Monday, 8th—Came to McMinnville this morn. Ordered Regiment to Hoover’s Gap to picket; wagons to Manchester. I went to the wagons to get a saddle, stopped with Dave Nunn, staid all Tuesday, 9th. Came to camp, rigged my tree and Wednesday, 10th, came to the command, camped near Beech Grove on pike.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
JUNE 8TH.—Another day born in the midst of the rattle of shot and shell. Each day finds us more firmly entrenched amid these hills, until we begin to feel ourselves impregnable.
I visited one of the teeming hospitals to see some boys, and it made me sad enough to look upon some who will soon pass from these scenes of strife. One smooth-cheeked little artillery lad closed his eyes forever, with a last lingering look upon the flag he had hoped to see waving over Vicksburg. His last look was at the flag—his last word was “mother!” Poor boy, when he left home he knew little of the hardships and privations to be endured. War is quite another thing from what my schooldays pictured it. I used to think the two contending armies would march face to face and fire at each other, column by column, but experience has shown me a very different picture, for when the command to fire is given it is often when each man must fire at will, taking shelter where he can, without going too far from his line.
June 8. — Remained in camp until after dinner, when I started for the Engineer Brigade. On the way there, I met Clapp, Strang, and Nares, on their way down to the river. I tried to get my horse shod at the Engineer Brigade quarters, but the wind was so bad that it could not be done. Came back to camp in about an hour. We had a very pretty serenade last night from a violin and a tambourine. Weather cool and pleasant. I heard that, when we crossed the river this last time, some fifty prisoners were taken in the rifle-pits, belonging to the 2d Florida. General Benham rushed up to them and asked them whether they knew him. They said they did not. Then he asked them if they did not know who built the sea-wall at St. Augustine. One of them said that he had heard it said that “red-haired Benham” built it. I hear that General Benham now tells every one that he was recognized by the rebels from their rifle-pits on the other side of the river.
8th. Issued beef in the morning. Rob and I went out and got some strawberries and milk. Some for Capt. N., getting some better. In the P. M. orders for Kautz brigade to be ready to march at 4 P. M. Thede, Drake and I went together. Forded the river at Stigall’s Ferry and encamped three miles on. Pulled grass. Bed at 11 P. M. Two days’ rations. Tod and we boys got some tea. Very little sleep.
June 8 — General Stuart had another grand review to-day on the same field, and similar to the one he had on the fifth, except the artillery did no firing. The troops to-day were reviewed by the great master of war and the famous chieftain of the Confederate Army, General Robert E. Lee.
I was trying to act in the capacity of first sergeant of our battery in the review to-day, and was riding at the head of the horse artillery, mounted on a mule with ears about a foot long. Just before we arrived at the reviewing stand the searching eye of General Stuart spied the waving ears of my mule, and he quickly dispatched one of his aides to Captain Chew, with the urgent request to order the mule and me with it off of the field, which was quickly done with neatness and dispatch. I cared very little about the matter, but the mule looked a little bit surprised, and, I think, felt ashamed of himself and his waving ears, which cost him his prominent position in the grand cavalcade.
No doubt General Stuart is proud of his splendid cavalry, and well he may be, for it certainly is a fine body of well mounted and tried horsemen, whose trusty blades have oft-times flashed in the red glow of battle’s fiery tide and stemmed the deadly wave of war. But my mule, too, has heard the raging battle roar and the dreadful musketry roll and seen the screaming shell tear the sod to smithers around his feet. True, a mule was not built for the purpose of ornamenting a grand review or embellishing an imposing pageant, but as mine so willingly bears the hardships and dangers of the camp and field I thought it not indiscreet to let it play a little act in some of the holiday scenes of war.
After the review we returned to our Beverly Ford camp.
LETTER No. V.
Camp Near Culpepper,
June 8th, 1863.
My Precious Wife:
I have determined to write you another letter, although I cannot do so with the satisfaction it usually affords me, for I feel so uncertain whether you will ever read what I write.
In this I shall attempt a hurried sketch of the past ten days, unless I am interrupted by an order to leave before I get through. Already, since I have commenced this, we have received notice to be ready to march at the sound of the bugle, which may mean in ten minutes, or ten hours, so you see under what difficulties I write to my sweetheart. On yesterday week we left our camp on the Rapidan, from which I last wrote you, and took a hot and dusty march of sixteen miles towards Fredericksburg, and on the next morning were ordered to retrace our steps and took the same wearisome march and camped near our old ground, where we remained until Thursday morning at daylight, and then proceeded to this place, making another hot and toilsome march of sixteen miles. We remained here until Saturday at 12 o’clock m., when we started and marched towards the Rappahannock until 10 o’clock at night. This was a severe march. It rained for two hours in the afternoon and I was completely soaked. It kept drizzling on until daylight. About 10 o’clock at night we were ordered to halt and camp, “without fires,” as the Yanks were not far off. It was a novel sight to me to see or rather to hear 20,000 or 30,000 men rushing into the woods on the side of the road to (here comes orders to march at 12 o’clock) secure a place to lie down. We all laid down on “the cold ground” like tired hounds after a chase.
Jim Manahan, Tom Selman and myself laid down together. I was very wet, but very weary.
I spent a few minutes listening to the hum of 10,000 tongues cursing the Yankees, talking of home and thinking of how pleasant it would be to take a bath and a toddy, and how sad my wife would feel if she knew all that I was undergoing. I was glad that she did not know it for I did not suffer when I called to mind that these hardships were for the good of my country and the cause of liberty. Amid all this I could not suppress a laugh to hear the expressions of some way-worn chap as a straggler would creep into the bushes and grope about for a place to spread his blanket. I could hear, “get off my hand,” “now you are on my foot,” “for heaven’s sake,” (or something worse), “keep your feet out of my face,” “Oh, my back, you are right on top of me,” “you weigh six hundred pounds,” etc., etc.
In the course of an hour all was quiet save the riding back and forth of couriers, which I could hear all night as our “bed” was not more than a foot from the ruts in the road. I could put my hand out in the mud three or four inches deep, but I slept pretty well, and waked at daylight well and heard the order to retrace our steps to our camp near Culpepper. We formed and started back. It was my turn to stand guard, so I was put as part of the rear guard for our regiment, and marched back to this place, which we reached about 2 o’clock yesterday afternoon. I remained on guard until 8 o’clock this morning. I got by the fire a while last night and looked at your daguerreotype by the light of it, and felt happy in the thought of once more meeting you and talking over the dangers which I am now passing through. I feel sure that we shall meet the Yanks in the course of three weeks, but cannot tell when.
All of our movements are inexplicable to me. We never know anything. Even a colonel cannot tell until he starts from camp in which direction he is going, whether North or South. This secrecy is the secret of the success of this army. I forgot to say above, that, as a matter of amusement, and to keep us from getting stiff, we were marched on last Friday six miles off to witness a review of Stuart’s cavalry; it was a grand display; 10,000 or 12,000 mounted men is more than I expected to see at one sight. I saw Wat Taylor, but Lamar Stark was off on duty across the river. We returned to camp at night, making twelve miles “for fun” and left the next day at 1 o’clock, as I stated above, so you will see that we have been on the wing for nearly ten days. This marching and countermarching is what they call “Demonstrations,” and if they accomplish the objects for which I left my friends I am perfectly satisfied. The marching is no great trouble to me, but twenty or thirty pounds of baggage gets heavy before night, especially in wet weather, on a slippery hillside—when one is so much fatigued that to sneeze or blow his nose jostles him from one side of the road to the other. I saw a great many poor fellows barefooted in the marches of which I have written, but we got some shoes this morning, and I hope we will get on better. Don’t forget Stark’s lessons and Mary’s letters. Kiss them for me and tell the servants howdy. I must stop now and get ready to leave. I hope to hear from you some of these days. I have not received a line yet.
Your husband, faithfully ever,
John C. West.
8th June (Monday).—I arrived at Charleston at 5 A.M., and drove at once in an omnibus to the Charleston hotel. At nine o’clock I called at General Beauregard’s office, but, to my disappointment, I found that he was absent on a tour of inspection in Florida. He is, however, expected to return in two or three days.
I then called on General Ripley, who commands the garrison and forts of Charleston. He is a jovial character, very fond of the good things of this life; but it is said that he never allows this propensity to interfere with his military duties, in the performance of which he displays both zeal and talent. He has the reputation of being an excellent artillery officer, and although by birth a Northerner, he is a red-hot and indefatigable rebel. I believe he wrote a book about the Mexican war, and after leaving the old army, he was a good deal in England, connected with the small arms factory at Enfield, and other enterprises of the same sort. Nearly all the credit of the efficiency of the Charleston fortifications is due to him. And notwithstanding his Northern birth and occasional rollicking habits, he is generally popular.
I then called on Mr Robertson, a merchant, for whom I had brought a letter of introduction from England. This old gentleman took me a drive in his buggy at 6 P.M. It appears that at this time of year the country outside the city is quite pestilential, for when we reached the open, Mr Robertson pointed to a detached house and said, “Now, I am as fond of money as any Jew, yet I wouldn’t sleep in that house for one night if you gave it to me for doing so.”
I had intended to have visited Mr Blake, an English gentleman for whom I had a letter, on his Combahee plantation, but Mr Robertson implored me to abandon this idea. Mr Robertson was full of the disasters which had resulted from a recent Yankee raid of the Combahee river. It appears that a vast amount of property had been destroyed and slaves carried off. This morning I saw a poor old planter in Mr Robertson’s office, who had been suddenly and totally ruined by this raid. The raiders consisted principally of Northern armed negroes, and as they met with no Southern whites to resist them, they were able to effect their depredations with total impunity. It seems that a good deal of the land about Charleston belongs either to Blakes or Heywards. Mr Blake lost thirty negroes in the last raid, but he has lost since the beginning of the war about 150.
Mr Robertson afterwards took me to see Mrs ——, who is Mr Walter Blake’s daughter. To me, who had roughed it for ten weeks to such an extent, Charleston appeared most comfortable and luxurious. But its inhabitants must, to say the least, be suffering great inconvenience. The lighting and paving of the city had gone to the bad completely. Most of the shops were shut up. Those that were open contained but very few goods, and those were at famine prices. I tried to buy a black scarf, but I couldn’t find such an article in all Charleston.
An immense amount of speculation in blockade-running was going on, and a great deal of business is evidently done in buying and selling negroes, for the papers are full of advertisements of slave auctions. That portion of the city destroyed by the great fire presents the appearance of a vast wilderness in the very centre of the town, no attempt having been made towards rebuilding it; this desert space looks like the Pompeian ruins, and extends, Mr Robertson says, for a mile in length by half a mile in width. Nearly all the distance between the Mills House hotel and Charleston hotel is in this desolate state. The fire began quite by accident, but the violent wind which suddenly arose rendered all attempts to stop the flames abortive. The deserted state of the wharves is melancholy — the huge placards announcing lines of steamers to New York, New Orleans, and to different parts of the world, still remain, and give one an idea of what a busy scene they used to be. The people, however, all seem happy, contented, and determined. Both the great hotels are crowded; and well dressed, handsome ladies are plentiful; the fare is good, and the charge at the Charleston hotel is eight dollars a day.
[Diary] June 8.
Set out for the village this morning and soon took boats for the Kingfisher. In our boat were Ellen and I with Captain Dutch; in the other, Nelly and Lottie with Mr. Rhodes. After spending some hours on the ship admiring the exquisite order and cleanliness, we took boat again and went to Edisto under charge of the mate, Mr. Rhodes, Captain Dutch not going. We landed at Eddingsville and went up to Seabrook’s house. The gentlemen, Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Fairfield, and Mr. Rhodes, got supper with the help of Jim, the handsome young negro who was taken by Captain Dutch on Bailey’s Island and forced to act as guide to his master’s house, where they were all taken prisoners — eleven of the “big bugs of Edisto,” Rina calls them. He seemed sad, and when we talked to him and asked him if he were glad to be free, he said he loved his young master like a brother — that they were the same age and grew up together; that he wished his young master were back again, and he would not give up the wife and children now on the Main for all the freedom in the world. We slept on the floor upon shawls, boat cushions etc., and were run over by roaches and devoured by fleas and mosquitoes. In the morning we again took boat and followed the winding creek to Edding’s house. The gardens were beautiful and the house handsome, but stripped of everything. The night before, when we wanted a fire, Jim coolly knocked up the drawer of a mahogany bureau to make one. Soon after this visit to the house we went home. On board the Kingfisher I could only lie down, and could not go to the dinner provided. It was dusk when we reached the village and dark before we were at “The Oaks.”
An expedition has resulted in the arrival of five hundred refugees at Beaufort.
June 8, Monday. Wrote Secretary of State on the subject of the complaints of the Danish Government against Wilkes, who is charged with abusing hospitality at St. Thomas. Made the best statement I could without censuring Wilkes, who is coming home, partly from these causes.
Have a letter from Foote, who is not ready to relieve Du Pont. Speaks of bad health and disability. It must be real, for whatever his regard for, or tenderness to D., Foote promptly obeys orders.
Spoke to the President regarding weekly performances of the Marine Band. It has been customary for them to play in the public grounds south of the Mansion once a week in summer, for many years. Last year it was intermitted, because Mrs. Lincoln objected in consequence of the death of her son. There was grumbling and discontent, and there will be more this year if the public are denied the privilege for private reasons. The public will not sympathize in sorrows which are obtrusive and assigned as a reason for depriving them of enjoyments to which they have been accustomed, and it is a mistake to persist in it. When I introduced the subject to-day, the President said Mrs. L. would not consent, certainly not until after the 4th of July. I stated the case pretty frankly, although the subject is delicate, and suggested that the band could play in Lafayette Square. Seward and Usher, who were present, advised that course. The President told me to do what I thought best.
Count Adam Gurowski, who is splenetic and querulous, a strange mixture of good and evil, always growling and discontented, who loves to say harsh things and speak good of but few, seldom makes right estimates and correct discrimination of character, but means to be truthful if not just, tells me my selection for the Cabinet was acquiesced in by the radical circle to which he belongs because they felt confident my influence with the President would be good, and that I would be a safeguard against the scheming and plotting of Weed and Seward, whose intrigues they understood and watched. When I came here, just preceding the inauguration in 1861, I first met this Polish exile, and was amused and interested in him, though I could not be intimate with one of his rough, coarse, ardent, and violent partisan temperament. His associates were then Greeley, D. D. Field, Opdyke, and men of that phase of party. I have no doubt that what he says is true of his associates, colored to some extent by his intense prejudices. He was for a year or two in the State Department as a clerk under Seward, and does not conceal that he was really a spy upon him, or, as he says, watched him. He says that when Seward became aware that the radicals relied upon me as a friend to check the loose notions and ultraism of the State Department, he (S.) went to work with the President to destroy my influence; that by persisting he so far succeeded as to induce the President to go against me on some important measures, where his opinion leaned to mine; that in this way, Seward had intrenched himself. There is doubtless some truth — probably some error — in the Count’s story. I give the outlines. Eames, with whom he is intimate, has told me these things before. The Count makes him his confidant.
Before Vicksburg, Monday, June 8. Unusually quiet during the day, our ammunition being scarce, none at the arsenal, and we used it sparingly for fear of an emergency. George Spencer, David Evans and myself remodelled our shelving, which, for want of something else is this: a shelf dug in the hillside, two feet deep above and long enough to lie down, covered with a double roof of cane-thatch. And this is what we call our home. Yes, it is filled with the dear ones here in mind if not in body.
