“I long to be a man; but as I can’t fight, I will content myself with working for those who can,” the New England spinster wrote in her diary in April 1861.
On her birthday in November 1862, she decided to go to Washington as a nurse. She loved nursing, wanted an outlet for her energy, dreaded the boredom of winter, and hoped not to burden her family with her upkeep.
And she wanted new experiences.
She had been at Georgetown Hospital only three days when cartloads of men wounded at the Battle of Fredericksburg began to arrive. She wished for a moment that she was safe at home again, with a quiet day ahead. From behind a pile of clothing, bandages, and supplies, she watched orderlies carry stretchers of wounded men into her ward, the former ballroom of a hotel. She realized then that her homesickness and distaste for the vile odor of the wounded men must wait: she was “there to work, not to wonder or weep.”
Another nurse handed her a basin, a sponge, towels, and a block of brown soap. “Come, my dear,” she said. “Begin to wash as fast as you can. Tell them to take off socks, coats, and shirts, scrub them well, put on clean shirts.” The order shocked the modest thirty-year-old. But there was no time for nonsense.
Her first patient was an older Irishman with a head wound. He was horrified that a lady would deign to wash him, and he rolled up his eyes and blessed her in an effusive style that made them both laugh. When she knelt to remove his shoes, he refused to let her touch his “dirty craters.”
“May your bed above be aisy darlin’, for the day’s work ye ar doon!—Whoosh! there ye are, and bedad, it’s hard tellin’ which is the dirtiest, the fut or the shoe.”
This made everyone laugh. The nurse thought that if the soldier had said nothing she might have continued pulling on his foot, mistaking it for his boot. Amused and reassured, Louisa May Alcott—Army contract nurse—went to work with a will.
Not all women contented themselves with support roles. Sanitary Commission worker and memoirist Mary Livermore wrote in 1888 that nearly four hundred women fought on both sides of the Civil War disguised as men. She estimated that there were many more. Historians Deanne Blanton and Lauren Cook Wise documented the existence of almost two hundred and fifty such “distaff soldiers.” They believe that more fought disguised as men but were never discovered.
Women took advantage of lax Army physicals; doctors often checked only for a trigger finger and enough teeth to tear open a cartridge. Both the field environment and social expectations helped women maintain their disguises. Working-class and frontier women were used to manual labor; many knew how to fire a weapon. Underage male enlistees had higher voices and lacked facial hair. Loose clothing hid feminine curves, and few men knew how women looked in pants. Healthy women easily carried an infantryman’s equipment: rifles weighed ten or fifteen pounds, and soldiers on march carried about thirty pounds of gear. Soldiers slept in their clothes and used nearby woods or bushes as latrines. Some women adopted “masculine vices”: they drank, swore, smoked and chewed tobacco, gambled, fought, and even courted civilian women to enhance their disguise.
According to Blanton and Wise, “distaff soldiers” served in every rank from private to major, and in infantry, artillery, and cavalry units. They worked as guards, scouts, clerks, dragoons, teamsters, musicians, provost marshals, orderlies, nurses, couriers, and spies. The youngest discovered was a girl of twelve.
Women fought and died at Manassas, Antietam, Shiloh, and Gettysburg; in the sieges of Vicksburg and Richmond; on the Peninsula, Shenandoah, and Red River campaigns; at many minor battles; and at Appomattox. They were promoted more frequently than their male counterparts—possibly because misbehavior attracted attention and threatened their disguises. The Army court-martialed no women for dereliction of duty, military crimes, or disgracing the uniform. Only three are known to have deserted; two of them later reenlisted. Two changed sides from the Confederacy to the Union.
About 15 percent were wounded, often multiple times. They sustained gunshot wounds in the head, neck, and torso; saber cuts; and arm and leg wounds resulting in amputation. More than 10 percent died of wounds sustained in battle or diseases endemic in crowded, unsanitary camp conditions. Soldiers discovered some distaff soldiers’ sex only after their deaths; others, like Rosetta Wakeman, remained undiscovered and were buried as men.
Six served while pregnant. A Union soldier fought at Antietam in her second trimester and at Fredericksburg in her third; two Confederate soldiers gave birth while prisoners of war. All kept their pregnancies secret until they gave birth.
Only one distaff soldier reported a sexual assault. The intended rape victim, a Union soldier, shot her assailant in the face.
Some women who were taken prisoner were released when their sex was discovered. Both armies incarcerated others as prisoners of war. Austere and unsanitary conditions at all prisons had serious health consequences for men and women alike, discipline was harsh, and guards treated prisoners brutally. The death rate during incarceration was high.
The disguises of three-quarters of the women whose service Blanton and Wise documented were revealed when they became casualties or were taken prisoner, or in rare cases when feminine gestures or behaviors gave them away. A few disclosed their sex to obtain a discharge. The Army usually discharged women caught serving as men—often honorably. Approximately 10 percent of those discovered completed their enlistment as men; almost twice that many eventually served openly as women. Some women reenlisted in other units. Others remained with the Army as nurses, laundresses, or spies.
Women spied for both sides, in uniform and as civilians. Attitudes about women often kept them above suspicion, but the work was dangerous: both armies imprisoned, shot, or hanged captured spies.
After the Wars of Independence, the Army Medical Corps used men as nurses. Aside from a handful of corpsmen and orderlies, most soldiers assigned to nursing duty had proven themselves incompetent soldiers on the battlefield. Predictably, this policy drained manpower from the fight, and invalid soldiers received poor care. In August of 1861, Congress authorized the Union Army to contract women as untrained civilian nurses.
Over the course of the war some 3,200 women nurses, contracted to the Army under the leadership of mental health advocate Dorothea Dix, worked long hours and exposed themselves to deadly contagious diseases. Others volunteered with the U.S. Sanitary Commission, Western Sanitary Commission, and U.S. Christian Commission—forerunners of the American Red Cross. Catholic, Lutheran, and Episcopalian nuns trained in nursing skills also volunteered. The Confederate army did not organize or train a corps of nurses, but relied instead on volunteers.
African American women served as soldiers, spies, and nurses, though their stories were rarely recorded. Some disguised themselves as men to fight. Others filled support roles in racially segregated units. The Union Army conscripted freedwomen as “contraband” cooks and laundresses. African American women volunteered in nursing and relief organizations.
Union spy Elizabeth Van Lew convinced Confederate First Lady Varina Davis to accept the service of Mary Elizabeth Bowser, a former slave freed by the family. Bowser, educated in a Philadelphia school, read Confederate president Jefferson Davis’s correspondence when she cleaned his study and eavesdropped on his conversations with Confederate leaders. She reported the information to Ulysses S. Grant through Van Lew’s espionage network. Because of racial prejudice and assumptions about the literacy and intelligence of African Americans, Davis did not suspect her of being the leak until late in the war. In 1865 she fled. After the war, the War Department destroyed records of her work; in 1952 her family discarded her diary, unaware of its significance.
Civil War soldiers, most of whom were literate, left a rich heritage of diaries, uncensored letters, and memoirs. Women left far fewer written records of their wartime experiences. Those who enlisted, like the men they served alongside, often came from working-class or immigrant families who placed less value on women’s education. Researchers have discovered the letters of only three women who served as men, and only two published memoirs. (Men documented the existence of hundreds of others.) Some letters, diaries, and memoirs of contract and volunteer nurses have survived.
Sarah Emma Edmonds’s memoir of her service as Pvt. Frank Thompson immediately became a bestseller upon its publication in 1864. After being twice reissued, it sold 175,000 copies. Actress Pauline Cushman published a memoir of her espionage activities in 1875. Loreta Janeta Velazquez published her controversial memoir of service as a Confederate soldier a year later. The wide audience for these stories led to publication of fictional accounts: women in uniform appeared in short stories on the pages of magazines like Harper’s and in a slew of novels published during and just after the war—most seemingly aimed at a literate but lower-class audience, and all conforming to socially acceptable images of women warriors.
After the war Louisa May Alcott wrote commercially successful fiction. Dr. Mary Edwards Walker wrote progressive essays and two books on women’s issues and dress reform. Contract and volunteer nurses continued in the profession as civilians and contributed to a revolution of the nursing profession. Sarah Emma Edmonds and Harriet Tubman engaged in relief work for soldiers and freedmen. A few, like Albert Cashier (Jenny Hodgers), continued to live as men. Some, widowed by the war or married to fellow soldiers, lived in poverty or in poor health from diseases contracted during the war. Few women attempted to claim a pension or other benefits; many contract nurses probably did not realize that they were eligible.
Newspapers continued to publish stories about women who served as men, spied, or nursed. Male veterans passed down their stories, assisted some of the impoverished or supported their pension applications, and even buried others with full military honors. But public interest waned with the onset of World War I and the passing of the generation that fought in the Civil War. Historians of the early twentieth century, mostly white men, discounted or dismissed the stories of women who served in the Civil War.
The women who served in the Civil War exceeded the expectations of Victorian society and left a legacy of dedication, courage, patriotism, and sacrifice. Louisa May Alcott wrote, “The height of my ambition was to go to the front after a battle.” Mary Edwards Walker believed that women had the ability to fight. And Sarah Edmonds spoke for many: “I could only thank God that I was free and could go forward and work, and I was not obliged to stay at home and weep.”
I took the cars the next day and went to Lebanon—dressed in one of the rebel prisoner’s clothes—and thus disguised, made another trip to rebeldom. My business purported to be buying up butter and eggs, at the farmhouses, for the rebel army. I passed through the lines somewhere, without knowing it; for on coming to a little village toward evening, I found it occupied by a strong force of rebel cavalry. The first house I went to was filled with officers and citizens. I had stumbled upon a wedding party, unawares. Captain Logan, a recruiting officer, had been married that afternoon to a brilliant young widow whose husband had been killed in the rebel army a few months before. She had discovered that widow’s weeds were not becoming to her style of beauty, so had decided to appear once more in bridal costume, for a change.
I was questioned pretty sharply by the handsome captain in regard to the nature of my business in that locality, but finding me an innocent, straightforward Kentuckian, he came to the conclusion that I was all right. But he also arrived at the conclusion that I was old enough to be in the army, and bantered me considerably upon my want of patriotism. . . .
I tried to make my escape from the village as soon as possible, but who should confront me but Captain Logan. Said he: “See, here, my lad; I think the best thing you can do is enlist, and join a company which is just forming here in the village, and will leave in the morning. We are giving a bounty to all who freely enlist, and are conscripting those who refuse. Which do you propose to do, enlist and get the bounty, or refuse, and be obliged to go without anything?” I replied, “I think I shall wait a few days before I decide.” “But we can’t wait for you to decide,” said the captain; “the Yankees may be upon us any moment, for we are not far from their lines, and we will leave here either tonight or in the morning early. I will give you two hours to decide this question, and in the meantime you must be put under guard.” So saying, he marched me back with him, and gave me in charge of the guards. In two or three hours he came for my decision, and I told him that I had concluded to wait until I was conscripted. “Well,” said he, “you will not have long to wait for that, so you may consider yourself a soldier of the Confederacy from this hour, and subject to military discipline.”
This seemed to me like pretty serious business, especially as I would be required to take the oath of allegiance to the Confederate Government. . . . I was determined to be among the missing ere it became necessary for me to make any professions of loyalty to the rebel cause. I knew that if I should refuse to be sworn into the service after I was conscripted, that in all probability my true character would be suspected, and I would have to suffer the penalty of death—and that, too, in the most barbarous manner.
I was glad to find that it was a company of cavalry that was being organized, for if I could once get on a good horse there would be some hope of my escape. . . . Music and dancing was kept up all night, and it was some time after daylight when the captain made his appearance. A few moments more and we were trotting briskly over the country, the captain complimenting me upon my horsemanship, and telling me how grateful I would be to him when the war was over and the South had gained her independence, and that I would be proud that I had been one of the soldiers of the Southern Confederacy, who had steeped my saber in Yankee blood, and driven the vandals from our soil. “Then,” said he, “you will thank me for the interest which I have taken in you, and for the gentle persuasives which I made use of to stir up your patriotism and remind you of your duty to your country.”
In this manner we had traveled about half an hour, when we suddenly encountered a reconnoitering party of the Federals, cavalry in advance, and infantry in the rear. A contest soon commenced; we were ordered to advance in line, which we did, until we came within a few yards of the Yankees.
The company advanced, but my horse suddenly became unmanageable, and it required a second or two to bring him right again; and before I could overtake the company and get in line the contending parties had met in a hand-to-hand fight.
All were engaged, so that when I, by accident, got on the Federal side of the line, none observed me for several minutes, except the Federal officer, who had recognized me and signed to me to fall in next to him. That brought me face to face with my rebel captain, to whom I owed such a debt of gratitude. Thinking this would be a good time to cancel all obligations in that direction, I discharged the contents of my pistol in his face.
This act made me the center of attraction. Every rebel seemed determined to have the pleasure of killing me first, and a simultaneous dash was made toward me and numerous saber strokes aimed at my head. Our men with one accord rushed between me and the enemy, and warded off the blows with their sabers, and attacked them with such fury that they were driven back several rods.
The infantry now came up and deployed as skirmishers, and succeeded in getting a position where they had a complete cross fire on the rebels, and poured in volley after volley until nearly half their number lay upon the ground. Finding it useless to fight longer at such a disadvantage they turned and fled, leaving behind them eleven killed, twenty-nine wounded, and seventeen prisoners.
The Confederate captain was wounded badly but not mortally; his handsome face was very much disfigured, a part of his nose and nearly half of his upper lip being shot away. I was sorry, for the graceful curve of his mustache was sadly spoiled, and the happy bride of the previous morning would no longer rejoice in the beauty of that manly face and exquisite mustache of which she seemed so proud, and which had captivated her heart ere she had been three months a widow.
[Velazquez tells her husband that she wants to accompany him to war. He tries to persuade her not to go by saying that “the hordes of rude, coarse men collected together in a camp in an emergency like this, would have but little resemblance to the regular troops in garrison with whom (she) had been familiar.”]
First Assumption of Male Attire
Finally, my husband, finding that his words made no impression, thought that he would be able to cure me of my erratic fancies by giving me an insight into some of the least pleasing features of masculine life. The night before his departure, therefore, he permitted me to dress myself in one of his suits, and said he would take me to the bar-rooms and other places of male resort, and show me something of what I would be compelled to go through if I persisted in unsexing myself. Braiding my hair very close, I put on a man’s wig, and a false mustache, and by tucking my pantaloons in my boots, as I had seen men do frequently, and otherwise arranging the garments, which were somewhat large for me, I managed to transform myself into a very presentable man. As I surveyed myself in the mirror I was immensely pleased with the figure I cut, and fancied that I made quite as good looking a man as my husband. My toilet once completed, it was not long before we were in the street, I doing my best to walk with a masculine gait, and to behave as if I had been accustomed to wear pantaloons all my life. I confess, that when it actually came to the point of appearing in public in this sort of attire, my heart began to fail me a little; but I was bent on going through with the thing, and so, plucking up courage, I strode along by the side of my husband with as unconcerned an air as it was possible for me to put on.
Presently we crossed over to a bar-room, which we found nearly filled with men smoking and drinking, and doing some pretty tall talking about the war, and the style in which the Yankees were going to be wiped out. To judge by the conversation, every man present was full of fight, and was burning with a furious desire to meet the enemy. I was too frightened and bewildered by the novelty of my situation to pay very close attention to all I saw and heard, but it flashed upon me that some of these loud-talking, hard-drinking, and blaspheming patriots were not so valiant, after all, as they professed to be. My after experiences fully confirmed my first impressions, that the biggest talkers are not always the best fighters, and that a good many men will say things over a glass of whiskey in a bar-room, who won’t do a tenth part of what they say if they are once placed within smelling distance of gunpowder.
Camp Life
The style of conversation that was common in camp, and the kind of stories told around our fires at night, I will leave to the reader’s imagination, hoping, however, that he or she has not imagination enough to compass anything so utterly vile. My favorite amusement was a game of cards, and I preferred this way of entertaining myself, and of beguiling the weary hours, to listening to anecdotes which could only debase my mind. Anything relating to military affairs, to social science, to the deeds of great men or women, or whatever else I could improve myself by listening to, I took great delight in. From my earliest recollection, however, I have had a thorough disgust for vulgarity of language and profanity, and my camp experiences only tended to increase my disgust at the blackguardism which many men are so fond of indulging in. The manner in which too many men are in the habit of referring to the other sex in conversation among themselves is, in my opinion, thoroughly despicable; and I really think that it would be morally and intellectually beneficial to many of my sex, especially those who are the victims of masculine viciousness, if they could only listen to some such conversations as I have been compelled to listen to, and learn how little respect or real regard of any kind men have for them. . . .
Many and many a time has the subject of women serving in the army as soldiers been discussed at the mess-tables and around the camp-fires; and officers, who have been in my company for days, and weeks, and months, have boasted, with very masculine positiveness, that no woman could deceive them, little suspecting that one was even then listening to them. I have sometimes been asked my opinion on the subject; but have generally answered evasively, without expressing, in very decided terms, my ideas one way or the other. Some of the men with whom I have been associated have spoken in respectful and even commendatory terms concerning women serving as soldiers; but too many have had nothing but vileness to utter on the subject. I can never forget, although I may forgive, the disgraceful language which some of these individuals have used with regard to this matter; and my experiences in the army will not have been in vain, even if they have taught me nothing more than the utter contemptibleness of some individuals, whom it would be a stretch of courtesy to call gentlemen.
The Pleasures of Fighting
The sensations of a soldier in the thick of a fight baffle description; and, as his hopes rise or sink with the ebb and flow of the battle, as he sees comrades falling about him dead and wounded, hears the sharp hiss of the bullets, the shrieking of the shells, the yells of the soldiers on each side as they smite each other, there is a positive enjoyment in the deadly perils of the occasion that nothing can equal. . . .
The second battle in which I participated—that at Ball’s Bluff—was accompanied by every circumstance of horror; and although in the excitement of the moment, when every faculty of mind and body was at extreme tension, and I was only inspired with an intense eagerness to do my whole duty for my cause, I did not fully realize the enormities of such a slaughter as was involved in the defeat of the Federals at that place, [and] I have never been able to think of it without a shudder, notwithstanding that I have fought on more than one bloody field since. Such scenes, however, are inseparable from warfare, and those who take up arms must steel themselves against them.
[She describes the battle at some length.]
Shortly after the fight commenced, I took charge of a company which had lost all its officers, and I do not think that either my men or myself failed to do our full duty. Perhaps, if I had been compelled to manoeuvre my command in the open field, I might not have done it as skilfully as some others would, although I believe that I could have played the part of a captain quite as well as a good many of them who held regular commissions as commanders of companies, and a good deal better than some others who aspired to be officers before learning the first rudiments of their business, and without having the pluck to conduct themselves before the enemy in a manner at all correspondent to their braggart style of behavior when not smelling gunpowder under compulsion. In this battle, however, fighting as we were for the most part in the woods, there was little or no manoeuvring to be done, and my main duties were to keep the men together, and to set them an example. This latter I certainly did.
After the battle was over, the first lieutenant of the company which I was commanding came in and relieved me, stating that he had been taken prisoner, but had succeeded in making his escape in the confusion incident to the Federal defeat. I did not say anything, but had my very serious doubts as to the story which he told being the exact truth. He had a very sheepish look, as if he was ashamed of himself for playing a sneaking, cowardly trick; and I shall always believe that when the firing commenced, he found an opportunity to slink away to the rear for the purpose of getting out of the reach of danger.
I have seen a good many officers like this one, who were brave enough when strutting about in the streets of cities and villages, showing themselves off in their uniforms to the women, or when airing their authority in camp, by bullying the soldiers under them, but who were the most arrant cowards under fire, and who ought to have been court-marshalled and shot, instead of being permitted to disgrace their uniforms, and to demoralize their men, by their dastardly behavior when in the face of the enemy. My colored boy Bob was a better soldier than some of the white men who thought themselves immensely his superiors; and having possessed himself of a gun, he fought as well as he knew how, like the rest of us. When the enemy gave way, I could hear Bob yelling vociferously; and I confess that I was proud of [his] pluck and enthusiasm.
They gave us Colonel Montgomery, one of John Brown’s men, to command the expedition. And three gunboats and all colored soldiers and we found where the torpedoes was and saw that we could find another channel. When we went up the river in the morning, ’twas just about light, the fog was rising over the rice fields and the people was just doing their breakfast and was going out to the field.
I was in the forward boat where the Colonel and Captain and the colored man that was to tell us where the torpedoes was. The boats was a quarter of a mile apart, one after the other, and just about light, the Colonel blowed the whistle and stopped the boat and the Captain and a company of soldiers went ashore. About a quarter of an hour after he done blowed the whistle, and when the sun got clear, so that the people could see the boats, you could look over the rice fields, and see them coming to the boat from every direction. I never seen such a sight.
[Harriet “becomes convulsed with laughter” at the recollection.]
Some was getting their breakfasts, just taking their pots of rice right off the fire, and they’d put a cloth on top their head and set that on, rice a-smoking, young one hanging on behind, one hand around the mother’s forehead to hold on, t’other hand digging into the rice pot, eating with all its might. Some had white blankets on their heads with their things done up in ’em and them that hadn’t a pot of rice would have a child in their arms, sometimes one or two holding onto the mother’s dress; some carrying two children one astride of the mother’s neck, holding onto her forehead, and in her arms; appears like I never seen so many twins in my life. Some had bags on their backs with pigs in them; some had chickens tied by the legs; and so child squalling, chickens squawking, and pigs squealing, they all come running to the gun boats through the rice fields just like a procession.
Thinks I: these here puts me in mind of the children of Israel, coming out of Egypt. When they got to the shore, they’d get in the rowboat, and they’d start for the gunboat; but others would run and hold on so they couldn’t leave the shore. They wasn’t coming and they [ain’t] nobody else come. The soldiers beat ’em on the hands but they wouldn’t let go. They was afraid the gunboats [would] go off and leave them. At last the Captain looked at ’em and he called me. They called me “Moses Garrison” down there. Said he: “Moses, come here and speak to your people.”
Well they wasn’t my people any more than they was his’n,—only we was all negroes—’cause I didn’t know any more about ’em than he did. So I went when he called me on the gunboat, and they the shore. They didn’t know anything about me and I didn’t know what to say. I looked at ’em for about two minutes, and then I sung to ’em.
Come from the East;
Come from the West;
Among all the glorious nations
This glorious one’s the best;
Come along! Come along! Don’t be alarmed,
For Uncle Sam is rich enough
To give you all a farm.
Then they throwed up their hands and began to rejoice and shout “Glory!” and the rowboats would push off.
I kept on a-singin’ until all were brought on board. We got eight hundred people that day, and we tore up the railroad and fired the bridge. And we went up to a big house and catched two pigs and named the white pig Beauregard and the black pig Jeff Davis.
When we got back to Hilton Head in the morning, and landed there nine hundred contrabands, I took a hundred of the men to the recruiting officer and they enlisted in the army. Colonel Whittle said I ought to be paid for every soldier as much as a recruiting officer; but laws! I never got nothing.
Sept. 27, 1864
This lady was afterward taken from her home, and made to answer such questions as they pleased to propose, but, true to friendship, they learned nothing from her. Doswell had also other friends of the same family brought before him and forced to testify. One of them a clergyman of this city, the Rev. Philip B. Price, a man of superior excellence of character, was told when he could say and think of nothing to betray the mistress of this house, “to refresh his memory.” The whole and sole object was to obtain by persecution the possession of their property, and imprison and badger a lady upwards of sixty years of age whose standing and character were impeachable, and who, without some sworn lie, they dared not molest. One who never did aught against their “dear young government,” and was ever kind to their people, in whose home, for humanity’s sake, the Confederate private ever found a friend. I shall ever remember the pale face of this dear lady, her feeble health and occasional illness from anxiety; her dread of Castle Thunder and Salisbury, for her arrest was constantly spoken of and frequently reported on the street. . . .
Our true hearts grew brave. Love of our country in its trials absorbed our being; enthusiasm lightened gloom. Fine patriotism principles and strengthens character. I have known the best of men feel their lives in danger from their partners in business & from their sons-in-law, who felt differently from them. Some aged parents endured much from their children who were disloyal. Ministers lived ever under a siege of terror. I was afraid to even pass the prison. I have had occasion to stop near it, when I dared not look up at the windows. Have turned to speak to a friend and found a detective at my elbow. Strange faces could sometimes be seen peeping around the columns and pillars of the back portico, & I can name gentlemen, some of our oldest and best citizens, who trembled when their door bell rang, fearing arrest.
Towards the close of the war Jeff Davis was earnest to have a writ of Habeas Corpus again suspended and to be clothed with fullest power. Visitors were watched. When the cold wind would blow on the darkest & stormiest night, Union people would visit one another. With shutters closed & curtains pinned together, how have we been startled at the barking of a dog and drawn nearer together, the pallor coming over our faces & the blood rushing to our hearts, as we would perhaps be tracing on a map [General William Tecumseh] Sherman’s progress and Sherman’s brilliant raids, or glorying in our Federal leaders. Then to follow the innocent visitor to the door, to lower the gas as, with muffled face, they said good night & the last words were often, “Do you think I am watched?” Such was our life.
The village was at their mercy, and consequently entitled to their forebearance; and it would at least have been more dignified in them had they been content to enjoy their almost bloodless conquest with moderation; but, whatever might have been the intentions of their officers, they had not the inclination, or they lacked the authority, to control the turbulence of their men. . . .
Those hateful strains of “Yankee Doodle” resounded in every street, with an accompaniment of cheers, shouts, and imprecations.
Whiskey now began to flow freely. . . . The doors of our houses were dashed in; our rooms were forcibly entered by soldiers who might literally be termed “mad drunk.”
[Boyd describes the ransacking of homes, the shots fired through windows, “chairs and tables hurled into the street.” When the soldiers reach Boyd’s house, they begin a mad search for rebel flags; however, Boyd’s maid has already beat them by tearing down the flag from upstairs and burning it.]
They had brought with them a large Federal flag, which they were now preparing to hoist over our roof in token of our submission to their authority; but to this my mother would not consent. Stepping forward with a firm step, she said, very quietly, but resolutely, “Men, every member of my household will die before the flag shall be raised over us.”
Upon this, one of the soldiers, thrusting himself forward, addressed my mother and myself in language as offensive as it is possible to conceive. I could stand it no longer; my indignation was roused beyond control; my blood was literally boiling in my veins; I drew out my pistol and shot him. He was carried away mortally wounded, and soon after expired.
Our persecutors now left the house, and we were in hopes we had got rid of them, when one of the servants, rushing in, cried out—“Oh, missus, missus, dere gwine to burn de house down; dere pilin’ de stuff ag’in it! Oh, if massa were back!”
The prospect of being burned alive naturally terrified us, and, as a last resource, I contrived to get a message conveyed to a Federal officer in command. He exerted himself with effect, and had the incendiaries arrested before they could execute their horrible purpose.
In the mean time it had been reported at head-quarters that I had shot a Yankee soldier, and great was the indignation at first felt and expressed against me.
[Boyd explains that a commanding officer arrived to investigate, questioned all the witnesses, and finally declared that Boyd had “done perfectly right.”]
Sentries were now placed around the house, and Federal officers called every day to inquire if we had any complaint to make of their behavior. It was in this way that I became acquainted with so many of them[—]an acquaintance “the rebel spy” did not fail to turn to account on more than one occasion.
• • •
General Shields [Union Army] introduced me to the officers of his staff, two of whom were young Irishmen; and to one of these, Captain K., I am indebted for some very remarkable effusions, some withered flowers, and last, not least, for a great deal of very important information, which was carefully transmitted to my countrymen. I must avow the flowers and the poetry were comparatively valueless in my eyes; but let Captain K. be consoled: these were days of war, not of love, and there are still other ladies in the world besides the “rebel spy.”
The night before the departure of General Shields, who was about, as he informed us, to “whip” Jackson, a council of war was held in what had formerly been my aunt’s drawing room. Immediately above this was a bed-chamber, containing a closet, through the floor of which I observed a hole had been bored, whether with a view to espionage or not I have never been able to ascertain. It occurred to me, however, that I might turn the discovery to account; and as soon as the council of war had assembled, I stole softly up stairs, and lying down on the floor of the closet, applied my ear to the hole, and found, to my great joy, I could distinctly hear the conversation that was passing below.
The council prolonged their discussion for some hours; but I remained motionless and silent until the proceedings were brought to a conclusion, at one o’clock in the morning. As soon as the coast was clear I crossed the court-yard, and made the best of my way to my own room, and took down in cipher everything I had heard which seemed to me of any importance.
I felt convinced that to rouse a servant, or make any disturbance at that hour, would excite the suspicions of the Federals by whom I was surrounded; accordingly I went straight to the stables myself, saddled my horse, and galloped away in the direction of the mountains.
Fortunately I had about me some passes which I had from time to time procured for Confederate soldiers returning south, and which, owing to various circumstances, had never been put in requisition. They now, however, proved invaluable; for I was twice brought to a stand-still by the challenge of the Federal sentries, and who would inevitably have put a period to my adventurous career had they not been beguiled by my false passport. Once clear of the chain of sentries, I dashed on unquestioned across fields and along roads, through fens and marshes, until, after a scamper of about fifteen miles, I found myself at the door of Mr. M.’s house. All was still and quiet: not a light was to be seen. I did not lose a moment in springing from my horse; and, running up the steps, I knocked at the door with such vehemence that the house re-echoed with the sound.
It was not until I had repeated my summons, at intervals of a few seconds, for some time, that I heard the response, “Who is there?” given in a sharp voice from the window above.
“It is I.”
“But who are you? What is your name?”
“Belle Boyd. I have important intelligence to communicate to Colonel Ashby: is he here?”
“No; but wait a minute: I will come down.”
The door was opened, and Mrs. M. drew me in, and exclaimed in a tone of astonishment—“My dear, where did you come from? and how on earth did you get here?”
“Oh, I forced the sentries,” I replied, “and here I am; but I have no time to tell you the how, and the why, and the wherefore. I must see Colonel Ashby without the loss of a minute: tell me where he is to be found.”
Upon hearing that his party was a quarter of a mile farther up the wood, I turned to depart in search of them, and was in the very act of remounting when a door on my right was thrown open, and revealed Colonel Ashby himself, who could not conceal his surprise at seeing me standing before him.
“Good God! Miss Belle, is this you? Where did you come from? Have you dropped from the clouds? or am I dreaming?”
I first convinced him he was wide awake, and that my presence was substantial and of the earth—not a visionary emanation from the world of spirits—then, without further circumlocution, I proceeded to narrate all I had overheard in the closet, of which I have before made mention. I gave him the cipher, and started on my return.
I arrived safely at my aunt’s house, after a two hours’ ride, in the course of which I “ran the blockade” of a sleeping sentry, who awoke to the sound of my horse’s hoofs just in time to see me disappear round an abrupt turning, which shielded me from the bullet he was about to send after me. Upon getting home, I unsaddled my horse and “turned in.” . . .
A few days afterwards General Shields marched south, laying a trap, as he supposed, to catch “poor old Jackson and his demoralized army,” leaving behind him, to occupy Front Royal, one squadron of cavalry, one field battery, and the 1st Maryland Regiment of Infantry, under command of Colonel Kenly; Major Tyndale, of Philadelphia, being appointed Provost-Marshal.
As I desired to act in the capacity of an assistant surgeon in the army, I visited hospitals on my arrival in Washington for the purpose of finding a vacancy. Dr. Green was at that time the only medical officer in that hospital. He stated that his predecessor had died from over work, there being not a sufficient number of surgeons in the army so that he could have an assistant. He stated that he had himself applied to Surgeon General Finley for an assistant in the hospital, but had been answered that there was none that he could give him. I asked him to write to the surgeon general requesting him to appoint me as his assistant. This he did and I took the paper to the office.
[Walker delivers the letter in person and presents her credentials; Finley returns them and says he cannot appoint a woman.]
As I had heard Dr. Green speak of Assistant Surgeon General Wood, I inquired for him, showed him my credentials, and stated to him that I had brought a letter from Dr. Green, and asked to be appointed. After Dr. Wood had read my credentials he said to me that if the surgeon general had been out and he had been acting that day he would have appointed me, and he expressed his regrets that the surgeon general had not been delayed beyond that hour.
I returned to the Patent Office Hospital and reported what had been said, and then told Dr. Green that I would act as his assistant without any appointment. . . .
I urged [Dr. Green to go out for a short break] now, saying that I would attend to all the patients in his absence; and it sometimes occurred that the hospital steward accompanied me with the book to write down the condition of the cases every day as explained by the surgeon, and the prescription that was given to each individual case, as must be done in a large hospital, as it is impossible for a physician to remember every individual case where there are a hundred to be seen every day. There were times when I examined and prescribed and continued the treatment of these hundred patients. . . .
[Dr. Green] told me that he would give me a part of his salary. I replied that he needed all that he had for his wife and children, and that I should not accept of any, but I would be his assistant surgeon just the same as though I had been appointed.
[During her tenure at Indiana Hospital, Walker encounters Superintendent of Army Nurses Dorothea Dix.]
I was somewhat amused when Dorothy [sic] Dix visited the hospital. . . . I did not understand at that time why she seemed in such a troubled mood about something when she first saw me but afterwards learned that a part of her mission was to try to keep young and good looking women out of the hospital.
She had stated that no woman less than thirty years old ought to be allowed to go into a hospital where there were soldier patients but as she could not possibly have any control over myself she walked through the hospital in a manner that it is hard to describe. When she saw a patient who was too ill to arrange the clothing on his cot if it became disarranged and a foot was exposed she turned her head the other way seeming not to see the condition while I was so disgusted with such sham modesty that I hastened to arrange the soldier’s bed clothing if I chanced to be near when no nurses were to do this duty. I was not able to understand and am not to the present day of what use any one can be who professes to work for a cause and then allows sham modesty to prevent them from doing little services that chance to come in their way.
[She goes on to call Dix “a good hearted woman” and notes that the country should be grateful to her for her work in improving conditions in “lunatic asylums.” Dix is not the only member of the military medical establishment with whose ideas of treatment Walker disagrees.]
There were cases where [soldiers] had been wounded in the arm or leg, and in the most pitiful manner that made it very difficult for me to suppress my emotions, they would ask me if that leg would have to come off, if that arm would have to come off, telling me that the ward surgeon said it would have to come off, and that they would rather die than lose a leg or lose an arm, whichever the case happened to be. I did not wish to be unprofessional and say anything to any other medical officer’s patients that would seem like giving advice outside of a council; but as I had a little experience and observation regarding the inability of some of the ward surgeons to diagnose properly, and truthfully I considered that I had a higher duty than came under the head of medical etiquette.
I had assisted in an operation where there was amputation of an arm where it was no more necessary than to amputate anybody’s arm that had never been injured. The two surgeons in the ward who had decided to have that arm amputated when there had been only a slight flesh wound, seemed to me to take this opportunity to amputate for the purpose of their own practice, which was utterly cruel: but knowing that if I gave my opinion against amputating that I would be debarred from entering one of the largest hospitals in Washington, I gave antiseptics and the arm was removed.
I then made up my mind that it was the last case that would ever occur if it was in my power to prevent such cruel loss of limbs, therefore I made it my business, when visiting hospitals, whenever I found that there were contemplated operations, and a complaint from a soldier that a decision had been made to remove a limb, I casually asked to see it, and in almost every instance I saw amputation was not only unnecessary, but to me it seemed wickedly cruel. I would then swear the soldier not to repeat anything that I told him, and then I would tell him that no one was obliged to submit to an amputation unless he chose to do so, that his limbs belonged to himself. I then instructed him to protest against amputation, and that if the physicians insisted upon it that if he had never used swearing words to swear and declare that if they forced him to have an operation that he would never rest after his recovery until he had shot them dead. I need not say that secrecy regarding what I had told to the soldier was kept and that my advice was followed and that many a man today has for it the perfect and good use of his limbs who would not have had but for my advice, to say nothing about the millions of dollars in pensions that would have been paid without all the suffering, had I not decided it my solemn duty to the soldiers instead of carrying out etiquette towards my medical and surgical brothers.
[This is confirmed after the war by written testimony of several soldiers whose arms and legs were saved as a result of Walker’s advice. Because the mortality rate after amputation was so high—up to 60 percent in amputations below the knee and 80 percent in cases of amputation at the hip—Walker probably also saved lives as well as limbs.
Through 1862, Walker continues to assist in surgeries and wound dressings at Washington DC hospitals. She also engages in relief work with soldiers and their families, developing a nationwide reputation for her compassion and devotion. In March she completes a course in new treatments at the Hygeio-Therapeutic College in New York City. That fall, she returns to Washington. Casualties from the Battle of Antietam and actions in northern Virginia have overwhelmed hospitals in the town of Warrenton, near the front lines and occupied at this time by Union forces. Walker acquires a pass to serve there, where she finds appalling conditions and such a severe shortage of supplies that she is forced to rent a single two-quart basin from a local woman for a dollar and to tear up her own nightgown for towels. Later she goes to headquarters to request permission to move a number of the patients to Washington, where they can be treated more effectively. They set out on November 15, 1862.]
General Burnside gave me written authority to go with them, and that all persons should afford me all facilities that I required.
The condition of the army at this time was such that raids from the opposing forces were expected at any time between there and Alexandria. Seven car-loads, but one of which was a passenger car, were loaded up. Some of the not very sick were placed upon the tops of the cars, as there was not room enough in the freight cars for them all. In the passenger cars were some brave persons who had been down to the army . . . and others whose business in running to Washington I was not informed concerning all were specially anxious to get out of danger. Among these was Henry Wilson, then a member of the House of Representatives at Washington.
When we had proceeded but a short distance the train stopped at a barren place. . . . While we were waiting I went to the cars, that were so high that it was difficult to get into, to see how my patients were, all of whom were as comfortable as they could expect, as they expressed themselves, with the exception of two. As I approached one I saw that he was near the other shore, and asked him his name, which I wrote down, but before I could get anything more except his regiment, he had passed to the beyond. Another was so far gone that he could not speak plainly, and when I asked his name he could barely speak the same and I guessed at the rest and told him to press my hand if I got it right. He did so.
[Walker then figures out before the soldier dies that he came from Ohio. She documents the soldiers’ deaths with the War Department, which will enable the family of the second soldier to learn of his death and to successfully file a pension claim nearly two decades later.]
After quite a long stop I inquired what they were staying there for, then I found that there was not an officer on board, or any body who had any authority whatever on the train that was left except myself, and I directed the engineer to proceed to Washington, which he did as soon as the directions were given. I could not help suppressing a smile at the thought of his stating that he was waiting for orders, and that in reality I was then military conductor of the train that bore one of the law-makers of the nation not only, but its citizens and its helpless defenders. Since then it has been with some pride that I have recalled the fact that I have been the conductor of a train that had conveyed the future Vice President of the United States.
Gettysburg, Pa. July 7th, 1863.
My dear cousin
I am very tired tonight; have been on the field all day. . . . There are no words in the English language to express the sufferings I witnessed today. The men lie on the ground; their clothes have been cut off them to dress their wounds; they are half naked, have nothing but hard-tack to eat. . . . I was the first woman who reached the Second Corps after the three days fight at Gettysburg. I was in that Corps all day, not another woman within a half mile. . . . [I] received nothing but the greatest politeness from even the lowest private. You can tell Aunt that there is every opportunity for “secesh” sympathizers to do a good work among the butternuts; we have lots of them here suffering fearfully. To give you some idea of the extent and numbers of the wounds, four surgeons, none of whom were idle fifteen minutes at a time, were busy all day amputating legs and arms. I gave to every man that had a leg or arm off a gill of wine, to every wounded in Third Division, one glass of lemonade, some bread and preserves and tobacco—as much as I am opposed to the latter, for they need it very much, they are so exhausted.
I feel very thankful that this was a successful battle; the spirit of the men is so high that many of the poor fellows said today, “What is an arm or leg to whipping Lee out of Penn.” I would get on first rate if they would not ask me to write to their wives; that I cannot do without crying, which is not pleasant to either party. I do not mind the sight of blood, have seen limbs taken off and was not sick at all.
Gettysburg—July 8th, 1863
My dear sister
We have been two days on the field; go out about eight and come in about six—go in ambulances or army buggies. . . . I feel assured I shall never feel horrified at anything that may happen to me hereafter. There is a great want of surgeons here; there are hundreds of brave fellows, who have not had their wounds dressed since the battle. . . . Get the Penn Relief to send clothing here; there are many men without anything but a shirt lying in poor shelter tents, calling on God to take them from this world of suffering; in fact the air is rent with petitions to deliver them from their sufferings.
[She discusses here specifics of supplies needed and provisions that they have been able to feed the wounded.]
It took nearly five days for some three hundred surgeons to perform the amputations that occurred here, during which time the rebels lay in a dying condition without their wounds being dressed or scarcely any food. If the rebels did not get severely punished for this battle, then I am no judge. We have but one rebel in our camp now; he says he never fired his gun if he could help it, and, therefore, we treat him first rate. . . .
I could stand by and see a man’s head taken off I believe—you get so used to it here. . . . William says I am very popular here as I am such a contrast to some of the office-seeking women who swarm around hospitals. I am black as an Indian and dirty as a pig and as well as I ever was in my life—have a nice bunk and about twelve feet square. I have a bed that is made of four crotch sticks and some sticks laid across and pine boughs laid on that with blankets on top. It is equal to any mattress ever made.
• • •
I received, a few days ago, a Silver Medal worth twenty dollars. The inscription on one side is “Miss Cornelia Hancock, presented by the wounded soldiers 3rd Division 2nd Army Corps.” On the other side is “Testimonial of regard for ministrations of mercy to the wounded soldiers at Gettysburg, Pa.—July 1863.”
There have been in the Corps Hospital I suppose some thirty women, and it seems I am the favored one in the lot. Several, since they have seen mine, have started a subscription for two other ladies. Most of the ladies are dead heads completely.
City Point, 1st Div. 2nd Corps Hospital
July 18th, 1864.
To Joanna Dickerson, Pres. Of Ladies Aid, Hancock’s Bridge, Salem Co., N.J.
My dear friends:
At Fredericksburg we received the wounded from the [Battle of the] Wilderness. There was more suffering there for want of food than I ever witnessed anywhere. From Fredericksburg we went to Port Royal. Had the base of operations there for a short time only when all moved to White House. There the wounded were brought from the fight upon the North Anna River and it was another dreadful scene. I joined the train which had been three days coming from the field having had no attention except what could be given to them lying in the ambulances. . . .
I was with the San[itary] Com[mission] train and in the wagon were stores plenty. Mrs. Lee in company with me cooked them a bountiful meal and I took water from the river and washed the face and hands of all in our Div[ision] train. To wash one’s face and hands when on duty is considered a luxury at any time, but no one can know the relief one feels in using water after a three days’ march, especially when wounded. Some men you could hardly recognize if you knew them intimately.
There has been no day’s work that I have done since this campaign that gave such extreme relief as cleansing those poor fellows’ faces. All were cases of severe wounds. At dark night while it was raining the long train moved over a newly constructed bridge and loaded the men in transports. In the second Corps hospital the wounded continued rapidly to arrive until they laid out in the open field without any shelter. Here I dressed more wounds than in all my experience before. There were not surgeons near enough who were willing to stay in the sun and attend to the men and it was too awful to leave them uncared for. Just for one moment consider a slivered arm having been left three days, without dressing and the person having ridden in an army wagon for two days with very little food. They mostly arrived at night when all the ladies would fill their stores and feed them as they came in. They would then remain in the ambulance until morning when probably no shelter could be procured for them and here they lay in the scorching sun during 1/2 the day. It was at this time there was such crying need to dress their wounds, some of which had not been opened for thirty-six hours. Such tired, agonized expressions no pen can describe. By the time one set of men were got in and got comfortable another set would arrive, and so it continued night and day for about two weeks. At that time there was a very good opportunity to make a visit to the hospital up at the extreme front. There I stayed for a week, the men were then in the rifle-pits and if they moved out to get a drink of water were shot in the action. I saw them as soon as they were wounded but the custom is here to operate upon the wound and immediately send them to the rear.
[The Sanitary Commission train then attempts to relocate, but it is delayed a week waiting for a cavalry escort.]
The monotony was broken upon the 20th of June by the Rebels planting a battery upon a hill and shelling our train for six hours, in which time it behooved all to make the best of the situation and keep out of the shells as best we could. One shell struck in the rear of the carriage I was in and one rifled cannon came between Mrs. Husbands and myself while we were walking along the beach. However, suffice it to say no lives were lost in our train except three horses.
The first colored troops did not receive any pay for eighteen months, and the men had to depend wholly on what they received from the commissary, established by General Saxton. A great many of these men had large families, and as they had no money to give them, their wives were obliged to support themselves and [their] children by washing for the officers of the gunboats and the soldiers, and making cakes and pies which they sold to the boys in camp. Finally, in 1863, the government decided to give them half pay, but the men would not accept this. They wanted “full pay” or nothing. They preferred rather to give their services to the state, which they did until 1864, when the government granted them full pay, with all the back pay due.I remember hearing Captain Heasley telling his company, one day, “Boys, stand up for your full pay! I am with you, and so are all the officers.” This captain was from Pennsylvania, and was a very good man, all the men liked him. . . .
I taught a great many of the comrades in Company E to read and write, when they were off duty. Nearly all were anxious to learn. My husband taught some also when it was convenient for him. I was very happy to know my efforts were successful in camp, and also felt grateful for the appreciation of my services. I gave my services willingly for four years and three months without receiving a dollar. I was glad, however, to be allowed to go with the regiment, to care for the sick and afflicted comrades. . . . .
Outside of the fort [Fort Wagner, the site of a significant engagement in which the First South Carolina and 54th Massachusetts Volunteers sustained heavy casualties] were many skulls lying about; I have often moved them one side out of the path. The comrades and I would have quite a debate as to which side the men fought on. Some thought that they were the skulls of our boys; others thought they were the enemy’s; but as there was no definite way to know, it was never decided which could lay claim to them. They were a gruesome sight, those fleshless heads and grinning jaws, but by this time I had become accustomed to worse things and did not feel as I might have earlier in my camp life.
It seems strange how our aversion to seeing suffering is overcome in war,—how we are able to see the most sickening sights, such as men with their limbs blown off and mangled by the deadly shells, without a shudder; and instead of turning away, how we hurry to assist in alleviating their pain, bind up their wounds, and press the cool water to their parched lips, with feelings only of sympathy and pity.
My father was a free man, but my mother a slave, belonging to William Johnson, a wealthy farmer who lived at the time I was born near Independence, Jackson County, Missouri. While I was a small girl my master and family moved to Jefferson City. My master died there and when the war broke out and the United States soldiers came to Jefferson City they took me and other colored folks with them to Little Rock. Col. Benton of the 13th army corps was the officer that carried us off. I did not want to go. He wanted me to cook for the officers, but I had always been a house girl and did not know how to cook. I learned to cook after going to Little Rock and was with the army at the battle of Pea Ridge. Afterwards the command moved over various portions of Arkansas and Louisiana. I saw the soldiers burn lots of cotton and was at Shreveport when the rebel gunboats were captured and burned on Red River. We afterwards went to New Orleans, then by way of the Gulf to Savannah, Georgia, then to Macon and other places in the South. Finally I was sent to Washington City, and at the time Gen. Sheridan made his raids in the Shenandoah Valley I was cook and washwoman for his staff. I was sent from Virginia to some place in Iowa and afterwards to Jefferson Barracks, where I remained some time. You will see by this paper that on the 15th day of November 1866, I enlisted in the United States army at St. Louis, in the Thirty-eighth United States Infantry, company A, Capt. Charles E. Clarke commanding.
I ENLISTED TO SERVE THREE YEARS!
The regiment I joined wore the Zouave uniform and only two persons, a cousin and a particular friend, members of the regiment, knew that I was a woman. They never “blowed” on me. They were partly the cause of my joining the army. Another reason was I wanted to make my own living and not be dependent on relations or friends. Soon after I joined the army, I was taken with the small-pox and was sick at a hospital across the river from St. Louis, but as soon as I got well I joined my company in New Mexico. I was
A GOOD SOLDIER.
As that paper says, I was never put in the guard house, no bayonet was ever put to my back. I carried my musket and did guard and other duties while in the army, but finally I got tired and wanted to get off. I played sick, complained of pains in my side, and rheumatism in my knees. The post surgeon found out I was a woman and I got my discharge. The men all wanted to get rid of me after they found out I was a woman. Some of them acted real bad to me. After leaving the army I went to Pueblo, Colorado, where I made money by cooking and washing. I got married while there, but my husband was no account. He stole my watch and chain, a hundred dollars in money and my team of horses and wagon. I had him arrested and put in jail, and then I came here. I like this town. I know all the good people here, and I expect to get rich yet. . . . I shall never live in the states again. You see I’ve got a good sewing machine and I get washing to do and clothes to make. I want to get along and not be a burden to my friends or relatives.
Biloxi, Nov. 26th, 1861
To His Excellency Gov. Pettus
Dear Sir,
With the request that you will pardon my informality in my letter, I beg to inform you that I am a woman entirely unprotected. I have for several years past been the Keeper of the Light House at Biloxi, the small salary accruing from which has helped me to support a large family of orphaned children.
[She explains that the children, orphans of her deceased relatives, are heirs to property in Maryland, but that due to the war the executor of their estate is unlikely to send the yearly stipend for their support.]
I do not know if my salary as the Keeper of the Light House will be continued.
On the 18th of June last, the citizens of Biloxi ordered the light to be extinguished which was immediately done and shortly after others came and demanded the key of the Light Tower which has ever since remained in the hands of a Company calling themselves “Home Guards.”
At the time they took possession of the Tower it contained valuable Oil, the quantity being marked on my books. I have on several occasions seen disreputable characters taking out the oil in bottles. Today they carried away a large stone jug capable of containing several gallons. They may take also in the night as no one here appeared to have any authority over them.
Their Captain, J. Fewell, is also Mayor of the City of Biloxi, and if you would have the kindness to write him orders to have the oil measured and placed under my charge at the dwelling of the Light House I would be very grateful to you for so doing.
I write to you merely as a Light Keeper believing that injustice has been and is still [being done] here. . . .
I have ever faithfully performed the duties of Light Keeper in storm and sunshine attending it. I ascended the Tower at and after the last destructive storm [in 1860] when men stood appalled at the danger I encountered.
After the Light was extinguished, I wrote to New Orleans and offered my services to make Volunteer Clothing [for Confederate soldiers]. Received a large bale of heavy winter clothing which I made during the hottest season of the year working day and night to have them done in time.
I do not speak thus of myself through vanity or idle boasting but to assure you that I have tried to do my share in our great and holy cause of freedom.