February 7th. Arrived in Baltimore at 7 A. M. Had breakfast, then made our way across the city to the Philadelphia R. R. Station. There learned that we could not get a train out of the city until 9 P. M. A great disappointment. When leaving camp thought we could connect right through to New York. As we had a long time to wait, we put up at the Union House. Made a few calls, as we had acquaintances in the city. Called at the Stuart Mansion Hospital, where I was during my long illness, early in 1863. I found the nurses still on duty. All were pleased to see me. One woman and two men, in charge of ward 4. At this time it was known as the Jarvis Hospital, west end of Baltimore. The day passed very pleasantly.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Scottsboro, Ala., February 7, 1864.
This has indeed been a day of rest. More like a home Sabbath, than the Lord’s day often seems, here in the “show business.” None of my company have been on duty, and as the day has been bright and warm, the men have been nearly all out in front of the quarters; all looking natty and clean and healthy, sunning themselves real country-Sunday fashion. Seems to me that I grow prouder every day of being captain over these men. If I could only get 30 good, healthy recruits, I expect I’d have to be “hooped.” The boys brought a fiddle in with them yesterday from our Lebanon march, and as nearly all of them play, “more or less,” it has seen but little rest to-day. Every man I have present (42) is for duty, and if there are any soldiers in the army who can outmarch them, or do duty better, “I want them for Babcockses,” as the boys say. Frank Post was in my tent to-day, and informed me that in her last letter, Laura told him that some horrible stories of my cruelty to women and children while in command of the mounted detachment, were in circulation at home. He wanted me to trace the author of them, but I respectfully begged to be excused. The person who told such stuff, falsifies; for I never killed a fly, or stepped on a worm, or kicked a dog, or threw a stone at a cat, and know I wouldn’t treat a woman or child worse, if they were Rebels. I do take a little private satisfaction in knowing that I have never said a word, except respectfully, to any woman in the Confederacy, that I have ever touched a cent’s worth of private property for my own use. We, with 600 more of our brigade, had to take horses and rations from a poor set of people, but that was no more our fault than the war is. Those pretty crystals I sent you by Lieutenant Dorrance, are “Iceland Spar,” which is, I believe, the only stone which possesses the power of double refraction. If you put a thin piece of it over a black mark on paper, and look closely, you will see two marks; try this piece which I enclose. I took a lesson in chess last night, played a couple of games. Don’t think I would ever make a player. Colonel Dickerman is at present commanding the brigade, and Major Willison the regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Wright being on detached service as a division inspector general. Mattison is in his quartermaster department almost constantly, and Dorrance’s absence leaves me quite alone. Dorrance was in a way, good company. Always in a good humor and talking. Real accommodating, too, if carefully handled.
I went to the nearest house to camp to-day, to beg a little piece of tallow to soften a pair of marching boots. I sat down by a fire, in company with three young women, all cleanly dressed and powdered to death. Their ages were from 18 to 24. Each of them had a quid of tobacco in her cheek about the size of my stone inkstand, and if they didn’t make the extract fly worse than I ever saw it in a country grocery, shoot me. These women here have so disgusted me with the use of tobacco that I have determined to abandon it. Well, we are again under orders to march at a moment’s notice. Received them about noon to-day, and expect to start in the morning. It is intimated that we go to Chattanooga, first, and then either to Dalton, Knoxville, or garrison Chattanooga, and let its present occupants go. I was much pleased to get the orders, for above all things, do hate a permanent camp. I enjoy the tramping, the mud, the cold, and being tired, and everything mean there is about soldiering, except being hungry. That beats me to a fraction. If I could only go without eating three or four days at a time I would pass as a soldier, but bless me, missing a meal is worse than drawing a tooth. I never tried it as long as I have been in the army, but it seems to me that putting me on quarter rations would be equivalent to putting me in a hospital bed.
Hurrah for the march. No such place for real fun elsewhere. We have our regular races, and tough ones they are, too, sometimes. Each regiment takes its turn in having the advance, one day at a time. Say, to-day we have the lead, then to-morrow we will march behind all the rest, and the next day the regiment which succeeded us in the lead will fall behind us, etc. It is a great deal easier to march in front than in the rear, because in passing defile, or crossing streams on single logs, all of the time that is lost falls, finally, on the rearmost regiment, and after it crosses it sometimes has to double-quick it a mile or more to catch up again. A common time step or 90 to the minute, in front with a brigade of 1,500 over the average of these roads, makes the rear in order to keep up, take more than quick time, or over 112 steps to the minute, during their marching time. So you can imagine our races, though fun to the advance, make the rear work—no laughing matter. The point of the race is for the advance regiment to move so fast that the others will break up, tired out, and straggle. Yesterday the 97th Indiana coming in had the lead and undertook to run us. We had the rear, but by not waiting to cross on logs, but wading through creeks up to our knees or middles kept at their heels for 8 miles without a rest. ‘Twas raining all the time and the roads were awful slippery. Our brigade tried hard to run us down at first, but now none of them doubt our ability to march with any regiment. When the men are resting along the road they have a great fashion of making remarks about any strange soldier or citizen who passes. As we were resting on the 5th inst., a bare-footed, sick-looking soldier came hobbling through. One man said, “He’s sick, don’t say anything to him;” another said, “No, he’s shod a little too rough;” another, “Yes, and he interferes;” another, “Keep still he’s slipping upon something;” another, “He’s showing us how Fanny Elssler went over a looking glass;” another, “Come here and I’ll take the pegs out of your shoes,” etc. Wouldn’t that be interesting to the passerby?
Sunday, 7th—We started early this morning and after reaching Brandon, about thirteen miles east of Jackson, went into bivouac about a mile from the town. There was no skirmishing in the front today, the rebels rapidly falling back. Our men set fire to the town this evening and burned almost the whole town. Most of the citizens had fled from the place before our forces entered. We captured a great quantity of tobacco here.
Camp White, February 7, 1864.
Dear Uncle: — The capture of General Scammon and two of his staff, will postpone my coming a few days, only a few days, I hope. I must be cautious what I say, but to you I can write that his capture is the greatest joke of the war. It was sheer carelessness, bad luck, and accident. It took a good many chances, all lost, to bring it about. Everybody laughs when he is alone, and very intimate friends laugh in concert when together. General Scammon’s great point was his caution. He bored us all terribly with his extreme vigilance. The greatest military crime in his eyes was a surprise. Here he is caught in the greenest and most inexcusable way.
We shall come, I think, in a week or so via Cleveland.
Sincerely yours,
R. B. Hayes.
S. Birchard.
7th. Made arrangements for 13 men. Went to camp again after making diligent inquiries, and partial agreement.
Colonel Lyon’s Letters.
Feb. 7, 1864.—We have received our veterans’ furlough, and expect to leave here for Janesville the last of the week, with between 400 and 500 of the regiment; in which case we shall reach there about the 17th, and get home two or three days later. Jerry and Minerva will go home with us. They will make arrangements for housekeeping.
February 7th, 1864.
I have just returned from attending divine service at the Soldier Chapel, an old, shaky building, without fire. We are to have preaching every Sabbath and prayer meeting every day. The Christian Commission is beginning to make itself felt here. Their agent visits us every day, distributes tracts, papers, writing paper, envelopes, etc., gives good advice, sings patriotic and other airs, prays with and for us, and does it all in such a kindly, benevolent way that he has won all hearts.
Everything is quiet—even rumor is ominously silent. Expectation is on the rack. I would not be surprised at anything but peace and our departure for the North. This hospital is not yet broken up for want of patients—transportation cannot be procured—food must be first attended to. There is but one engine running between here and Loudon. From Chattanooga to Loudon two flatboats make one trip each per week, if there is sufficient water. There are over three thousand sick and wounded soldiers in this city. Stores, taverns, court houses, are all pressed into hospital service. The original population has nearly all left; some have gone south, but the greater portion have gone north. And still they go. Every day “Old Joseph’s” shrill voice may be heard on yonder corner, as he “closes out” some poor unfortunate, who is selling off his household goods to go to some more favored land.
Language cannot describe nor imagination picture the destitution of these people. I see by the Louisville papers the people of the North are much in doubt of our ability to hold Knoxville in case Longstreet again attacks us. I am surprised at the misapprehension of our situation now and during the siege. The Journal says our numerical strength is much reduced. The reverse is the fact. It says we have no supplies. We certainly have as many now as then, with the railroad to Chattanooga nearly completed. Our men have been constantly at work strengthening and perfecting the fortifications. Knoxville can only be taken by siege, and before we could be driven to any great extremity, relief could, and would, reach us from Chattanooga.
Huntsville, Sunday, Feb. 7. Rough night for the guard. Rainy and cold. The countersign “Vicksburg” which gave rise to musings which aided in forgetting time. Relieved at 9 A. M. Attended church in company with Griff, E. W. and D. J. D. Service was held in the Methodist, Presbyterian and Episcopal churches at the same hour (10 A. M.) Curiosity prompted to attend the latter, an elegant furnished church of unique construction, Gothic style, poorly arranged for sound. The civilians were apparently of the aristocratic class, mostly women, equalling the military in numbers. The white-robed minister was a young intelligent Irishman, I should judge. A good choir with the deep-toned organ opened the service with fitting music, after which prayers were read and ceremonies performed for nearly an hour and a half, which to me was mere mockery of religion, reading their desires to God from an established formula, but careful always to omit the prayer for the President of the U. S. A. It was not worship. Ah no! the heart was cold. It was but Phariseeical affectations. A short sermon on charity was read at the close. Very good, the effect of which was tested by passing the plates which were returned well laden with “soldier greenbacks”. The money of that government they will not pray for is very acceptable. I returned to camp, although not pleased with the exercise, yet I trust, benefited. The solemn notes of the organ had awakened feelings that are too apt to lie dormant in the soldier’s breast, those that raise the mind above the din of common life, and look to a future of immortality, purity, which all hope to obtain ere long. “Heaven is my home”.
Aunt Rachel’s Village,
St. Helena, February 7, 1864.
Your nice long letter reached me only to-day. That is the worst of our living here, letters are very long getting to us and come by very uncertain hands, and we never know when a mail is going out. I have to trust to chance for getting our mail to Beaufort. So do not be alarmed if a vessel sails with no word from me, the next one will probably bring double.
I see by your letter that you are quite dissatisfied about my decision to stay till next summer, but I am sure that if you were here you would think as I do and advise my waiting. First place, the voyage. If I go this spring, I cannot ask transportation again in the fall, for our dear, good General is now having perpetual trouble and annoyances by having his passes discredited, or disapproved or complained of because they are so numerous. Yet he is very careful to give furloughs and passes only once a year except in cases of necessity or urgency. Even if I asked and obtained the two leaves of absence, I dread four sea voyages in six months or so. I think I must go home during the next unhealthy season. I cannot stand the trial of it here another year. I am not afraid of being sick myself, but of having to nurse and doctor those who are. I am quite sure that if I go North this spring and am seasick, as I cannot help being, it will make me run the risk of the autumn rather than of the voyage, and so I want to make sure of being away from this place through another such season as the last was. Besides, if I go now, I must run North in a hurry and come back before I have half seen you, my whole time being taken up with preparations for coming back here. But in the summer I will stay three months, have a thorough change and renovation, and have some leisure with you.
I am really ashamed and sorry about writing home for boxes and giving you all so much trouble, taking your time which is so overcrowded. I shall need some dresses in the spring, but there were very pretty things in Beaufort last year, and Susannah can make them up. If they are old-fashioned, no matter, for I shall only see you in the mountains, and down here I shall probably see less company than we used to. I suppose you thought me unconscionable in sending for carpets and household things, but this is my home probably for the rest of my days, and I want to be comfortable in it. I have lived now for two years in the midst of makeshift and discomfort, and have often thought this winter that even servants at home were more nicely provided with domestic conveniences and things to save time and trouble. So I sent for a few things of my own; that is, I wanted them taken from our house, and in the sale or division of our household goods, charged to my account — such as the carpet. Our room is nearly as ill-built and open as a rough country stable. H. ‘s stable is a palace to it, and, our only bit of carpet being on our parlor floor, we have bare boards in our rooms with the air rushing through every crack, and sunlight along every board plainly, visible where the sun shines under the house. This is comfortless and cold as you cannot imagine, who have not had uncarpeted floors since you can remember. When we first came here, and for a time, these things were endurable, but year after year it is hard to live so. Besides, now that things are taking a more permanent form here, everybody’s style of living is improving and we must do as others do. You know what South Carolina fare is. We are just in the oyster hole again, and have nothing else till we are sick of the sight of them. I was going to send home for butter, for we have had neither butter nor milk for some time — so much less than last year; but Mr. Buggles says he will supply us. We had a cow sent to us and were happy, but she was a jumper — and our fence such as you might expect — and she jumped and ran, after our feeding her for three days and getting just one- quart of milk. Her feed, too, was a heartbreak — we are not sure of it from day to day — none to be begged, borrowed or bought, so her escape was a relief.
Living is frightfully high and difficult. Butter — as rancid as possible, when it is to be had at all — is forty-five cents a pound; chickens not to be bought at any price generally, but now and then a tiny specimen for fifty cents; eggs, fifty cents a dozen. But even our rations are hard to get now that we have no gentleman in the house. As for safety, we do not need one. If you remember the village at all, you know Dr. Lukins and the church. Our house is the next one, and a call from our house would be heard even with windows down, by Mr. Lynch and Dr. Hunting. We never were so well protected by neighbors and helpers as now. We have an old man in the yard, to tend our horses and cow, cut our wood, etc., for four dollars a month; then Rina to do our cooking, washing, and housework for five dollars a month, and a girl for scrubbing, waiting on table, errands, fires, etc., for two dollars. This is much higher than before, but low as wages are going. Cooks get here enormous wages — from eight to forty dollars a month. The place is growing fast, and I suppose we shall soon come to Northern rates. It is amusing to see how the able-bodied workers are being coaxed and courted by the leasers of places, like Mr. Fairfield. There are not enough to cultivate the leased places, for it is to be hoped that every family will have its own land and find work enough on that. Except in Mr. Philbrick’s case,[1] white ownership or large owners proved unfortunate for the people last year.
We are getting very much interested in the villagers, particularly in the minister, a certain black or brown man who is certain to make his mark in the world. He is very eloquent and ambitious and makes a great stir in the department by his public speaking. He lives near us and his sister teaches in the school here. He often comes in of an evening, and the other day he found out to his intense horror that I was a Unitarian. But, though he says he expected better things of me, and various other things like that, he is really wonderfully liberal, and, as he will probably fall in with the right kind of people by reason of his eloquence and genius, he will one day perhaps be a Unitarian himself. There are a great many interesting people among these negroes, who are of a higher order than the plantation people.
To-day I have attempted yeast! We have had buckwheat cakes about three times this winter. Think of that, you who eat Mrs. Furness’ breakfasts, which make my mouth and eyes water every time I think of them. Buckwheat cakes spurred me on to the necessary effort, and I have a pot of yeast by the fire, which looks and smells as unlike Kitty’s as possible. Do ask her to tell me just how to make it. I have hops and can get potatoes by paying enormously. Are they necessary? — and does she put in molasses? I wish I had muffin rings and knew how Mrs. Furness makes muffins. How I want some of hers! You will think I am demented about eating, but so is everybody who does not know where to get the next meal. Pork and beans — our ration meats, I do not like, and all other kinds are very precarious.
I am sitting up past ten o’clock and so is Ellen — wicked ones that we are! Good night.
General Saxton is one of our best and truest-hearted men — great in his goodness. I am glad to get my General back.
[1] Mr. Philbrick was at first charged with trying to make a fortune out of the cotton raised by the freed negroes. The event proved that his business ability was of great service to the negroes, and his intentions philanthropic in the best sense.
by John Beauchamp Jones
FEBRUARY 7TH, SUNDAY.— The tocsin is sounding at 9 A.M.
It appears that Gen. Butler is marching up the Peninsula (I have not heard the estimated number of his army) toward Richmond. But, being in the Secretary’s room for a moment, I heard him say to Gen. Elzey that the “local defense men” must be relied on to defend Richmond. These men are mainly clerks and employees of the departments, who have just been insulted by the government, being informed that no increased compensation will be allowed them because they are able to bear arms. In other words, they must famish for subsistence, and their families with them, because they happen to be of fighting age, and have been patriotic enough to volunteer for the defense of the government, and have drilled, and paraded, and marched, until they are pronounced good soldiers. Under these circumstances, the Secretary of War says they must be relied upon to defend the government. In my opinion, many of them are not reliable. Why were they appointed contrary to law? Who is to blame but the Secretaries themselves? Ah! but the Secretaries had pets and relatives of fighting age they must provide for; and these, although not dependent on their salaries, will get the increased compensation, and will also be exempted from aiding in the defense of the city—at least such has been the practice heretofore. These things being known to the proscribed local troops (clerks, etc.), I repeat my doubts of their reliability at any critical moment.
We have good news from the Rappahannock. It is said Gen. Rosser yesterday captured several hundred prisoners, 1200 beeves, 350 mules, wagons of stores, etc. etc.
Nevertheless, there is some uneasiness felt in the city, there being nearly 12,000 prisoners here, and all the veteran troops of Gen. Elzey’s division are being sent to North Carolina.
