Following the American Civil War Sesquicentennial with day by day writings of the time, currently 1863.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Post image for Army life in Virginia by George Grenville Benedict.

Army life in Virginia by George Grenville Benedict.

March 8, 2013

Army life in Virginia by George Grenville Benedict, 12th Regiment Vermont Volunteers.

The Capture of General Stoughton.

Camp Near Wolf Run Shoals, Va.,
March 8, 1863.

Dear Free Press:

The Twelfth is now in the seventh week of its occupancy of its present camp,—a longer stay in one spot than it has yet made. We have formed no such intense attachment to our camp at the Shoals that we shall not be pretty well content to leave it, wherever we may be ordered. The region about us is a dreary one; the camp is less pleasant than our former ones; the time we have thus far spent in it has been during the most trying season of the year; snow, rain, frost and mud have told on the health of the regiment, and we have more sickness than ever before, among both officers and men; our picket duty— in pleasant weather the pleasantest duty of the soldier—has been severe ; and though our situation here might be worse in a thousand particulars, we should all be satisfied to run the risk of not bettering our condition by a move.

You are not to understand that we are disheartened—not at all. “The Red, White and Blue,” sung by an extemporized quartette, with a stiff chorus of manly voices, coming to my ear as I write, tells a different story from that. We carry a stiff upper lip under all circumstances. About a tenth of the regiment are off duty from measles, fevers, and ailments of one sort or another. The balance are, I think, more resolute in the great purpose of the war than ever. “There is more fight in me,” said one of our men yesterday, “than ever before. I supposed when I enlisted that nine months in the service would give me enough of war, and I remained of that opinion till quite lately. Now I am in for the war, be it long or short.” The man who said this had no lack of fight in him at the start, mind you, and I believe he represents a majority of the regiment. Fuller acquaintance with the temper and purposes of the rebels, discussion of the issues involved, and especially the news we get from home of the sayings and doings of the miserable “copperhead” journals and their followers at the North, have stirred to the bottom the fountains of honest indignation, and given strength to the purpose and patriotism of us all. The army is unanimous in this feeling, so far as I can judge. Having enlisted to fight traitors, the soldiers as a mass propose to fight them through, and would like to give those at home the same treatment they do those at the south.

March 9.

I was going to complain of the lack of incident here, but since I began my letter, we have been supplied with some of that missing article. You will have heard by telegraph before this reaches you, of Mosby’s dash into Fairfax Court House last night, and the capture in his bed of Brigadier General E. H. Stoughton, commanding this brigade. The camp is humming with the news, but in the uncertainty as to how much that is told of the attending circumstances is truth, I will not attempt to describe this very creditable (to the rebels) occurrence. I beg leave to say, however, that none of the disgrace of the affair belongs to the regiments of the brigade. General Stoughton was not taken from the midst of his command. The Vermont regiments nearest to the comfortable brick house which he occupied as his headquarters, were at Fairfax Station, four miles south of him, while the Twelfth and Thirteenth were a dozen miles away. The risk of exactly such an operation has been apparent even to the privates, and has been a matter of frequent remark among officers and men, for weeks past. How could they protect him as long as he kept his quarters at such a distance from them?[1]

The moral of the transaction is too obvious to need suggestion.

Colonel Blunt has been assigned to the command of the brigade, and is removing his headquarters to Fairfax Station. When he is pulled out of bed by guerillas I will let you know.

Yours, B.

[1] Rev. George B. Spaulding of Vergennes, in a communication to the N. Y. Times, commenting on the capture of General Stoughton, said that his capture had been predicted in a letter from Fairfax Court House, written ten days before the event. General Stoughton’s uncle, Hon. E. W. Stoughton of New York, afterwards U. S. Minister to Russia, took up the matter, avowed his disbelief in the existence of any such prediction, and offered to give $250 to the N. E. Soldiers’ Relief Association for the name and residence of any person who had received a letter containing such a prediction. These were furnished to Mr. Stoughton and he paid over the sum named to the Soldiers’ Relief Association.

Post image for Journal of Julia LeGrand.

Journal of Julia LeGrand.

March 8, 2013

The Journal of Julia LeGrand

March 8th [1863]. Clear and beautiful, this Sunday morning. Orange trees in full bloom and roses, honeysuckle and jessamine scenting the air. Too warm. Spring with all its beauty is a desolate season with me. I miss the kindly blaze, the bracing atmosphere and even the lonely sad tone of the winter wind. There is something sad in seeing all things renewed but one’s self. Children finely dressed are hurrying to Sunday school. Mrs. Norton in her best, getting ready for church. I do not feel like going. I wish I had some vent for myself, whether it were church going or visiting. I feel so lonely-hearted always. Yesterday afternoon I was mortified, being for the first time in my life the occasion of a servant’s falsehood. Often I have allowed myself to be persecuted by trifling converse rather than to send a false “Not at home,” or a rude “Beg to be excused.” After dinner Ginnie and I felt tired and not quite well—we had exhausted ourselves talking with Mrs. Norton and Mr. Randolph, and as Mrs. Norton had gone down town, we thought we would refuse all that called and have a quiet time.

Ginnie told Jane to say that Mrs. N—— was out and that we were not well. Mrs. Wells and Mrs. Montgomery called. We heard Jane say “Not at home” for all of us. Called her up afterward and gave her a lecture on story-telling. She said she couldn’t say we did not want to see anybody. Mrs. Roselius came; heard her tell the same thing. I was not dressed, or should have contradicted her in person. I was nervous really—partly because Mrs. R—— is accustomed to pass through our room, or would peep through the blind on the gallery to find if we were in. She retreated before I could get ready. Mr. Dudley called; Mrs. Callender—all shut up. Presently Mrs. Norton returned, bringing Mrs. Roselius with her and Jaque. The impudent little fellow had to open wide our door and make some remark about our being shut in the dark. We felt mortified, but did not go out. Indeed there should be some decent, yet truthful, way of denying one’s self to people when one is weary and out of spirits. After tea, Mrs. Dameron and Mrs. White called and sat for a while. I went down to the gate with them and stood alone a little while looking upon the night. A full moon struggling with heavy clouds; patches of blue sky and a few sweet stars. “Custom can not stale” the infinite variety of the world above us—the voices of the vast eternity are never trite, and the emotions they inspire never weary—they are ever fresh, though as old as the world.

Mary Ogden in from Greenville this morning. The Yankees took away everything from the camp, she says, and burned everything they could not carry—not expected back in that region. Mary brought a letter from her friend, Roberta Archer, of Baltimore, to read to us. She writes as a Unionist—though a warm Southerner—and in this way can tell us much of the position of things in Old Maryland. She is thoroughly out of spirits about the political situation in her native State. That Lee was not reenforced and welcomed by her country people, she is grieved and mortified. The Southern cause is warmly supported by the women and those men who have gone to the Southern battle fields are in high favor. Men, it seems, make the excuse of “Want of arms” in Maryland, as they do here. I, too, am distressed about Maryland’s position. I would not have believed once that the dear old State would have stood calm when the South was trampled on. However, many of her sons have left all to fight for a cause which their State has not adopted. They are noble fellows and will be exiles henceforth. God help this ruined land. I would rather that Maryland should help to form a new Confederacy than to remain a dishonored member of this one. There will, I expect, eventually be formed three Confederacies, if not now. New England should remain alone.

Sammy Erwin has just come in to tell us that his sister, Mrs. Chalmers, is going to be sent out to-morrow and wants to see us. His brother, Stanhope, they have just heard, was killed at the battle of Murfreesboro. Went to see Em—Mrs. Chalmers—on Sunday; found much company and had a full view of General Miles’ house and yard, which are now occupied by Yankees. The privates were wrestling and tumbling over in the yard and out by the street gate, looking wholly unimpressed by the great questions now at issue. I detached myself as much as possible from the general converse and speculated in my usual way. No one talks anything but war-talk. At home and abroad the eternal Yankee is dinned into my ears. I feel an intense interest in this terrible struggle— it underlies almost my every thought and action, and my alternate hopes and fears as to future events have worn me mentally and physically, so much so, that a “waiting-for-the-war-to-be-over” feeling has paralyzed my every energy. It is for this reason—because I have suffered and do suffer so much—I am soon wearied by the trivial details of the hour, even though the war and the Yankees give them birth. I found Sarah looking badly and Em is not to leave to-morrow. She is awaiting Yankee orders. I do not think that either she or the Wilkinsons will be sent out till that awful affair at Port Hudson is over. Em is not to be allowed to carry more provisions with her than are to be actually needed on the journey. “1 presume you will find plenty when that is over, madame,” says satirical Mr. Officer, which meant, “I know that they are half starving in the Confederacy, but if you are silly enough to go there, you must abide the consequences.” These officers ask numberless insolent (necessary?) questions when applied to for passports. They are gruff or otherwise, as the humor takes them. “Why don’t you stay here and take your tea and coffee in peace?” Bowen asked of Ginnie. “Those people in the Confederacy can’t let you have anything to eat out there.” “I don’t fear deprivations outside the lines,” said Miss Pride. I met the Misses Pritchard at Sarah’s, daughters of a lady quite famous in Confederate sewing societies and all sorts of associations. They are graceful girls; not very pretty, but intelligent, filled with sublime contempt for the Yankees. They are Philadelphia people. These adopted Southerners are much hotter than we, strange to say. Butler poured out particular venom on this class.

I left Doctor Glen’s early and called on the Wilkinsons ; met there Doctor Fenner, who told us that our big “Rebel Ram” is finished, and has run out of the Yazoo and is now lying at Vicksburg. She will soon begin to write her history. I hope the fate of the ram Arkansas will not be hers. After the Arkansas‘ brilliant dash from the Yazoo last summer, through the whole Federal fleet, fighting her way safely to Vicksburg, a thrill of enthusiasm and admiration passed through us poor prisoners here, lighting our way, as it were. This feeling ended in a positive personification of the boat, and we spoke of our grim-faced champion as though it were a human being. We loved it and felt protected, even from afar. The Federal accounts of its passage through the great fleet, proved what a splendid and wonderful thing had been done, and after vessel after vessel had given her broadsides and left her unharmed, we began to feel towards the Arkansas as the mother of Achilles must have felt toward that invulnerable (vulnerable) hero after she dipped him. We were sure she was invulnerable, so after the battle of Baton Rouge, when news of her death and destruction came to us, we indignantly rejected such wild beliefs. For weeks, for months, the matter aroused warm discussions. One said, “It was a ruse of ours, the Arkansas would stir our blood again and yet again.” Another contended that she had been blown up by our own people, because her machinery had failed. Of course many resisted the idea of inefficiency in our pride and pet. “No, we would not believe it,” and so we did not for months. Indeed our faiths pro and con were sadly confused by the reports of eye witnesses. This man had seen her blown up— the other had seen her captured and finished by the Essex (Federal), while yet another had seen her towed off in safety toward Vicksburg. (Later accounts.) This lady knew a reliable gentleman who had just run the blockade—he could swear that he had seen the Arkansas on such a day under the batteries safe at Vicksburg. This was to be kept a great secret, both as regarded the ram and the blockade-runner—this reliable gentleman, through fear of the meddling Butler, was never forthcoming, and so we went on keeping his secret with all our might, only whispering it throughout our various circles. I know a gentleman (Doctor Camel) who still believes in the Arkansas. On this day, March 8th, Mr. Randolph knows a man who is bold enough to say that he knows she is safe. Queer world this.

People are beginning to look forward to an attack on this place once more. I do not intend to get excited as I did last summer. How often was I told as I lay down at night to put a dark dress by my bedside, as the Confederates would be here by morning. Dozens and dozens of nights were appointed for the attack, and dozens of mornings broke in disappointment to thousands. We believe now but for the loss of our dear ram we would have had the city back long ago, though croakers cry, “Never again; except by treaty.” I was among those croakers at first. I felt we could never get it back the sad ignominious day it fell, but I grew into a more hopeful state after awhile and joined with some faith the whispering conclaves. How often we imagined we heard the guns at the Fort, I could not at this time safely determine, but their attack and fall were often talked over enough in the dim twilight to stir my blood. What deeds of valor and devotion were we not to perform. We partly rose from the sluggish channel in which sorrow had made us float so long. I do not think that either Gin or myself would fear in battle—we are too sad-hearted. The town is in Federal hands still, but after long silence on this momentous topic, men and women begin again to whisper of attack. General Banks, Farragut and fleet have left for Baton Rouge to aid the attack at Port Hudson. This place is now poorly defended, and we might take it if the 290 and Oreta were here. I would rather get it by treaty, oh, so much— there would be no blood shed then, but if I say so before Mrs. Norton it raises a perfect storm. I would fight as bravely as she, if the city is attacked and needs women’s help, but I cannot help nourishing a hope that the fights at all the different points may be delayed until some decision is arrived at in Congress, which will leave us a free people without further shedding of blood. Why desolate more homes; especially why slaughter more of these poor wretches, more than half of whom are in open insubordination with their own authorities, who are deserting to us constantly? Bayonets were drawn on the poor fellows who refused to embark for the attack on Port Hudson. The men do not wish to fight us, they openly say so.

There are many ways to get together an army in any cause—many of these men have joined for bread. Mrs. Norton wants the negroes all killed, too, “because they listened to Yankee lies.” This is being no greater, wiser or better than Wendell Phillips, who wants all slave holders killed. What a world this is. The North is hating England for her sympathy with us, and for the help she has given us—we are hating her because she does not give us recognition, because she did not long ago. If the extremists were not held in check by a more humane class, the earth would soon be depopulated. I hear numbers of humane sentiments from true Southern people who would fight our enemies bravely, but who do not hate them. When Judge Ogden’s house was guarded he had a fire made in an outhouse for the poor desolate-looking fellows to warm themselves by, and Mary Ogden gave the sick medicine, toast and coffee that she made for them herself. She was “too good to be a Rebel,” one poor wretch said— the whole family are registered enemies. Saw the picture of Mrs. Lieutenant Andrews at Mrs. Wilkinson’s. She had it taken with great alacrity when Mrs. W—— asked her. She does not know she is to figure in the family annals as the keeper of The Female Bastile. Mrs. W—— still has to report herself; it rained for two days, heavily, and she did not go down, and therefore received a message from Lieutenant Andrews that if she did not report herself before 4 o’clock that day, he would send a sergeant after her. Has the world ever seen before a woman on parole! A woman, old and delicate, a lady, wholly unconnected with politics of any sort, who went over the lines because a report of her husband’s death had reached her, and who returned to her children! Mr. Randolph says ’tis a pity that the Confederates take no women prisoners—if they did, Mrs. W—— might be exchanged.

Post image for Downing’s Civil War Diary.–Alexander G. Downing.

Downing’s Civil War Diary.–Alexander G. Downing.

March 8, 2013

Diary of Alexander G. Downing; Company E, Eleventh Iowa Infantry

Monday, 8th—The Third Brigade received their knapsacks this morning. The boys are at work building sheds of the canebrake which is so plentiful in this part of the State. Fighting is still kept up and reinforcements are arriving every day. Vicksburg must and shall fall this time!

Post image for Downing’s Civil War Diary.–Alexander G. Downing.

Downing’s Civil War Diary.–Alexander G. Downing.

March 8, 2013

Diary of Alexander G. Downing; Company E, Eleventh Iowa Infantry

Sunday, 8th—Company E went on picket this morning. Had a fearful hailstorm late this evening.

Post image for “Pell-mell, without order, without lead, a mass of panic-stricken men, riderless horses and miserable cowards…”–Adams Family Letters, Charles Francis Adams, Jr., to his father.

“Pell-mell, without order, without lead, a mass of panic-stricken men, riderless horses and miserable cowards…”–Adams Family Letters, Charles Francis Adams, Jr., to his father.

March 8, 2013

Adams Family Civil War letters; US Minister to the UK and his sons.

Camp of the 1st Mass. Cav’y
Potomac Bridge, Va., March 8, 1863

At nine o’clock on the 25th we set out for Hartwood,1 which is the somewhat famous centre of our Brigade picket line, and some ten miles from here. Our lines run from the Rappahannock to Acquia Creek, a length of some eighteen miles and covering the whole right flank of our army. The morning was bright and sunny, the roads very heavy and the snow melting fast. We looked on our business as rather a lark and rode leisurely along enjoying the fine day and taking our time. At half past twelve we entered the woods within half a mile of our picket reserve, and just then Major Robinson of the 3d Penn., who, with Captain Blood, a curious nondescript from the 4th Penn. made up of whiskey and dullness, and myself, constituted our board, said: “Oh! there’s a carbine shot,” and we trudged along. Like Bull Run Russell, I am now about to tell you things which I myself saw. A few paces further on we were challenged by a vidette and Robinson rode forward and explained our business. He spoke to the man, and just then I heard a few more shots and Robinson shouted to me: “Hurry up, there’s a fight going on,” and began to press on through the road, knee deep in mud. I was picking my way through the woods and, in my disbelief, replied: “Well, I can’t hurry up in these roads, even if there is.” The words were scarcely out of my mouth when I saw good cause to jam the spurs into my horse and hurry up indeed. Pell-mell, without order, without lead, a mass of panic-stricken men, riderless horses and miserable cowards, our picket reserve came driving down the road upon us, in hopeless flight. Along they came, carrying helpless officers with them, throwing away arms and blankets, and in the distance we heard a few carbine shots and the unmistakable savage yell of the rebels.

We drew our sabres and got in the way of the fugitives, shouting to them to turn into the woods and show a front to the enemy. Some only dashed past, but most obeyed us stupidly and I rode into the woods to try and form a line of skirmishers. But that yell sprung up nearer, and in a twinkling my line vanished to the rear. Nor was this the worst. The panic seized my horse and he set his jaw like iron against the bit and dashed off after the rest. Oh! it was disgraceful! Worse than disgraceful, it was ludicrous!! My horse dashed through the woods — thick woods — both feet were knocked out of the stirrups, I was banged against the trees, my hat was knocked over my eyes, I could not return my sabre, but I clung to the saddle like a monkey, expecting every instant to be knocked out of it and to begin my travels to Richmond. This went on for a couple of hundred yards, when at last I got my horse under, and out of the woods into the road, when I found myself galloping along with the rear of the fugitives, side by side with Major Robinson. “My God! Adams,” said he, “this is terrible! This is disgraceful.” “Thank God,” I replied, “I am the only man of my regiment here today.” “Well you may,” said he.

Something had to be done to rally the men however at once, else we should soon find ourselves rushing, a mob, onto the infantry pickets two miles behind. I said I would go ahead and try to stop and rally the last of the column, and I let my horse out. The fresh powerful animal shot by the poor worn out government brutes and did some tall running through the Virginia mud and soon brought me out of the woods into a broad field. Here I turned and blocked the road, and pulled and stormed and swore. Some hurried by through the woods and across the fields, but a number stopped and Robinson began to form a line, such as it was. Here at once I learned the cause of the panic. Nearly all the men belonged to a new and miserable regiment, the 16th Penn. They had never been under fire before, were Pennsylvanians and — ran like sheep. We got some thirty men in one line and I was busy forming another, but what lines! No two men knew each other, their officers were gone, God only knew where! Not one face had I ever seen before, and a glance showed me not one man could be relied on. They were all squinting behind them. In less than two minutes the enemy was on us.

Meanwhile Robinson had sent Lieut. Colonel Jones, an old incompetent of his own regiment who had had command of the pickets, to the rear to rally the fugitives and had taken command. I had sent Blood off on the same errand. Meanwhile the hompesun coats dashed out of the woods, or we could see them riding through them, and instantly Robinson’s line began to vanish, to dissolve. He shouted to them to fire and an abortive volley was the result. Poor as it was it did the work. A few saddles were emptied and the rebs grew at once more prudent. But alas! If it scared the rebs, it scared my line also, which was forming a little to the right and rear and I saw the rascals wavering on the verge of a panic, while I heard Robinson calling on them to come up, for his men were leaving. “I clearly can’t drive them,” thought I, “perhaps they’ll follow me,” and I spurred my horse forward and shouted, “Come on, follow me, there they are,” waving my sword — all in the most improved patterns; but the disciples of Penn did n’t see it in that light, and as I looked over my shoulder I saw my line vanishing from both flanks and the centre on the road home. Then wrath seized my soul and I uttered a yell and chased them. I caught a hapless cuss and cut him over the head with my sabre. It only lent a new horror and fresh speed to his flight. I whanged another over the face and he tarried for a while. Into a third I drove my horse and gave him pause, and then I swore and cursed them. I called them “curs,” “dogs,” and “cowards,” a “disgrace to the 16th Pennsylvania, as the 16th was a disgrace to the service,” and so I finally prevailed on about half of my line to stop for this time.

Meanwhile the firing had ceased and no more rebs were in sight. I joined Robinson and we debated what was to be done. The enemy’s fire had done us no harm and one dead body was in the road before us. Our men were utterly surprised by the effect of their one wretched volley, but alas! they were no more reliable, and as I glanced at those feeble undecided faces, I trembled lest the enemy should attack us again. Oh! thought I, for my own company! I felt rejoiced that they were out of that scrape, but I realized how good and reliable they were. In a few minutes we had settled on a sort of plan and I went into the woods with a dozen men to cover our flank and skirmish. I scattered my men along and encouraged them with the information that at the first sign of wavering I should shoot the first man I came to, and I portentously flourished my pistol. In fact I think I should have done so then, for it could have done no harm at this stage of the game. Before I had not dared to, as I felt that if I did, these men, so green and undisciplined, would only run away from me as well as the enemy, and what we wanted was to get them to stand and stop running. Anyhow I deployed my skirmishers, such as they were.

We saw nothing of any enemy and presently I returned to Major Robinson to settle on some plan of operations. I told him I was ready to take the offensive and charge of the skirmishers, if he was ready to advance, and finally he gave me some more men and we began operations. I extended my line through the woods to the open fields beyond and began to advance. The ground was covered with snow, but the woods were so thick that I could not see more than a third of my line at once. However I pushed steadily forward and in a short time heard some one calling to me. I rode up and found two or three of my men standing round a veritable grey coat, with an officer’s chevrons on, near a tree, by which two horses were standing and at the foot of which lay a man, one glance at whom satisfied me that his course was run. As I came up the unhurt man approached me and told me he was a Captain and my prisoner; that the wounded man was his Lieutenant and friend, and that he had remained to look after him, and, adding with much agitation: “We have always tried to have your men who have fallen into our hands well treated, and we hope you will do the same. At least, let me have a surgeon for my friend.” The poor fellow was lying in the snow at the foot of the tree, shot through the abdomen and now and again writhing in pain. And how could I look on him wholly without feeling? And yet I did just that. No one who has not felt it knows what a brutaliser war is! My duty was clear and I did n’t feel an instant’s hesitation. I assured the prisoner that I did not doubt he had always behaved with humanity, that his friend should receive all possible care; asked him a few hurried questions and then told him he must leave his friend and go to Major Robinson as a prisoner. I took away their arms and parted them. They shook hands, the dying man begging his friend to tell his family of his death, and his friend almost crying as he wrung his hand and left him expiring there on the snow in the woods — alone — for my men could not stop. I went back to Robinson with the prisoner to see how his information would affect our plans, and in a few minutes went back to my men in the woods and have not seen the prisoner or the wounded man since. The last Robinson had carried into a neighboring house where he died in a few hours, I believe and hope with his Captain by his side; but I have since often thought of that scene in the woods and it has brought very near to me the horrors of war.

Now however I was very busy pushing forward my line and trying to discover where the enemy were. We could see them in force on the left across some fields, but not in the woods in front. I sent Blood into the fields with six men to observe them and cover my flank and have n’t seen him since. Somehow, no one knows how, the cuss contrived to get captured about an hour later. I can’t imagine how he did it, but he has n’t been heard of since. Well, I pushed steadily on and presently came to our old line of picket and found myself with about twenty men left. I sent three by the road to the right, three to the left, leaving the rest as reserve. I went a few hundred yards and saw a body of men drawn up on the skirts of the woods. Were they friends or foes? I halted my men and rode forward and called to them, but they made no answer. My men insisted on it they were rebels. If so, I was way ahead of our forces and in a dangerous place, but I could not believe it. They soon settled my doubts, for I heard an order given for a party to go down and drive me back, and down they came. They had carbines and we had not, and they called on us to surrender. As they approached I told my men to fall back, and two of them at once vanished into the woods, while one advanced, stood stock still, as if fascinated, and, I suppose, surrendered.

As for me, finding myself alone, after in vain calling on the man to fall back and not shooting him at once, as I should have done, I fell back myself. I knew I could rely on my horse and cared little for the enemy, keeping just so far in front watching them. Presently the one in advance of the rest saw my reserve and pulled up, and then took a long, deliberate aim and sent a bullet after me. I had never had a bead drawn on me before and the sensation was now not disagreeable. I was cantering slowly along watching my well-wisher over my shoulder and, as he aimed away, I pleasantly reflected: “You’re mounted, I’m in motion, and the more you aim the less you’ll hit”; and then the ball whistled harmlessly by, and we both stopped and he went back and molested me no more. Then came moments of doubt. A skirmish began with yelling and shooting where he came from. Who could be there and fighting? And I saw skirmishers coming up in my rear. Oh Lord! thinks I, I have got ahead of our forces with twelve men and here are the rebels in my rear. Where is Blood? and I cast anxious glances into the woods for a line of retreat and began to fall back. But the advancing line proved to be the 1st Rhode Island and at last light began to dawn on me. Our picket reserve had been divided and I had fallen in with one portion, while of the existence of the other on my left all day I had been wholly ignorant and had so blundered ahead of them and onto the enemy’s flank. Now they had come up and a skirmish was in progress. I turned back and again advanced, but when I reached my old place the skirmish was over. Fitzhugh Lee had accomplished his object, left us his compliments by the widow Coakley, and gone off with, as it now appears, about 120 horses and prisoners. I rode forward and again had a prisoner announce himself as at my disposal. This one had been left behind with two more wounded men at the widow Coakley’s, and from her fair daughters I grimly received General Lee’s compliments.

It was now evening and my thoughts fondly turned on home and the delights of my tent. I saw the officers who had that day come out on picket, and deeply compassionated them, but did n’t offer my assistance for the night. I found Major Robinson and, at last, as night was falling persuaded him that it was just as well to go home and not to pass the night there, meddling with other people’s business and giving orders to our superior officers, and so we started back. The weather had changed and the sky was full of rain, and we met the brigade coming out, now that the bird had flown and was hours away. We wished them joy of their thankless job and got home to a late dinner and that night you may well believe I revelled in my blankets, as I reflected how my share of this job was over, and the next morning I revelled the more as I thought of that miserable brigade when the patter of the rain on my tent woke me and I folded my hands for slumber anew….

In coming in [on the 4th] I found myself Judge Advocate on a Court Martial called to try the fugitives of the 25th and that has busied me ever since. My only variety has been morning drills and on Sunday last a Brigade review, at which our regiment by its appearance and general excellence, not only called forth much remark, but alone in the Brigade was most highly commended by the Division Commander. In fact, at last we are coming up and winning that place in public estimation which we have always felt belonged to us of right. We have long been under a cloud, but at last we have been found out and now every day adds to our reputation. … I am high in favor with all the remaining powers that be, and, having confidence in me, they allow me full swing with my Company and never molest me and, though I say it who perhaps should not, there are few better companies in this regiment or army. Promotions with us are rapid and already I find myself one of the four senior Captains, and consequently a chief of Squadron, which command I, a short time since, considered as filling the measure of my ambition; but we are never contented and now I find myself lusting after a staff appointment with its increased rank on a larger sphere….

_______

1 To assess damages done to property of loyal men near Hartwood Church. Three officers constituted the board.

Post image for Reminiscences of the Civil War by William and Adelia Lyon.

Reminiscences of the Civil War by William and Adelia Lyon.

March 8, 2013

Reminiscences of the Civil War, William and Adelia Lyon

Mrs. Lyon’s Diary.

Fort Donelson, March 8, 1863.—The rest of the women came over today. Mrs. Twist and Mrs. Norton stayed with the other privates’ wives—the husbands stayed as guards. The roads are awful. They had no arrangements made, so they made a field bed for the four women and children. Raining all the time since we came.

Post image for “It has been so long since I have heard a musket or a cannon that I have almost forgotten how it sounds.”–Letters from Elisha Franklin Paxton.

“It has been so long since I have heard a musket or a cannon that I have almost forgotten how it sounds.”–Letters from Elisha Franklin Paxton.

March 8, 2013

Elisha Franklin Paxton – Letters from camp and field while an officer in the Confederate Army

Camp Winder, March 8, 1863.

To-day I went to our chapel to hear Dr. Hoge, who preached a very fine sermon, Genl. Jackson being one of the audience. We have preaching in the chapel twice on Sunday, and, I think, pretty much every night. It looks odd to see a church full of people, and all of them men. It would be really refreshing to see a woman among them, to give the audience the appearance of civilization. But the women and children who adorn our churches at home are missing here. Well they may be! I am glad, at least, that mine are not here to share the miseries of this business with me.

During the past week it has been a blow or rain, a hurricane or a shower, all the time. The wind seems to dry up the ground, taking the water up somewhere, and it is no sooner up than down it comes again.

In army matters we have the most profound quiet. It has been so long since I have heard a musket or a cannon that I have almost forgotten how it sounds. I suppose, however, in the course of a month we will have something to refresh our memories and revive old scenes. Yes, we will have the long roll to warn the men that another battle is imminent; then the solemn march to the scene of the conflict, each pondering upon the misty future; then we are halted and our line of skirmishers thrown to the front; then we have the occasional shots, which gradually thicken and extend until there is one continual roar of musketry and artillery; and, perhaps, to close the scene, we lie down exhausted to sleep upon the field, among the dead and dying. You civil people at home all look upon this as terrible. So it is, but we soldiers must get used to it; each waiting in patience for his time to fall among those who rise no more for the contest.

Give my love to Lou [his wife’s sister] and say to her that Mr. Newman’s regiment is now at Fredericksburg; that I will send up to him and let him know to-morrow that his box is at the depot; and that I will write to an officer from my brigade who is on duty at the depot to take charge of it until he sends for it. I was very sorry, indeed, that I was not able to bring the other box with me.

I have had more to do of late than usual, and have sometimes spent four or five hours at my writing-desk,— not, however, without some pain in my eyes when I quit work. I am able to keep pretty well when I live on rice and bread, but if I eat a hearty meal it puts me out of order again. I hope by care to keep fit for duty, but do not expect to get right well until I get a better diet and am able to lead a more regular life. I heartily wish that I were right well. It gives me much anxiety lest, when my services are most needed, I shall prove unfit for duty and be compelled to leave my brigade in charge of some one else.

Post image for Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft.

Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft.

March 8, 2013

Diary of US patent clerk Horatio Nelson Taft.

Sunday March 8th 1863

Rained again today most of the time and I have kept my room till near night. I went down to Maj Williams and spent an hour and then came back to tea after which I attended religious Services at the Colored Church on 11th st. A white man preached a very good discourse and the services were conducted throughout with as much propriety as is usual in any other church. The singing was not as artistic but quite as melodious. The Church was crowded to excess and it soon became very warm. There was quite a sprinkling of white folks who were there like myself out of curiosity. I could not but remark that nothing occured in the Sermon or during the exercises to indicate the Color or condition of the audience. The people were very respectably dressed and among the females crinolines were quite as plenty as in other churches. The morning paper contains no news. The Gold Speculators have “caught it” awfuly, the article having fallen within the past week from 172 to 150. Mr Chase has almost unlimited power now to control the finances of the Nation and can Issue money (paper) to meet all contingencies likely to occur for the next year, the probability is that “green backs” will be our circulating medium henceforth.

Post image for An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones.

An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones.

March 8, 2013

An Artilleryman's Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones, 6th Battery, Wisconsin Artillery.

On the Mississippi, Sunday, March 8. The boat had been steadily plowing her way up the turbid water of the Mississippi. Rained very heavy, got a wet bed to sleep on. Very foggy all day; passed the “Von Phal”, being next to the flagship “Superior”. Passed the Yazoo Pass, 2. P. M.

4 P. M.—We have landed on the Arkansas side three miles below Helena, where the troops were ordered ashore to cook and for recreation. The flag ship went up to Helena, and returned with a good quantity of mail.

Post image for War Diary of Luman Harris Tenney.

War Diary of Luman Harris Tenney.

March 8, 2013

War Diary of Luman Harris Tenney.

8th. Spent the day in camp. Thede came over and we made a little sugar candy. Read some in “Currents and Countercurrents,” by O. W. Holmes. Wanted to read Motley, but Charlie had sent the book back home. Thede and I wished we could be at home two or three hours. A dark and cloudy day.

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