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Annotator: Julian Street
A WOMAN'S WARTIME JOURNAL
A WOMAN'S WARTIME JOURNAL
AN ACCOUNT OF THE PASSAGE OVER A GEORGIA PLANTATION OF SHERMAN'S ARMY ON THE MARCH TO THE SEA, AS RECORDED IN THE DIARY OF
DOLLY SUMNER LUNT
With an Introduction and Notes by JULIAN STREET
NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1918
INTRODUCTION
Though Southern rural life has necessarily changed since the Civil War, I doubt that there is in the entire South a place where it has changed less than on the Burge Plantation, near Covington, Georgia. And I do not know in the whole country a place that I should rather see again in springtime--the Georgia springtime, when the air is like a tonic vapor distilled from the earth, from pine trees, tulip trees, balm-of-Gilead trees , blossoming Judas trees, Georgia crab-apple, dogwood pink and white, peach blossom, wistaria, sweet-shrub, dog violets, pansy violets, Cherokee roses, wild honeysuckle, azalia, and the evanescent green of new treetops, all carried in solution in the sunlight.
It is indicative of the fidelity of the plantation to its old traditions that though more than threescore springs have come and gone since Sherman and his army crossed the red cottonfields surrounding the plantation house, and though the Burge family name died out, many years ago, with Mrs. Thomas Burge, a portion of whose wartime journal makes up the body of this book, the place continues to be known by her name and her husband's, as it was when they resided there before the Civil War. Some of the negroes mentioned in the journal still live in cabins on the plantation, and almost all the younger generation are the children or grandchildren of Mrs. Burge's former slaves.
Mrs. Burge was born September 29, 1817, in Bowdoinham, Maine. That she was brought up in New England, in the heart of the abolitionist movement, and that she was a relative of Charles Sumner, consistent foe of the South, lends peculiar interest to the sentiments on slavery expressed in her journal. As a young woman she moved from Maine to Georgia, where her married sister was already settled. While teaching school in Covington she met Thomas Burge, a plantation-owner and gentleman of the Old South, and presently married him. When some years later Mr. Burge died, Mrs. Burge was left on the plantation with her little daughter Sarah and her slaves, numbering about one hundred. Less than three years after she was widowed the Civil War broke out, and in 1864 this cultivated and charming woman saw Sherman's army pass across her fields on the March to the Sea.
At the time of my visit to the plantation the world was aghast over the German invasion of Belgium, the horrors of which had but recently been fully revealed and confirmed.... What, then, I began to wonder, must life have been in this part of Georgia, when Sherman's men came by? What must it have been to the woman and the little girl living on these acres, in this very house? For though Germany's assault was upon an unoffending neutral state and was the commencement of a base war, whereas Sherman's March through Georgia was an invasion of what was then the enemy's country for the purpose of "breaking the back" of that enemy and thus terminating the war, nevertheless "military necessity" was the excuse in either case for a campaign of deliberate destruction--which, in the State of Georgia, was measured by Sherman himself at one hundred millions.
When, therefore, I learned that Mrs. Burge had kept a journal in which were related her experiences throughout this period, I became eager to see it; and I am sure the reader will agree that I did him a good turn when, after perusing the journal, I begged its author's granddaughters--Mrs. M.J. Morehouse of Evanston, Ills., and Mrs. Louis Bolton of Detroit, Mich., my hostesses at the plantation--that they permit it to be published.
Their consent having graciously been given, I can only wish that the reader might sit, as I did, perusing the story in the very house, in the very room, in which it was written. I wish he might turn the yellow pages with me, and read for himself of events which seem, somehow, more vivid for the fact that the ink is faded brown with time. And I wish that when the journal tells of "bluecoats coming down the road" the reader might glance up and out through the open window, as I did, and see the very road down which they came.
Imagine yourself in a low white house standing in a grove of gigantic oaks surrounded by the cottonfields. Imagine yourself in a large comfortable room in this house, in an old rocking chair by the window. From the window you may see the white well-house, its roof mottled with the shadows of branches above; beyond, the garden and the road, and far away in the red fields negroes and mules at work. Then look down at the large book resting in your lap and read.
JULIAN STREET.
New York, MARCH, 1918.
A WOMAN'S WARTIME JOURNAL
A WOMAN'S WARTIME JOURNAL
JANUARY 1, 1864.
A new year is ushered in, but peace comes not with it. Scarcely a family but has given some of its members to the bloody war that is still decimating our nation. Oh, that its ravages may soon be stopped! Will another year find us among carnage and bloodshed? Shall we be a nation or shall we be annihilated?... The prices of everything are very high. Corn seven dollars a bushel, calico ten dollars a yard, salt sixty dollars a hundred, cotton from sixty to eighty cents a pound, everything in like ratio.
JULY 22, 1864.
We have heard the loud booming of cannon all day. Mr. Ward went over to the burial of Thomas Harwell, whose death I witnessed yesterday. They had but just gone when the Rev. A. Turner, wife, and daughter drove up with their wagons, desiring to rest awhile. They went into the ell and lay down, I following them, wishing to enjoy their company. Suddenly I saw the servants running to the palings, and I walked to the door, when I saw such a stampede as I never witnessed before. The road was full of carriages, wagons, men on horseback, all riding at full speed. Judge Floyd stopped, saying: "Mrs. Burge, the Yankees are coming. They have got my family, and here is all I have upon earth. Hide your mules and carriages and whatever valuables you have."
Sadai said:
"Oh, Mama, what shall we do?"
"Never mind, Sadai," I said. "They won't hurt you, and you must help me hide my things."
I went to the smoke-house, divided out the meat to the servants, and bid them hide it. Julia took a jar of lard and buried it. In the meantime Sadai was taking down and picking up our clothes, which she was giving to the servants to hide in their cabins; silk dresses, challis, muslins, and merinos, linens, and hosiery, all found their way into the chests of the women and under their beds; china and silver were buried underground, and Sadai bid Mary hide a bit of soap under some bricks, that mama might have a little left. Then she came to me with a part of a loaf of bread, asking if she had not better put it in her pocket, that we might have something to eat that night. And, verily, we had cause to fear that we might be homeless, for on every side we could see smoke arising from burning buildings and bridges.
Major Ansley, who was wounded in the hip in the battle of Missionary Ridge, and has not recovered, came with his wife, sister, two little ones, and servants. He was traveling in a bed in a small wagon. They had thought to get to Eatonton, but he was so wearied that they stopped with me for the night. I am glad to have them. I shall sleep none to-night. The woods are full of refugees.
JULY 23, 1864.
I have been left in my home all day with no one but Sadai. Have seen nothing of the raiders, though this morning they burned the buildings around the depot at the Circle . I have sat here in the porch nearly all day, and hailed every one that passed for news. Just as the sun set here Major Ansley and family came back. They heard of the enemy all about and concluded they were as safe here as anywhere. Just before bedtime John, our boy, came from Covington with word that the Yankees had left. Wheeler's men were in Covington and going in pursuit. We slept sweetly and felt safe.
SUNDAY, JULY 24, 1864.
No church. Our preacher's horse stolen by the Yankees. This raid is headed by Guerrard and is for the purpose of destroying our railroads. They cruelly shot a George Daniel and a Mr. Jones of Covington, destroyed a great deal of private property, and took many citizens prisoners.
JULY 27, 1864.
Major Ansley and family have remained. We are feeling more settled and have begun to bring to light some of the things which we had put away.
JULY 28, 1864.
I rose early and had the boys plow the turnip-patch. We were just rising from breakfast when Ben Glass rode up with the cry: "The Yankees are coming. Mrs. Burge, hide your mules!" How we were startled and how we hurried the Major to his room!
JULY 29, 1864.
Sleepless nights. The report is that the Yankees have left Covington for Macon, headed by Stoneman, to release prisoners held there. They robbed every house on the road of its provisions, sometimes taking every piece of meat, blankets and wearing apparel, silver and arms of every description. They would take silk dresses and put them under their saddles, and many other things for which they had no use. Is this the way to make us love them and their Union? Let the poor people answer whom they have deprived of every mouthful of meat and of their livestock to make any! Our mills, too, they have burned, destroying an immense amount of property.
AUGUST 2, 1864.
Just as I got out of bed this morning Aunt Julia called me to look down the road and see the soldiers. I peeped through the blinds, and there they were, sure enough, the Yankees--the blue coats!
I was not dressed. The servant women came running in. "Mistress, they are coming! They are coming! They are riding into the lot! There are two coming up the steps!"
I bade Rachel fasten my room door and go to the front door and ask them what they wanted. They did not wait for that, but came in and asked why my door was fastened. She told them that the white folks were not up. They said they wanted breakfast, and that quick, too.
"Thug" and Sadai, as well as myself, were greatly alarmed. As soon as I could get on my clothing I hastened to the kitchen to hurry up breakfast. Six of them were there talking with my women. They asked about our soldiers and, passing themselves off as Wheeler's men, said:
"Have you seen any of our men go by?"
"We are a portion of Wheeler's men," said one.
"Yes," said one, stepping up to me; "we are Yankees. Did you ever see one before?"
"Not for a long time," I replied, "and none such as you."
To-night Captain Smith of an Alabama regiment, and a squad of twenty men, are camped opposite in the field. They have all supped with me, and I shall breakfast with them. We have spent a pleasant evening with music and talk. They have a prisoner along. I can't help feeling sorry for him.
AUGUST 5, 1864.
Mr. Ward has been robbed by the Yankees of his watch, pencil, and shirt.
NOVEMBER 8, 1864.
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