June 19.–Our cousin, Ann Eliza Field, was married to-day to George B. Bates at her home on Gibson Street. We went and had an elegant time. Charlie Wheeler made great fun and threw the final shower of rice as they drove away.

June 19th.

Miriam and I have disgraced ourselves! This morning I was quietly hearing Dellie’s lessons, when I was startled by mother’s shrieks of “Send for a guard – they’ve murdered him!” I saw through the window a soldier sitting in the road just opposite, with blood streaming from his hand in a great pool in the dust. I was downstairs in three bounds, and, snatching up some water, ran to where he sat alone, not a creature near, though all the inhabitants of our side of the street were looking on from the balconies, all crying “Murder!” and “Help!” without moving themselves. I poured some water on the man’s bloody hand, as he held it streaming with gore up to me, saying, “The man in there did it,” meaning the one who keeps the little grog-shop, though it puzzled me at the time to see that all the doors were closed and not a face visible. I had hardly time to speak when Tiche called loudly to me to come away, –she was safe at the front gate, – and looking up, I found myself in a knot of a dozen soldiers, and took her advice and retreated home. It proved to be the guard Miriam had roused. She ran out as I did, and seeing a gentleman, begged him to call the guard for that murdered man. The individual – he must have been a “patriot” – said he didn’t know where to find one. She cried out they were at Heroman’s; he said he did n’t believe they were. “Go! I tell you!” she screamed at last; but the brave man said he did n’t like to, so she ran to the corner and called the soldiers herself. O most brave man! Before we got back from our several expeditions, we heard mother, Lilly, Mrs. Day, all shouting, “Bring in the children! lock the doors!” etc. All for a poor wounded soldier! [continue reading…]

JUNE 19th.—To-day so many applications were made to the Secretary himself for passports to the armies, and beyond the lines of the Confederate States, that, forgetting the revocation of his former order, he sent a note into the Assistant Secretary, saying he thought a passport agent had been appointed to attend to such cases; and he now directed that it be done. Bledsoe came to me immediately, and said: “Jones, you’ll have to open a passport office again—I shall sign no more.”

Thursday, 19th–Drill is now all dispensed with on account of the hot weather. But the men are kept busy at fatigue and picket duty.

19th. Thursday. Went to the Commissary as usual at 9 A. M. Archie got thrown from his horse. Wrote to Fannie. Went bathing with Nettleton and Brownell. Talked Minnie and Professor. Two letters. Home and Fannie.

Thursday, 19th.—Came orders for regimental baggage to be sent to Loudon. Not being able to go, was sent to hospital on College Hill.

(Note: picture is of an unidentified Confederate soldier.)

The following material contains wording that is offensive to many in the world of today. However, the work is provided unedited for its historical content and context.

Rienzi, Tishomingo Co., Miss., June 19, 1862.

This is one of the few days that remind one of Illinois, although there are very few nights that might not remind a Greenlander of his home. I think there has not been a night yet that I have not slept under three blankets, and there have been many nights that I would have used a dozen if I had had them. The natives say that ’tis the Gulf breeze that makes the air so cool after about 7 or 8 p.m. I wish that it would get along about eight hours earlier daily; but to-day there are clouds kiting about so o’erhead that the sun don’t amount to much only for light, and ’tis cool enough to make underclothing comfortable. The colonel, A. D. C. and myself visited the camp of the 7th Illinois yesterday at Jacinto. We found them surrounded with a brush parapet, felled trees, etc., ready as they said for a twelve-hour’s fight. They’d been visited by a scare. There is no enemy within 15 miles of them and hasn’t been. They are camped in the suburbs of a beautiful little town that fell in among the hills in a very tasty manner (for a Mississippi town). In one little valley near a fine residence there are three springs bubbling up in line and within a foot of each other, which are so independent that each furnishes a different kind of water. The first pure, cold, soft water without taste, another chalybeate, and the third, strong sulphur. The waters of the three fall into one little basin and run thence into a bathhouse twenty steps distant. There is a neat vine covered arbor over the springs with seats arranged within, and altogether ’tis a neat little place—good to water Yankee horses at. There were several gangs of negroes at work in the corn and [continue reading…]

JUNE 18th.—Lee is quietly preparing to attack McClellan. The President, who was on the battle-field, is very cheerful.

June 18th.

How long, O how long, is it since I have lain down in peace, thinking, “This night I will rest in safety”? Certainly not since the fall of Fort Jackson. If left to myself, I would not anticipate evil, but would quietly await the issue of all these dreadful events; but when I hear men, who certainly should know better than I, express their belief that in twenty-four hours the town will be laid in ashes, I begin to grow uneasy, and think it must be so, since they say it. These last few days, since the news arrived of the intervention of the English and French, I have alternately risen and fallen from the depth of despair to the height of delight and expectation, as the probability of another exodus diminishes, and peace appears more probable. If these men would not prophesy the burning of the city, I would be perfectly satisfied. . . .

Well! I packed up a few articles to satisfy my conscience, since these men insist that another run is inevitable, though against my own conviction. I am afraid I was partly influenced by my dream last night of being shelled out unexpectedly and flying without saving an article. It was the same dream I had a night or two before we fled so ingloriously from Baton Rouge, when I dreamed of meeting Will Pinckney suddenly, who greeted me in the most extraordinarily affectionate manner, and told me that Vicksburg had fallen. He said he had been chiefly to blame, and the Southerners were so incensed at his losing, the Northerners at his defending, that both were determined to hang him; he was running for his life. He took me to a hill from which I could see the Garrison, and the American flag flying over it. I looked, and saw we were standing in blood up to our knees, while here and there ghastly white bones shone above the red surface. Just then, below me I saw crowds of people running. “What is it?” I asked. “It means that in another instant they will commence to shell the town. Save yourself.” “But Will – I must save some clothes, too! How can I go among strangers with a single dress? I will get some!” I cried. He smiled and said, “You will run with only what articles you happen to have on.” Bang! went the first shell, the people rushed by with screams, and I awakened to tell Miriam what an absurd dream I had had. It happened as Will had said, either that same day or the day after; for the change of clothes we saved apiece were given to Tiche, who lost sight of us and quietly came home when all was over, and the two dirty skirts and old cloak mother saved, after carrying them a mile and a half, I put in the buggy that took her up; so I saved nothing except the bag that was tied under my hoops. Will was right. I saved not even my powder-bag. (Tiche had it in the bundle.) My handkerchief I gave mother before we had walked three squares, and throughout that long fearfully warm day, riding and walking through the fiery sunshine and stifling dust, I had neither to cool or comfort me.

Wednesday, 18th–It is very hot, but the troops are in fine spirits. Some of the boys who were wounded at Shiloh, together with those who went home on furloughs on account of sickness, are now returning to their commands.

18th. Wednesday. Grazed my horse. Did little more. Read some. Paymaster came from Leavenworth.

Jane Eliza Newton Woolsey to her son Charles.

New York, June, ’62.

My dear Charley: Here are lots of scraps for you. Our basket is just going off to the steamer. I hope you will enjoy the gingerbread. We are all anxiety for further accounts since the battles of the last few days. The paper this morning states two deaths on the Knickerbocker of poor wounded men. What trying scenes again for you! I agree with you in all you say of Georgy’s health, but know that persuasion is useless. You ask about coming home. We do not need your aid in getting out of town, however pleasant it would be to have you. There is no prospect of our going at present; we have no place in view at all. . . . Have the rebels cut the telegraph lines, that we get no news from the army? Where are you all to rendezvous now that the White House is given up? Some of the movements seem so mysterious to us–such as this, and the falling back of McClellan’s army to Savage’s Station, and some other strange doings. I hope it will all come out right. Do take care of yourself and the girls. I am so much better satisfied to have you where you are, than with the 22nd. Your Cousins William and Anna have been on to Baltimore to see Lloyd; they are greatly distressed at the idea of his being sworn in, even for three months! . . .

Farewell dear boy. Mother’s love and blessing to you.

June 17th.

Yesterday, and day before, boats were constantly arriving and troops embarking from here, destined for Vicksburg. There will be another fight, and of course it will fall. I wish Will was out of it; I don’t want him to die. I got the kindest, sweetest letter from Will when Miriam came from Greenwell. It was given to her by a guerrilla on the road who asked if she was not Miss Sarah Morgan.

Tuesday, 17th–It is very hot. Nothing of importance.

17th. Wrote to Brockway. Part of the Missouri expedition returned with a load of bacon. Tired horses and men. Issued some.

JUNE 17th.—It is not yet ascertained what amount of ordnance stores we gained from the battle.

Abby Howland Woolsey to her brother.

8 Brevoort Place, June 17th.

My dear Charley: We had just been reading in the Times about the scare at White House when Georgy’s letter arrived. We have read it aloud over the breakfast table, and are now going to enclose it to Mary and Carry at Astoria, that they, too, may have the private version of the affair. It was a bold and very clever dash of the rebels; just what might have been expected, however. They are up to all sorts of thievish, daring things. . . . It would not have been out of place for you all to have been much more frightened than you profess to have been. Georgy’s letter, in fact, we presume, was prepared for home consumption. She always tries to “draw it mild” for our benefit ; is always having a lazy, lovely good time, perfectly well, and in the best of spirits, and as to the scenes of suffering about her, not caring a bit ; has to pinch herself, I dare say, to see that she isn’t stone–thinks she “hasn’t any heart,” etc., etc. Tell her, of course she hasn’t, or won’t have soon–it’s ossifying, that, or something kindred, is what all surgeons die of–suppressed emotion. Tell her we insist on her coming home for a few weeks; now that you are with Eliza, she has not that excuse for staying.–Eliza, of course, we cannot induce to leave, it would be useless to try. Tell Georgy her known imprudence in overdoing herself, her known obstinacy about precautionary and remedial measures, impel me to insist on her taking a northern trip and a little rest just now. . . . Mrs. Gibbons goes back to her Winchester hospital next Monday. I am going up to see her, hear some of her tales and offer what supplies we have on hand. She and her party were obliged to fly for their lives when the rebels drove Banks out, lost on the way their three trunks, containing all their clothing, and Mrs. G. was without a bonnet. They have been very busy sewing up a new outfit, and I hope won’t be interfered with again, though Jackson threatens another raid up the valley with 70,000 men as soon as the harvests are ripe. . . . I have saved our only piece of news till the last–the engagement of Pussy Wheeler; make Georgy guess who to. . . . It is Dr. Ceccarini, the Italian oculist, an accomplished man and skillful surgeon. . . . Mother says, “Tell Charley how glad I am always to get his letters, and tell him that when he cautions Georgy on the subject of health, to be sure to be prudent himself.” You are in a most useful and important place, and we would all rather have you there than in any part of our army.

Rienzi, Tishomingo Co., Miss., June 16, 1862.

We are camped here enjoying ourselves grandly. As our brigade is scattered over a line of 50 miles we just pitch our headquarters in the quietest spot we can find independent of the command. There are only two companies now out of the 24 within 8 miles of us, and all we have to do with any of them is to send them orders and receive their communications and forward them. In the heat of the day we read and lounge in our tents, and mornings we go to the creek and bathe and then ride a dozen or so miles to keep our horses exercised. I have a clerk, too, for my copying, etc., so I’m a gentleman. Evenings I visit generally some of the half dozen families within a half mile of us of whom I borrow books and in return furnish them with occasional papers. We have splendid water and my health is perfect. This is the healthiest part of the South.

Monday, 16th–It came my turn for the first time to go on fatigue. Our men are throwing up a line of breastworks and building some very strong forts. I worked all day at one of the big forts built for the siege guns. The fort is fifteen feet high, with a ditch in front fifteen feet wide and ten feet deep. At the top within each fort the guns will be mounted on a dirt platform about ten feet high so as to afford a good view in front. When the works are completed on this grand scale it will require one million men to defend them.^[1]

[1] These works were never completed, the commanding general having called off the work. It was a good thing that it was discontinued, for the heavy work during the hot weather would have greatly injured the men.–A. G. D

16th. Monday. Issued rations to several companies. Stayed at the Commissary most of the day.

Monday, 16th.—Got to Knoxville at 4 A. M.; went one mile to camp. Regiment ordered to Loudon. Being sick, I was left at camp. J. M. Badgett and W. T. Swanson were also left, and waited on me very well.

(Note: picture is of an unidentified Confederate soldier.)

Hot Weather.

June 16. It is so hot most of the time we are scarcely able to do anything more than keep ourselves as comfortable as possible. All duty is suspended except guard duty and dress parade, and we are getting almost too lazy to eat; in fact do miss a good many meals unless they happen to have something we like. We lie around in our tents or in the shade of the trees from 9 o’clock in the morning till 4 in the afternoon, brushing away the flies, and trying to keep cool. I thought I had seen some flies at home but they are no comparison to what we have here. I really believe there are more flies in this camp than there are in the whole state of Massachusetts. Besides they are regular secesh ones, and by the way they bite, one would think he was among a nest of hornets. I am often reminded of the old minstrel song:

“If you perchance in summer time

Should visit Carolina’s sultry clime,

And in the shade should chance to lie

You’d soon find out the blue tail fly.”
.

We were visited last evening by a thunder storm which makes it quite comfortable today. For several days past the weather has been very hot, the thermometer ranging about 100 degrees in the shade. Just before sunset last evening the clouds began to gather and we soon heard the low mutterings of thunder. [continue reading…]

BOOK II
“I hope to die shouting, the Lord will provide!”

Monday, June 16th, 1862.

There is no use in trying to break off journalizing, particularly in “these trying times.” It has become a necessity to me. I believe I should go off in a rapid decline if Butler took it in his head to prohibit that among other things. . . . I reserve to myself the privilege of writing my opinions, since I trouble no one with the expression of them. . . . I insist, that if the valor and chivalry of our men cannot save our country, I would rather have it conquered by a brave race than owe its liberty to the Billingsgate oratory and demonstrations of some of these “ladies.” If the women have the upper hand then, as they have now, I would not like to live in a country governed by such tongues. Do I consider the female who could spit in a gentleman’s face, merely because he wore United States buttons, as a fit associate for me? Lieutenant Biddle assured me he did not pass a street in New Orleans without being most grossly insulted by ladies. It was a friend of his into whose face a lady spit as he walked quietly by without looking at her. (Wonder if she did it to attract his attention?) He had the sense to apply to her husband and give him two minutes to apologize or die, and of course he chose the former.[1] Such things are enough to disgust any one. “Loud” women, what a contempt I have for you! How I despise your vulgarity!

Some of these Ultra-Secessionists, evidently very recently from “down East,” who think themselves obliged to “kick up their heels over the Bonny Blue Flag,” as Brother describes female patriotism, shriek out, “What! see those vile Northerners pass patiently! No true Southerner could see it without rage. I could kill them! I hate them with all my soul, the murderers, liars, thieves, rascals! You are no Southerner if you do not hate them as much as I!” Ah ça! a true-blue Yankee tell me that I, born and bred here, am no Southerner! I always think, “It is well for you, my friend, to save your credit, else you might be suspected by some people, though your violence is enough for me.” I always say, “You may do as you please; my brothers are fighting for me, and doing their duty, so that excess of patriotism is unnecessary for me, as my position is too well known to make any demonstrations requisite.” [continue reading…]

June 16th, Monday.

My poor old diary comes to a very abrupt end, to my great distress. The hardest thing in the world is to break off journalizing when you are once accustomed to it, and mine has proved such a resource to me in these dark days of trouble that I feel as though I were saying good-bye to an old and tried friend. Thanks to my liberal supply of pens, ink, and paper, how many inexpressibly dreary days I have filled up to my own satisfaction, if not to that of others! How many disagreeable affairs it has caused me to pass over without another thought, how many times it has proved a relief to me where my tongue was forced to remain quiet! Without the blessed materials, I would have fallen victim to despair and “the Blues” long since; but they have kept my eyes fixed on “ Better days a-coming “ while slightly alluding to present woes; kept me from making a fool of myself many a day; acted as lightning rod to my mental thunder, and have made me happy generally. For all of which I cry, “Vivent pen, ink, and paper!” and add with regret, “Adieu, my mental Conductor. I fear this unchained lightning will strike somewhere, in your absence!”