Indeed, considering numbers, nature, and natural means, only a revolution of the wheel of fortune, an exchange of situation, is among possible events.
Thomas Jefferson
It was the third year of the war. At Washington’s Birthday Ball, we danced on the graves of the South, while across the river, the Confederacy danced on ours. The celebration at the Union Army headquarters on the banks of the Rapidan River, began promptly at 9:30 P.M. Railroad cars full of officers’ wives and daughters had come from as far away as Philadelphia to join those wives who attended the ranking and influential military in their winter quarters. And across the river, like a twin image, were Robert E. Lee and the Confederate encampment, who were celebrating the President’s birthday with their ball. Blithe notes of music wafted across the frozen Rapidan, which served as the line of demarcation between enemies. The visiting womenfolk, like Maria and me, were housed in wall tents, and since a woman in the monumentally wide hoop skirts of this year’s fashion could neither ride a horse nor walk on the muddy planks of an army camp, we were transported in white-topped army ambulances. The mood was deliberately gay, as if the music, the stylized embrace of the waltz, might pull us all out of the tendrils of a gloomy winter and the terrors of still another campaign in the spring of a war which had gone on for almost forty months. Nevertheless, the officers in their dress uniforms wore spurs to the dance floor, and the women who swirled in their wide crinolines wanted only one thing: to create an illusion for a moment of an era which was dead, in both North and South, forever.
It was wartime, and our private grief merged with the larger collective grief of thousands of fathers who had lost sons, mothers who wept for one, or even two or three, wives who would never sleep in their husbands’ arms again. Maria wore a yellow ribbon over her white-gloved wrist in homage to her brother.
Beverly, stationed at the hospital at Rapidan for the winter and resplendent in his close-fitting blue serge and yellow silk sash, wore his mourning on his sleeve, as did scores of his comrades; on February 15, 1864, black bands were fixed on the sleeves of thousands of uniforms. One hundred ten thousand men were dead, wounded, or missing in the past year. Condolences were as common as good morning.
Standing beside Beverly was his wife Lucinda, who had come to stay with him for the rest of the winter with the twins, Roxanne and Perez, now safely asleep with their nurse in the village. It had been a long time since I had seen this handsome couple together. Beverly had the look of forty instead of the thirty-three he was. But he was happy. He was cramming twenty years of medical experience into two. I glanced over at Maria.
It was not her first ball, but the novelty was enough for her to be flushed with excitement, which only enhanced her complexion, turning it a deep peach rose, which in turn was flattered by the burgundy velvet ball gown trimmed in white roses. Maria’s sleek, dark hair was held back in a swath of crocheted ribbons trimmed with the same white roses as her dress, and tendrils fell along her face, out of which peeked my best pearl-and-emerald earrings. She was radiant, and the pack of young officers on the opposite side of the ballroom had already recognized both her youth and her beauty and the fact that she was not engaged. I dreaded the idea of another war marriage, but I realized that the glamour, tragedy, and emotion of war heightened even the most banal attraction to the level of deathless love.
The dancers were acting the parts for which high drama called. The extravagant dresses of silk and lace, velvets, and grosgrain trimmed with everything from silk roses to glittering rhinestones and jet mingled with the colors of the Union military. There were dresses of crushed silk and sheared velvet, embroidered satin and spangled lace; there were gowns of violet and pale green, buttercup yellow and spectacular white, blues of every hue interspersed with mourning blacks and gray. The dress uniforms in white, navy, or Prussian blue glittered with gold braid, brass buttons, shoulder straps, red, gray, or yellow sashes, and short, elaborate dress swords. Broad chests sparkled with combat ribbons, war crosses, and medals. Flowing shoulder-length hair and swashbuckling mustaches graced the handsome faces of young men old before their time. There were colonels who were twenty and brigadier generals who were twenty-five. The orchestra played gallops and polkas, mazurkas and polonaises, quadrilles and waltzes, keeping reality at bay so that the boys and girls could maintain their defiant attitude of lighthearted gaiety.
“Ma tante, I think as a kissing cousin, I should at least have the first polka with Maria.”
“Maurice,” cried Maria, and she threw her arms around him.
“Maurice, don’t tell me Grant gave you a furlough for this party?”
“No, chère tante, I am here on official business for the general. Of which I cannot speak.” He looked around. “Some party, isn’t it? It could be the ball the Duchess of Richmond gave on the eve of Waterloo.”
“Maurice, don’t be facetious.”
“Well, it’s certainly hot and crowded enough! I hear they built the ballroom from scratch—-how American!”
“It’s true,” said Maria, dropping her dance program, “the army engineers spent a fortnight building it.”
“Well . . . my, then, it’s almost a bagatelle, isn’t it?”
The army engineers had built a cedar and pine shingle building of more than a hundred feet long, and the scent of new wood, beeswax, and varnish mingled with the women’s perfume, the candles, the food, the tobacco smoke, and the cinnamon used to flavor the punch. The hall was triple height, and from the ceiling hung all the regimental and headquarters flags the Second Army Corps possessed: some two hundred and thirty. The multicolored silk, shot with greens and blues and whites, stars and stripes, eagles, serpents, cocks and doves, clouds and suns, swords and arrows, halberds and sabers covered the ceiling. The names, numbers, and letters swayed and shifted in the draft of the dancing couples as they whirled by the Chinese lanterns that illuminated the entire assembly with deft golden light. At one end of the ballroom was a raised platform on which there was a theatrical and idyllic reconstruction of a typical army bivouac: clean, new shelter tents, pulled smooth and tight, piles of drums and bugles, tripods of stacked muskets, a fake campfire with a working kettle hung over it, and two magnificent, gleaming, and polished brass Napoléon cannons, as deceptively festive as any instruments of pain and death could be. In the light emanating from the tall, rectangular windows of the ballroom, I could see an assembly of orderlies, adjutants, regulars, cooks, ambulance drivers, couriers, and contrabands standing outside looking in. They reminded me of the assembly of maids, carriage boys, outriders, drivers, valets, body servants, lackeys, and footmen that would gather outside the ballroom windows of Virginia’s plantations, watching. I had stood amongst them at Montpelier the night before I fled Monticello. My foot tapped to the music, if only for a moment; then the strains of Gabriel Prosser’s song took over whatever the orchestra was playing.
There was musket shot and musket balls
Between his neckbone and his knee,
The best dancer amongst them all
Was Gabriel Prosser who was just set free!
Wasn’t I the best dancer and the best ballet master?
“Je t’écrirai, Maman.”
“Oui, écris-moi.“
“Tu ne viens pas?”
“Non, je ne viens pas. I’m not coming. …”
“We haven’t conquered a piece of Virginia soil except what we’re standing on.”
It was Charlotte, extremely attractive and abundant in pale blue shot silk which matched her eyes. The gown was expensive, elaborate, and unsuitable for her age, yet she looked divine. Her blond hair was piled high, real and fake, into a diamond and moonstone tiara. She wore a parure of the same, and carried a huge ostrich fan, dyed to match her ball gown.
“This ball has the selfsame aura as our war,” she said. “Stagey, overdone, and overripe with melodrama—not even the nobility of Greek drama. No, this is more Paris, Second Empire, Napoléon III: profit, corruption, collaboration, treachery, treason, villainies, incompetence, cowardice, slaughter ...”
“Charlotte, such—”
“Ambiguity? Disloyalty?”
Charlotte had never gotten over the needless slaughter at Gettysburg, or the colossal blunder of General Meade, who had let Robert E. Lee get away. Meade was making his way toward us on the arm of Charlotte’s husband.
“That assassin. Don’t let me say anything, Harriet!” I squeezed her hand.
“All right. Are your boys all right?”
“Yes, and yours?”
“All right. Sinclair is still attached to the Monitor, patrolling the Mississippi. Madison has returned to active duty in western Tennessee.”
“Too bad Sarah isn’t here; she loves this kind of Washington hurrah.”
“Ah, but she is here. You must know she can get herself invited anywhere in or near Washington.”
“Probably eavesdropping on Lincoln’s impromptu cabinet meeting!”
“Humph,” breathed Charlotte. I squeezed her hand again.
Thor and the general didn’t linger long. George Meade laughed and made small talk, tried a joke, and played the role of the victorious major general with nothing particular on his mind. When he and Thor had left, Charlotte said, “It’s General Grant we need. We’ll never win this war without him.”
“Sarah says Lincoln is thinking about it.”
“Thinking!. You mean Abraham Lincoln actually ponders? Or maybe he looks into Mrs. Lincoln’s crystal ball. If he does, he’ll see that he’s going to be a one-term President.”
“A mother’s grief is not to be ridiculed,” I replied.
“It’s not her grief that’s ridiculous; it’s her spiritualist and her husband.”
I looked across the room first at the ever-twirling Maria Wellington, then at Sarah Hale and her husband, who were heading for us. I didn’t want to argue with Charlotte over Mary Todd Lincoln—she was a southerner caught in both personal and national tragedy. She had three brothers who were dead to her because they had chosen to fight for the Confederacy, and she had one dead son. There was nothing like a dead son to drive one crazy, I thought. If I thought I could talk to James through a medium or anything else, I concluded, I would.
“Secretary Chase is going to be our next President,” said Charlotte.
“No, my dear. McClellan,” said Sarah Hale, and she leaned over and kissed me. She was wearing a Prussian blue dress with extravagant hoops of at least six feet. It was trimmed in silver braid and silver buttons, and it suited her very well. I told her so. She also wore a silver lace mantilla over a gigantic fake chignon.
“My daughter’s going to dance herself into permanent exhaustion,” Thor said fondly. “Have you ever seen so many boys around one single girl in your life?”
But the memory of Prestonville would not leave me. It was not a bitter memory, but as the happy, heedless granddaughter of the President danced on, I watched the orderlies and regulars outside, a quiet reminder that balls and brilliant officers and everything else rested on those that stood outside, just as it had at Prestonville. These were the men in the ranks who went to no parties and got up at five to parade their strength for the admiration of the officers’ ladies. These were the same who left their life’s blood on the battlefields, becoming names and numbers on casualty lists in newspapers and pins on a map to their generals. They had a name for themselves now: they called themselves “cannon fodder.”
The U-shaped tables were laden with every war-embargoed luxury food. There were French cheeses, foie gras and truffles, and four kinds of pâté, three different soufflés, and a baba-au-rhum. The English had donated bottles of malt and Irish whiskey, punch spiked with cinnamon, plum pudding and fruitcakes, sturgeon, roast beef, and baked goose with mint jelly. There were Italian wines, macaroni and cheese, Italian grapes, and more cheeses. From the Germans came strudel, herrings and potato salad, venison, and wild boar. All contraband from the blockade. The official menu printed by the United States Mint consisted of twenty-five different hors d’oeuvres and sixteen entrees. The buffet was like the war: profligate, incoherent, excessive, indulgent, and slowly spoiling.
No one had left. It was as if everyone sensed that something extraordinary would happen this night. At twelve midnight a sepulchral figure, impossibly tall, dark-skinned, hollow-eyed, with a thick head of hair that had been black three years ago but was now streaked with gray, as was his short, full beard and even his eyebrows, appeared. A melancholy gaze took in the laughing assembly and suddenly a lot of us felt foolish. Beside him was Mary Todd Lincoln, the First Lady, in bright, expensive red velvet.
The band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” Business, everyone wondered, or malice? Had the President come in person to fire Meade? The couple strode slowly into the room as the dancers parted as if for royalty, the starkness and somberness of the President contrasting with the almost hysterical colorful-ness of the ball and of Mrs. Lincoln’s dress. He stopped and greeted one person after another, chatting, even smiling occasionally. It was the first time I had ever had a chance to see the Tycoon, as they called him, up close.
“The sly fox,” said Sarah. “Look how polite and cheerful he’s being to Meade. I wager in two weeks Meade will be out and Grant will be general-in-chief of the armies. Actually, the Tycoon has no choice. The Confederacy has produced half a dozen first-rate generals, while the Union has only Grant. A million-man army and no commander. No wonder we’re still losing this war.”
“We’re winning it, Sarah,” said someone on her left.
“Yes, but at what cost?” interrupted Beverly. Beverly had changed greatly. It wasn’t just the aging, or the deep circles under his eyes or his thick blond hair, which was already thinning. There was, even in the walk, a deep, resentful exhaustion, as if his fight against death and destruction, having been so in vain, were now also despicable.
“Perhaps you’re right, Mother. What is the use of patching up a man only to send him back to the lines where the next time, I’ll have less work to do because he’ll be dead.”
I looked at Beverly in surprise. There was so much bitterness in his voice.
“Mother, even you, with what you have seen, cannot imagine the reality of this war. It has changed, I believe, the American character. We used to think that individual life was sacred . . .”
“Well, Mr. President,” said General Meade, his voice carrying to us from the next group of people, “we can’t do these little tricks without losses.”
I stared into Beverly’s light gray eyes, and a shiver of anticipation ran down my spine. The President passed close enough to me for me to touch him.
“Rather than preserve the Union by surrendering the principles of the Declaration, I’d prefer to be assassinated on the spot.” The light twang of Lincoln’s Kentucky accent left the color of tall sun-bronzed grass as he passed.
And, as if illuminated by a burst of light, I suddenly knew why this celebration of Washington’s birthday reminded me of the Montpelier ball, why all evening I had had the impression that I was standing outside with the orderlies, looking in. Inside was lily-white. Even the servants were white. There was no black leg in a shiny boot; there were no double stars on a black shoulder, no glistening sword around a black waist. There were no black officers in the army of the United States. Outside, black orderlies waited patiently for their captains and lieutenants, their majors and colonels, just as I, Harriet, had waited outside with the other slaves for our masters back home. Nothing had changed. No black hand helped steer the destiny of the Union, no black hand was asked—yet how could one deny that a black hand had commenced this second American Revolution as surely as a black hand had rocked the cradle of Thomas Jefferson’s children.
All of them, I realized, even Lincoln, danced to a tune they didn’t know the words of. So typical of WHITE PEOPLE.
“Nothing in the world is the same now as it used to be—not the war, or the army, or us . . . or, or that matter, this colored man himself we’re fighting for,” rose Beverly’s voice above the music.
A wave of anguish and love swept over me as I reached up and embraced Beverly. My white sons were in harm’s way, facing all God’s dangers, freeing the mother they had never known. The war had rendered Sinclair, Beverly, and Madison as vulnerable as any slave. They were no safer any more than if they trod Mulberry Row. The war had thrust my whole life’s creation, my white family, back into the same dangerous, uncertain world of slavery I had fought so hard to escape. The war had murdered Thomas Jefferson’s grandson, who had been free and white. What would I do if the war took another? Or all?
I wondered if God was finished with Thomas Jefferson. Or his daughter. I swore on the heads of my surviving children that if God took another grandson, I would go back to Monticello with the victorious Union Army and dance on Thomas Jefferson’s grave and curse the day I was born. I would never forgive him or Him, so help me. I swore by God, who had denied me justice, and by the Almighty, who had filled me with bitterness, so long as there was any life in me and God’s breath in my nostrils, I would not abandon my claim to him, I would never give up: so long as I lived, I would not change.
Dawn broke through the dark snow clouds, and pink washed the high vaulted sky, as the last gang of women piled into the last ambulances, their cashmere shawls pulled over their heads, their hoop skirts making half moons as crinolines smashed against the sides of the carts. And light flurries began to fall both north and south of the Rapidan.
CAMP RAPIDAN
MAY 4, 1864
Dear Mother,
We are breaking camp. The dogwood blossoms flutter in the breeze like flocks of white butterflies, alight on the trees lining the road south. The regiments are falling into line, cannon-topped wagons creak along the road, a colored regiment is singing “We Are Coming, Father Lincoln, Three Hundred Thousand More.” In effect, we are a hundred thousand marching to meet our opposite number on the other side of the river.
I thank God President Lincoln has finally named Ulysses S. Grant commander of the Union armies. At last, a leader to fight and die for.
God bless you. And God bless General Grant.
Beverly Wellington
On June tenth, Lincoln once again addressed the Sanitary Commission in Philadelphia: “We accepted this war for the worthy object of restoring the national authority over the national domain, and the war will end when that object is attained. General Grant has said that he is going to smash Rebel lines if it takes all summer.” (Cheers and flag-waving.) “I say we are going to smash Rebel lines if it takes three years more.”
“Lincoln had better reiterate his war objects,” whispered Sarah, “before people begin to think he is stubbornly carrying on this war not to reestablish the Union, but for black abolition. The North wants peace and many want peace, with ‘the Union as it was’ and amnesty for the South.”
“Of those who were slaves at the beginning of the rebellion,” continued the President, “a full one hundred thousand have crossed our line as contraband and are now in the United States military service, about one-half of which actually bear arms in the ranks, thus giving the double advantage of taking so much labor from the insurgent cause and supplying the places which otherwise must be filled with so many white men. So far as tested, it is difficult to say they are not as good or better soldiers as any. No servile insurrection or tendency to violence or cruelty has marked the measures of emancipation and arming the blacks.”
“The story of Greeley’s meeting with the Rebels at Niagara Falls has gotten out,” whispered Sarah, “and though Jeff Davis’s condition for ending the war of dis-union and independence is as irreducible as Lincoln’s for union, the newspapers have caught on to Lincoln’s second condition, emancipation, as the real stumbling block to peace. They are saying that tens of thousands of white men must yet bite the dust to allay the negromania and negrophilia of the President: public sentiment is only reacting to our want of military success and the impression that we can have peace with union if we would, but that the President is fighting not for union but the abolition of slavery.”
The President’s voice rose and fell as if in answer to Sarah’s complaint: “I deny I am now carrying on this war for the sole purpose of abolition. It is and will be carried on so long as I am President for the sole purpose of restoring the Union. But human power cannot subdue this rebellion without using the emancipation, as I have done. Some 130,000 black sailors and soldiers are fighting for the Union. If they stake their lives for us, they must be prompted by the strongest motive—as I have said before, even the promise of freedom. And the promise, being made, must be kept.”
The same day, I received two letters from Beverly.
IN CAMP, BERMUDA HUNDRED, VIRGINIA
MAY 26, 1864
Dear Mother,
Fitzhugh Lee’s famous chivalry, as well as his cavalry division, were badly worsted last Tuesday against Negro troops from the garrison at Wilson’s Landing. The battle began at 12:30 P.M. and ended at six o’clock when chivalry retired, disgusted and defeated. Lee’s men dismounted far in the rear and fought as infantry. They drove in the pickets and skirmishes to the entrenchments, and several times made valiant and foolhardy charges upon our works. To make an assault, it was necessary to traverse an “open” in front of our position, up to the very edge of a deep and impassable ravine. The Rebels with deafening yells made furious onsets, but the Negroes did not flinch, and the mad assailants, discomforted, turned and took to cover with their shrunken ranks. The Rebel fighting was very wicked; it showed that Lee’s heart was bent on annihilating Negroes at any cost. Assaults on the center having failed, the Rebels tried first the left and then the right flank, with no greater success ... the Negro lines held.
We all acknowledge here the solid qualities which the colored men engaged in this fight have exhibited. Even officers who have hitherto felt no confidence in them are compelled to express themselves mistaken. I thought you would like to know this, since you were such a defender of their right to fight.
Your most tender and obedient son,
Bev’ly
JUNE 2, 1864
Mother,
I have not had a moment to write for nearly a week. It has been fight, fight, fight. Every day there is combat and every day the hospital is again filled. For four days now, we have been operating upon men wounded in one battle which lasted only about two hours; but the wounds were more serious than those from former engagements. I am heartsick over it all. If the Confederates lost in each fight the same number as we, there would be more chance for us; but their loss is about one man to our five, from the fact that they never leave their earthworks, whereas our men are obliged to charge even when there is not the slightest chance of taking them. Several times after capturing their works, our troops were not reinforced and had to evacuate immediately, with great loss. These men are becoming discouraged, but there is plenty of fight in them yet.
Your faithful son,
B.W.
COLD HARBOR
JUNE 4
Dearest Mother, mine,
Hundreds of soldiers are pinning slips of paper with their names and addresses on their uniforms so that their bodies can be identified after the battle. The Rebels fight from trenches which are intricate, zigzagged lines within lines, lines protecting flanks of lines, lines built to enfilade opposing lines—works within works, and works without works. The Union was driven out by the Seceshes at the cost of eight colonels and 2,500 other casualties. In all, we Yankees suffered 7,000 casualties. Lee has lost 20 of 57 infantry corps commanders of his divisions and brigades. The men feel at present a great horror and dread of attacking earthworks again.
As I told you at the ball, we are no longer the same men, this is no longer the same army. This seven-week campaign has been another way to fight a war: brutal and intense guerrilla warfare, wanton destruction of civilian property, brutalized women and children, 65,000 northern boys killed, wounded, or missing since May 4.
For thirty days it has been but one funeral procession past me, and it has been too much, Mother! Too much!
Ever remember, with the tenderest of sentiments, he who knows no earthly happiness equal to that of being your beloved son,
Beverly Wellington
HOSPITAL NEAR PETERSBURG
JUNE 20, 1864
Mother,
Our division is relieved from duty in the front line, where it has fought ever since the campaign commenced. Toward noon yesterday, weary, I suppose, of the inaction, a Confederate sharpshooter challenged one of our men to single combat. Lieutenant Jefferson, a fine fellow, standing at least six feet two in his stockings, accepted the challenge, and they commenced what to both of them was sport. Jefferson’s great size was so unusual that his opponent had the advantage, and how our men tried to make him give way to a smaller man. But no! He would not listen and became very excited as his successes multiplied, and when darkness stopped the dueling, he remained unscathed while every opponent had fallen victim to his aim.
The lieutenant was so exhilarated that he claimed, with much bluster, to have a charmed life, and said nothing would kill him, and he would prove it in the morning. We officers used every argument to convince him of the foolhardiness of such a course, and assured him of the certainty of his death. But the man seemed crazed with faith in his nine lives. When we left him, he was simply waiting, as best he could, for daylight to begin dueling again.
To our surprise and happiness, the same performance as the day before occurred until a young Confederate lieutenant, who was already aiming at our man, yelled across the redoubt, “What’s your name, Yankee? I want to know who I’m shootin’ at.” And our man said, “Jefferson, John Wayles.” And the duelist said, “Darn! My name’s Jefferson, Peter Field. We’re probably gawd damned triple first kissin’ cousins.” And they both lowered their guns, laughing. Then came a tremendous cheer from the Confederate and the Union lines and praises for the Jeffersons’ pluck and skill and common sense.
Beverly
FIELD HOSPITAL NEAR PETERSBURG
JULY 4, 1864
Mother,
War! War! War! I often think that in the future, when human character shall have deepened, there will be a better way of settling human affairs than this perfect maelstrom of horror. The question of my going home with the regiment still absorbs me. At one hour I am told there will be no difficulty in being mustered out with the others, and then a rescinding order comes from the War Department and I am left high and dry. For two weeks now this has continued and it worries me. The medical director of the corps says he cannot spare me but what with Lucinda, Perez, and Zerahia, I am sorely needed at home. Lucinda is very depressed at her coming confinement in November.
Beverly
CAMP ON THE BANKS OF THE JAMES
AUGUST 1, 1864
COLONEL THOMAS JEFFERSON RANDOLPH
EDGEHILL PLANTATION
ALBEMARLE COUNTY, VIRGINIA
Pa,
Exhaustion and confusion, worse confounded. Although perfectly well, I am tired and hot, having slept only a couple of hours out of the last forty. We are still in the Wilderness, fighting our way in retreat inch by inch. The Eighth Brigade has been in no important action since I last wrote: our loss was then so terrible that they have spared us a little. Colonel McAfee is now in command as major general. Ransom was shot in the head. The Yankees fight determinedly, and our forces facing them are almost equal, but they drive us each day. We are both on a race for Richmond, and I wonder which will get the inside track. If we do, our journey will be forty miles shorter than theirs. Feeling as I do now, the thought of a forty-mile march makes me weep. Robert E. Lee is determined to keep fighting, and either win or lose, this thing can’t last much longer, for one side or the other must yield from sheer exhaustion.
I’m sitting on the ground in the woods, leaning against a log and writing on my knee. Soldiers, bonfires, and kicking horses are everywhere. Dust is sweeping over me like smoke; my face is black with dirt and sweat, my clothes soiled, torn almost to pieces, and filthy with lice and vermin. I am desperately hungry. I am too tired to sleep, too tired to stand, and should dislike to have Ma or the girls see me. If it weren’t for General Robert E. Lee, I would lay down my arms and walk home. Seven men deserted to the enemy from Ransom’s brigade last night; also four from Wise’s and two from Gracie’s.
Have the Yankees damaged Edgehill, Pa? I hear Bermuda Hundred burned to the ground. Thank God you got leave from the Militia to get home to see to Ma and the girls. The sun is just setting. But whether we shall march all night, go out on a picket, or lie down to sleep—the thought of sleep makes me silly—I don’t know. We never know what we may be doing in the next five minutes except dying. By God, we cannot, cannot withstand another siege.
Kiss Ma, Virginia, Lane, Ellen, and Tabethia. I’ve heard that my brother Meriwether has made captain and has been cited for bravery. God bless him. God save the Confederacy and Jeff Davis. God bless Robert E. Lee.
Your loving son,
Major Thomas Jefferson Randolph Jr., adjutant quartermaster
Headquarters, Artillery Corps,
Army of Northern Virginia
Petersburg, Confederate States
HANOVER JUNCTION
AUGUST 1, 1864
Mama,
I can scratch only a few lines, being up to my elbows in blood. Oh, the fatigue and endless work we have! About one night in three to sleep and so nervous and played out that sleep is impossible. The hospital is fast filling up with poor fellows who last night charged the enemy’s works on the other side of the river.
We are some fifteen miles nearer Richmond than when I last wrote, and the strongest works of the Confederacy are at this point and at the South Anna River. Wherever we stop, we quickly build elaborate networks of trenches, breastworks, artillery emplacements, traverses, a rear line trench, and a cleared field of fire in front with the branches of felled trees placed at point-blank range to entangle attackers.
This is a new kind of relentless, ceaseless warfare, Mother. Since the beginning of the campaign, the armies have never been out of contact, one with the other. Some kind of fighting, along with marching and digging, has taken place every single night. Mental and physical exhaustion has begun to take its toll. Many a man has gone crazy since the campaign began from the terrible pressure on mind and body.
We have had a deal of forced marching lately, and the heat has been almost intolerable. At times it has seemed as if the sun’s grasp would lay us out, yet we march all day and through volumes upon volumes of insufferable heat.
It seems to me I am quite callous to death now, and that I could see my dearest friend die without much feeling. That I could see you die, or Dad, without feeling anything. During these last three weeks, I have seen probably no less than two thousand deaths—among them, those of many dear friends. I have witnessed hundreds of men shot dead, have walked and slept among them, and surely feel it possible to die myself as calmly as any —but enough, Mother. The Rebs are now pretty near their last ditch, and the fight is fearful. Ambulances are coming in. …
Bev. Wellington
LIEUTENANT COLONEL ESTON H. JEFFERSON
HEADQUARTERS, THIRTEENTH REGT.
OHIO VOLUNTEER CAVALRY (DISMOUNTED) COMMISSARY
FORT GREAT FALLS, MISSOURI
AUGUST 1, 1864
Dad,
Received yours of the 20th. We are now fourteen miles from Richmond, having marched pretty steadily southward ever since I last wrote. Oh, why will the Confederacy not burst up? How can they continue to fight so desperately for such a despicable cause? True, we are drawing very near to Richmond, but the tug-of-war will come at the Chickahominy River. Although the Confederates had the shortest road, we stole a march upon them before they could reach and stop us. By making a hard forced march, my captain, Peter Kirkland, saved many lives. The morale of the enemy is injured by their having to fall back in retreat so far while that of the Union Army is correspondingly improved. They are now pretty near their last ditch, and the fight here will be fierce and stormy. I’ve had no word from Beverly in weeks. Have you? As for my health and well-being and morale, they are all intact despite so many mistakes, heartless attacks, and the senseless slaughter. That’s because of the men’s extraordinary endurance and courage. The Seceshes are drowning in their own blood, and we the U.S. manage only to keep our own heads above it. Pray for me as I pray for you, Mother, Beverly, and Anne.
Your obedient son,
Lieutenant John Wayles Jefferson,
Second Ohio Volunteer Regiment
HEADQUARTERS, THIRTEENTH REGT.
OHIO VOLUNTEER CAVALRY (DISMOUNTED)
REPORT OF LIEUTENANT COLONEL AND COMMISSARY OF SUBSISTENCE ESTON H. JEFFERSON
U.S. ARMY OF OPERATIONS, MISSOURI DIVISION
AUGUST I, 1864
FORT GREAT FALLS, MISSOURI
ULYSSES S. GRANT
LIEUTENANT GENERAL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
General,
Five minutes ago an ordnance boat exploded, carrying lumbers, grape, canister, and all kinds of shot over the point. Every part of the yard used as my headquarters is filled with splinters and fragments of shell. Colonel Babcock is slightly wounded in the hand, and one mounted orderly is killed. At the wharf, killed: 12 enlisted men, 2 citizen employees, 28 colored laborers. Wounded: 3 officers, 15 citizen employees, 86 colored laborers, as well as your obedient servant.
Eston H. Jefferson
CAMP ON THE BANKS OF THE JAMES
AUGUST 20, 1864
Mother,
I am retained. General Hancock says I must remain. Yesterday, a small —no, a large—miracle occurred. By the invitation of their commander, I boarded one of the gunboats to watch the firing of one of their hundred-pound Parrott shells into the enemy earthworks, which were two miles distant. And having had that pleasure, I felt upon my shoulder a heavy yet familiar hand and the sound of laughter I would recognize anywhere.
“Brother,” said the voice, “you sure as hell look like hell.” Sinclair! It was Sinclair in the flesh. Unbeknownst to me, I was on the Monitor! We fell into each other’s arms with more tears than females would let flow on such an occasion. But it seemed to me that my brother had been sent by preternatural forces to lift me out of my doldrums, to soothe my scarred and weary soul. I stayed on board and we dined together. We spoke of everything: you, Dad, Lucinda, Maria, Perez and Roxanne, my Lucinda, our twins, the new baby, everything except the war. We wept and laughed a great deal and were so loathe to quit each other, Sinclair asked for leave and we came ashore together. He slept with me in my shelter tent which, he said, confirmed his conviction that anyone who volunteered for the army infantry was a candidate for an insane asylum.
Your adoring son,
Bev. W.
AUGUST 25, 1864
PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA
Mother,
Sinclair is gone. It is very quiet here at the field hospital, in front of Petersburg, but oh, so hot! And the combined efforts of ticks, fleas, and black flies make life almost hell. At four o’clock in the morning, which means dawn, I am awakened by the buzzing and humming of these busy insects at their pestering task, and this labor doesn’t cease till we poor mortals are again lost to them in the darkness of the night.
How war changes one’s character, Mother. This accumulation of experience changes careless boys into sober and thoughtful men—men who trust and who feel that whatever happens, in the end it will somehow be for the best; men who val—