Sunday, 21st—It is still raining. We remained in our bivouac all day. Some of the troops are moving toward Washington for the grand review. News came that Jefferson Davis had been captured by General Wilson at a small place in Georgia, called Irwinville, in the county of Irwin.[1]
[1] The capture was effected on May 10th by Lieutenant-Colonel Prltchard, of the Fourth Michigan Cavalry, a detachment of General James H. Wilson’s cavalry.—Ed.
21st. Up at 3 A. M. in the rain. Marched at 7. Moved through Washington with drawn sabres in platoon column. Passed by Willard’s. Sheridan standing on the balcony. Stopped at Mr. Mills’ over night. Nettleton rode to camp.
May 21st. As we have plenty of rations we trade with the farmers, coffee, sugar, hardtack, for butter, eggs, and vegetables, and some milk. The cows eat garlic which gives to the butter and milk a bad taste, but we manage to eat the stuff, if we don’t really like the taste. We paid money for some things to the farmers. They were always anxious to get hold of a little ready cash. Some soft bread was furnished us in place of hardtack, but could most generally get hardtack. While we suffered much from hunger and thirst, we had good feed whenever near our base of supplies.
Detailed for guard duty in town. Charge of the third relief. When off duty could get excused for one hour. Visited a bookstore for something to read. Surprised to find a copy of the History of Connecticut. Paid one dollar for it. The Waverly magazine was quite a favorite with the boys. Much pleasure working out the enigmas, and reading the short stories and the poetry.
May 21st.—They say Governor Magrath has absconded, and that the Yankees have said, “If you have no visible governor, we will send you one.” If we had one and they found him, they would clap him in prison instanter.
The negroes have flocked to the Yankee squad which has recently come, but they were snubbed, the rampant freedmen. “Stay where you are,” say the Yanks. “We have nothing for you.” And they sadly “peruse” their way. Now that they have picked up that word “peruse,” they use it in season and out. When we met Mrs. Preston’s William we asked, “Where are you going?” “Perusing my way to Columbia,” he answered.
When the Yanks said they had no rations for idle negroes, John Walker answered mildly, “This is not at all what we expected.” The colored women, dressed in their gaudiest array, carried bouquets to the Yankees, making the day a jubilee. But in this house there is not the slightest change. Every negro has known for months that he or she was free, but I do not see one particle of change in their manner. They are, perhaps, more circumspect, polite, and quiet, but that is all. Otherwise all goes on in antebellum statu quo. Every day I expect to miss some familiar face, but so far have been disappointed.
Mrs. Huger we found at the hotel here, and we brought her to Bloomsbury. She told us that Jeff Davis was traveling leisurely with his wife twelve miles a day, utterly careless whether he were taken prisoner or not, and that General Hampton had been paroled.
Fighting Dick Anderson and Stephen Elliott, of Fort Sumter memory, are quite ready to pray for Andy Johnson, and to submit to the powers that be. Not so our belligerent clergy. “Pray for people when I wish they were dead?” cries Rev. Mr. Trapier. “No, never! I will pray for President Davis till I die. I will do it to my last gasp. My chief is a prisoner, but I am proud of him still. He is a spectacle to gods and men. He will bear himself as a soldier, a patriot, a statesman, a Christian gentleman. He is the martyr of our cause.” And I replied with my tears.
“Look here: taken in woman’s clothes?” asked Mr. Trapier. “Rubbish, stuff, and nonsense. If Jeff Davis has not the pluck of a true man, then there is no courage left on this earth. If he does not die game, I give it up. Something, you see, was due to Lincoln and the Scotch cap that he hid his ugly face with, in that express car, when he rushed through Baltimore in the night. It is that escapade of their man Lincoln that set them on making up the woman’s clothes story about Jeff Davis.”
Mrs. W. drove up. She, too, is off for New York, to sell four hundred bales of cotton and a square, or something, which pays tremendously in the Central Park region, and to capture and bring home her belle file, who remained North during the war. She knocked at my door. The day was barely dawning. I was in bed, and as I sprang up, discovered that my old Confederate night-gown had to be managed, it was so full of rents. I am afraid I gave undue attention to the sad condition of my gown, but could nowhere see a shawl to drape my figure.
She was very kind. In case my husband was arrested and needed funds, she offered me some “British securities” and bonds. We were very grateful, but we did not accept the loan of money, which would have been almost the same as a gift, so slim was our chance of repaying it. But it was a generous thought on her part; I own that.
Went to our plantation, the Hermitage, yesterday. Saw no change; not a soul was absent from his or her post. I said, “Good colored folks, when are you going to kick off the traces and be free? In their furious, emotional way, they swore devotion to us all to their dying day. Just the same, the minute they see an opening to better themselves they will move on. William, my husband’s foster-brother, came up. “Well, William, what do you want?” asked my husband. “Only to look at you, marster; it does me good.”
Tenleytown, D. C, May 21st, 1865.
The long-delayed, eagerly-looked-for order has been issued; read to us on dress parade. “All troops whose term of service expires on or before the first day of October, 1865, shall be mustered out immediately.” and our officers are to make out their final muster-out rolls without delay. Recruits are to be transferred to veteran regiments, which will be retained for a time.
Five copies of muster rolls are to be made out, and a descriptive list of each recruit, of whom there are thirty-three in our company. The glad day on which we bid farewell to “Dixie” does not yet appear, but I can now await, with patience, the necessary time.
Chattanooga, Sunday, May 21. A very pleasant day and I feel pretty well. Inspection at 9 A. M., Lieut. A. Sweet in charge. Much surprised to hear that Captain Hood has tendered his resignation, and it has been returned accepted. Expects to leave soon for home. Waited anxiously for the arrival of the mail this morning, but was sadly disappointed. Wrote two long letters notwithstanding, before dinner, one to brother John, my ever faithful weekly correspondent, the other to Sister Hannah at Albion. Have not received a word from her this month. I fear she has overtaxed herself again by arduous study.
After dinner Griff and I took a walk to the National Cemetery. Oh, lovely but sacred spot to him who loves the cause of freedom. It is an enclosure of about sixty acres, surrounded by a substantial stone fence in a circular form, it being a sloping hill. The ground is divided off into circular sections, walks macadamized, graves sodded over, and flowers and trees, cultivated, graves systematically arranged in rows. Here lie thousands of the brave defenders of their country’s flag, a few with neatly-carved marble slabs bearing name and regiment, but most of them were only identified by a rough, pine board fast decaying, and in a few more months nothing will be left to mark the place where the honored ashes lie. Could the people North who have friends lying here but know that the government is doing all in its power to make this beautiful and permanent would they not at once see that a marble slab would be placed over the earthly remains of those dear ones that are gone before? I believe so. Here were many of the Chickamauga heroes, and those who fell in the memorable battles of Mission Ridge and Chattanooga. Amongst them I noticed a large number of our brave comrades of the 3rd Division, 15th Army Corps, who fell in the fearful vortex of the battle on Tunnel Hill. Here also we found a neatly-printed board, marking the resting place of Robert Banks, who a few weeks ago was full of hilarity amongst us; and lately, I suppose, the last of poor Uncle Marden has been consigned to rest in the lovely spot, the most attractive cemetery I have seen under government [control.] But we could not find his name. Long we searched for the grave of my old schoolmate, Amandus Silsby, who died from wounds received at Kenesaw, but could not find it.
May 21st, 1865.—We have found out about the gathering of negroes at Centreville yesterday. More than a week ago a notice was sent to all the negroes in this and adjoining counties to come and bring well-filled picnic baskets. Lieutenant Zachendorf and the soldiers under his command had a message to them from the President of the United States.
When a large crowd had assembled Lieutenant Zachendorf proceeded to announce, in the name of President Johnson, the freedom of the entire negro race. They were told that they must show their appreciation of the great boon bestowed upon them by refusing to work any longer for those who had formerly held them in slavery. He proclaimed to these poor ignorant creatures the perfect equality of the races. He told them they were at liberty to help themselves to any property belonging to their former owners.
“You made it,” he said. “It is all yours.” This is outrageous. What the outcome may be none can know. Already we see a change in the demeanor of those around the house; a sullen air they have not had before. If this goes on, and we have no way to stop it, what will the end be? The terrors of San Domingo rise before our eyes.
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