JUNE 10TH.—Col. Bledsoe sent for me again. This time he wanted me to take charge of the letter room, and superintend the young gentlemen who briefed the letters. This I did very cheerfully; I opened all the letters, and sent to the Secretary the important ones immediately. These, for want of discrimination, had sometimes been suffered to remain unnoticed two or three days, when they required instant action.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Tuesday, 10th—It is dry and hot. I wrote a letter to father enclosing $50.00 of the $53.00 which I received from the Government on May 31st, and in greenbacks at that. I had $1.86 coming to me over and above the allowance the Government makes for clothing, which is $40.00 a year.
June 10th.
This morning while I was attending to my flowers . . . several soldiers stopped in front of me, and holding on the fence, commenced to talk about some brave Colonel, and a shooting affair last night. When all had gone except one who was watching me attentively, as he seemed to wish to tell me, I let him go ahead. The story was that Colonel McMillan was shot through the shoulder, breast, and liver, by three guerrillas while four miles from town last night, on a scout. He was a quarter of a mile from his own men at the time, killed one who shot him, took the other two prisoners, and fell from his horse himself, when he got within the lines. The soldier said these two guerrillas would probably be hanged, while the six we saw pass captives, Sunday, would probably be sent to Fort Jackson for life. I think the guerrilla affair mere murder, I confess; but what a dreadful fate for these young men! One who passed Sunday was Jimmy’s schoolmate, a boy of sixteen; another, Willie Garig, the pet of a whole family of good, honest country people. . . .
These soldiers will get in the habit of talking to me after a while, through my own fault. Yesterday I could not resist the temptation to ask the fate of the six guerrillas, and stopped two volunteers who were going by, to ask them. They discussed the fate of the country, told me Fort Pillow and Vicksburg were evacuated, the Mississippi opened from source to mouth; I told them of Banks’s and McClellan’s defeat; they assured me it would all be over in a month, — which I fervently pray may be so; told me they were from Michigan (one was Mr. Bee, he said, cousin of our General); and they would probably have talked all day if I had not bowed myself away with thanks for their information.
It made me ashamed to contrast the quiet, gentlemanly, liberal way these volunteers spoke of us and our cause, with the rabid, fanatical, abusive violence of our own female Secession declaimers. Thank Heaven, I have never yet made my appearance as a Billingsgate orator on these occasions. All my violent feelings, which in moments of intense excitement were really violent, I have recorded in this book; I am happy to say only the reasonable dislike to seeing my country subjugated has been confided to the public ear, when necessary; and that even now, I confess that nothing but the reign of terror and gross prejudice by which I was surrounded at that time could justify many expressions I have here applied to them. Fact is, these people have disarmed me by their kindness. I expected to be in a crowd of ruffian soldiers, who would think nothing of cutting your throat or doing anything they felt like; and I find, among all these thousands, not one who offers the slightest annoyance or disrespect. The former is the thing as it is believed by the whole country, the latter the true state of affairs. I admire foes who show so much consideration for our feelings.
Contrast these with our volunteers from New Orleans — all gentlemen — who came to take the Garrison from Major Haskins. Several of them passing our gate where we were standing with the Brunots, one exclaimed, “What pretty girls!” It was a stage aside that we were supposed not to hear. “Yes,” said another; “beautiful! but they look as though they could be fast.” Fast! and we were not even speaking! not even looking at them! Sophie and I were walking presently, and met half a dozen. We had to stop to let them pass the crossing; they did not think of making way for us; No. 1 sighed —such a sigh! No. 2 followed, and so on, when they all sighed in chorus for our edification, while we dared not raise our eyes from the ground. That is the time I would have made use of a dagger. Two passed in a buggy, and trusting to our not recognizing them from the rapidity of their vehicle, kissed their hands to us until they were out of sight! All went back to New Orleans vowing Baton Rouge had the prettiest girls in the world. These were our own people, the elite of New Orleans, loyal Southerners and gentlemen. These Northerners pass us satisfied with a simple glance; some take off their hats, for all these officers know our name, though we may not know theirs; how, I can’t say.
When I heard of Colonel McMillan’s misfortune, mother conspired with me to send over some bandages, and something Tiche manufactured of flour under the name of “nourishment,” for he is across the street at Heroman’s. Miriam objected on account of what “our people” will say, and what we will suffer for it if the guerrillas reach town, but we persuaded her we were right. . . . You can imagine our condition at present, many years hence, Sarah, when you reflect that it is the brave, noble-hearted, generous Miriam who is afraid to do that deed on account of “public opinion,” which indeed is “down” on us. At Greenwell they are frantic about our returning to town, and call us traitors, Yankees, and vow vengeance. . . . A lady said to me, “The guerrillas have a black list containing the names of those remaining in town. All the men are to be hanged, their houses burned, and all the women are to be tarred and feathered.” I said, “ Madam, if I believed them capable of such a vile threat, even, much less the execution, I would see them cut down without a feeling of compassion” (which is not true), “and swear I was a Yankee rather than claim being a native of the same country with such brutes.” She has a long tongue; when I next hear of it, it will be that I told the story, and called them brutes and hoped they would be shot, etc. And so goes the world. No one will think of saying that I did not believe them guilty of the thought, even. Our three brothers may be sick or wounded at this minute; what I do for this man, God will send some one to do for them, and with that belief I do it. . . .
June 10—A while after daylight it commenced raining in torrents, drenching us to the skin and putting all our fires out. At ten o’clock we were ordered forward, and marched to the eastern base of the Blue Ridge in Albermarle County, and camped. Jackson’s army is still on the mountain. His men are camped all along the Brown’s Gap road.
Flat Top Mountain, June 10, 1862. Tuesday. — Still cold. A month ago we were driven out of Giles. Over three weeks of inaction! No news for two or three days either from McClellan or Halleck. Fremont is pushing ahead with energy.
June 10th. Tuesday. Great false alarm in camp. Major with Co. “I” went out seven miles. We saw nothing.
Headquarters 2d Division,
James Island, June 10th, 1862.
My dear Mother:
I saw a few moments ago a mail-bag walking off— hailed it, and learned that it was going home, and persuaded it to wait a few seconds until I could inform you that I was still safe in limb and life, though we have brisk times in our new position. Genl. Stevens you will notice now has charge of a division. It is a temporary arrangement arising out of the necessities of the case, but I hope it may result in his confirmation as Major-General. I cannot yet say if we are surely to reach Charleston, but hope so. The fact is, I believe Gen. Rosecrans was not far wrong when he charged Genl. Benham with cowardice, drunkenness, and lying. He was Court Martialed and acquitted, and sent down here to take charge of our little army. Right or wrong all despise him. No one trusts him. If we take Charleston it will not be his fault. This is rather bitter, but it is a shame to put such men in command.
Please send Horace $9.00 as my subscription for the Post. I agreed to write an occasional letter for that journal, but have never done so. I shall feel better when it is paid.
When this matter of taking Charleston shall be either brilliantly consummated, thanks to Wright and Stevens, or shall have fizzled out through the folly of Hunter and Benham, if still safe in life and limb, I trust I shall see you once more, but Quien Sabe. We have fighting every day now and new victims swell the list of the battlefield.
Give my best love, my darling mother, to my sisters and all my dear friends.
Your affec. and sleepy son,
Will.
Camp near New Bridge, Va.,
Tuesday, June 10, 1862.
Dear Sister L.:—
The last week or so has been very dull here. Nothing to break the monotony but an occasional artillery duel across the Chickahominy, in which the rebels are always worsted. Sunday, the day you wrote your letter, was a pretty big day on the lines further to the left (Battle of Fair Oaks). We lay in our tents and heard the constant war of artillery and the rattle of musketry, and, as the sound retreated, we knew our boys were driving them. Lowe was up in his balloon right beside our camp, watching them and telegraphing to McClellan just what they were doing. You wanted me to tell you something about the large guns. I don’t know much about artillery myself, still I might tell you something new perhaps. “Parrott guns” are not all of the same size. In Battery No. 1 at Yorktown we had one hundred pound Parrotts and Griffin’s battery of light artillery has Parrott guns of three-inch bore. The peculiarity of this gun is in the construction. It is very long and slim and is noted for the strength and accuracy of its range. Those guns at Yorktown would throw a one hundred-pound shell two miles with great accuracy. I saw them drop just inside the rebel fort time and again. And these field pieces will throw a shell eight inches long and three inches in diameter as accurately three miles as they will half a mile. Our artillery and our artillerists are vastly superior to the rebels, and they are well aware of it. But of all the artillery, we have the greatest one yet in our regiment. We have a cannon drawn by one horse that one man can fire two hundred times a minute by merely turning a crank. Every revolution fires one ball. It is a curious Yankee contrivance. The cartridges are put in a hopper, carried one by one round in a cylinder, shoved into the barrel and fired. It makes a noise like the dogs of war let loose. The balls are only a size larger than our musket balls, a regular “Mime ball.” Don’t you think one of those coffee mills would “weed out” a secesh regiment about as quickly as any tools they have? I understand that every Pennsylvania regiment in the service is to have them. All the Pennsylvania regiments near here have them.
I have been quite unwell ever since the battle. I got overdone. Friday is the first day that I have felt at all like myself these two weeks. I think I shall be all right again soon.
Yesterday we had a grand review in honor of the Spanish General Prim. You have seen his name in the papers lately, I presume, in connection with the tripartite intervention in Mexico. He presented quite a contrast to the plain dress of “our George,” as he rode by in his gold lace and trimmings. Well, every nation likes its own style. There are many men even in McClellan’s staff who dress more showily than he does, but they don’t command the respect. There is hardly a man in the army who does not know George by sight and not a man but likes him.
I had more fun with some of the darkies at Hanover the day after the battle, more than a little. One old fellow told me how he acted when our shells began to come where he was. Says he, “Dere was ’bout twenty of us plowin’ and I hearn sumfin’ go pop-pop-p-p-pop, and pretty soon sumfin’ crash, bizz-z-z. right ober my head. I luff dat plow right dar and I went in dem woods quicker dan I went so far afore. I got down behind a log and I thought you gemmen was a makin’ our people run, and I jumped up and cried, ‘Glory to God!’ and just den ‘long comes ‘nudder of dem t’ings, bizz-z-z-z. Golly! I was down on my belly agin mi’ty quick. De oberseer run as if de debil was after him, but I larfed.”
A man named George Taylor who had inhumanly whipped a slave, came into our camp after him and he came near losing his life by the operation. He escaped by taking the oath of allegiance, but he lost his nigger. Peter is now with the colonel of the Twelfth regiment. Our camps are full of niggers. They are rapidly taking the place of white men as teamsters. They seem well adapted to that.
Richmond is not taken, but we could have taken it two week ago if George had wanted it. He wants to end the war here and he has not got everything ready yet. There is a good time coming yet, boys.
“Wilson Small,” June 10.
Dear Mother, — Being the happy possessor of a pen-holder (pilfered from the “Elm City”), and having nothing to do, I shall write you a long letter. We are all collected, shivering and idle, under piles of blanket-shawls. All the wounded have come down and gone, and we have nothing to do, at least for to-day. If the weather were but mild, we could be comfortable and enjoy our rest; but never in the depth of winter did I feel the cold as I do today. I am chilled to the heart.
Keep my letters; they will remind me to tell you many things now forgotten. I wish it had been possible to keep a journal, so much that is interesting and droll in men and things occurs every minute; such armies of queer people turn up! Quartermasters are among the queerest. “We have our own chief dragon on the “Elizabeth,” with whom I am supposed to get along better than the others, therefore I conduct all difficult negotiations. I rush to him for something important a dozen times a day. He is resolute not to give it to me till I write and sign a requisition. Of course I am wanting it for something pressing, so after a slight blandishment I get it under promise of sending the requisition, — which is never sent. Then we have squads of comical “contrabands” (who like us very much until it becomes a question of work), and a detail of kind, nimble, tender Zouaves. I have become a convert to them after a long struggle,—-their efficiency, their good sense, their gentleness are so marked. Even their dress, which I once hated, seems to take them in some sort out of the usual manners and ways of men. They have none of the dull, obstinate ways of that sex, — they are unexceptionable human beings of no sex, with the virtues of both.
Then we have every style of arrogant army surgeon and presuming volunteer surgeon, no end of army officers, and some few naval officers: all of whom come trooping on board the “Small” after Mr. Olmsted, — chiefly, I observe, about dinner-time. The Commission is sadly imposed on in this way; it is used as a hotel. Last night four ladies arrived on the mail-boat, and instantly transferred themselves to the “Small” They have no business here, and nowhere to go. If such women are given a duty to do, they leave it, after a while, on the general principle that they are “wanted at the front.” When they get there, the surgeons will have nothing to do with them; and, finally, this morning two, who are thought to be of doubtful character, have been returned whence they came. The wonder is how they get the passes to come at all. No lady should attempt to come here unless accepted or appointed by the Government or the Commission. Ardent women with a mission should not come in any other way, if they value their own respectability.
Our dear Mr. Knapp has broken down, as I knew he would, and is gone home with typhoid fever. I think I told you that a new surgeon-in-charge had been appointed to the Shore hospital, with superintendence of the ship-transportation. He seems a kind man, and desirous to keep on good terms with the Commission and work with it. He is very cordial to us women, and begs us to come and do what we can at the hospital. Mr. Olmsted, however, frowns upon the idea, — frowns? No; but he remains impenetrably silent, — which is worse, for we can’t rebel at it.
I often feel the pleasantness of our footing among all these persons, — official, military, naval, and medical. They clearly respect our work, and rightly appreciate it; they make no foolish speeches, but are direct and sensible in their words and acts; and when work is over, they do not feel towards us as “women with a mission,” but as ladies, to be with whom is a grateful relaxation.
Dr. McClellan, on the General’s staff, came in from the front, and stayed with us last night, on his way to Fortress Monroe. He thinks there will be a gigantic battle before Richmond, and speaks of twenty thousand wounded. It is overwhelming to think of it. The nation must send us more sheets, shirts, drawers, and money — Money.
The “Elm City ” is lying alongside, between the “Small” and the shore. There is little for her to do at present. A dozen or so of wounded come down occasionally and go on board of her. A standing order now exists that none but wounded shall be put on the boats; all the sick are to go to the shore hospital. Our tent is at the head of the wharf, just where the railway ends abruptly at the burned bridge. Dr. Ware selects the cases from the freight-cars, on the bare floor of which they are jolted down from Savage’s Station, — the terminus of the road at the front. The worst cases are put inside the covered cars,—close, windowless boxes,—sometimes with a little straw or a blanket to lie on, oftener without. They arrive a festering mass of dead and living together, — or did, during the battle-week. Now they are sent down more comfortably; the bad cases have plenty of straw and plenty of room within, and the slight cases are perched upon the roof, or come down on long trains of trucks. Meantime we have ready in the tent proper food and stimulants, and administer them to all after their hard journey, and before they go either on board the boats, or are taken in ambulances to the Shore hospital.
I shall send this letter by Monsieur de Trobriand, who goes home to-night, having had a severe attack of typhoid fever, from which he is not recovered; ill as he is, he is delightfully amusing, though I suspect him of being slightly out of his head. I think sometimes, when I am idle, of the happiness of getting home again. Oh! I never, never will grumble at anything again. But also I will never eat beef when once I escape from army rations; and I will never again own a carpet-bag. The misery those carpet-bags have cost me! I rush up for something that is wanted in a hurry; it is at the bottom of the bag, — things that are wanted always are. I tip it over into the berth, seize what I want, and am gone again. But then comes midnight! I creep up tired and sleepy, and find a mound of books, boots, cologne-bottles, and other brittle and angular things which must be cleared away before I can fling myself down. Amelia, our black servant, says: “Laws me! I do wonder if you sleep on all dat muss!”
Reinforcements are arriving daily. I suppose from eight to ten thousand of McCall’s division (a small portion of McDowell’s corps) have arrived within a week. At first I scarcely noticed their coming. I heard their gay bands, and the loud cheering of the men as the transports rounded the last bend of the river and came in sight of the landing; but such sounds of the dreadful other side of war filled my ears that if I heard I heeded not. For the last night or two the arrivals by moonlight, the cheers and the gay music have been really enlivening. We see the dark side of all. You must not, however, gather only gloomy ideas from me. I see the worst, short of the actual battle-field, that there is to see. You must not allow yourself to think there is no brightness because I do not speak of it.
Monday, 10th.—Federals retreated last night. At midnight, ordered to Kelly’s Ferry. I am detailed to cook rations for the company; glad of it, for I feel very unwell, and do not wish to march. By eight o’clock had rations cooked and loaded up ready to start. Crossed Lookout Mountain, three miles from ferry; met regiment coming back; 6 P. M., back at Chattanooga.
(Note: picture is of an unidentified Confederate soldier.)
