The dwellings of Secretary Trenholm and General Wade Hampton were among the first to burst into flames. Soldiers went from house to house, spreading the conflagration. Fireballs, composed of cotton saturated with turpentine, were thrown in at doors and windows. Many houses were entered, and fired by means of combustible liquids poured upon beds and clothing, and ignited by wads of burning cotton, or matches from a soldier’s pocket. The fire department came out in force, but the hose-pipes were cut to pieces and the men driven from the streets. At the same time universal plundering and robbery began.
The burning of the house of Dr. R. W. Gibbes,—an eminent physician, well-known to the scientific world,—was thus described to me by his son:—
“He had a guard at the front door; but some soldiers climbed in at the rear of the house, got into the parlor, heaped together sheets, poured turpentine over them, piled chairs on them, and set them on fire. As he remonstrated with them, they laughed at him. The guard at the front door could do nothing, for if he left his post, other soldiers would come in that way.
“The guard had a disabled foot, and my father had dressed it for him. He appeared very grateful for the favor, and earnestly advised my father to save his valuables. The house was full of costly paintings, and curiosities of art and natural history, and my father did not know what to save and what to leave behind. He finally tied up in a bedquilt a quantity of silver and gems. As he was going out of the door,—the house was already on fire behind him,—the guard said, ‘Is that all you can save?’ ‘It is all I can well carry,’ said my father. ‘Leave that with me,’ said the guard; ‘I will take charge of it, while you go back and get another bundle.’ My father thought he was very kind. He went back for another bundle, and while he was gone, the guard ran off with his lame leg and all the gems and silver.”
One of Mr. Gibbes’s neighbors, a widow lady, had an equally conscientious guard. He said to her, “I can guard the front of the house, but not the rear; and if you have anything valuable buried you had better look after it.” She threw up her hands and exclaimed, “O, my silver and my fine old wine, buried under that peach-tree!” The guard immediately called a squad of men, and told them to respect the widow lady’s wine and silver, buried under that peach-tree. He went with them, and they dug a little to see if the treasures were safe. Finding the wine, they tasted it to see if it merited the epithet “fine old.” Discovering that it did, they showed their approbation of her good sense and truthfulness by drinking it up. They then carried off the silver.
The soldiers, in their march through Georgia, and thus far into South Carolina, had acquired a wonderful skill in finding treasures. They had two kinds of “divining-rods,” negroes, and bayonets. What the unfaithful servants of the rich failed to reveal, the other instruments, by thorough and constant practice, were generally able to discover. On the night of the fire, a thousand men could be seen, in the yards and gardens of Columbia, by the glare of the flames, probing the earth with bayonets. “Not one twentieth part of the articles buried in this city escaped them,” Mr. Gibbes assured me.
The fire was seen at immense distances. A gentleman living eighty-five miles north of Columbia, told me he could see to read in his garden that night by the light it gave.
The dismay and terror of the inhabitants can scarcely be conceived. They had two enemies, the fire in their houses and the soldiery without. Many who attempted to bear away portions of their goods were robbed by the way. Trunks and bundles were snatched from the hands of hurrying fugitives, broken open, rifled, and then hurled into the flames. Ornaments were plucked from the necks and arms of ladies, and caskets from their hands. Even children and negroes were robbed.
Fortunately the streets of Columbia were broad, else many of the fugitives must have perished in the flames which met them on all sides. The exodus of homeless families, flying between walls of fire, was a terrible and piteous spectacle. I have already described a similar scene in a Reminiscence of Chambersburg, and shall not dwell upon this. The fact that these were the wives and children and flaming homes of our enemies, does not lessen the feeling of sympathy for the sufferers. Some fled to the parks; others to the open ground without the city; numbers sought refuge in the graveyards. Isolated and unburned dwellings were crowded to excess with fugitives. “On Saturday morning,” said Mayor Gibbes, “there were two hundred women and children in this house.”
Three fifths of the city in bulk, and four fifths in value, were destroyed. The loss of property is estimated at thirty millions. No more respect seems to have been shown for buildings commonly deemed sacred, than for any others. The churches were pillaged, and afterwards burned. St. Mary’s College, a Catholic institution, shared their fate. The Catholic Convent, to which had been confided for safety many young ladies, not nuns, and stores of treasure, was ruthlessly sacked. The soldiers drank the sacramental wine, and profaned with fiery draughts of vulgar whiskey the goblets of the communion service. Some went off reeling under the weight of priestly robes, holy vessels, and candlesticks.