The part of the town east of the railroad is said to have been saved by the presence of mind and greatness of spirit of a heroic lady. As her house was about to be fired, she appealed to a cavalry captain, and, showing him the throngs of weeping and wailing women and children seeking refuge in the cut through which the railroad passes, said to him, with solemn emphasis,—
“In the day of judgment, sir, you will see that sight again; then, sir, you will have this to answer for!”
The captain was touched. “It is contrary to orders,” said he, “but this thing shall be stopped.” And he stationed a guard along the track to prevent further destruction of the city in that direction.
The homeless citizens crowded to a hill and watched from its summit the completion of the diabolical work. The whirlwind of fire and smoke that went roaring up into the calm, blue heavens, soon over-canopied by one vast cloud, was indescribably appalling. Fortunately the day was still, otherwise not a house would have been left standing. As it was, three hundred and forty houses were burned, comprising about two thirds of the entire town.
The raiders were evidently afraid of being caught at the work. The smoke, which could be seen thirty or forty miles away, would doubtless prove a pillar of cloud to guide our cavalry to the spot. Having hastily accomplished their task, therefore, with equal haste they decamped.
Three of their number, however, paid the penalty of the crime on the spot. Two, plundering a cellar, were shot by a redoubtable apothecary,—a choleric but conscientious man, who was much troubled in his mind afterwards for what he had done; for it is an awful thing to take human life even under circumstances the most justifiable. “He was down-hearted all the next day about it,” said one. In the meanwhile the dead marauders were roasted and broiled, and reduced to indistinguishable ashes, in the pyre they had themselves prepared.
A major of the party, who had become intoxicated plundering the liquor-shops, lingered behind his companions. He was surrounded by the incensed populace and ordered to surrender. Refusing, and drawing his sword with maudlin threats, he was shot down. He was then buried to his breast outside of the town, and left with just his shoulders protruding from the ground, with his horrible lolling head drooping over them. Having been exhibited in this state to the multitude, many of whom, no doubt, found some comfort in the sight, he was granted a more thorough sepulture. A few weeks before my visit to the place, a gentle-faced female from the South came to claim his body; for he, too, was a human being, and no mere monster, as many supposed, and there were those that did love him.
The distress and suffering of the burnt-out inhabitants of Chambersburg can never be told. “For six weeks they were jeest kept alive by the provisions sent by other towns, which we dealt out here to every one that asked,” said my landlord. “And I declare to fortune,” he added, “there was scoundrels from the outside that hadn’t lost a thing, that would come in here and share with our starving people.” These scoundrels, he said, were Germans, and he was very severe upon them, although he himself had a German name, and a German accent which three generations of his race in this country had not entirely eradicated.
Besides the charity of the towns, the State granted one hundred thousand dollars for the relief of the sufferers. This was but as a drop to them. Those who had property remaining got nothing. The appropriation was intended for those who had lost everything,—and there were hundreds of such; some of whom had been stopped in the streets and robbed even of their shoes, after their houses had been fired.
“This was jeest how it worked. Some got more than they had before the fire. A boarding-house girl that had lost say eight dollars, would come and say she had lost fifty, and she’d get fifty. But men like me, that happened to have a little property outside, never got a cent.”