May 4.—I heard yesterday that there are no cars running south of West Point, the raiders having destroyed the bridges in that section. I intend going to Newnan, as I may have a chance of getting a conveyance from there home.
I have made up my mind to rob the United States Government of a few things; namely, the bedding I have used since I have been in the hospital, and a few other articles. We have the two barrels of whisky, and I also intend appropriating some of that.
To-day I tried, at quite a number of places, to see if they would not barter some sheets or whisky for flour, as I can not take cold corn-bread to travel with; but I did not succeed. This evening a friend of Mrs. F.’s, a refugee, sent me a little, and also a few eggs, so I feel quite rich. I have forgotten Mrs. Ware, who also sent me some flour.
Mrs. Fyffe has no idea how she is to get home, as at least one hundred miles of the railroad track is torn up between here and Chattanooga. She is grieving very much about her daughter. Since she has been here, the last word at night, and the first thing in the morning is, “My dear child, is she living or not?”
My kind friend, Mr. Yerby, is in the country, and I shall not see him before leaving; I feel very sorry for him; he has lost nearly his all in this war. He was at his home last winter; the enemy had been to his house, and had taken every thing that his wife had, not leaving her even a cooking utensil; but that did not make much matter as she had nothing to cook. Since the enemy was there, she and her children have been living on what their neighbors have given them, and they had little to spare. All this distresses Mr. Y.; he says his wife was the picture of despair.
He informed me that the tales which had been told him of the enemy’s atrocities in Mississippi, were truly awful. It was a common thing for them to kill negro children, so as to carry off the parents with greater facility; and that many a negro child had been left to starve in the woods.
I am told that the enemy is behaving badly in Macon. A few days ago a lady took shelter with us from the rain; she was just from Macon, and was there when the enemy arrived. She has come up here to remain until something like law and order is restored.
The armistice was proclaimed before Wilson’s army reached Macon. The mayor and a number of citizens met the army some miles from the city, and informed General Wilson of the armistice, and begged him not to come any further; but he pretended not to believe it, and marched his troops right in. Robbery and scenes of violence are as common as if peace had not been restored.
This lady knew of a gentleman who had killed a Federal in self-defense, and scarcely any notice was taken of it. Her house had been searched many times by bands of the vandals. They took her gold watch and her mother’s, and made a great fuss because they could not get any more. These ladies thought, like others, that an armistice meant peace, and were not prepared for any thing of this kind. Their house is in the suburbs, and all there share the same fate. She says she does not think that General Wilson has it in his power to restrain his men, but he had no right having them there at all. They use the negroes shamefully, and kill them on the least provocation.
This lady’s name is Gordon; she is a relative of General Gordon, of Virginia fame. Her brother, a member of Massindorf’s battery, is now lying wounded in Mobile.
I see by the northern papers that General Canby, who captured Mobile, says he has received a heartier welcome from the Mobilians than he has any place he has yet taken. How can the people there so soon forget their dead? Why, even the enemy can not respect us when we can be guilty of such heartlessness.
