7th.—Just returned from the hospital. Several severe cases of typhoid fever require constant attention. Our little Alabamian seems better, but so weak! I left them for a few moments to go to see Bishop Meade; he sent for me to his room. I was glad to see him looking better, and quite cheerful. Bishops Wilmer and Elliott came in, and my visit was very pleasant. I returned to my post by the bedside of the soldiers. Some of them are very fond of hearing the Bible read; and I am yet to see the first soldier who has not received with apparent interest any proposition of being read to from the Bible. To-day, while reading, an elderly man of strong, intelligent face sat on the side of the bed, listening with interest. I read of the wars of the Israelites and Philistines. He presently said, “I know why you read that chapter; it is to encourage us, because the Yankee armies are so much bigger than ours; do you believe that God will help us because we are weak?” “No,” said I, “but I believe that if we pray in faith, as the Israelites did, that God will hear us.” “Yes,” he replied, “but the Philistines didn’t pray, and the Yankees do; and though I can’t bear the Yankees, I believe some of them are Christians, and pray as hard as we do; [“Monstrous few on ’em,” grunted out a man lying near him;] and if we pray for one thing, and they pray for another, I don’t know what to think of our prayers clashing.” “Well, but what do you think of the justice of our cause? don’t you believe that God will hear us for the justice of our cause?” “Our cause,” he exclaimed, “yes, it is just; God knows it is just. I never thought of looking at it that way before, and I was mighty uneasy about the Yankee prayers. I am mightily obleeged to you for telling me.” “Where are you from?” I asked. “From Georgia.” “Are you not over forty-five?” “Oh, yes, I am turned of fifty, but you see I am monstrous strong and well; nobody can beat me with a rifle, and my four boys were a-coming. My wife is dead, and my girls are married; and so I rented out my land, and came too; the country hasn’t got men enough, and we mustn’t stand back on account of age, if we are hearty.” And truly he has the determined countenance, and bone and sinew, which make a dangerous foe on the battle-field. I wish we had 50,000 such men. He reminds me of having met with a very plain-looking woman in a store the other day. She was buying Confederate gray cloth, at what seemed a high price. I asked her why she did not apply to the quartermaster, and get it cheaper. “Well,” she replied, “I knows all about that, for my three sons is in the army; they gets their clothes thar; but you see this is for my old man, and I don’t think it would be fair to get his clothes from thar, because he ain’t never done nothing for the country as yet—he’s just gwine in the army.” “Is he not very old to go into the army?” “Well, he’s fifty-four years old, but he’s well and hearty like, and ought to do something for his country. So he says to me, says he, ‘The country wants men; I wonder if I could stand marching; I’ve a great mind to try.’ Says I, ‘Old man, I don’t think you could, you would break down; but I tell you what you can do—you can drive a wagon in the place of a young man that’s driving, and the young man can fight.’ Says he, ‘So I will—and he’s agwine just as soon as I gits these clothes ready, and that won’t be long.'” “But won’t you be very uneasy about him?” said I. “Yes, indeed; but you know he ought to go—them wretches must be drove away.” “Did you want your sons to go?” “Want ’em to go!” she exclaimed; “yes; if they hadn’t agone, they shouldn’t a-staid whar I was. But they wanted to go, my sons did.” Two days ago, I met her again in a baker’s shop; she was filling her basket with cakes and pies. “Well,” said I, “has your husband gone?” “No, but he’s agwine tomorrow, and I’m getting something for him now.” “Don’t you feel sorry as the time approaches for him to go?” “Oh, yes, I shall miss him mightily; but I ain’t never cried about it; I never shed a tear for the old man, nor for the boys neither, and I ain’t agwine to. Them Yankees must not come a-nigh to Richmond; if they does, I will fight them myself. The women must fight, for they shan’t cross Mayo’s Bridge; they shan’t git to Richmond.” I said to her, “You are a patriot.” “Yes, honey—ain’t you? Ain’t everybody?” I was sorry to leave this heroine in homespun, but she was too busy buying cakes, etc., for the “old man,” to be interrupted any longer.
Diary of a Southern Refugee During the War by Judith White McGuire
6th.—To-day we saw Bishop Wilmer consecrated— Bishop Meade presiding, Bishops Johns and Elliott assisting. The services were very imposing, but the congregation was grieved by the appearance of Bishop Meade; he is so feeble! As he came down the aisle, when the consecration services were about to commence, every eye was fixed on him; it seemed almost impossible for him to reach the chancel, and while performing the services he had to be supported by the other Bishops. Oh, how it made my heart ache! and the immense crowd was deeply saddened by it.
Ash-Wednesday, March 5.—This morning Dr. Wilmer gave us a delightful sermon at St. Paul’s. He will be consecrated to-morrow Bishop of Alabama. To-night Bishop Elliott of Georgia preached for us, on the power of thought for good or evil. I do admire him so much in every respect.
4th.—In statu quo as far as our armies are concerned. The Nashville, a Confederate steamer, that has been watched by eight Federal war vessels, came into port the other day, at Beaufort, North Carolina, after many hairbreadth escapes, bringing a rich burden.
March 3.—Last Friday was the third day appointed by our President as a day of fasting and prayer within nine months. The churches were filled to overflowing, with, I trust, heart-worshippers, and I believe that God, in his great mercy, will direct our Government and our army.
27th.—Nothing new or important in our army. We were relieved to hear that the number who surrendered at Donelson was not so great as at first reported; the true number is 7,000, which is too many for us to lose! I trust they may be kindly treated. I know that we have friends at the North, but will they dare to be friendly openly? Oh, I hope they may have mercy on our prisoners! We have had some hope of recognition by France and England, but they still look on with folded arms.
23d.—Notwithstanding the violence of the rain yesterday, the Capitol Square, the streets around it, and the adjacent houses, were crowded. The President stood at the base of that noble equestrian statue of Washington, and took the oath which was taken by the “Father of his Country” more than seventy years ago—just after the “great rebellion,” in the success of which we all, from Massachusetts to Georgia, so heartily gloried. No wonder that he spoke as if he were inspired. Was it not enough to inspire him to have the drawn sword of Washington, unsheathed in defence of his invaded country, immediately over his head, while the other hand of his great prototype points encouragingly to the South? Had he not the life-like representations of Jefferson, George Mason, and, above all, of Patrick Henry, by his side? The latter with his scroll in his outstretched hand, his countenance beaming, his lips almost parted, and seeming on the point of bursting into one blaze of eloquence in defence of his native South. How could Southern tongues remain quiet, or Southern hearts but burn within us, when we beheld our heroes, living and dead, surrounding and holding up the hands of our great chief? By him stood his cabinet, composed of the talent and the patriotism of the land; then was heard the voice of our beloved Assistant Bishop, in tones of fervid eloquence, beseeching the blessings of Heaven on our great undertaking. I would that every young man, from the Potomac to the Rio Grande, could have witnessed the scene.
Last night was the first levee. The rooms were crowded. The President looked weary and grave, but was all suavity and cordiality, and Mrs. Davis won all hearts by her usual unpretending kindness. I feel proud to have those dear old rooms, arousing as they do so many associations of my childhood and youth, filled with the great, the noble, the fair of our land, every heart beating in unison, with one great object in view, and no wish beyond its accomplishment, as far as this world is concerned. But to-day is Saturday, and I must go to the hospital to take care of our sick— particularly to nurse our little soldier-boy. Poor child, he is very ill!
February 22.—To-day I had hoped to see our President inaugurated, but the rain falls in torrents, and I cannot go. So many persons are disappointed, but we are comforted by knowing that the inauguration will take place, and that the reins of our government will continue to be in strong hands. His term of six years must be eventful, and to him, and all others, so full of anxiety! What may we not experience during those six years? Oh, that all hearts may this day be raised to Almighty God for his guidance! Has there been a day since the Fourth of July, 1776, so full of interest, so fraught with danger, so encompassed by anxiety, so sorrowful, and yet so hopeful, as this 22d of February, 1862? Our wrongs then were great, and our enemy powerful, but neither can the one nor the other compare with all that we have endured from the oppression, and must meet in the gigantic efforts of the Federal Government. Our people are depressed by our recent disasters, but our soldiers are encouraged by the bravery and endurance of the troops at Donelson. It fell, but not until human nature yielded from exhaustion. The Greeks were overcome at Thermopylae, but were the Persians encouraged by their success? Did they still cherish contempt for their weak foe? And will the conquerors of Donelson meet our little army again with the same self-confidence? Has not our Spartan band inspired them with great respect for their valour, to say nothing of awe?
Our neighbour in the next room had two sons in that dreadful fight. Do they survive? Poor old lady! she can hear nothing from them; the telegraphic wires in Tennessee are cut, and mail communication very uncertain. It is so sad to see the mother and sister quietly pursuing their avocations, not knowing, the former says, whether she is not the second time widowed; for on those sons depend not only her comfort, but her means of subsistence, and that fair young girl, always accustomed to perfect ease, is now, with her old mother, boarding—confined to one room, using her taste and ingenuity, making and altering bonnets for her many acquaintances, that her mother may be supplied with the little luxuries to which she has always been accustomed, and which, her child says, “mother must have.” “Our property,” she says, “is not available, and, of course, ‘the boys’ had to give up their business to go into the army.”
Wednesday, 19th.—We are now in our own comfortable little room on Grace Street, and have quite a home-like feeling. Our children in the city are delighted to have us so near them, and the girls have come on a visit to their cousin, Mrs. C., and will be present at the inauguration on the 22d.
Tuesday Morning.—The wires are cut somewhere between this and Tennessee. We hear nothing farther West than Lynchburg; rumours are afloat that Donelson has fallen. We are too unhappy about it to think of any thing else.
Evening.—It is all true. Our brave men have yielded to overpowering numbers. The struggle for three days was fearful. The dread particulars are not known. Wild stories are told of the numbers captured. God in his mercy help us!
