to get work in Richmond; sometimes she succeeded, but could not supply
her wants. A kind woman had lent her a room and a part of a garden,
but it was outside of the corporation; and although it saved
house-rent, it debarred her from the relief of the associations formed
for supplying the city poor with meal, wood, etc. She had evidently
been in a situation little short of starvation. I asked her if she
could get bread enough for her children by her work? She said she
could sometimes, and when she could not, she "got turnip-tops from her
piece of a garden, which were now putting up smartly, and she boiled
them, with a little salt, and fed them on that."
"But do they satisfy their hunger?" said I.
"Well, it is something to go upon for awhile, but it does not stick by
us like as bread does, and then we gets hungry again, and I am afraid
to let the children eat them to go to sleep; and sometimes the woman
in the next room will bring the children her leavings, but she is
monstrous poor."
When I gave her meat for her children, taken from the bounty of our
Essex friends, tears of gratitude ran down her cheeks; she said they
"had not seen meat for so long." Poor thing, I promised her that her
case should be known, and that she should not suffer so again. A
soldier's widow shall not suffer from hunger in Richmond. It must not
be, and will not be when her case is known.
DESOLATIONS OF WAR
[Diary of a Refugee, page 283-284.]
When the war is over, where shall we find our old churches, where her
noble homesteads, scenes of domestic comfort and generous hospitality?
Either laid low by the firebrand, or desecrated and desolated. In the
march of the army, or in the rapid evolutions of raiding parties, woe
betide the houses which are found deserted. In many cases the men of
the family having gone to the war, the women and children dare not
stay; then the lawless are allowed to plunder. They seem to take the
greatest delight in breaking up the most elegant or the most humble
furniture, as the case may be; cut the portraits from the frames,
split pianos in pieces, ruin libraries in any way that suits their
fancy; break doors from their hinges, and locks from the doors; cut
the windows from the frames, and leave no pane of glass unbroken;
carry off house-linen and carpets; the contents of the store-rooms and
pantries, sugar, flour, vinegar, molasses, pickles, preserves, which
cannot be eaten or carried off, are poured together in one general
mass. The horses are of course taken from the stables; cattle and
stock of all kinds driven off or shot in the woods and fields.
Generally, indeed, I believe always, when the whole army is moving,
inhabited houses are protected. To raiders such as Hunter and Co. is
reserved the credit of committing such outrages in the presence of
ladies--of taking their watches from their belts, their rings from
their fingers, and their ear-rings from their ears; of searching their
bureaus and wardrobes, and filling pockets and haversacks in their
presence. Is it not, then, wonderful that soldiers whose families have
suffered such things could be restrained when in a hostile country? It
seems to me to show a marvellous degree of forbearance in the officers
themselves and of discipline in the troops.
DEATH OF A SOLDIER
[Diary of a Refugee, pages 311-313.]
An officer from the far South was brought in mortally wounded. He had
lost both legs in a fight below Petersburg. The poor fellow suffered
excessively; could not be still a moment; and was evidently near his
end. His brother, who was with him, exhibited the bitterest grief,
watching and waiting on him with silent tenderness and flowing tears.
Mr. ---- was glad to find that he was not unprepared to die. He had
been a professor of religion some years, and told him that he was
suffering too much to think on that or any other subject, but he
constantly tried to look to God for mercy. Mr. ---- then recognized
him, for the first time, as a patient who had been in the hospital
last spring, and whose admirable character had then much impressed
him. He was a gallant and brave officer, yet so kind and gentle to
those under his control that his men were deeply attached to him, and
the soldier who nursed him showed his love by his anxious care of his
beloved captain. After saying to him a few words about Christ and his
free salvation, offering up a fervent prayer in which he seemed to
join, and watching the sad scene for a short time, Mr. -
--- left him
for the night. The surgeons apprehended that he would die before
morning, and so it turned out; at the chaplain's early call there was
nothing in his room but the chilling signal of the empty
"hospital
bunk." He was buried that day, and we trust will be found among the
redeemed in the day of the Lord.
This, it was thought, would be the last of this good man; but in the
dead of night came hurriedly a single carriage to the gate of the
hospital. A lone woman, tall, straight, and dressed in deep mourning,
got out quickly, and moved rapidly up the steps into the large hall,
where, meeting the guard, she asked anxiously, "Where's Captain T.?"
Taken by surprise, the man answered hesitatingly,
"Captain T. is dead,
madam, and was buried to-day."
This terrible announcement was as a thunderbolt at the very feet of
the poor lady, who fell to the floor as one dead.
Starting up, oh, how
she made that immense building ring with her bitter lamentations. Worn
down with apprehension and weary with traveling over a thousand miles
by day and night, without stopping for a moment's rest, and wild with
grief, she could hear no voice of sympathy--she regarded not the
presence of one or many; she told the story of her married life as if
she were alone--how her husband was the best man that ever lived; how
everybody loved him; how kind he was to all; how devoted to herself;
how he loved his children, took care of, and did everything for them;
how, from her earliest years almost, she had loved him as herself; how
tender he was of her, watching over her in sickness, never seeming to
weary of it, never to be unwilling to make any sacrifice for her
comfort and happiness; how that, when the telegraph brought the
dreadful news that he was dangerously wounded, she never waited an
instant nor stopped a moment by the way, day nor night, and now--"I
drove as fast as the horses could come from the depot to this place,
and he is dead and buried. I never shall see his face again. What
shall I do? But where is he buried?"
They told her where.
"I must go there; he must be taken up; I must see him."
"But, madam, you can't see him; he has been buried some hours."
"But I must see him; I can't live without seeing him; I must hire some
one to go and take him up; can't you get some one to take him up? I'll
pay him well; just get some men to take him up. I must take him home;
he must go home with me. The last thing I said to his children was
that they must be good children, and I would bring their father home,
and they are waiting for him now. He must go, I can't go without him;
I can't meet his children without him;" and so, with her woman's
heart, she could not be turned aside--nothing could alter her
purpose.
The next day she had his body taken up and embalmed. She watched by it
until everything was ready, and then carried him back to his own house
and children, only to seek a grave for the dead father close by those
he loved, among kindred and friends in the fair sunny land he died to
defend.
MRS. HENRIETTA E. LEE'S LETTER TO GENERAL HUNTER ON THE
BURNING OF
HER HOUSE
[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 8, pages 215-216.]
The following burning protest against a cruel wrong deserves to be put
on record, as a part of the history of General David Hunter's
inglorious campaign in the Valley of Virginia, and we cheerfully
comply with the request of a distinguished friend to publish it. The
burning of this house and those of Col. A. R. Boteler and Andrew
Hunter, esq., in the lower valley, and of Governor Letcher's and the
Virginia Military Institute at Lexington give him a place in the
annals of infamy only equaled by the contempt felt for his military
achievements:
JEFFERSON COUNTY, _July 20, 1864_.
GENERAL HUNTER:
Yesterday your underling, Captain Martindale, of the First New York
Cavalry, executed your infamous order and burned my house. You have
had the satisfaction ere this of receiving from him the information
that your orders were fulfilled to the letter; the dwelling and every
out-building, seven in number, with their contents, being burned. I,
therefore, a helpless woman whom you have cruelly wronged, address
you, a Major-General of the United States army, and demand why this
was done? What was my offence? My husband was absent, an exile. He had
never been a politician or in any way engaged in the struggle now
going on, his age preventing. This fact your chief of staff, David
Strother, could have told you. The house was built by my father, a
Revolutionary soldier, who served the whole seven years for your
independence. There was I born; there the sacred dead repose. It was
my house and my home, and there has your niece (Miss Griffith), who
has tarried among us all this horrid war up to the present time, met
with all kindness and hospitality at my hands. Was it for this that
you turned me, my young daughter, and little son out upon the world
without a shelter? Or was it because my husband is the grandson of the
Revolutionary patriot and "rebel," Richard Henry Lee, and the near
kinsman of the noblest of Christian warriors, the greatest of
generals, Robert E. Lee? Heaven's blessing be upon his head forever.
You and your Government have failed to conquer, subdue, or match him;
and disappointment, rage, and malice find vent on the helpless and
inoffensive.
Hyena-like, you have torn my heart to pieces! for all hallowed
memories clustered around that homestead, and demon-like, you have
done it without even the pretext of revenge, for I never saw or harmed
you. Your office is not to lead, like a brave man and soldier, your
men to fight in the ranks of war, but your work has been to separate
yourself from all danger, and with your incendiary band steal unaware
upon helpless women and children, to insult and destroy.
Two fair
homes did you yesterday ruthlessly lay in ashes, giving not a moment's
warning to the startled inmates of your wicked purpose; turning
mothers and children out of doors, you are execrated by your own men
for the cruel work you give them to do.
In the case of Colonel A. R. Boteler, both father and mother were far
away. Any heart but that of Captain Martindale (and yours) would have
been touched by that little circle, comprising a widowed daughter just
risen from her bed of illness, her three fatherless babies--the oldest
not five years old--and her heroic sister. I repeat, any man would
have been touched at that sight but Captain Martindale.
One might as
well hope to find mercy and feeling in the heart of a wolf bent on his
prey of young lambs, as to search for such qualities in his bosom. You
have chosen well your agent for such deeds, and doubtless will promote
him.
A colonel of the Federal army has stated that you deprived forty of
your officers of their commands because they refused to carry on your
malignant mischief. All honor to their names for this, at least! They
are men; they have human hearts and blush for such a commander!
I ask who that does not wish infamy and disgrace attached to him
forever would serve under you? Your name will stand on history's page
as the Hunter of weak women, and innocent children, the Hunter to
destroy defenceless villages and refined and beautiful homes--to
torture afresh the agonized hearts of widows; the Hunter of Africa's
poor sons and daughters, to lure them on to ruin and death of soul and
body; the Hunter with the relentless heart of a wild beast, the face
of a fiend and the form of a man. Oh, Earth, behold the monster! Can I
say, "God forgive you?" No prayer can be offered for you. Were it
possible for human lips to raise your name heavenward, angels would
thrust the foul thing back again, and demons claim their own. The
curses of thousands, the scorns of the manly and upright, and the
hatred of the true and honorable, will follow you and yours through
all time, and brand your name infamy! infamy!
Again, I demand why you have burned my home? Answer as you must answer
before the Searcher of all hearts, why have you added this cruel,
wicked deed to your many crimes?
SHERMAN'S BUMMERS
[E. J. Hale, Jr.]
FAYETTEVILLE, N. C., _July 31st, 1865_.
MY DEAR GENERAL:
It would be impossible to give you an adequate idea of the destruction
of property in this good old town. It may not be an average instance,
but it is one, the force of whose truth we feel only too fully. My
father's property, before the war, was easily convertible into about
$85,000 to $100,000 in specie. He has not now a particle of property
which will bring him a dollar of income. His office, with everything
in it, was burned by Sherman's order. Slocum, who executed the order,
with a number of other generals, sat on the veranda of a hotel
opposite watching the progress of the flames, while they hobnobbed
over wines stolen from our cellar. A fine brick building adjacent,
also belonging to my father, was burned at the same time. The cotton
factory, of which he was a large shareholder, was burned, while his
bank, railroad, and other stocks are worse than worthless, for the
bank stock, at least, may bring him in debt, as the stockholders are
responsible. In fact, he has nothing left, besides the ruins of his
town buildings and a few town lots which promise to be of little value
hereafter, in this desolated town, and are of no value at present,
save his residence, which (with brother's house) Sherman made a great
parade of saving from a mob (composed of corps and division
commanders, a nephew of Henry Ward Beecher, and so on down,) by
sending to each house an officer of his staff, after my brother's had
been pillaged and my father's to some extent. By some accidental good
fortune, however, my mother secured a guard before the
"bummers" had
made much progress in the house, and to this circumstance we are
indebted for our daily food, several months' supply of which my father
had hid the night before he left, in the upper rooms of the house, and
the greater part of which was saved.
You have, doubtless, heard of Sherman's "bummers." The Yankees would
have you believe that they were only the straggling pillagers usually
found with all armies. Several letters written by officers of
Sherman's army, intercepted near this town, give this the lie. In some
of these letters were descriptions of the whole burning process, and
from them it appears that it was a regularly organized system, under
the authority of General Sherman himself; that one-fifth of the
proceeds fell to General Sherman, another fifth to the other general
officers, another fifth to the line officers, and the remaining
two-fifths to the enlisted men. There were pure silver bummers,
plated-ware bummers, jewelry bummers, women's clothing bummers,
provision bummers, and, in fine, a bummer or bummers for every kind of
stealable thing. No bummer of one specialty interfering with the
stealables of another. A pretty picture of a conquering army, indeed,
but true.
REMINISCENCES OF THE WAR TIMES--A LETTER
[B. Winston, in Confederate Scrap-Book.]
SIGNAL HILL, _February 27th_.
MY DEAR ----:
Your very kind letter received. I delayed perhaps too long replying. I
have hunted up a few little things. We are so unfortunate as to have
nearly all our war relics burnt in an outhouse, so I have little left
unless I took what I remember. We were left so bare of everything at
that time. Our only pokers and tongs were pokers and ramrods; old
canteens came into domestic service; we made our shoes of parts of old
canvas tents, and blackened them with elderberry juice (the only ink
we could command was elderberry juice); we plaited our hats of straw
(I have a straw-splinter now, for which I gave $13; it did good
service); the inside corn-shuck made dainty bonnets; sycamore balls,
saturated with grease, made excellent tapers, though nothing
superseded the time-honored lightwood knots.
The Confederate army was camped around us for months together. We
often had brilliant assemblages of officers. On one occasion, when all
went merry as a marriage-bell, and uniformed officers and lovely girls
wound in and out in the dance, a sudden stillness fell--
few words,
sudden departures. The enemy were in full force, trying to effect a
crossing at a strategic point. We were left at daybreak in the Federal
camp, a sharp engagement around us--the beginning of the seven days'
fight around Richmond. It was a bright, warm day in May.
An unusual
stillness brooded over everything. A few officers came and went,
looking grave and important. In a short time, from a dense body of
pines near us, curled the blue smoke, and volley after volley of
musketry succeeded in sharp succession, the sharp, shrill scream of
flying shells falling in the soft green of the growing wheat. Not
long, and each opposing army emerged from ambush and stood in the
battle's awful array. Our own forces (mostly North Carolinians) fell
back into a railroad cut. The tide of battle swept past us, but the
day was lost to us. At evening they brought our dead and wounded and
made a hospital of our house. Then came the amputating surgeon to
finish what the bullet had failed to do. Arms and legs lay in a
promiscuous heap on our back piazza.
On another occasion I saw a sudden surprise in front of our house. A
regiment of soldiers, under General Rosser's command, were camped
around us. It was high, blazing noon. The soldiers, suspecting
nothing, were in undress, lying down under every available shadow,
when a sudden volley and shout made every man spring to his feet. The
enemy were all around them, and panic was amongst our men; they were
running, but as they rose a little knoll every man turned, formed, and
fired. I saw some poor fellows fall.
AUNT MYRA AND THE HOE-CAKE
[In Our Women in the War, pages 419-420.]
Another instance was that of an old lady. Small and fragile-looking,
with soft and gentle manners, it seemed as if a whiff of wind might
have blown her away, and she was not one who was likely to tempt the
torrent of a ruffian's wrath. But how often can we judge of
appearances, for in that tiny body was a spirit as strong and fearless
as the bravest in the land. The war had been a bitter reality to her.
One son had been brought home shattered by a shell, and for long
months she had seen him in the agony which no human tongue can
describe; while another, in the freshness of his young manhood, had
been numbered with the slain. She was a widow, and having the care of
two orphan grandchildren upon her, was experiencing the same
difficulty in obtaining food that we were. One morning she had made
repeated efforts to get something cooked, but failed as often as she
tried, for just as soon as it was ready to be eaten in walked a
Federal soldier and marched off with it, expostulations or entreaties
availing naught. Finally, after some difficulty, a little corn meal
was found which was mixed with a hoe-cake and set in the oven to bake.
Determined not to lose this, Aunt Myra, the lady in question, took
her seat before the fire and vowed she would not leave the spot until
the bread was safe in her own hands. Scarcely had she done so when, as
usual, a soldier made his appearance, and, seeing the contents of the
oven, took his seat on the opposite side and coolly waited its baking.
I have since thought what a picture for a painter that would
make--upon one side the old lady with the proud, high-born face of a
true Southern gentlewoman, but, alas! stamped with the seal of care
and sorrow; and upon the other, the man, strong in his assumed power,
both intent upon that one point of interest, a baking hoe-cake. When
it had reached the desired shade of browning, Aunt Myra leaned forward
to take possession, but ere she could do so that other hand was before
her and she saw it taken from her. Rising to her feet and drawing her
small figure to its fullest height, the old lady's pent up feelings
burst forth, and she gave expression to the indignation which "this
last act caused to overflow."
"You thieving scoundrel!" she cried in her gathering wrath. "You would
take the very last crust from the orphans' mouths and doom them to
starvation before your very eyes."
Then, before the astonished man could recover himself, with a quick
movement she had snatched the bread back again. Scarcely had she got
possession, however, when a revulsion of feeling took place, and,
breaking it in two, tossed them at him in the scorn which filled her
soul as she said: "But if your heart is hard enough to take it, then
you may have it."
She threw them with such force that one of the hot pieces struck him
in the face, the other immediately following. Strange to say, he did
not resent her treatment of him; but it was too much for Aunt Myra's
excited feelings when he picked up the bread, and commenced munching
upon it in the most unconcerned manner possible. Again snatching it
from him, she flung it far out of the window, where it lay rolling in
dirt, crying as she did so: "Indeed, you shan't eat it; if I can't
have it, then you shan't."
"THE CORN WOMAN"
[Our Women in the War, page 276.]
"The corn woman" was a feature of the times. The men in the counties
north of us were mostly farmers, owning small farms which they worked
with the assistance of the family. Few owned slaves, and they planted
garden crops chiefly. The men were now in the army, and good soldiers
many of them made. During the last two years, for various reasons,
many of the wives of these soldiers failed in making a crop, and were
sent with papers from the probate judges to the counties south to get
corn. No doubt these were really needy, and they were supplied
abundantly, and then, thinking it an easy way to make a living, others