Thursday, 8th.—Passed Jonesboro 8 A. M.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Washington Thursday January 8th 1863
This is the anaversary of the Battle of New Orleans. It brings to mind the exploits of Andrew Jackson. O that his old mantle and white hat were still in the “White House.” The present times require his energy, his fire and resolution. The Country has been calling for “Jacksons” to Lead our armies but as yet none has appeared. It is said that the crisis brings the Man, but the Man has not appeared as yet. Perhaps the crisis has not yet arrived, perhaps we have not yet suffered enough, have not sacrificed enough. We are not yet humbled enough, and our cause has not yet become desperate enough. Well, we must wait and suffer still. In Gods own time the black clouds of War will clear away and we shall behold again the sun of peace and National prosperity. Our news from Vicksburgh was premature. The City is not yet ours as was supposed. The Rebels are there in great strength but the City must fall, but only after much hard fighting. Went to the Pay office again today and succeeded in geting the “greenbacks” for Lieut Belden, at least fifty officers were waiting in the office. We pushed bye and got through in half an hour. There is nothing like pushing ahead in these “red tape” offices. Called at Mr Hartleys this evening. “Mat[ty]” has a bad cold and wants to see Julia. She is attending Madam [Burrs or Barrs?] School where they speak nothing but French. Julia would like that. It has been a fine winters day, bright but cold in the morning, indications of snow in the afternoon, a few flakes seen.
Camp of 1st Mass. Cav’y
Potomac Run, Va., January 8, 1863
It was clear that we were not going to the bridge, as Chamberlain of our regiment had charge of that party. I had the rear of the column and a ripping head-ache, otherwise I should have enjoyed the thing immensely, for it was a clear, cold, moonlight night and we went floundering through the marshes at a tremendous gait. All I could see was dissolving views of the rear of the column as we pelted through woods and across broad white marshes, intersected by creeks which we had to ford. Presently Ben [Crowninshield] came down the column and informed me that we were going up the railroad to destroy some smaller bridges and, if it took us long, we were to let the column go and find our own way home. Of course we lost the way and after riding up the road two miles and finding no bridge, we rode down two miles and a half, cutting down the telegraph poles as we went along, and then there was a halt and I heard the sound of the axes. “Ah,” thought I, “here is the bridge,” and my head-ache felt better.
So I rode up and looked at a miserable little culvert, about three yards long, on which some twenty destroyers were at work. This was, then, the greatest humbug of all. We had come with artillery and cavalry and infantry, through rain and snow and ice, without shelter or forage, all the way up here to cut up a miserable little culvert which ten men could rebuild in five hours. It would have been very amusing had I felt well. There we were a hundred of us, some eighty in line and ready to fire into any unsuspecting train which might come along, and the other twenty, without direction, or system or tools, tugging away at a remarkably well-built railroad which resisted their utmost efforts. Ye Gods! how the mismanagement did stick out!! Our tools were six axes and the ground was hard frozen. Every one directed and every one worked on his own hook. My second Lieutenant, a son of Judge Parsons, was ordered to do the work and he bellowed and swore, and the men laughed and minded him or not as they chose. White, quite nervous and anxious to get through, complained that too many orders were given and did nothing to remedy it. Ben Crowninshield, very anxious to get the job done while yet there was time, seeing that the men had worked an hour without getting up a single rail, encouraged them by dancing round in high excitement, exhorting them somewhat generally to “do something to turn the whole thing over at once, somehow,” and I sat on my horse in amused despair.
At length with immense effort we got up one rail and threw it into the creek, and White at once declared the bridge used up and we started back along the railroad. It was eleven o’clock now and the last half hour we had heard a spattering fire of carbines and musquetry towards the river, indicating that Chamberlain was at work, but no artillery, which seemed to indicate that it was n’t much of a job after all. As for us we went rapidly along the track and the first thing we knew we came to a bridge, as was a bridge. It was clear at once we had been at work on the wrong bridge hitherto, so we went to work again. It was the same old story, only a little better, for this time we made cleaner work, pulling up the track, cutting through the uprights and main beams and finally setting the middle pier on fire; having done which we mounted and went off better pleased.
Through the whole thing I must confess I felt like a fool. It was a small job and badly done; slight resistance would have turned us back and I have n’t as yet gotten over an old prejudice against going round destroying property which no one tries to protect. Anyhow it was done and the fire of the burning bridge threw a bright light across the marsh as we rode away. We rejoined the main body and waited for Chamberlain, who had been at work on the main bridge and had, after some slight resistance, resulting in nothing, destroyed about one hundred and twenty feet of it. The whole party was in by three o’clock, and we at once started back and, as I rode along in the clear, cold moonlight, I very soon made up my mind as to the whole affair.
I don’t know, but I imagine a newspaper success — “dashing raid” and all that — will be manufactured out of this. If it is I can only say it is a clap-trap and a humbug and was intended as such. It is, I fear, pure Joe Hookerism and wire pulling. The bridge was of no real value to the rebels or to us and was not protected. Even if it had been, Ned Flint, who is an engineer, said he would contract to repair with forty men all the damage done in four days. Anyhow, value or no value, two hundred cavalry could have done it twice as surely and effectually and in just half the time, and so Chamberlain had previously reported. But no! that would n’t answer for political effect, and so the sledge is brought out to crush the fly, and infantry, artillery and cavalry are paraded out in the depth of winter to burn a bridge which no one used or means to use, and I expect to see an immense pow-wow over it. If there is, rest assured it’s all a humbug. The thing amounted to nothing, was very badly done after no end of blunders and mismanagement, and was and is intended solely for political effect and has about as much bearing on the ends of the war as would the burning of Neponset Bridge or our barn at Quincy….
At last, at half past one, we marched into camp and were dismissed. This was Saturday afternoon. I had been on continuous duty for thirty-four hours and in the saddle twenty-eight; my horse had not eaten for thirty hours. I had last washed my face and hands on Wednesday morning, and in this week, the first in January and by far the most severe of the winter, I had passed two nights in my tent and five in bivouac. I got something to eat and washed my face and hands and then went out to see that the horses were cared for, but that night my blankets felt like a bed of down and I slept like an infant.
I have been specific about this trip as I regard it as finishing my education. I had tried most kinds before, dry and wet, hot and cold. We have steadily been at it for months and I have thought that terrible discomfort was yet to come. This combined cold and wet and hunger and sleeplessness and fatigue and all that men regard as hard to bear. We had slept in melting snow and rain, had passed days in the saddle with soaking feet and freezing clothes, had waited hours in a pelting rain, and yet I had enjoyed it all, and not for an instant had wished myself away. I do not now believe in outdoor hardships. None of us are sick, we have no colds and no diseases, we are all far better than we were at home, and yet there is but one greater hardship than we have felt. A long continued, disastrous winter retreat would be worse and in the line of exposure this alone I now fear….
January 8, Thursday. Had a singular letter to-day from Chase, requesting that vessels with custom-house clearance might be allowed to pass the blockade. The arrangement is in accordance with an understanding which he has with the Secretary of War. Replied that I was prepared to give no such instructions until the blockade was raised or modified.
The Oaks, Sunday, February 8, 1863.
I have not yet spent any of the money. I think I may want to buy, or lease land with it. If the sales had been conducted as at first proposed, there would have been splendid speculations here, but the speculators found that out, and the best men here, General Saxton and others, sent word to Washington about it, and so the sale has been postponed, or, as another rumor says, Congress has decided that the land shall be bid in by Government unless it is bought for three-fourths of its estimated value. That will cut out all speculators. The house on this place cost about twelve thousand dollars, and there are five hundred acres belonging to The Oaks, of good cotton land mostly (cotton selling at $1.65 per pound), and yet it was thought the place would sell for less than one hundred dollars. All that fun is spoiled now, however, for the estimated value of the land of The Oaks in the tax-tables is $2000, and the bidding-in price $1500 — too much to be risked in these times. Whether the superintendents will be retained under the new leasing plan or not is a great question. I think it quite likely not. W. is disgusted just now with the people, because they have not worked and will not work enough; but what inducement they have to work, no one can see. They have not been paid for their work since September, and they begin to believe that Government never means to pay any more. It will take some management to get them to do the fencing W. wants done, willingly at least. They do not see the use of fences. Wherever the soldiers go they take the rails for firewood, and this is rather discouraging to the workmen who cut them upon a “promise to pay” merely.
There has been a rumor that no more letters were to go North till after the great doings at Charleston, but that order has not come yet. If a long time goes by without your hearing, you may suppose that the mails are stopped.
Jan. 8th. Thursday. Saw Delos a few minutes. Wrote to Fannie. Read some in “The Canoe and Saddle” by Winthrop. Don’t like this as well as “John Brent.” Commenced getting bread from baker of 2nd O. V. C. (A. B. N. and Melissa Tenney married today.)
January 8th [1863]. To-day a great show of artillery; no other parade that I see. This day, sacred to a victory over a foreign foe [battle of New Orleans, 1815], finds us in a sad plight. We Confederates are victorious, but over those who should have been our brothers. Went with Mrs. Dameron to look over her sister’s house (Mrs. Shepherd Brown), which has just been given up by one set of Federals, and another has moved in—General Banks and staff. We missed lace curtains, some parlor ornaments, and the beautiful picture of the Magdalen. We’ were treated politely by servant and orderly; with the latter we had a long talk. He is from Boston, whither he longs to return. I think he would be glad of peace on any terms. I felt not the least bitterness towards the poor fellow, who looks sad enough. We talked our views freely. I told him that my brother had last been seen in a battle of ”Stonewall’s” with this very General Banks. Banks was defeated, but I didn’t remind him of it. We took a glass of Yankee ice water. Mrs. Dameron was kind and gentle, though she had many reasons for anger, seeing these people in her absent sister’s house with the household relics scattered and the carpets worn and faded with Federal footsteps; she was driven out of her other sister’s house earlier in the fall; this last, the finest in town, is occupied by General Shepley, as they call him. Can there be a Governor who has never power to do anything? When I was there to see his lordship with Mrs. Norton, the house and furniture looked so familiar and natural that I sat there speechless at first, speculating on the strange state of things. Once I was near opening Mrs. Brown’s bed-room door. His lordship kept us waiting a long while, and when he came in with his deceitful smile I did hate him, the vulgar-minded official who imagines that place will make him a gentleman. I have heard that he was one at home, but his voice betrays him. I made as biting remarks as the business would admit of. He gave me a side glance of hatred from his leaden eye. Mrs. Norton “gave it to him,” to use her own words, but being the mother of the lady whose house and furniture he had taken possession of, he felt as if he could bear with her I suppose.
Mrs. Norton called at her daughter, Mrs. Harrison’s, house before Butler’s people left it, and asked that the sheep might be put out of the yard, as they were ruining the beautiful shrubbery. The mulatto at the gate gave her much insolence; told her “to go about her own business,” he intended that the sheep should stay there, that the shrubbery should be destroyed, and that if she had a daughter “he intended to come and see her.” My blood ran cold when she told me this, and for the first time I realized our position here among these lawless negroes. Mrs. Norton told General Shepley that she demanded of him as a gentleman and a ruler to have that man punished. She asked him what he would feel if a negro should tell him that he would visit his daughters. “I would knock him down,” replied the stalwart Governor. “Then,” says Mrs. Norton, “I demand that you punish him for me.” The smiling Governor promised to go immediately and have him arrested, but that was the last of it. I wonder how a man contrives to smile so, yet look querulous? I recalled Shakespeare when I met him, “a man may smile and smile, etc.” We had an interview with Colonel French. Mrs. Norton went to get her husband’s old gun (her husband had been dead for many years), which she had given up last summer for fear that the negroes would have her arrested, as many have been for retaining weapons. “French could do nothing; we must go to General Banks’ people.” This gentleman has nestled himself in Judge Packard’s house, a very sweet one. He was polite enough, and our interview was soon over. He looks like a great overgrown schoolboy with a lovely complexion, but there is no play of intelligence either in his face or manner. The Yankee Delta calls him the “gorgeous French.” His dress was gorgeous, being laced with gold or brass in all directions.
Called this evening on Madame Francois; met her daughter, a delicate Creole, married to a real robustious Englishman who has grown rich and important in this country; heard from him that the Federals acknowledge the capitulation of Rosecranz and the 4,000 men; heard also that the bombarding fleet has left Vicksburg to return to Memphis for fear of being cut off. Banks has requested, so report says, that no more news be printed until tomorrow, as the town is in a dreadfully excited state. He need not fear; the excitement of joy rarely injures. A flag of truce has come in—report says that Banks has refused to receive it. This cannot be so as I see prisoners are to be exchanged. It might not have been allowed to enter town for fear of excitement; the heart of the city warms to the Confederate uniform. Last summer when it was a rare sight here, we all went to a friend’s house to see a young Confederate captain who, after being confined in the custom house for some time, was allowed to be out on parole. The Ogden girls were with us. After we arrived we found the young man, a Texan, so exceedingly diffident that we were abashed. He was so alarmed that he was quite alarming. His name was Blount, and a more sincere, ingenuous and stalwart young soldier I could not wish to rely upon in time of need. He has long since been exchanged. I saw in the paper to-day that General Chalmers is wounded. His sister-in-law was here a few days ago, expressing great uneasiness for her husband, who is General Chalmers’ brother, and upon General Chalmer’s staff. She hears nothing from him and cannot get a passport to go out. The registered enemies were on the eve of departure when Banks arrived; General Butler had issued an order that they should leave, bearing with them baggage to the amount of $50 only. Hundreds were disappointed when Banks issued another order, changing the entire programme. Many families had parted with everything, having reserved only enough to bear them out, and now they are suffering. Passports are not sold now as in Butler’s day, and we rarely hear from beyond the lines. I never hear from my dear ones in Texas; the few lines from poor Claude, written with his left hand, being the last I received. He was then on his way from Virginia, having bid good-bye to “lines and tented fields” and left one gallant arm behind him. He stopped with Mrs. Chilton, who lives at Jackson, a day or two; there, I hear, he got a situation in the commissary department in Texas.
The boxes of home supplies now had Portsmouth Grove Hospital as their principal destination. The following is one of the letters in return for supplies:
The games, as well as the slates, which came in the boxes and barrels, are a great delight. I have just been over to see Fitch and set him up at a solitaire board. He was all over smiles, and pegging away with his game in bed.
With another gift of tools, the boys in Ward 2o knocked up a nice little bagatelle board with glass balls and a cambric cover. Ward 6 went over to inspect and imitate. They came back disgusted; “would scorn to play on such a thing; would have a board on which a lady could dance a hornpipe, if she pleased.” Highly improbable that any one would please to do that, but I promised them that if they would make a first-rate board, they should have all that was necessary. So they went to work, and the result was a beauty. The table is seven or eight feet long, covered with scarlet flannel, and with turned balls and walnut cups, and the men of the ward have enjoyed every minute of its existence for the past month. I have never gone in when there hasn’t been a crowd round the table pushing balls or keeping count, and I really think that the health of the ward has improved under the treatment.
Money spent in lemons for bronchitis, oranges for fever patients, mittens and socks for “convalescents” (who have to go on guard in puddles of snow-water) and in games and tools for wretched, bored, half-sick, half-well, wholly demoralized men, may not seem a great investment to the givers; would not seem so to me, if I did not live in a general hospital, and know where Government munificence stops and where private beneficence may to advantage begin.
The meals in our hospital mess-hall are nicely served and well cooked. At the beating of the drum the “convalescents” form in line, and march, by wards, into the long hall, where three lines of tables, each 250 feet long, are set. Last night, when we inspected the supper, there were shining tins up and down the tables with a very large portion of rice and molasses, hot coffee, and plenty of bread for each man, and many little pots of butter and jam came in under the Braves’ arms, out of their home boxes, to help garnish the tea.
This morning I was invited by a soldier to join him in a banquet over a box from home; “and all I want beside,” observed he, “is a little gin.” “It is very lucky for you that there was none,” was my answer, “or the whole box would have been confiscated.” “Confiscated, indeed!” returned the Brave; “I should like to see that thing done. I’m none of your cream and chocolate men. I’d carry the case up to Abraham himself! ”
The other day Miss — was washing a boy’s face very gently. “Oh!” said he, “that reminds me of home—” (Miss — highly gratified); “that’s like my sister; she often did that for me. My eyes! wasn’t she a rough one! She’d take off dirt, and skin too, but she’d get the dirt off.”
Thursday, 8th—Although it is now quite warm, we are still waiting for our knapsacks containing our underwear which were stored at La Grange, but we were again disappointed in not getting them today as expected. Our boys have never been so bent on foraging as they have since going into camp here. Last night a squad of boys from Company K were out looking for whatever they could find, but apparently with little success, until returning to camp they passed by the camp of the Sixteenth Iowa, where they noticed two dressed hogs hanging up to cool during the night. What did they do but deliberately walk up and carry off one of the carcasses to their own camp! They immediately cut up the meat, put it into kettles over fires, cooked it, and divided it among the boys of their company, all before daylight. This morning when a squad of the boys of the Sixteenth Iowa walked along our regimental camp in quest of that missing hog, they did not see even a sign of meat, bone or campfire embers.
January 8th.—On the 16th of December, the day after the last entry in my diary, I went to Richmond, and found B. B. at the house of Mr. P., on Grace Street, surrounded by luxury, and the recipient of unnumbered kindnesses; but so desperately ill! The surgeons had been up all night in the various hospitals, and, as numerous as they were, they were sadly deficient in numbers that night. The benevolent Dr. Bolton had taken his wife and her sister, who had learned the art of binding up wounds, to his hospital, and all night long they had been engaged most efficiently in their labour of love. Other ladies were engaged in offices of mercy. Women who had been brought up surrounded by the delicacies and refinements of the most polished society, and who would have paled at the sight of blood under other circumstances, were bathing the most frightful gashes, while others were placing the bandages. I found B. suffering the most intense agony, and Mrs. P. agitated and anxious. No surgeon could be obtained for private houses. I sent for one, who was not an army surgeon, to come at once. He sent me word that he had been up all night, and had just retired. Again I sent to implore him to come; in five minutes he was there. He told me at once that his situation was critical in the extreme; the Minié ball had not been extracted; he must die, if not soon relieved. He wanted assistance—another surgeon. To send in pursuit of Dr. Gibson for my brother, then stationed at Camp Winder, and to telegraph for his father, occupied but a few moments; but the surgeons could not come. Hour after hour I sat by him. To cut off his bloody clothes, and replace them by fresh ones, and to administer the immense doses of morphine, was all that Mrs. P. and myself could do. At dark, Surgeons G. and B., accompanied by my brother, arrived. They did what they could, but considered the case hopeless. His uncle, General C., arrived, to our great relief. He joined us in nursing him during the night. The cars were constantly coming in. Shouts of victory and wails for the dead were strangely blended. I was glad that I did not hear during that dreadful night that the body of that bright, beautiful boy, that young Christian hero, Randolph Fairfax, had been brought to town. The father, mother, sisters !—can they bear the blighting stroke ? The hope, the pride, almost the idol of the family, thus suddenly cut down! We, too, mourn him dead, as we had loved and admired him living. We had watched his boyhood and youth, the gradual development of that brilliant mind and lofty character. His Christian parents are bowed down, but not crushed; their future on earth is clouded; but by faith they see his abundant entrance into the kingdom of heaven, his glorious future, and are comforted. Another young Christian soldier of the same battery was shot down about the same moment—our young friend David Barton, of Winchester. Three months ago his parents buried their oldest son, who fell nobly defending his native town, and now their second has passed into heaven. The Church mourns him as one who was about to devote his life to her sacred cause, but who felt it his duty to defend her against the hosts who are desecrating her hallowed precincts. How many, oh, how many of the young soldiers of the Cross are obliged to take up carnal weapons, to “save from spoil that sacred place!” Poor fellows! their life’s blood oozes out in a great cause. But our church!
“Will she ever lift her head
From dust, and darkness, and the dead?”
Yes, the time is at hand when she, our Southern Church, shall
“Put all her beauteous garments on,
And let her excellence be known.
Decked in the robes of righteousness,
The world her glory shall confess.
“No more shall foes unclean invade
And fill her hallowed walls with dread;
No more shall hell’s insulting host
Their victory and thy sorrows boast.”
The churches of Fredericksburg suffered dreadfully during the bombardment. Some were torn to pieces. Our dear old St. George’s suffered very little; but a shell burst through her revered walls, and her steeple was broken by a passing shot. She stands a monument of Vandalism, though still a Christian chapel, from which the Gospel will, I trust, be poured forth for many years, when we shall no longer be surrounded by those who cry, “Raze it, raze it, even to the foundations thereof.”
But to return to my patient. After days and nights of watching, I left him improving, and in the hands of his parents. The physicians seem still doubtful of the result, but I am full of hope. The ball, after much difficulty, was extracted, since which time he has gradually improved; but his sufferings have been indescribable, W. B. C. is also slowly convalescing. One night while sitting up with B., together with a surgeon and General C., when we had not been able to raise him up for two days, we were startled by his springing from the bed in agony, and running to the fire; the surgeon (his uncle) gently put his arm around him and laid him on the couch. I hastened to the bed to make it comfortable; but it was so large that I could not raise it up; at last I called out, “General, help me to make up this bed; come quickly!” In an instant the large feather bed was grasped by him with strength and skill, turned over and beaten thoroughly, the mattrass replaced; then to help me to spread the sheets, smooth the pillows, etc., was the work of a moment. The patient was replaced in bed and soothed to sleep. Not till then did I remember that my companion in making the bed was one who but a short time before had led his brigade in the hottest of the fight, and would, perhaps, do it again and again. I complimented him on his versatility of talent, and a pleasant laugh ensued. During the Christmas holidays, while most anxious about our wounded, a letter from Kentucky reached us, announcing the death of my lovely niece, Mrs. K. As soon as her home on the Mississippi became surrounded by the enemy, she was obliged to leave it. She then joined her husband, who is on General Breckinridge’s staff, and stationed near Knoxville. As her health was very delicate, she determined, as soon as General B. was ordered off, to attempt to get to her mother in Kentucky; her husband placed her in the care of an elderly physician and friend, who accompanied her in a carriage across the mountains, as the public conveyances between those hostile regions are, of course, discontinued. Before she had travelled many days she was compelled to stop at a small house on the roadside, and there, with much kindness from the hostess, and from her travelling companion, but none of the comforts to which she had been accustomed, she suffered intensely for many days, and then attempted to go on. She reached Georgetown, Kentucky, which was her summer home; her mother was telegraphed for, and reached, her just three days before she breathed her last. Dear H.! another victim of the war; as much so as was her brother, who received his mortal wound at Dranesville, or her brother-in-law, who was shot through the heart at Pea Ridge. Her poor mother deemed it a blessed privilege to be able to be with her in her dying hour; a comfort which she did not experience after her long trip to see her son. I fear she will sink under accumulated misfortunes; cut off as she is from all that makes life bearable under such circumstances. During the campaign of last summer around Richmond, she describes her feelings as being anxious and nervous beyond expression. She heard nothing but threats against us, and braggadocio, until she believed that we must be crushed; the many Southerners around her could not express their feelings except in subdued whispers. The Cincinnati and Covington papers expressed their confidence of success. Each day she would go to Cincinnati to hear the news, and come back depressed; but on the sixth day after the battles commenced, as she took her usual morning walk, she observed that the crowd around the telegraph office was more quiet than usual. As she approached, “curses, not loud, but deep,” reached her ear. Hope dawned upon her subdued spirit. “Is there any thing the matter?” she asked, meekly, of the first gentlemanly-looking man she saw. “The matter!” he exclaimed. “Oh! madam, we are defeated. McClellan is retreating down the river towards Harrison’s Landing. I don’t know where that is, but we are shamefully beaten.” She did not allow herself to speak, but rapidly wended her way home, her face bathed in tears of thankfulness, and singing the Gloria in Excelsis.
Several days ago General Bragg reported a victory at Murfreesboro’, Tennessee. There was certainly a victory on the first day, as 4,000 prisoners were secured, with thirty-one pieces of cannon, and sent to Chattanooga. On the third day the enemy were reinforced, and our army was obliged to fall back. A friend remarked that the Bragg victories never seem to do us much good. The truth is, the Western Yankees fight much better than the Eastern, and outnumber us fearfully. They claim the victory, but acknowledge the loss of 30,000 men. It must have been a most severe conflict. At Vicksburg they have made another attack, and been repulsed; and yet another misfortune for them was the sinking of their brag gun-boat Monitor. It went down off Cape Hatteras. In Philadelphia the negroes and Abolitionists celebrated the 1st of January with mad demonstrations of delight, as the day on which Lincoln’s proclamation to abolish slavery would take effect. In Norfolk the negroes were deluded by the Abolitionists into great excitement. Speeches were made, encouraging them to take up arms against their masters! Hale has offered a resolution in the Northern Congress to raise two hundred regiments of negroes! The valiant knight, I hope, will be generalissimo of the corps. He is worthy of the position!
