10th. Moved on to Columbia at the junction of the Rivanna and James. Pleasant day—bad roads. Went into camp and sent out forage detail. Got plenty of forage and subsistence. Very wealthy plantation. Large number of negroes. Canal thoroughly destroyed.
March 2015
March 10th.—Raining and cold. This is the day appointed by the government for prayer, fasting, etc.; and the departments, shops, etc. are closed. The people, notwithstanding the bad weather, pretty generally proceeded to the churches, which will be open morning, noon, and night, for it is a solemn occasion, and thousands will supplicate Almighty God to be pleased to look upon us with compassion, and aid us, in this hour of extremity, to resist the endeavors of our enemies to reduce us to bondage.
The morning papers contain a dispatch from Lee, giving an account of a successful battle in North Carolina. I append it, as the first success chronicled for a great length of time.
“Headquarters, Etc., March 9th, 1865.
“Hon. J. C. Breckinridge, Secretary of War.
“Gen. Bragg reports that he attacked the enemy, yesterday, four miles in front of Kinston, and drove him from his position. He disputed the ground obstinately, and took up a new line three miles from his first.
“We captured 3 pieces of artillery and 1500 prisoners.
“The number of the enemy’s dead and wounded left on the field is large. Ours comparatively small.
“The troops behaved most handsomely, and Major-Gens. Hill and Hoke exhibited their usual zeal and energy.
“R. E. Lee.”
March 10th.—Went to church crying to Ellen, “It is Lent, we must fast and pray.” When I came home my good fairy, Colonel Childs, had been here bringing rice and potatoes, and promising flour. He is a trump. He pulled out his pocket-book and offered to be my banker. He stood there on the street, Miss Middleton and Isabella witnessing the generous action, and straight out offered me money. “No, put up that,” said I. “I am not a beggar, and I never will be; to die is so much easier.”
Alas, after that flourish of trumpets, when he came with a sack of flour, I accepted it gratefully. I receive things I can not pay for, but money is different. There I draw a line, imaginary perhaps. Once before the same thing happened. Our letters of credit came slowly in 1845, when we went unexpectedly to Europe and our letters were to follow us. I was a poor little, inoffensive bride, and a British officer, who guessed our embarrassment, for we did not tell him (he came over with us on the ship), asked my husband to draw on his banker until the letters of credit should arrive. It was a nice thing for a stranger to do.
We have never lost what we never had. We have never had any money—only unlimited credit, for my husband’s richest kind of a father insured us all manner of credit. It was all a mirage only at last, and it has gone just as we drew nigh to it.
Colonel Childs says eight of our Senators are for reconstruction, and that a ray of light has penetrated inward from Lincoln, who told Judge Campbell that Southern land would not be confiscated.
March 10th, 1865.—Not one of the cadets was hurt. Not many went, because none were permitted to go without a written permit from their parents and those who went are so proud and those who did not go are so chagrined. It is funny to hear them talk it over.
Charley says, “we stayed right behind General Miller and his staff all the time.”
“Why was that, Charley?” I asked.
“So we could protect him,” was the proud answer.
I did not dare to tell the dear little fellow that the commanding officer was supposed to occupy the safest position.
March 10.—Still we go on as heretofore, hoping and praying that Richmond may be safe. Before Mr. Hunter (Hon. R. M. T.) left Richmond, I watched his countenance whenever I heard the subject mentioned before him, and though he said nothing, I thought he looked sad. I know that he understands the situation of affairs perfectly, and I may have fancied the sad look, but I think not; and whenever it arises before my mind’s eye, it makes me unhappy. I imagine, too, from a conversation which I had with Mr. Secretary Mallory, that he fears much for Richmond. Though it was an unexpressed opinion, yet I fear that I understood it rightly. I know that we ought to feel that whatever General Lee and the President deem right for the cause must be right, and that we should be satisfied that all will be well; but it would almost break my heart to see this dear old city, with its hallowed associations, given over to the Federals. Fearful orders have been given in the offices to keep the papers packed, except such as we are working on. The packed boxes remain in the front room, as if uncertainty still existed about moving them. As we walk in every morning, all eyes are turned to the boxes to see if any have been removed, and we breathe more freely when we find them still there.
To-day I have spent in the hospital, and was very much interested in our old Irishman. He has been there for more than two years; first as a patient sent from Drury’s Bluff, with ague and fever. Though apparently long past the military age, he had enlisted as a soldier in a Georgia regiment, but it was soon discovered that he was physically unable to stand camp-life; he was therefore detailed to work in the gardens, which supplied the soldiers at the Bluff with vegetables. He got well, and returned to his post, but was soon sent back again, too sick for service. The climate did not suit him, and when he again recovered Miss T. employed him as gardener and marketman to her hospital. We all became interested in him, because of his quiet, subdued manner, faithfulness to his duty, and respectful bearing. Some months ago his health began to decline, and day after day he has been watched and cared for by the surgeon and ladies with deep interest; but he steadily declines in strength, and is now confined to his cot, and it is but too evident that his end is approaching. We had all remarked that he never alluded to his early history, and was singularly reserved with regard to his religious faith; yet, as long as he was able to go out, he might be seen every Sunday seated alone in a corner of the gallery of St. James’s Church. This evening, as I was walking around the room in which he lies, and had just administered to him some nourishment, he said to me: “When you get through with the men won’t you come back and let me talk to ye?” When I returned and took my seat by him, he looked earnestly in my face, and said: ” Mrs. ——, you have an Irish name—have you friends there?” “No, my husband’s grandfather was from Ireland, but we have no relatives there now.” “Yes,” was his reply, “it is a good name in Ireland, and you have been kind to me, and I want to talk to you a bit before I die. You know that I am a Protestant, and I have been constantly to Mr Peterkin’s church since I came here, because I like the church, and I like him; and I hope that now I am prepared to die. But I was not brought up an Episcopalian in the old country—our house was divided, like.
My father was a Catholic, and my mother was a Presbyterian; neither went to the church of the other, but they were a loving couple for all that. He said to her, when we were but wee things: ‘Mary,’ said he, ‘the children mast go to your church sometimes, and to mine sometimes; you may teach them the Bible; but when they are old enough, they must judge for themselves.’ And so it was; we were obliged every Sunday to go to one church or the other, but we determined for ourselves. I most always went with mother, because she was so good and gentle, and I loved her so much. We grew up a cheerful, happy family. My father was a gardener, three-quarters of a mile from Londonderry; he had a good little farm, and sold his fruit and vegetables in Derry, and had made a great deal of money; and we had a good house, and were so comfortable. We all went to school, and kept on so until I, the eldest child, was grown. In the neighbourhood was a man that my father hated. Oh, how he hated that man! But I loved that man’s daughter; with my whole heart I loved that girl.”
Here his voice became excited, his eyes were suffused with tears, and his emaciated, pock-marked face almost glowed with animation. The room had become still; the sick and wounded and visitors to the room were all listening with deep attention to the old man’s story. “I knew,” he continued, “that my father would see me dead before he would agree to my marrying into that family, and he was a stern man, and I was afraid to let him know; and I tried to get over my love; but I saw her whenever I went to church, and at last I told her that I loved her, and she said she would marry me, and then, Mrs. ——,” he said with energy, “no mortal man could have made me give her up. After awhile my father said to me, ‘Johnny,’ said he,’you are of age, and must work for yourself now; I will give you ten acres of my farm; begin early in spring, break it up, and make a garden; in a few years you will be an independent man.’ Said I, ‘Father, may I put a house on it?’ ‘ No, my son; when I die you will have this house; can’t you live now with your mother and me?’ ‘ But, father,’ said I, ‘suppose I get married, where can I live then?’ ‘If I like the match,’ said he, ‘you may live here.’ I said no more then, but I saw Mary Dare,’ (he added, in a subdued voice, ‘her name was Mary Dare,’) and I told her I would try my father again, and if he would not agree to what I said, I would go to America, and make a home for her. She was distressed, and I was in misery. Towards the spring my father said to me every now and then, ‘Johnny, why don’t you break up your ground? I have seeds for ye; it is time to begin.’ But I could not begin; and I could not tell him why, I had such a dread of him. At last he said, ‘Johnny, you are behindhand; why don’t you go to work?’ I knew from his look that I must speak now, and my mother looked so tender-like into my face, that I said, ‘ Father, I can’t live here, unless I can bring my wife here, or build a house for her. I am going to marry Mary Dare, and if you object to it, I will go to America.’ My father looked sternly at me, and said, ‘I will not have you in my house or on my land, if you marry that girl; think about it; if you will give her up, you may live here and be well off; if not, you can go to America at once, and I will bear your expenses. Let me know to-morrow morning.’ My mother looked heart-broken, but she did not speak. She never opposed my father. This was Sunday. Next morning he asked me if I had made up my mind. I said, ‘Yes, sir; to go to America.’ ‘Then, Johnny, on Wednesday morning I will go to Derry and get you ready.’ On Wednesday he called me to get his pony, and to walk to town, and meet him at a tailor’s. He was there before me, and selected cloth to make me two good suits of clothes. We then went to a draper’s and got linen (for we wear linen in Ireland, not cotton) to make me twelve shirts, and other clothes besides. Then we went to the packet office, where we were told that a packet would sail on that day week for Liverpool, to meet an emigrant ship just ready to sail for New York. He paid my passage without saying a word to me, though his manner was kind to me all the time. As we turned to go home he said, ‘I have four pounds to give you for pocket-money, and I shall deposit fifty pounds in New York for you, which yon can draw if you are in want; but I advise you not to draw it unless you are in want, for it is all I shall give you.’ When we got home my mother collected her friends and neighbours to make my clothes. She and my sisters looked sorry enough, but not a word did they say about it. I knew that my father had told them not to do it, and my heart was too full to speak to anybody except to Mary Dare—she knew that as soon as I could come for her that I would come. When I took leave of my mother she almost died, like. I told her, ‘Mother,’ said I, ‘I am coming back when I am independent, and can do as I please. Write to me, mother dear; I will write to you and my sisters when I get to New York, and tell you where I am;’ and I did write to Mary and to my mother. I could not write to my father; I could not forgive him, when I thought how he had grieved Mary and me; and I could not be deceitful. As soon as I got to New York, I engaged with a gentleman at Williamsburg, on Long Island, to work his garden. For two years I worked, and laid up my wages; and not a single letter came for me. I grieved and sorrowed, and thought about Mary—I thought maybe her letters were stopped by somebody. I knew she would not forget me. Sometimes I thought I would go home to Ireland, and see what was the matter. At last, one day, my employer came into the garden with a newspaper in his hand. ‘Mr. Crumley,’ says he, ‘here is something for you;’ and sure enough there was a line to John Crumley, asking me to meet an old friend that had just come from Derry. I could not work another stroke, but went to the city, and there he was. I asked him first about my mother. ‘All well; I have a letter from her to you.’ ‘And haven’t you another letter? Didn’t Mary Dare write to me?’ ‘Mary Dare!’ he said; ‘don’t you know that Mary Dare died soon after you left the old country?” The old man stopped a moment to recover himself. Then, striking the side of his cot with his hard, sunburnt hand, he added, “Yes, she was dead, and I was then left the lone man that you see me now, Mrs. ——. My mother had not written before, because she hated to distress me, but she wrote to beg that I would come home; my father’s health was failing, and he wanted me, his first-born, to come and take the homestead. But Ireland and home were nothing to me now. I wrote to her that my next brother must take the homestead, and take care of my father and her, God bless her! I should never see Ireland again, but I loved her and my sisters all the same. The next letter was long after that. My mother wrote, ‘Your father is dead; come back, Johnny, and take your own home.’ I could not go; and then I went to Georgia, and never heard from home again. I tried to fight for the South, because the Southern people were good to me, and I thought if I got killed there was nobody to care for me.”
His story was done. He looked at me, and said, “You have all been so good to me, particularly Miss T. God bless you all for it! I am now almost at my journey’s end.” When I looked up I found the men subdued and sorrowful. The story, and the weak, sad tones with which it was told, had touched them all, and brought tears from some.
Four miles south of Montpelier, N. C.,
March 9, 1865.
Rained nearly all last night and poured down all day. Our regiment had the advance of the division, but we followed J. E. Smith. He is the poorest traveler in the army. We had to corduroy all the road after him. Only made four miles. I never saw such a country. There seems to be a thin crust over a vast bed of quicksand. I saw wagons yesterday and to-day moving along not cutting more than two inches, all at once go down to the hub, and some to the wagon boxes. I was riding to-night on apparently high ground in the woods and three times the ground gave way just like rotten ice, and let my horse in belly deep. We have worked hard to-day.
Chattanooga, Thursday, March 9. Weather unsettled. On guard, second relief. Health very good, but there are no trains from the North yet to cheer the drooping spirits. After guard-mounting, the camp assembly sounded and the whole Company put to work. Kept at it all day, some putting up houses, others setting posts for stables.
March 9, 1865.—I arrived at Griffin, Georgia, yesterday, having left Mobile on the steamer Southern Republic, one of the largest and finest boats on the river. Major Berry, quartermaster, was at the wharf, and very kindly made arrangements with the captain to take me on my transportation ticket.
I felt very sad at leaving Mobile, as I have no idea when I shall see it again. I left many of my friends in sadness and tears, in anticipation of woe soon to fall on the city. All are confident that the enemy means something this time, and I am certain that nearly all think that we can not possibly hold the city. If we only had the seaboard to protect, Mobile could stand a siege of years, but the enemy can come in by Florida, North Alabama, and Mississippi, and we all know that we have no forces to keep them back.
For once in my life I wished to give the military authorities advice. That would have been to abandon Mobile, send all the forces to Selma, and try and save that portion of the country.
Heretofore I have wished that Mobile would be laid in ashes before the foe would be permitted to desecrate it, but now I think it would be but policy to give it up, and try and save towns in the interior, which will be of more use to us.
On my way down to the boat I saw the provost guard taking all the cotton out of the warehouses, and searching garrets and cellars for it. They were taking it, to the public square, to be fired in case the enemy reaches the city.
The river was higher than it had been for years. We saw whole towns submerged: Cahaba, which is on a high bluff, was in some places covered with water four or five feet deep. Many of the people were sailing about in boats. There was a large warehouse on the bank of the river, filled with prisoners, whose spirits, if we were to judge by their actions and the noise they made, had not been dampened by prison life. They seemed rather pleased than otherwise with their chances for aquatic sports.
As wood was scarce, the captain helped himself to the fences on the river banks. At one place the owner of the wood came after the boat had left it and seemed very angry. He was told by the men on the boat to send his bill to the quartermaster, which suggestion did not seem to afford him much satisfaction.
One morning, on waking up, I found the branches of trees very near my state-room window; I supposed we were on a cane-break. There were two women on the boat, who had been to the camp of instruction—Camp Watts—near Montgomery, to try and bring their sons back—two boys who had been sent there by a conscript officer. One of the women had a cancer on her face, and the other one told me that the son of this unfortunate woman had been sent to camp, and that one of his eyes is eaten out by the same disease. How can our people be guilty of such outrages! There is no punishment too severe for those thus guilty. But I have known conscript officers to take men from their homes whom the surgeons had discharged many times, and send them to camp. We have had them die in our hospital before reaching the army. These women had gone from Montgomery to Mobile by railroad, and had to come up the river before they could reach their homes; and to judge from their appearance, they could ill afford this expense. Colonel Phillips, whoso wife has been such an eyesore to the Federals, was on board. He is a very dignified and courteous gentleman. He informed me that his sister-in-law was in a hospital in Virginia, and has been in one since the commencement of the war.
Among the passengers was a wealthy widow, who owned a plantation on the river. I heard her tell a gentleman that, in case of the enemy coming, she intended setting fire to her house rather than they should have the benefit of it.
There were some ladies on board who had been to Mobile to visit their relatives, who are stationed there. The principal topic of conversation was Sherman’s barbarities, and the outrages in general of which the enemy have been guilty lately. They were any thing but pleasant to listen to, and filled me with dread of the future. In many places the enemy are acting with a barbarity almost equal to any thing of which the Sepoys were guilty. Negro regiments, officered by men with white skins, but with hearts as black as night, have been turned loose on the helpless inhabitants, and encouraged to do their worst. And all of this is done by a people calling themselves Christians. But we need not wonder when we think of who their teacher is—Ward Beecher, that sectional firebrand, who has made God’s house a den of thieves, and polluted the holy sanctuary with his impious ravings. How can these people ever expect us to forget these fearful wrongs? How hard it is for us to feel any thing but the most deadly hate toward our foes, when justice calls aloud to us for vengeance! God is indeed trying us with the refiner’s fire; may we come out of it purified.
I heard more about the dissipation of Mobile after leaving it than I did all the time I was there. I had no idea it was such a wicked place and that the people were so much demoralized.
I paid a visit to some friends in Selma, and they were a good deal alarmed at the prospect of the enemy coming there. The fare on the boat was very good, and I was much indebted to one of the officers—Mr. Scott—for sending me a tumbler of milk at each meal, which was very acceptable, as the substitute for coffee was any thing but nice.
We arrived at Montgomery on the 4th, at 1 P. M. I remained all night at the house of Rev. Dr. Scott. There I met some ladies from Florida, who, like many others, had been driven from their homes by the enemy. The refugees are very clannish; it seems to be great consolation for them to get together and talk over by-gones. Dr. S. has a church in Montgomery, I believe, wholly supported by refugees. Mrs. S. is a refined and intellectual lady, such as I have found nearly all of our better class of women to be, and she is a true southerner. The doctor and she were both very kind and before I left in the morning, which was very early, they had a delightful cup of pure coffee made for me, and an old negro man drove me to the train in their buggy.
While in Montgomery I met Dr. Anderson of Mobile (medical purveyor), packing up his drugs, having been ordered to Macon. I am told that the military department head-quarters has been ordered to the same place. Dr. A. informed me that he had sent his family to Mobile for safety. I heard of many others doing the same; it being considered the safest, whether it falls or not, and no one seems to think there will be any fighting in the city.
I left Montgomery on the 5th, at 7 A. M., in company with Lieutenant Edwards and his wife, who were on their way to Florida, and arrived at Columbus, Georgia, the same day, at 5 A. M.
On the way to Columbus I met one of my old Chattanooga patients, Lieutenant Blair of Texas. I did not recollect having ever seen him, but he had not forgotten me. He inquired after Mrs. W., and he told me that to our attention in Chattanooga he owed his life. We are often told this, and although knowing it is not true, can not help feeling gratified at hearing it. Poor fellow! since I last saw him he has lost a leg in one of the battles near Atlanta. He said that while lying wounded he had often thought about Mrs. W. and myself.
In Columbus we put up at the Cook House; at supper the table actually groaned. I have not seen as many good things since the war. There were cold turkey, sausages, roast pork, biscuit, hot rolls, corn-bread; and I could scarcely believe my senses when I saw cake! We had a substitute for coffee, which was very nice, and plenty of hot milk and sugar.
My friends were going to Florida by the Chattuhooche River, so I left early next morning for Macon. I had some pure coffee, which a waiter had made and brought to me, with milk, sugar, and buttered toast. I paid ten dollars for lodging, and ten for supper.
In this hotel was a very nice-looking girl, who seemed to be acting as head chambermaid. I knew from her accent that she was from the “land of cakes.” She is from Glasgow, and has been a number of years in this country. She is the first Scotch woman I have met in the South in that position.
We were all invited to witness a wedding (a runaway match); the couple had come from Montgomery on the cars with us; they were quite young looking. I believe the drawback was the young lady’s cruel father. A chaplain performed the ceremony.
After witnessing the wedding, Lieutenant E., his wife, and myself called on Mr. Stickney, chaplain of the post. He is a native of Mobile, and was a chaplain at one of the forts in New Orleans at the time of its surrender, and had to leave there in a hurry, losing nearly all of his worldly possessions. Mrs. S. is a daughter of Rev. Dr. Hedges of New Orleans, who left that city as a registered enemy to the United States.
They are living, refugee-style, in two rooms. Mrs. S. is an enthusiastic southerner, and seems to glory in living as she does. But she is much better off than many others, who would be thankful to have her place. Many of the richest people in the country are living in tents or old sheds.
The night was one of uncommon beauty. There was no mist to obscure the serenity of heaven, and the moon was sailing along in majestic grandeur, diffusing a rich refulgence on us poor mortals who were enjoying it. How beautiful is night! “By night an atheist half believes there is a God.”
On the cars from Columbus I met my old friend, Mrs. Newsom. She has been to Arkansas since I last saw her, and brought out a young sister, who has been assisting her in the hospitals. She had very little trouble from the Federal authorities in going through the lines, though she made no secret of how she had been employed in the Confederacy. She has left the hospital service for awhile, as her duties while in Atlanta injured her health. The patients were in tents there, and the weather bad. The Sisters of Charity previously in the hospital could not stand the work and exposure, and had left. Miss Monroe of Kentucky had assisted Mrs. N. in one of the hospitals, and she spoke highly of her kindness to the suffering, and of her abilities in managing the duties incidental to a hospital.
We reached Macon on the 6th, and I went to the Blind School Hospital, where my friend, Miss Rigby, is matron. It is a new hospital, and the building had been a school for the blind. It stands on a very elevated spot, and the view of the city from it is very fine.
Miss R. is a member of the Episcopal Church, and an excellent lady. She isvery devoted to the patients, and at present, although there are but few in the hospital, she finds it difficult to get food for them.
I saw Dr. Gamble, who is post surgeon, and is having all the hospitals fixed up again as if there was no such thing as making another move. I met a number of my old friends in Macon; I think all are getting worn out with this wandering kind of life; or, as I heard a surgeon say, this inspecting the railroads.
I left Macon on the 8th; Dr. Mellon, an assistant surgeon in the hospital, very kindly escorted me to the cars. The receiving hospital for Macon is at the depot, and is under the care of Surgeon King; I am told he is an excellent gentleman. The bunks were in the car shed, and all looked very neat. This arrangement saves a good deal of extra moving for the sufferers.
I think I never saw rain until to-day; it is actually pouring in torrents. Yesterday, when I arrived at the depot, it was raining very hard, and when I looked out of the car at the crowd of men, and saw no familiar face, I felt a little homesick. In the depot I met Dr. Steel, who sent word to the hospital that I had arrived. I did not have long to wait; Mr. C. came for me, and as it was still raining, and the hospital some half a mile distant, I went to a hotel opposite. Dr. de Yampert had sent some one after me every day for a week, and had concluded I was not coming. At the hotel I found some Chattanooga friends, Mr. Rawlings, the proprietor, and his family. Although I had never met Mrs. R. before, we were like old friends. The daughter of Dr. Taylor, who was so kind to us in Chattanooga, was there. Her father is a prisoner, and has not been heard from for a long time; many think he is dead. I was glad to learn something concerning the many kind friends I left in Chattanooga. They were scattered all over the Confederacy; quite a number are in this place.
After I had remained there some hours, Mr. C. brought a buggy and took me to the hospital, where I received a hearty welcome from Dr. Reesse, who introduced me to Miss S., my assistant. I felt very gloomy, and had no good, kind Mrs. W. to say, in her quiet manner, “Have patience, the Lord will bring all right.” Left wholly to myself, I felt that all my boasted determination to remain in the hospital till the war was over, or as long as I could be of service to the suffering, would now be put to the test.
Mr. Moore and Dr. Burks called, and were glad to see me, as were all in the hospital. Not even the warm welcome I received served to dispel the gloom; I was completely demoralized. So much for remaining so long at home. Dr. R. kindly invited me to dinner, and, although I had eaten nothing that day, I refused.
Dr. de Yampert, who had been with the medical board, after awhile came to see me. As it had ceased raining, I went with him to visit the hospital. The main part is to be in tents or sheds. We have one large building, formerly a young ladies’ college, and which was the Quintard Hospital last year. There were a few out-houses, put up in hospital style, which were used for kitchen, dining-room, bakery, etc. Dr. B. showed me where the foundation of the college was crumbling, and the pillars in front giving way; but, as we did not intend giving a ball, where the gyrations of the performers on the light fantastic toe might give it a shake, I did not see that we had much danger to apprehend. There will be one nice, large ward in the upper room. There are many rooms down-stairs, one a fine linen-room. I was well pleased with the manner in which Dr. de Y. was having every thing arranged. I did not know till now that he fixed up the nice one the Sisters of Charity were in at Corinth. I tried to enter into his ambitious plans with as much zeal as I could muster; but visions of raids and army movements causing us to make hasty retreats, leaving the fruits of our labor behind us to be destroyed by the foe, would rise up before me. To save my life I could scarcely utter one enthusiastic word of praise, though I could not but admire his perseverance, as he has had almost as much running to do as myself. He says he has made up his mind that the war will last ten years, and he is preparing accordingly. There was no use in my saying I thought that it would be impossible for us to hold out so long, as three years ago we were certain we could not keep up another year. In a tent I found Mrs. Love and her family, who seemed rejoiced at my return.
Dr. de Yampert told me, as I had had so much experience, I knew better what to do than he could tell me; that he wished me to overlook all the domestic arrangements. He wishes to have three more ladies. We are to have three wards, with separate kitchens. He does not like the idea of having the patients in tents (I find there are few surgeons who do), and is going to try and build sheds. I always feel nervous when I see them go up. From what little experience I have had of tents, I like them for patients, although it is impossible to keep bedding as clean as in rooms. They have another drawback, like Jonah’s gourd, what the night before was a nice shelter, by the next morning has fallen and become a heap of canvas. Still, with all this, the men improve in them much faster than in houses. I have never lived in a tent myself, or perhaps I should not like them for others. I think we are generally in favor of what we like best ourselves. I have often noticed that surgeons order for their patients what they like and what best agrees with themselves. When a doctor requests me to send no buttermilk to his ward, and another no greens, and another no onions, etc., I set it down that these are things they are not fond of.
I have become much better reconciled to every thing since I have seen Dr. de Y. He seems to have no aim but to do every thing for the good of the patients, and I can ask for nothing more. He was a wealthy planter in Alabama, and enlisted as a private at the commencement of the war. He was soon promoted, and for some time was on General Bragg’s staff, and served in the field until lately.
To-day, feeling that I would like to have something to eat, I found corn meal and beef of the leanest kind to be all of which our commissary could boast. I have often said that I did not wish to live otherwise than the soldiers, with the exception of corn-bread and bacon, which are things I thought I would have to starve before I could eat (I suppose I must have inherited this dislike from my foreign origin); but I have found that starving will not do. When we get bacon we do not get beef. This is the beef week; and there is not fat enough on it to fry it with. I sent a note to a lady, requesting her to lend me some lard to put in bread, though I have no idea when I shall be able to return it; but I can pay her in money. I made the bread, and stewed the beef, and with corn coffee, minus milk or sugar, made a very good meal.
Thursday, 9th—It is still raining. The army started at 8 a. m. Companies C, D and E of the Eleventh Iowa were sent back to town on provost guard, to see that nothing was burned, until the First Division should come up. Our division is on the main road. The First and Third Divisions are on roads to our right, and the Fifteenth Corps is off on our left. We marched twelve miles today.
9th. Moved out in the morning at 6. My Batt. in the extreme advance. Passed Howardsville and Scottsville and camped at Hardware River bridge. Travelled down the tow path mostly. Rain at night.
