them in the sunshine until dried, then smoke the virtueless debris. There is a great deal of scurvy in this prison all the time, and the direful effects of scorbutic blood is apparent all through the camp. I have seen men with their gums swollen even with their teeth. Scanty diet, diarrhoea superinduced by the use of deleterious water, and scurvy from the use of salty meat furnish the drift that floats constantly away from here on the stream of Death.
Oh, I wish Harriet Beecher Stowe would come here and spend a few weeks with us, and dip her able pen in the essence of human misery and privations that prevail here! The dear old lady could write a very interesting volume about Uncle Sam’s Starvation Shop, a volume that would make a fitting companion for “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Nor would she have to browse so dangerously near the precipice of pure fiction to find an extreme case in gathering thrilling material, as she did when she gathered up the “Cabin,” for there is an abundance of acts played here, subdivided into scenes, and conditions existing that would furnish some very interesting subjects and themes for a true delineator’s pen. The work would make a very readable book, although it might not prove to be as good fuel for an “irrepressible conflict” as “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” but it would give an impressive lesson for thoughtful reflection on how cruel barbarism still revels in the lap of civilization, even in this so-called highly enlightened Christian land.
February 26th.—Cloudy and cool; rained all night. No news from the South, this morning. But there is an ugly rumor that Beauregard’s men have deserted to a frightful extent, and that the general himself is afflicted with disease of mind, etc.
Mr. Hunter is now reproached by the slaveowners, whom he thought to please, for defeating the Negro bill. They say his vote will make Virginia a free State, inasmuch as Gen. Lee must evacuate it for the want of negro troops.
There is much alarm on the streets. Orders have been given to prepare all the tobacco and cotton, which cannot be removed immediately, for destruction by fire. And it is generally believed that Lieut.-Gen. A. P. Hill’s corps has marched away to North Carolina. This would leave some 25,000 men to defend Richmond and Petersburg, against, probably, 60,000.
If Richmond be evacuated, most of the population will remain, not knowing whither to go.
The new Secretary of War was at work quite early this morning.
The “Bureau of Conscription” and the Provost Marshal’s office are still “operating,” notwithstanding Congress has abolished them both.
February 26th.—Mrs. Munroe offered me religious books, which I declined, being already provided with the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms of David, the denunciations of Hosea, and, above all, the patient wail of Job. Job is my comforter now. I should be so thankful to know life never would be any worse with me. My husband is well, and has been ordered to join the great Retreater. I am bodily comfortable, if somewhat dingily lodged, and I daily part with my raiment for food. We find no one who will exchange eatables for Confederate money; so we are devouring our clothes.
Opportunities for social enjoyment are not wanting. Miss Middleton and Isabella often drink a cup of tea with me. One might search the whole world and not find two cleverer or more agreeable women. Miss Middleton is brilliant and accomplished. She must have been a hard student all her life. She knows everybody worth knowing, and she has been everywhere. Then she is so high-bred, high-hearted, pure, and true. She is so clean-minded; she could not harbor a wrong thought. She is utterly unselfish, a devoted daughter and sister. She is one among the many large-brained women a kind Providence has thrown in my way, such as Mrs. McCord, daughter of Judge Cheves; Mary Preston Darby, Mrs. Emory, granddaughter of old Franklin, the American wise man, and Mrs. Jefferson Davis. How I love to praise my friends!
As a ray of artificial sunshine, Mrs. Munroe sent me an Examiner. Daniel thinks we are at the last gasp, and now England and France are bound to step in. England must know if the United States of America are triumphant they will tackle her next, and France must wonder if she will not have to give up Mexico. My faith fails me. It is all too late; no help for us now from God or man.
Thomas, Daniel says, was now to ravage Georgia, but Sherman, from all accounts, has done that work once for all. There will be no aftermath. They say no living thing is found in Sherman’s track, only chimneys, like telegraph poles, to carry the news of Sherman’s army backward.
In all that tropical down-pour, Mrs. Munroe sent me overshoes and an umbrella, with the message, “Come over.” I went, for it would be as well to drown in the streets as to hang myself at home to my own bedpost. At Mrs. Munroe’s I met a Miss McDaniel. Her father, for seven years, was the Methodist preacher at our negro church. The negro church is in a grove just opposite Mulberry house. She says her father has so often described that fine old establishment and its beautiful lawn, live-oaks, etc. Now, I dare say there stand at Mulberry only Sherman’s sentinels —stacks of chimneys. We have made up our minds for the worst. Mulberry house is no doubt razed to the ground.
Miss McDaniel was inclined to praise us. She said: “As a general rule the Episcopal minister went to the family mansion, and the Methodist missionary preached to the negroes and dined with the overseer at his house, but at Mulberry her father always stayed at the ‘House,’ and the family were so kind and attentive to him.” It was rather pleasant to hear one’s family so spoken of among strangers.
So, well equipped to brave the weather, armed cap-a-pie, so to speak, I continued my prowl farther afield and brought up at the Middletons’. I may have surprised them, for “at such an inclement season” they hardly expected a visitor. Never, however, did lonely old woman receive such a warm and hearty welcome. Now we know the worst. Are we growing hardened? We avoid all allusion to Columbia; we never speak of home, and we begin to deride the certain poverty that lies ahead.
How it pours! Could I live many days in solitary confinement? Things are beginning to be unbearable, but I must sit down and be satisfied. My husband is safe so far. Let me be thankful it is no worse with me. But there is the gnawing pain all the same. What is the good of being here at all? Our world has simply gone to destruction. And across the way the fair Lydia languishes. She has not even my resources against ennui. She has no Isabella, no Miss Middleton, two as brilliant women as any in Christendom. Oh, how does she stand it! I mean to go to church if it rains cats and dogs. My feet are wet two or three times a day. We never take cold; our hearts are too hot within us for that.
A carriage was driven up to the door as I was writing. I began to tie on my bonnet, and said to myself in the glass, “Oh, you lucky woman!” I was all in a tremble, so great was my haste to be out of this. Mrs. Glover had the carriage. She came for me to go and hear Mr. Martin preach. He lifts our spirits from this dull earth; he takes us up to heaven. That I will not deny. Still he can not hold my attention; my heart wanders and my mind strays back to South Carolina. Oh, vandal Sherman! what are you at there, hard-hearted wretch that you are! A letter from General Chesnut, who writes from camp near Charlotte under date of February 28th:
“I thank you a thousand, thousand times for your kind letters. They are now my only earthly comfort, except the hope that all is not yet lost. We have been driven like a wild herd from our country. And it is not from a want of spirit in the people or soldiers, nor from want of energy and competency in our commanders. The restoration of Joe Johnston, it is hoped, will redound to the advantage of our cause and the reestablishment of our fortunes! I am still in not very agreeable circumstances. For the last four days completely water-bound.
“I am informed that a detachment of Yankees were sent from Liberty Hill to Camden with a view to destroying all the houses, mills, and provisions about that place. No particulars have reached me. You know I expected the worst that could be done, and am fully prepared for any report which may be made.
“It would be a happiness beyond expression to see you even for an hour. I have heard nothing from my poor old father. I fear I shall never see him again. Such is the fate of war. I do not complain. I have deliberately chosen my lot, and am prepared for any fate that awaits me. My care is for you, and I trust still in the good cause of my country and the justice and mercy of God.”
It was a lively, rushing, young set that South Carolina put to the fore. They knew it was a time of imminent danger, and that the fight would be ten to one. They expected to win by activity, energy, and enthusiasm. Then came the wet blanket, the croakers; now, these are posing, wrapping Caesar’s mantle about their heads to fall with dignity. Those gallant youths who dashed so gaily to the front lie mostly in bloody graves. Well for them, maybe. There are worse things than honorable graves. Wearisome thoughts. Late in life we are to begin anew and have laborious, difficult days ahead.
We have contradictory testimony. Governor Aiken has passed through, saying Sherman left Columbia as he found it, and was last heard from at Cheraw. Dr. Chisolm walked home with me. He says that is the last version of the story. Now my husband wrote that he himself saw the fires which burned up Columbia. The first night his camp was near enough to the town for that.
They say Sherman has burned Lancaster—that Sherman nightmare, that ghoul, that hyena! But I do not believe it. He takes his time. There are none to molest him. He does things leisurely and deliberately. Why stop to do so needless a thing as burn Lancaster courthouse, the jail, and the tavern? As I remember it, that description covers Lancaster. A raiding party they say did for Camden.
No train from Charlotte yesterday. Rumor says Sherman is in Charlotte.
February 17th, 1865.—There is little but bad news now. Sherman is a very Devil. If this goes on much longer Georgia will be desolate indeed, for his favorite weapon is the torch. Every State Capitol in the South, except Tallahassee, has been captured and we cannot expect to escape much longer. The Yankees come nearer every day and we lie in Sherman’s path to the sea. As they advance they pilfer and burn; all valuables are stolen; all provisions are taken, of course, and the rest goes up in smoke. Mother asked Adeline if she could trust her to help her to hide her valuables from McCook’s men. Adeline thought she could be trusted, so, with Jordan’s help, they dug pits in unlikely places; secreted some small articles in hollow trees; hid the oil paintings under the floor of Adeline’s own house; carefully wrapped the family portraits and put them in the loft above her head. Mother had implicit confidence in Jordan and Adeline had given her word to be true and the mistress felt that she need have no fear for her treasures. The walls look bare with only the big mirrors to break the broad expanse. We will eat off of vari-colored plates and dishes. The set of French china and all the cut glass are boxed and buried. “Fingers were made before knives and forks,” mournfully announced Father, as he saw the silverware being packed, but something must be done to save them from McCook’s men. Captain Lester will not believe they will ever get here. I hope they will not, but I am afraid.
All the girls in the neighborhood know how to shoot and we have agreed, if we cannot escape we will shoot ourselves rather than fall into the hands of the enemy as they are treating the women and old men dreadfully in Georgia. Another thing they are doing; in those old Colonial homes in Georgia are many handsome portraits, painted by famous artists; and of course family portraits are always highly prized. When the Yankees enter a house, where any of these are hanging their first thought is to destroy them. Sometimes they slit them to pieces, sometimes they shoot them up, sometimes they are piled and burned—and it is such vandals as this we have to deal with.
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