A Virginia Woman's Account of '65

[dawna]

Spring had come and we were becoming seriously alarmed for the safety of our cause. Rumors came to us every day of fresh victories on the other side and at last came the death-knell: “Lee has surrendered!”. We began to hear of Yankee invasions even in remote parts of Virginia, but in this, our last place of refuge, I felt secure and believed I had had my share of adventure in that direction. But it seemed otherwise decreed and one Sunday morning wild rumors were everywhere afloat that the Yankees had “crossed the river” and were actually coming.

We lived near a country store, post office, tobacco factory, etc. It being a public place a number of the neighborhood men had assembled to “hear the news”. Some of them were returned soldiers and confirmed the sad news of the surrender. While they were talking in groups and greatly excited over the late news, a lad living nearby rode up on a fine colt, which was scarcely bridle wise. The boy was dressed in his home spun “Sunday clothes” and had quite an air of importance and self reliance, and after making several remarks as to his bravery, and threatening dire vengeance on the approaching enemy, he challenged the party for an offer to go and meet the foe. No one threw down the gauntler, so turning to my husband he said, “Well, boss, I’m gwine by myself. I ain’t feared of no durned Yankees,” and off he started down the road. The store stood in an angle near by the road and the men all collected on the porch to watch this valiant youth.

In a short time he came in sight, whipping and kicking and yelling at every step: “The Yankees, the Yankees!” Close on his heels were five or six Federal cavalrymen in full pursuit and firing rapidly. Around the corner the boy dashed furiously, his eyes nearly out of their sockets and perspiration starting from every pore, the horsemen still pursuing. It was quite an exciting race of about half a mile, and the boy’s colt would have gotten the best of the race, but ran under the limb of a large tree and dragged the poor fellow to the ground, where he was quickly made prisoner. The colt made no stop, which was quite a disappointment to the Yankees, as that was the prize they wanted.

The boy was bound and I do not imagine there ever lived a more pitiable object of abject fear. Quite a number of those assembled at the store were taken prisoners, which seemed to give the poor boy some comfort, and of the number a young man who had just returned from the army with the title of captain. He was a handsome fellow of fine physique, and had picked up quite a military air. He dressed well and owned a beautiful spirited horse, which stood at the rack, fully caparisoned in his war rig. The gay young captain had not thought of being captured, but like the others who were so busy laughing over the chagrin of the vanquished hero of the race, he lost sight of himself, and the remaining part of the squad of cavalry just coming up, they were all made prisoners.

I was standing on the porch in front of our house, when I saw approaching two men, one with his arms pinioned behind him. They stepped upon the porch, when to my surprise I beheld the captain, crestfallen, shorn of his fine feathers. He had been robbed of his suit, from hat to boot, watch and all, and was dressed in an old castaway suit the Yankees had with them. He looked very forlorn, but I could not help smiling. I do not think he would have objected so much to the capture had he been left in his handsome uniform. He extended his hand as far as his fetters allowed, and said in the most doleful way: “I have come to say good-bye. They took my clothes and horse too.” I bade him good-bye cheerfully, and told him he would soon be back. The officer who was with him was very polite and gentlemanly, and I noticed a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he bowed himself out. I suppose they wanted a few fresh, horses and thought they would have a little fun scaring poor country folks in that out-of-the-world place. Some of them actually thought that the Yankees were different beings to ourselves. They were commonly called “Ankees.”

Soon after this our own men began to return and a fresh trouble assailed us. ‘Tis true we were in a remote section of country, but lived directly on the public road that led toward the Southern States, and hundreds of Southern soldiers took that route. The whole country was overrun by them. Every kind and condition of men was represented in that memorable home-going – some reckless and rude, coarse and repulsive; others sad and spiritless; all hungry and dirty, and many almost destitute of clothing. Poor, miserable creatures. How my heart ached for them. Each one had someone away off watching and waiting and hoping and praying to see again that face and hear that familiar voice. We made preparations every morning to feed the multitude as far as our means allowed, and often when the supply gave out I would wish the miraculous hand could but touch the loaves and magnify them into plenty. Often the poor, hungry men would refuse to enter the house, but ask to be allowed to lie on the grass and eat and rest, frequently falling asleep.

I cannot describe how harrowing and distressing it was to see all those men, hundreds of miles from home, and dependent on the charity of strangers for bread to keep them alive. The majority of those who stopped with us seemed truly grateful, and never left without expressing their thanks. Some of them would speak of wife and children and mother, and not unfrequently the rough hand, all seamed with scars, would brush away a tear, at the mention of a loved one. For two weeks or more these scenes of misery passed before us.

One day a party of ten or twelve fine looking men rode up and asked if they could get food for themselves and horses. They were well equipped and seemed to be well-bred gentlemen. We gave them the best we had and as they passed from the dining room one of them stopped suddenly in front of a portrait that hung in the hall. He stepped back, and with considerable agitation exclaimed: “Great God! That surely is my friend Major M., or am I dreaming?” My husband heard what he said and told him the portrait was that of Major M., who was his wife’s brother. I was called in and we had quite a long talk over the strange events that had brought him into contact with the family of his friend, who, poor fellow, had gone to rest amidst the roar of cannon, all unmindful of the disappointment that wrung our sad hearts.

We followed the young officer to his horse, and as I turned to go into the gate, I saw a man lying close to the fence. I went to him and asked him to come in and let me do something for him, for he was badly wounded about the head. He raised himself slowly and though he was ragged and barefooted I soon discovered he belonged to the better class. There is no mistaking a well-bred man, no matter in what garb. He followed slowly into the yard and sat down under a tree. We gave him such stimulants as we had, and after refreshing himself with the best we could give him, he seemed better, and told us who he was. He was from South Carolina and said that when he was wounded he had no hope of recovery, but determined to try and get home to see his mother and die near her and the old home.

I begged him to remain with us until he was better able to travel, but he refused firmly, though politely, and after I had dressed his wounded head and made him as comfortable as I could, not forgetting to fill his haversack, he bade us farewell and started on his long journey. The gratitude of the poor fellow was indeed touching and for days I thought of him and wondered if he got home to die. Can anything ever wipe out from memory the recollections of those days? No, nothing. They will cluster around the dying pillow.

[jenna]

What a fantastic account. I love reading things like this. It really gives you a feel for what they were going thru. Amazing.

[yankeewoman]

The story of the ACW is full of accounts such as this. It doesn't make war any grander; it should be making us more thoughtful as to what war is REALLY like.

Grant gave Lee quite reasonable terms. Those terms were accepted by both sides AND by the government in Washington. Sherman gave Joe Johnston even more reasonable terms, but was turned down by the government in Washington.

[william42]

Thanks for the post Dawna. Really brings home the despair that those people felt after 4 long years of fighting and hardship, when finding out General Lee had finally surrendered. They had much compassion and gratitude in their hearts, when they fed the tired and hungry boys heading home, even as they were short of food themselves. Great post..
Terry