AUGUST 27TH. —We have news of a fight at Hawk’s Nest, Western Virginia. Wise whipped the Yankees there quite handsomely.
Tuesday, [August] 27.—Ordered to make a forced march, without tents, knapsacks, or cooking utensils, to French Creek by a mountain path scarcely practicable for horsemen. At about 3 P. M. set out. I led the column afoot, Captain Sperry on Webby. Reached a river over the mountain after dark; kindled fires and slept on ground. Thirteen miles.
August 27th.—Theodore Barker and James Lowndes came; the latter has been wretchedly treated. A man said, “All that I wish on earth is to be at peace and on my own plantation,” to which Mr. Lowndes replied quietly, “I wish I had a plantation to be on, but just now I can’t see how any one would feel justified in leaving the army.” Mr. Barker was bitter against the spirit of braggadocio so rampant among us. The gentleman who had been answered so completely by James Lowndes said, with spitefulness: “Those women who are so frantic for their husbands to join the army would like them killed, no doubt.”
Things were growing rather uncomfortable, but an interruption came in the shape of a card. An old classmate of Mr. Chesnut’s—Captain Archer, just now fresh from California—followed his card so quickly that Mr. Chesnut had hardly time to tell us that in Princeton College they called him “Sally” Archer he was so pretty—when he entered. He is good-looking still, but the service and consequent rough life have destroyed all softness and girlishness. He will never be so pretty again.
The North is consolidated; they move as one man, with no States, but an army organized by the central power. Russell in the Northern camp is cursed of Yankees for that Bull Rim letter. Russell, in his capacity of Englishman, despises both sides. He divides us equally into North and South. He prefers to attribute our victory at Bull Run to Yankee cowardice rather than to Southern courage. He gives no credit to either side; for good qualities, we are after all mere Americans! Everything not “national” is arrested. It looks like the business of Seward.
I do not know when I have seen a woman without knitting in her hand. Socks for the soldiers is the cry. One poor man said he had dozens of socks and but one shirt. He preferred more shirts and fewer stockings. We make a quaint appearance with this twinkling of needles and the everlasting sock dangling below.
They have arrested Wm. B. Reed and Miss Winder, she boldly proclaiming herself a secessionist. Why should she seek a martyr’s crown? Writing people love notoriety. It is so delightful to be of enough consequence to be arrested. I have often wandered if such incense was ever offered as Napoleon’s so-called persecution and alleged jealousy of Madame de Stael.
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Russell once more, to whom London, Paris, and India have been an every-day sight, and every-night, too, streets and all. How absurd for him to go on in indignation because there have been women on negro plantations who were not vestal virgins. Negro women get married, and after marriage behave as well as other people. Marrying is the amusement of their lives. They take life easily; so do their class everywhere. Bad men are hated here as elsewhere.
“I hate slavery. I hate a man who— You say there are no more fallen women on a plantation than in London in proportion to numbers. But what do you say to this—to a magnate who runs a hideous black harem, with its consequences, under the same roof with his lovely white wife and his beautiful and accomplished daughters? He holds his head high and poses as the model of all human virtues to these poor women whom God and the laws have given him. From the height of his awful majesty he scolds and thunders at them as if he never did wrong in his life. Fancy such a man finding his daughter reading Don Juan. ‘You with that immoral book!’ he would say, and then he would order her out of his sight. You see Mrs. Stowe did not hit the sorest spot. She makes Legree a bachelor.” “Remember George II. and his likes.”
“Oh, I know half a Legree—a man said to be as cruel as Legree, but the other half of him did not correspond. He was a man of polished manners, and the best husband and father and member of the church in the world.” “Can that be so?”
“Yes, I know it. Exceptional case, that sort of thing, always. And I knew the dissolute half of Legree well. He was high and mighty, but the kindest creature to his slaves. And the unfortunate results of his bad ways were not sold, had not to jump over ice-blocks. They were kept in full view, and provided for handsomely in his will.”
“The wife and daughters in the might of their purity and innocence are supposed never to dream of what is as plain before their eyes as the sunlight, and they play their parts of unsuspecting angels to the letter. They profess to adore the father as the model of all saintly goodness.” “Well, yes; if he is rich he is the fountain from whence all blessings flow.”
“The one I have in my eye—my half of Legree, the dissolute half—was so furious in temper and thundered his wrath so at the poor women, they were glad to let him do as he pleased in peace if they could only escape his everlasting fault-finding, and noisy bluster, making everybody so uncomfortable.” “Now—now, do you know any woman of this generation who would stand that sort of thing? No, never, not for one moment. The make-believe angels were of the last century. We know, and we won’t have it.”
“The condition of women is improving, it seems.” “Women are brought up not to judge their fathers or their husbands. They take them as the Lord provides and are thankful.”
“If they should not go to heaven after all; think what lives most women lead.” “No heaven, no purgatory, no— the other thing? Never. I believe in future rewards and punishments.”
“How about the wives of drunkards? I heard a woman say once to a friend of her husband, tell it as a cruel matter of fact, without bitterness, without comment, ‘Oh, you have not seen him! He has changed. He has not gone to bed sober in thirty years.’ She has had her purgatory, if not ‘the other thing,’ here in this world. We all know what a drunken man is. To think, for no crime, a person may be condemned to live with one thirty years.” “You wander from the question I asked. Are Southern men worse because of the slave system and the facile black women?” “Not a bit. They see too much of them. The barroom people don’t drink, the confectionery people loathe candy. They are sick of the black sight of them.”
“You think a nice man from the South is the nicest thing in the world?” “I know it. Put him by any other man and see!”
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Have seen Yankee letters taken at Manassas. The spelling is often atrocious, and we thought they had all gone through a course of blue-covered Noah Webster spelling-books. Our soldiers do spell astonishingly. There is Horace Greeley: they say he can’t read his own handwriting. But he is candid enough and disregards all time-serving. He says in his paper that in our army the North has a hard nut to crack, and that the rank and file of our army is superior in education and general intelligence to theirs.
My wildest imagination will not picture Mr. Mason¹ as a diplomat. He will say chaw for chew, and he will call himself Jeems, and he will wear a dress coat to breakfast. Over here, whatever a Mason does is right in his own eyes. He is above law. Somebody asked him how he pronounced his wife’s maiden name: she was a Miss Chew from Philadelphia.
They say the English will like Mr. Mason; he is so manly, so straightforward, so truthful and bold. “A fine old English gentleman,” so said Russell to me, “but for tobacco.” “I like Mr. Mason and Mr. Hunter better than anybody else.” “And yet they are wonderfully unlike.” “Now you just listen to me,” said I. “Is Mrs. Davis in hearing—no? Well, this sending Mr. Mason to London is the maddest thing yet. Worse in some points of view than Yancey, and that was a catastrophe.”
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¹ James Murray Mason was a grandson of George Mason, and hud been elected United States Senator from Virginia in 1847. In 1851 he drafted the Fugitive Slave Law. His mission to England in 1861 was shared by John Slidell. On November 8, 1861, while on board the British steamer Trent, in the Bahamas, they were captured by an American named Wilkes, and imprisoned in Boston until January 2, 1862. A famous diplomatic difficulty arose with England over this affair. John Slidell was a native of New York, who had settled in Louisiana and became a Member of Congress from that State in 1843. In 1853 he was elected to the United States Senate.
August 27.—Colonel Hoffman, of the Twenty-third New York (Elmira) regiment, with Captain Dinglee’s company and one other, started this afternoon to the vicinity of Ball’s Cross Roads, for the protection of the Federal pickets in that locality. Near Ball’s Cross Roads they encountered about six hundred secessionists, when a volley was exchanged. The two Federal companies retired, in presence of the superior force, in excellent order. About thirty rounds were exchanged, and _____ Carrol, of Elmira, was killed by a shot from the rebels. He was a young man, and was very popular with his regiment. Another of the national troops was wounded in the neck, and had a finger shot off. Whether the Confederates suffered any loss is not known. The nationals and the pickets fell back to the camp, about half a mile beyond Arlington.—National Intelligencer, August 29.
—As important arrest was made in New York at the instance of Superintendent Kennedy—the person arrested being Samuel J. Anderson. He has carried on a very extensive correspondence with Vice-President Stephens of the Southern Confederacy, and has been in constant communication with the secession sympathizers in New York. For the last six weeks, according to his own confession, he has been contributing editorial articles for The Daily News, Day Book, and Journal of Commerce. An intercepted letter from Washington advised him to go south via Kentucky, as a passport could not be obtained from the Government. Anderson’s correspondence gives a great deal of important political information, besides implicating parties well known in New York.—-N. Y. Tribune, August 28.
—The First regiment U. S. Chasseurs, under the command of Colonel John Cochrane, left New York for the seat of war. This regiment numbers eight hundred and fifty men, and will be armed with the Enfield rifle.
—Joseph Holt made a Union speech at Boston, Mass., to-day, in the course of which he said he nowhere heard the word compromise, which was now only uttered by traitors. So long as rebels had arms in their hands there was nothing to compromise. He concluded by saying that it was in vain to toil at the pumps while men were kept on board boring holes in the bottom of the ship.—Boston Post, Aug. 28.
—A Correspondence between the President of the United States and Beriah Magoffin, governor of Kentucky, respecting the neutrality of that State during the present crisis, was made public,—(Doc. 13.)
In the book, the following appears as a post script to a letter that was written on August 5. However, Henry’s brother, Charles, replied on August 23 to a “letter of the 5th” from Henry.
P.S. August 26. After studying over the accounts of the battle and reading Russell’s letter to the Times, I hardly know whether to laugh or cry. Of all the ridiculous battles that ever were fought, this seems to me the most so. To a foreigner or to any one not interested in it, the account must be laughable in the extreme. But the disgrace is frightful. The expose of the condition of our army is not calculated to do us anything but the most unmixed harm here, though it may have the good effect at home of causing these evils to be corrected. If this happens again, farewell to our country for many a day. Bull’s Run will be a by-word of ridicule for all time. Our honor will be utterly gone. But yesterday we might have stood against the world. Now none so base to do us reverence. Let us stop our bragging now and hence-forward. Throw Bull’s Run in the teeth of any man who dares to talk large. In spite of my mortification, I could not help howling with laughter over a part of Russell’s letter. Such a battle of heels. Such a bloodless, ridiculous race for disgrace, history does not record. Unpursued, untouched, without once having even crossed bayonets with the enemy, we have run and saved our precious carcasses from a danger that did not exist. Our flag, what has become of it? Who will respect it? What can we ever say for it after this?
My determination to come home is only increased by this disgrace. I cannot stay here now to stand the taunts of every one without being able to say a word in defence. Unless I hear from you at once, I shall write myself to Governor Andrew and to Mr. Dana and to every one else I can think of, and raise Heaven and earth to get a commission. If we must be beaten, and it looks now as though that must ultimately be the case, I want to do all I can not to be included among those who ran away. Our accounts say nothing of the Massachusetts regiments. So far as we have learned, the Pennsylvania and foreign regiments are the only ones known to have disgraced themselves, and the Rhode Island ones stood well. Hurry up and send me my commission quick.
Monday, 26th—There was a heavy rainstorm last night. I worked all day, picking onion seed, and in the evening went down to Inland to make arrangements to go back to Davenport in the morning to join the camp.
August 26th.—General Van Vliet called from General McClellan to say that the Commander-in-Chief would be happy to go round the camps with me when he next made an inspection, and would send round an orderly and charger in time to get ready before he started. These little excursions are not the most agreeable affairs in the world; for McClellan delights in working down staff and escort, dashing from the Chain Bridge to Alexandria, and visiting all the posts, riding as hard as he can, and not returning till past midnight, so that if one has a regard for his cuticle, or his mail days, he will not rashly venture on such excursions. To-day he is to inspect McDowell’s division.
I set out accordingly with Captain Johnson over the Long Bridge, which is now very strictly guarded. On exhibiting my pass to the sentry at the entrance, he called across to the sergeant and spoke to him aside, showing him the pass at the same time. “Are you Russell, of the London Times?” said the sergeant. I replied, “If you look at the pass, you will see who I am.” He turned it over, examined it most narrowly, and at last, with an expression of infinite dissatisfaction and anger upon his face, handed it back, saying to the sentry, “I suppose you must let him go.”
Meantime Captain Johnson was witching the world with feats of noble horsemanship, for I had lent him my celebrated horse Walker, so called because no earthly equestrian can induce him to do anything but trot violently, gallop at full speed, or stand on his hind legs. Captain Johnson laid the whole fault of the animal’s conduct to my mismanagement, affirming that all it required was a light hand and gentleness, and so, as he could display both, I promised to let him have a trial to-day. Walker on starting, however, insisted on having a dance to himself, which my friend attributed to the excitement produced by the presence of the other horse, and I rode quietly along whilst the captain proceeded to establish an acquaintance with his steed in some quiet bye-street. As I was crossing the Long Bridge, the forbidden clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the planks caused me to look round, and on, in a cloud of dust, through the midst of shouting sentries, came my friend of the gentle hand and unruffled temper, with his hat thumped down on the back of his head, his eyes gleaming, his teeth clenched, his fine features slightly flushed, to say the least of it, sawing violently at Walker’s head, and exclaiming, “You brute, I’ll teach you to walk,” till he brought up by the barrier midway on the bridge. The guard, en masse, called the captain’s attention to the order, “all horses to walk over the bridge.” “Why, that’s what I want him to do. I’ll give any man among you one hundred dollars who can make him walk along this bridge or anywhere else.” The redoubtable steed, being permitted to proceed upon its way, dashed swiftly through the tête de pont, or stood on his hind legs when imperatively arrested by a barrier or abattis, and on these occasions my excellent friend, as he displayed his pass in one hand and restrained Bucephalus with the other, reminded me of nothing so much as the statue of Peter the Great, in the square on the banks of the Neva, or the noble equestrian monument of General Jackson, which decorates the city of Washington. The troops of McDowell’s division were already drawn up on a rugged plain, close to the river’s margin, in happier days the scene of the city races. A pestilential odour rose from the slaughter-houses close at hand, but regardless of odour or marsh, Walker continued his violent exercise, evidently under the idea that he was assisting at a retreat of the grand army as before.
Presently General McDowell and one of his aides cantered over, and whilst waiting for General McClellan, he talked of the fierce outburst directed against me in the press. “I must confess,” he said laughingly, “I am much rejoiced to find you are as much abused as I have been. I hope you mind it as little as I did. Bull’s Run was an unfortunate affair for both of us, for had I won it, you would have had to describe the pursuit of the flying enemy, and then you would have been the most popular writer in America, and I would have been lauded as the greatest of generals. See what measure has been meeted to us now. I’m accused of drunkenness and gambling, and you Mr. Russell— well!—I really do hope you are not so black as you are painted.” Presently a cloud of dust on the road announced the arrival of the President, who came upon the ground in an open carriage, with Mr. Seward by his side, accompanied by General McClellan and his staff in undress uniform, and an escort of the very dirtiest and most unsoldierly dragoons, with filthy accoutrements and ungroomed horses, I ever saw. The troops dressed into line and presented arms, whilst the band struck up the “Star-spangled Banner,” as the Americans have got no air which corresponds with our National Anthem, or is in any way complimentary to the quadrennial despot who fills the President’s chair.
General McDowell seems on most excellent terms with the present Commander-in-Chief, as he is with the President. Immediately after Bull’s Run, when the President first saw McDowell, he said to him, “I have not lost a particle of confidence in you,” to which the General replied, “I don’t see why you should, Mr. President.” But there was a curious commentary, either on the sincerity of Mr. Lincoln, or in his utter subserviency to mob opinion, in the fact that he who can overrule Congress and act pretty much as he pleases in time of war, had, without opportunity for explanation or demand for it, at once displaced the man in whom he still retained the fullest confidence, degraded him to command of a division of the army of which he had been General-in-Chief, and placed a junior officer over his head.
After some ordinary movements, the march past took place, which satisfied me that the new levies were very superior to the three months’ men, though far, indeed, from being soldiers. Finer material could not be found in physique. With the exception of an assemblage of miserable scarecrows in rags and tatters, swept up in New York and commanded by a Mr. Kerrigan, no division of the ordinary line, in any army, could show a greater number of tall, robust men in the prime of life. A soldier standing near me, pointing out Kerrigan’s corps, said, “The boy who commands that pretty lot recruited them first for the Seceshes in New York, but finding he could not get them away he handed them over to Uncle Sam.” The men were silent as they marched past, and did not cheer for President or Union.
I returned from the field to Arlington House, having been invited with my friend to share the general’s camp dinner. On our way along the road, I asked Major Brown why he rode over to us before the review commenced. “Well,” said he, “my attention was called to you by one of our staff saying ‘there are two Englishmen,’ and the general sent me over to invite them, and followed when he saw who it was.” “But how could you tell we were English?” “I don’t know,” said he, “there were other civilians about, but there was something about the look of you two which marked you immediately as John Bull.”
At the general’s tent we found General Sherman, General Keyes, Wadsworth, and some others. Dinner was spread on a table covered by the flap of the tent, and consisted of good plain fare, and a dessert of prodigious water-melons. I was exceedingly gratified to hear every officer present declare in the presence of the general who had commanded the army, and who himself said no words could exaggerate the disorder of the route, that my narrative of Bull’s Run was not only true but moderate.
General Sherman, whom I met for the first time, said, “Mr. Russell, I can indorse every word that you wrote; your statements about the battle, which you say you did not witness, are equally correct. All the stories about charging batteries and attacks with the bayonet are simply falsehoods, so far as my command is concerned, though some of the troops did fight well. As to cavalry charges, I wish we had had a few cavalry to have tried one; those Black Horse fellows seemed as if their horses ran away with them.” General Keyes said, “I don’t think you made it half bad enough. I could not get the men to stand after they had received the first severe check. The enemy swept the open with a tremendous musketry fire. Some of our men and portions of regiments behaved admirably—we drove them easily at first; the cavalry did very little indeed; but when they did come on I could not get the infantry to stand, and after a harmless volley they broke.” These officers were brigadiers of Tyler’s division.
The conversation turned upon the influence of the press in America, and I observed that every soldier at table spoke with the utmost dislike and antipathy of the New York journals, to which they gave a metropolitan position, although each man had some favourite paper of his own which he excepted from the charge made against the whole body. The principal accusations made against the press were that the conductors are not gentlemen, that they are calumnious and corrupt, regardless of truth, honour, anything but circulation and advertisements. “It is the first time we have had a chance of dealing with these fellows, and we shall not lose it.”
I returned to Washington at dusk over the aqueduct bridge. A gentleman, who introduced himself to me as correspondent of one of the cheap London papers, sent out specially on account of his great experience to write from the States, under the auspices of the leaders of the advanced liberal party, came to ask if I had seen an article in the Chicago Tribune, purporting to be written by a gentleman who says he was in my company during the retreat, contradicting what I report. I was advised by several officers—whose opinion I took — that it would be derogatory to me if I noticed the writer. I read it over carefully, and must say I am surprised—if anything could surprise me in American journalism—at the impudence and mendacity of the man. Having first stated that he rode along with me from point to point at a certain portion of the road, he states that he did not hear or see certain things which I say that I saw and heard, or deliberately falsifies what passed, for the sake of a little ephemeral applause, quotations in the papers, increased importance to himself, and some more abuse of the English correspondent.
This statement made me recall the circumstance alluded to more particularly. I remembered well the flurried, plethoric, elderly man, mounted on a broken-down horse, who rode up to me in great trepidation, with sweat streaming over his face, and asked me if I was going into Washington. “You may not recollect me, sir; I was introduced to you at Cay-roe, in the hall of the hotel. I’m Dr. Bray, of the Chicago Tribune.” I certainly did not remember him, but I did recollect that a dispatch from Cairo appeared in the paper, announcing my arrival from the South, and stating I complained on landing that my letters had been opened in the States, which was quite untrue and which I felt called on to deny, and supposing Dr. Bray to be the author I was not at all inclined to cement our acquaintance, and continued my course with a bow.
But the Doctor whipped his steed up alongside mine, and went on to tell me that he was in the most terrible bodily pain and mental anxiety. The first on account of desuetude of equestrian exercise; the other on account of the defeat of the Federals and the probable pursuit of the Confederates. “Oh! it’s dreadful to think of! They know me well, and would show me no mercy. Every step the horse takes I’m in agony. I’ll never get to Washington. Could you stay with me, sir? as you know the road.” I was moved to internal chuckling, at any rate, by the very prostrate condition —for he bent well over the saddle—of poor Dr. Bray, and so I said to him, “Don’t be uneasy, sir. There is no fear of your being taken. The army is not defeated, in spite of what you see; for there will be always runaways and skulkers when a retreat is ordered. I have not the least doubt McDowell will stand fast at Centreville, and rally his troops to-night on the reserve, so as to be in a good position to resist the enemy tomorrow. I’ll have to push on to Washington, as I must write my letters, and I fear they will stop me on the bridge without the countersign, particularly if these runaways should outstrip us. As to your skin, pour a little whiskey on some melted tallow and rub it well in, and you’ll be all right to-morrow or next day as far as that is concerned.”
I actually, out of compassion to his sufferings—for he uttered cries now and then as though Lucina were in request—reined up, and walked my horse, though most anxious to get out of the dust and confusion of the runaways, and comforted him about a friend whom he missed, and for whose fate he was as uneasy as the concern he felt for his own woes permitted him to be; suggested various modes to him of easing the jolt and of quickening the pace of his steed, and at last really bored excessively by an uninteresting and self-absorbed companion, who was besides detaining me needlessly on the road, I turned on some pretence into a wood by the side and continued my way as well as I could, till I got off the track, and being guided to the road by the dust and shouting, I came out on it somewhere near Fairfax Court, and there, to my surprise, dropped on the Doctor, who, animated by some agency more powerful than the pangs of an abraded cuticle and taking advantage of the road, had got thus far a-head. We entered the place together, halted at the same inn to water our horses, and then seeing that it was getting on towards dusk and that the wave of the retreat was rolling onward in increased volume, I pushed on and saw no more of him. Ungrateful Bray! Perfidious Bray! Some day, when I have time, I must tell the people of Chicago how Bray got into Washington, and how he left his horse and what he did with it, and how Bray behaved on the road. I dare say they who know him can guess.
The most significant article I have seen for some time as a test of the taste, tone, and temper of the New York public, judging by their most widely read journal, is contained in it to-night. It appears that a gentleman named Muir, who is described as a relative of Mr. Mure the consul at New Orleans, was seized on the point of starting for Europe, and that among his papers, many of which were of a “disloyal character,” which is not astonishing seeing that he came from Charlestown, was a letter written by a foreign resident in that city, in which he stated he had seen a letter from me to Mr. Bunch describing the flight at Bull’s Run, and adding that Lord Lyons remarked, when he heard of it, he would ask Mr. Seward whether he would not now admit the Confederates were a belligerent power, whereupon Maudit calls on Mr. Seward to demand explanations from Lord Lyons and to turn me out of the country, because in my letter to the “Times” I made the remark that the United States would probably now admit the South were a belligerent power.
Such an original observation could never have occurred to two people—genius concerting with genius could alone have hammered it out. But Maudit is not satisfied with the humiliation of Lord Lyons and the expulsion of myself—he absolutely insists upon a miracle, and his moral vision being as perverted as his physical, he declares that I must have sent to the British Consul at Charleston a duplicate copy of the letter which I furnished with so much labour and difficulty just in time to catch the mail by special messenger from Boston. ‘These be thy Gods, O Israel!’
My attention was also directed to a letter from certain officers of the disbanded 69th Regiment, who had permitted their Colonel to be dragged away a prisoner from the field of Bull’s Run. Without having read my letter, these gentlemen assumed that I had stigmatised Captain T. F. Meagher as one who had misconducted himself during the battle, whereas all I had said on the evidence of eye-witnesses was “that in the rout he appeared at Centreville running across country and uttering exclamations in the hearing of my informant, which indicated that he at least was perfectly satisfied that the Confederates had established their claims to be considered a belligerent power.” These officers state that Captain Meagher behaved extremely well up to a certain point in the engagement when they lost sight of him, and from which period they could say nothing about him. It was subsequent to that very time he appeared at Centreville, and long before my letter returned to America giving credit to Captain Meagher for natural gallantry in the field. I remarked that he would no doubt feel as much pained as any of his friends, at the ridicule cast upon him by the statement that he, the Captain of a company, “Went into action mounted on a magnificent charger and waving a green silk flag embroidered with a golden harp in the face of the enemy.”
A young man wearing the Indian war medal with two clasps, who said his name was Mac Ivor Hilstock, came in to inquire after some unknown friend of his. He told me he had been in Tomb’s troop of Artillery during the Indian mutiny, and had afterwards served with the French volunteers during the siege of Caprera. The news of the Civil War has produced such an immigration of military adventurers from Europe that the streets of Washington are quite filled with medals and ribands. The regular officers of the American Army regard them with considerable dislike, the greater inasmuch as Mr. Seward and the politicians encourage them. In alluding to the circumstance to General McDowell, who came in to see me at a late dinner, I said,” A great many Garibaldians are in Washington just now.” “Oh,” said he in his quiet way, “it will be quite enough for a man to prove that he once saw Garibaldi to satisfy us in Washington that he is quite fit for the command of a regiment. I have recommended a man because he sailed in the ship which Garibaldi came in over here, and I’m sure it will be attended to.”
Lenox, Aug., 1861.
My dear Georgy: You need not speak so coolly of our staying here three months. Three weeks will give us enough, I guess. It is actually tiresome not to have anything to do, after being so busy in New York. We only take one paper too now—the Tribune, and that does not come in till four o’clock, so that our mornings are very blank. There is a newsboy here however —think of that! who sells the New York and Boston papers every day on the hotel steps, after the arrival of the stage. And there is a brick store and a telegraph office, connecting with the telegraph in Springfield. Messages come over the wires in the short space of three days, I am told! . . . Is there not some newsstand or book-store, on Pennsylvania Avenue where Moritz can buy you the illustrated papers for the hospitals? I hope so, as we cannot send anything now except perhaps a stray Boston paper which everybody here has finished. I sent word to Edward Gilman, who has been in New York, when he goes home to Maine to mail you every now and then a Bangor paper for some sick Maine volunteers. . . . When we go back, we will constitute ourselves into a society, and do things more systematically and thoroughly. . . .
Our letters must be few and stupid. Your last to us was Eliza’s, written last Monday in camp. What scenes you must have gone through there, in the arrest and examination of those women spies! What strange romance history will be, by and bye, to May and Bertha. Gay ladies and courtly gentlemen, and ragged rebel volunteers, and city brokers, and wily politicians, all assigned their respective cells side by side, perhaps, in Fort Lafayette. You wonder what “horse-cakes” are, which the old woman declared her packets of letters to be, when found between her shoulders. They are gingerbread of the “round heart” consistency, cut in the flat, rude shape of a prancing horse with very prominent ears and very stubbed legs, sold in various small shops in Alexandria, along with candy balls, penny whistles and fly-specked ballads. “Horse-cakes” are an Alexandria institution. You should buy a few for lunch some day in the bakery. . . . We live in the newspapers and in your letters. It is impossible to think of anything else. I have tried on successive afternoons to get interested in Motley’s Netherlands, and give it up as a bad job. One reads a sentence over and over without getting the sense of it. And then, I remembered, that I couldn’t remember a name, or fact, or date in the three volumes of Motley’s other work; so what’s the use of reading anything? “Fort Sumter” is ancient history enough for me. To-day we have quite a budget of news—the details of Butler’s expedition to Fort Hatteras, which of course had to be successful. They went against the weakest point of the coast, with an overwhelming force. Little as it is, it serves for a subject of brag for us, and the newspapers glory over it as a splendid naval victory in the style of true Southern reports. We have the text of Fremont’s proclamation. It is all very well in itself, but I don’t see the object of setting slaves free in Missouri, and setting soldiers to catch them in Virginia;—shooting rebels out west and letting them off with “a mild dose of oath of allegiance” in Washington. . . . It is my growing conviction that nothing would be worse for the country than to be let off easy in this war. We should learn to think lightly of Divine guidance and Divine judgments. Providence means to humble and punish us thoroughly before full success is granted, and it is best so.
MONDAY, AUGUST 26, 1861.
Went to the Provost Marshalls with Julia this morning and after much trouble got a “Pass” to go on the Boat to Alexandria. Took the Boat with Julia at 1 o’clock. Went directly to the Camp of the NY 27th 3/4ths of a mile back of the City and near Fort Ellsworth East of “Shooters Hill.” Walked over to the Fort with Surgeon Barnes and Lieut Swan, found Lieut Link of Newark & Col Lansing and went through the Fort. Saw Brigade Drill afterwards and back to the Camp. Soldiers in good health.
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The three diary manuscript volumes, Washington during the Civil War: The Diary of Horatio Nelson Taft, 1861-1865, are available online at The Library of Congress.
26th.—I was visited by my Colonel to-day. He introduced the subject of reducing my hospital force. I was extra-polite, and replied that I had not the slightest objection, provided it was done with the understanding that it would shift the responsibility of the care of the sick from my shoulders to those of others. The subject was dropped, and will hardly be renewed. The jealousy existing in the military towards the medical department of the army astounds me. The military commanders claiming that the medical have no authority except through them, has driven the medical officers to assume the other extreme, and claim that they are the only officers in the army who are really independent of command. This quarrel is often bitter, and makes not only themselves uncomfortably captious, but subjects the sick and wounded to suffering whilst these settle their unnecessary quarrels.
