Tuesday, 31st.—Warrenton has been badly torn up by shells, and the levee being cut, the water is about three feet deep all over town, but the houses being up on posts about four feet high, the water was not up into them. South of the town there is a vast expanse of water, covering several miles; have good house to stay in, the citizens all being away. Working on fort; only have to work four hours a day.
March 2013
March 31st. This morning at six o’clock, got under way and steamed down the river, followed by the Albatross, and ram Switzerland; at eight-thirty A. M. we all came to anchor; sent boats on shore for fresh provisions; unfortunately but very little could be obtained; at six-thirty P. M. got under way again, and proceeded on down the river. Came in sight of Grand Gulf, continued on our way; beat to general quarters; at seven-thirty P. M. came within range and opened fire. The enemy replied very briskly, but we were too much for them this time, and drove them from their guns. They rallied, but were obliged to retreat the second time. Their loss must have been very great. Our loss during this action was one man mortally wounded. This was one of the sharpest fights we have yet had. After the action was over and the ship brought to anchor for the night, all hands were called on the quarter-deck to splice the main brace.
Jones, who was wounded to-day, deserves more than a passing notice. He was a fine young man, and dearly beloved by his shipmates. He was wounded by a bolt from a stanchion, which passed entirely through his body while he was in the act of carrying a shell to his gun. With the bolt in his body he tried to lift the projectile, but his strength failed him and he went below to the surgeon to have his wound dressed. The doctor could not get it out, and poor Jones suffered all night. He was a brave man, and will die regretted by our officers and men.
[March 31].— 7:30 A. M. — Colonel Comly started from Coal’s Mouth down [the] river at daylight.
8:30 A. M. — Dispatch from Colonel Comly at Red House says, “Jenkins supposed to have recrossed the river five miles above Point Pleasant.” Our telegraphic communications via Gauley and Clarksburg with the outside world cut off between Gauley and Clarksburg! Bottsford says now: “Keep your powder dry and trust in God!” I advised to send word to Captain Fitch at Gallipolis to run his steamboats up Kanawha and prevent a recrossing of the Rebels, but it was too late or seems not to have been heeded.
Tuesday, 31st—Warm and pleasant today. More troops passed down the river. I commenced cooking for the captain and officers of our company.1 I was considered a pretty good cook at home, but having so few utensils here, I fear there will be quite a contrast.
1 It seems that Private Downing was to get $5.00 per month as cook. See the entry for May 2d.—Ed.
March 31.—At Assumpçion (I guess at the spelling). Charming, — perfectly charming, — day, place, sensations. We have marched twelve or thirteen miles since nine o’clock this morning, through the sweetest of regions, with the sweetest of air. Now we pause for the night,—the landscape still the mild, verdant, level expanse which made me think of Holland at Donaldsonville, — the grand bayou, deep and swift, riding along above the heads of the people. Here and there, the current, eating into the bank, leaves only a mere spadeful between the rush of the stream and the plain below it. The army began its march this morning at half-past seven. Punctually at the time, we had cooked and eaten breakfast. Our knapsacks were to go in baggage-wagons,—we carrying only blankets, equipments, and weapons. Among our indispensables, however, a few of us carry certain new arrangements. At McGill’s suggestion, we have bought a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a kettle for boiling. Wivers carries the coffee-pot slung at his side: Sergeant Bivins carries the frying-pan strapped on his back, — handy, rather; for when the excellent sergeant, at a halt, under the hot noon, shall throw himself backward on the sod, as soldiers do, he shall broil himself in an appropriate dish. I have, strapped to my belt, the boiler; itscrocky bottom painting thunder-clouds on the blue of my right thigh, as it swings to and fro. It will hold two or three quarts, and is up to flour, meal, eggs, oysters, or any thing which shall come to the omniverous haversack of the campaigner.
We have been brigaded anew; being still in the second brigade of Grover’s division, but with the Twelfth Maine associated with us, instead of the Ninety-first New York. Col. Kimball, of the Twelfth Maine, is now our brigadier.
The conditions for marching to-day are excellent. Never did foot of military patriot press the broad sole of Uncle Sam’s army-shoe into road at once so softly yielding, yet so firmly resisting; and, for air, certain it is, that through scores and scores of leagues, in States openly or secretly secesh, — Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, — certain it is, that over all this distance, this 31st of March, a levée of atmosphere of equatorial fervor had been built up. But, lo! the currents of northern air broke through it in a perfect crevasse of coolness, inundating all these Louisiana lowlands with its refreshing tide; so that, although we marched fast, the drops of sweat were beaten back, and the locks of the soldier, not plastered to his forehead, danced in a jolly manner in the breeze of home.
I have seen this day what I have not seen before, — estates which come up to what I have imagined about the homes of princely planters, two or three of them. The first we came upon was on the opposite side of the bayou. I was marching, not in the road, but along the ridge of the Levee, whence I could overlook the long column, the sugar-fields, and the distant wood,—a wood as romantic in its dim blueness as if I looked at it, not through a league or so of space, but through time, and beheld the Forest of Ardennes or the Grove of Cicero by the Fibrenus. While thus marching, — the bayou a foot or two from my path on one side, the road six or eight feet down on the other, — I caught sight of thick shrubbery, a chenille embroidery of green tufting the bare level plain. Then came into view a towering roof, and the stately palings of an enclosure befitting a princely domain. As we came opposite, down a long avenue, the perspective led the eye within the open portal of a splendid mansion; from whose hall, ladies and children looked across at the marching army. Meantime, the air was full of sweet scents: for tropic plants, like Eastern princes, stretched forth their arms from the enclosure, and with odorous gifts flattered the passers-by; and a tree full of bell-shaped blossoms — the airy “campanile” of the garden showing rows on rows of little purple chimes — “tolled incense” to us. One or two domains like this I saw, and many more less splendid, yet which were neat and pretty.
Toward noon, it grew hotter again. The “crevasse” by which the north wind flowed in upon us was stopped up, and the hot, unfriendly air of the South had its own way with us. We were in light marching order; but the burden bore heavily down. I remembered how Don Fulano talked to John Brent on the ride to deliver Ellen Clitherœ.
“Courage, noble master! You ride me hard; but I have a great reservoir of strength here in my loins and limbs. Never fear, you can draw on me without danger.”
Something like that. I bestrode a more humble beast: “Shanks’s horse” we used to call it, when we were boys. He made no such fine speeches. In fact, sometimes I feared he might give it-up; but somehow the sinews and fibres always had a little more try in them.
The bands of the division are playing now at “tattoo.” They have been playing during the evening with great vigor, particularly one bass-drum. The drummer, I believe, had to fall out to-day, on account of his ponderous instrument; and to-night is wreaking vengeance upon it, until it bellows through the camps far and wide. Bivins, who sits just the other side of the candle from me, believes “the boys are killing pigs, and have hired the bands to play to drown the squealing.”
Camp Winder, March 31, 1863.
You will have, in your troubles on the farm, much to try your patience. My advice to you is to bear it all in good temper, to know all that is going on; and by devoting your mind to it you will find that you succeed much better than you anticipate. There is no work so profitable in one’s business as thinking about it. I have always found that when I was interested in what I had on hand, and thought much about it, that I found some good and easy plan of accomplishing what I wanted to do. I have, as you know, short as my life has been, followed all sorts of trades. I have been lawyer, banker, farmer, soldier, etc., and any success which I have met with I ascribe to the thinking which I have devoted to the business. You, I doubt not, have found the same about your housekeeping. Now apply this to the farm, and you will have an easy time.
Whilst I value your love as the best treasure which I have on earth, I would not have you harass yourself with a painful anxiety about my fate. The thread by which I hold my life is brittle, indeed, and may be severed any day. I have thought much of it, and think that I feel content to accept whatever fate God’s justice and mercy has in store for me; and my prayer is that he will give me such faith, repentance and conformity to the law of his holy Gospel as is required of the sinner. I feel that I can say, “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me; but thy will be done.” Sooner or later I must drink it, and if it be God’s will that it be now, I am content. Sooner or later I must die, and, if prepared to die, my life can never be given to such a cause as that in which it is now staked. I may survive the dangers before me; many thousands will. If such be the will of God, I trust that his law may be the guide in what remains for me of life. Sooner or later, darling, the ties which bind me to you and the children of our home must be severed forever. If I be the first to go, and the charge devolve upon you, teach them, as the experience of their father’s life, that there is no honor on this earth save in the path which God’s Word points out for the humble and contrite Christian. Outside of this there is no success in life, no wealth or distinction which does not bring wretchedness as the reward for the labor which it costs. Perhaps there may be many years of happiness in store for us, dark and bloody as the future may seem. May God in his mercy end the struggle!
March 31 — Commenced snowing last night and snowed very fast until noon to-day, then cleared up warm and melted all the snow. The mud in camp is about six inches deep and still rising.
Tuesday, March 31st.
“To be, or not to be; that’s the question.” Whether ‘t is nobler in the Confederacy to suffer the pangs of unappeasable hunger and never-ending trouble, or to take passage to a Yankee port, and there remaining, end them. Which is best? I am so near daft that I cannot pretend to say; I only know that I shudder at the thought of going to New Orleans, and that my heart fails me when I think of the probable consequence to mother if I allow a mere outward sign of patriotism to overbalance what should be my first consideration — her health. For Clinton is growing no better rapidly. To be hungry is there an everyday occurrence. For ten days, mother writes, they have lived off just hominy enough to keep their bodies and souls from parting, without being able to procure another article — not even a potato. Mother is not in a condition to stand such privation; day by day she grows weaker on her new regimen; I am satisfied that two months more of danger, difficulties, perplexities, and starvation will lay her in her grave. The latter alone is enough to put a speedy end to her days. Lilly has been obliged to put her children to bed to make them forget they were supperless, and when she followed their example, could not sleep herself, for very hunger.
We have tried in vain to find another home in the Confederacy. After three days spent in searching Augusta, Gibbes wrote that it was impossible to find a vacant room for us, as the city was already crowded with refugees. A kind Providence must have destined that disappointment in order to save my life, if there is any reason for Colonel Steadman’s fears. We next wrote to Mobile, Brandon, and even that horrid little Liberty, besides making inquiries of every one we met, while Charlie, too, was endeavoring to find a place, and everywhere received the same answer — not a vacant room, and provisions hardly to be obtained at all.
The question has now resolved itself to whether we shall see mother die for want of food in Clinton, or, by sacrificing an outward show of patriotism (the inward sentiment cannot be changed), go with her to New Orleans, as Brother begs in the few letters he contrives to smuggle through. It looks simple enough. Ought not mother’s life to be our first consideration? Undoubtedly! But suppose we could preserve her life and our free sentiments at the same time? If we could only find a resting-place in the Confederacy! This though, is impossible. But to go to New Orleans; to cease singing “Dixie”; to be obliged to keep your sentiments to yourself — for I would not wound Brother by any Ultra-Secession speech, and such could do me no good and only injure him — if he is as friendly with the Federals as they say he is; to listen to the scurrilous abuse heaped on those fighting for our homes and liberties, among them my three brothers — could I endure it? I fear not. Even if I did not go crazy, I would grow so restless, homesick, and miserable, that I would pray for even Clinton again. Oh, I don’t, don’t want to go! If mother would only go alone, and leave us with Lilly! But she is as anxious to obtain Dr. Stone’s advice for me as we are to secure her a comfortable home; and I won’t go anywhere without Miriam, so we must all go together. Yet there is no disguising the fact that such a move will place us in a very doubtful position to both friends and enemies. However, all our friends here warmly advocate the move, and Will Pinckney and Frank both promised to knock down any one who shrugged their shoulders and said anything about it. But what would the boys say? The fear of displeasing them is my chief distress. George writes in the greatest distress about my prolonged illness, and his alarm about my condition. “ Of one thing I am sure,” he writes, “and that is that she deserves to recover; for a better little sister never lived.” God bless him! My eyes grew right moist over those few words. Loving words bring tears to them sooner than angry ones. Would he object to such a step when he knows that the very medicines necessary for my recovery are not to be procured in the whole country? Would he rather have mother dead and me a cripple, in the Confederacy, than both well, out of it? I feel that if we go we are wrong; but I am satisfied that it is worse to stay. It is a distressing dilemma to be placed in, as we are certain to be blamed whichever course we pursue. But I don’t want to go to New Orleans!
Before I had time to lay down my pen this evening, General Gardiner and Major Wilson were announced; and I had to perform a hasty toilette before being presentable. The first remark of the General was that my face recalled many pleasant recollections; that he had known my family very well, but that time was probably beyond my recollection; and he went on talking about father and Lavinia, until I felt quite comfortable, with this utter stranger. . . . I would prefer his speaking of “our” recent success at Port Hudson to “my”; for we each, man, woman, and child, feel that we share the glory of sinking the gunboats and sending Banks back to Baton Rouge without venturing on an attack; and it seemed odd to hear any one assume the responsibility of the whole affair and say “my success” so unconsciously. But this may be the privilege of generals. I am no judge, as this is the first Confederate general I have had the pleasure of seeing. Wish it had been old Stonewall! I grow enthusiastic every time I think of the dear old fellow!
I am indebted to General Gardiner for a great piece of kindness, though. I was telling him of how many enemies he had made among the ladies by his strict regulations that now rendered it almost impossible for the gentlemen to obtain permission to call on them, when he told me if I would signify to my friends to mention when they applied that their visit was to be here, and not elsewhere, that he would answer for their having a pass whenever they called for one. Merci àu compliment; mais c’est trop lard, Monsieur!
March 31.—James Scott, the young man of whom I spoke some time ago, has just breathed his last. After lying on his back four months, he was able to walk about; he was then taken with pneumonia; recovered from that; was taken with diphtheria; from that he also recovered; and died from the effects of erysipelas. Poor child! what a happy release from woe and suffering! His young life had been one of sorrow, but he trusted in Him who trod this vale of tears before him.
“Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit, rest thee now;
E’en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust to its narrow house beneath,
Soul to its pluck on high;
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.
Lone are the paths and sad the bowers
Whence thy meek smile is gone;
But O, a brighter home than ours,
In heaven, is now thine own.”
May God bless his poor widowed and childless mother! I believe this is the third son she has lost in this fratricidal conflict. I did not know any of the others, but trust they died with the same hope and faith this one has; if so, she will weep more in joy than sorrow, for they have only passed the portals of death a little while before her, that it may not be so dark and drear to her, since her loved ones have passed through.
Dr. Hopping took as much care of him as though he had been his own brother, and he had procured his discharge from the army. The nurses were also kind; they could not have been otherwise, for it was a great pleasure to wait on him; he was so meek and uncomplaining. He was a member of the Forty-first Alabama Regiment, and from Fayette County, Alabama.
March 31—Left at 7 this morning, marched six miles, waded several creeks, and arrived at Swift Creek at n. This is a small village. We camp here for the night.
