June 4, 1862

June 4, 1862: Gen. Fremont and Gen. Shields continue their parallel pursuit of Jackson in the Shenandoah Valley, in the race south, but find their efforts to cut him off frustrated by Ashby’s cavalry, heavy rains, high waters, and burnt bridges. Jackson evades contact at every turn.

—Stephen Minot Weld, of the 18^th Massachusetts Infantry, write home to his father:

Camp near New Bridge, June 4, 1862.

Dear Father, — Here we are still and here we shall probably stay for a few days, until the rain has exhausted itself, and the banks of the Chickahominy have peeped above the surrounding waters. I begin to think we shall have to get an ark built if the rain continues. Every night regularly we have terrible thunder-storms, which last the whole night, and at morning it clears up again. This has happened for four successive nights, and last night it culminated in an easterly storm, which bids fair to last some time. My tent resembles Fortress Monroe in one respect. It has a deep ditch of water all around it, which has lately been pretty full. In one respect this rain is peculiarly unfortunate. It delays our advance to Richmond, where we should have been two days ago, were it not for this dirty little stream of a Chickahominy which the rain swells up so as to make it impassable. The roads to the river are streams of mud and water which no corduroying can remedy, and which dry weather and the sun can alone make passable. . . . The roads here are in a shocking condition. I went out yesterday in a light wagon, foraging, and rode some twelve miles. In many places the horses were up to their bellies in mud, and at times down we would go in the quicksand or in some deceptive hole, covered with water. I got, however, some fresh butter, chickens, strawberries, cherries, onions, lettuce, and eggs. We manage to get on very well in the eating line.

---Private Lewis Warlick, Company B, 11th Regiment North Carolina Troops, stationed near Wilmington, NC, writes home to Laura Cornelia McGimsey, his fianceé:
Camp Davis near Wilmington
June 3rd 1862

Dearest Cornelia

Yours of the 25th Inst. came to hand yesterday which is gladly received and now am about to respond but feel incapable of doing so. You say this is the first time in your life you ever experienced a sad dissappointment and was done by one who you thought would give you the least trouble, that I came off without telling you bye or even tell you I was not going back; now you seem to think that it was intentional on my part that I knew very well when I left you that I did not expect to go back home but to remain.

I did not for a moment suppose that you would even sinuate, muchless to say I had treated you badly; did I not explain to you in my last why it was that I did stay? I think I did. You say I ought to go home and hire a substitute, that I guess would be a hard job for men are so scarce at home I would not know where to get one that would be received in my place, and further more I would not get one if I could from the fact that it shall not be thrown up to my relations in future years that you had an uncle, brother, or that your father or perhaps grandfather would not go into the service when he was called to struggle for independence – was too cowardly, afraid of the Yankees & but hired a substitute to be shot at in my stead never never shall it be said of me or any descendants; death before dishonor. Dear Corrie you very well know that it is hard for me to leave you but I must consider I am doing rightly. I think my first duties are to my country and then to you. I hope I may be spared to see the end of the war and then you and I will marry and try to live a happy life in the future. I pray do not sensure me for treating you badly if I have done so it was not indented and makes me feel badly to think that you blame me for every thing I do that is not according to your views. I have wanted to go into the service ever since last winter but you have refused to let me come. I could have come against your remonstrances but did not want to do any thing to wound your feelings, which I have never done on purpose to my knowledge, but yet you say I have. . . . . I will send the first opportunity, in this I’ll send some stamps. Jackson has been doing good service don’t you think so? I hope he is in Baltimore this morning and then right about march and come on Washington in the rear and burn it up and captured old Abe that would be too good.

This is so badly written I don’t know whether you can read it or not. Write often to you devoted lover.

Lewis

Give my kindest regards to Puss and all my friends.

—Mary Boykin Chestnut of South Carolina records these observations—among others—in her diary:
A battle is said to be raging around Richmond. . . . J.C. [her husband] went off suddenly to Richmond, on business of the military department. . . . Wade Hampton shot in the foot and Johnston Pettigrew killed! . . . Each army burying its dead. That looks like a drawn battle. . . .

Telegrams from Richmond, ordering troops from Charleston. Cannot be sent, for they are attacking Charleston, too—doubtless for this very reason, to prevent reinforcements from being sent from there.

Sat down at my window—beautiful moonlight. Tried hard for pleasant thoughts.
A man began to play on the flute, with piano accompaniment. First "Ever of Thee I Am Fondly Dreaming," then "Long, Long, Weary Day." At first I found it but a complement to the beautiful scene, and it was soothing to my wrought-up nerves.
But von Weber’s last waltz was too much. Suddenly I broke down. Heavens, what a bitter cry. Such floods of tears. The wonder is, there was any of me left. . . .

Lewis Young, Johnston Pettigrew’s A.D.C., says he left his chief mortally wound3ed on the battlefield. Left him? . . . I fancy him—left dying! I wonder what they feel—those who are deserted and left do die of their wounds on the battlefield. Hard lines. . . .

Battles near Richmond. . . . "As a general rule," says Mrs. Gibson, "government people are sanguine, but the son of one high functionary whispered to Mary G . . . ‘Richmond is bound to go up.’ Do you know, only one doctor in Richmond will take pay from wounded soldiers. Oh, the idea now is that we are to be starved out. Shut us in—prolong the agony. It can then have but one end." In her rage she says, "The baboon’s commissary general."
    "Who is the baboon? Lincoln?"
    "Oh, yes. One gets very bitter, with one’s eldest son under his guns. His best friends say the Yankee president is just the ugliest, most uncouth—the nastiest jokes—&c&c.". . .

—Sarah Morgan writes in her journal about the difficulties they face with the Yankee occupation and not being able to find a place to stay, besides Greenwell, their country home outside of Baton Rouge:
. . . Starvation at Greenwell, fever and bullets here, will put an end to us soon enough. There is no refuge for us, no one to consult. Brother, whose judgment we rely on as implicitly as we did on father’s, we hear has gone to New York; there is no one to advise or direct us, for, if he is gone, there is no man in Louisiana whose decision I would blindly abide by. Let us stay and die. We can only die once; we can suffer a thousand deaths with suspense and uncertainty; the shortest is the best. Do you think the few words here can give an idea of our agony and despair? Nothing can express it. I feel a thousand years old to-day. I have shed the bitterest tears to-day that I have shed since father died. I can’t stand it much longer; I’ll give way presently, and I know my heart will break. Shame! Where is God? A fig for your religion, if it only lasts while the sun shines! "Better days are coming" — I can’t! Troops are constantly passing and repassing. They have scoured the country for ten miles out, in search of guerrillas. We are here without servants, clothing, or the bare necessaries of life: suppose they should seize them on the way! . . .