Thursday, April 16.—At 7:30 left Richmond and arrived at Gordonsville at 1 P.M.; stopped at Mann’s Hotel. Gordonsville is a miserable looking place now. There has been so much rain lately, and the roads have been cut up with the travel and passing of army teams and trains, so that it is little else than a mud-hole.
Saturday, April 18.—Paid Mann’s bill, $7.50. There are but six of us now, as Frank Fox left us and remained at Barboursville. MacWooster hitched up a wagon, agreeing to take us to Madison Court House for $5 each. We reached Madison Court House about dark and went to a hotel kept by Mr. Seal. Here we were very comfortable—good beds and an excellent table.
Sunday, April 19.—Madison Court House is a very pretty little place, well situated, and commanding a beautiful view of the Blue Ridge and surrounding country. There are two or three churches and a fine court house. The houses are neat and comfortable. After dinner paid Mr. Seal. Our bill for supper, breakfast and dinner, was $4.50.
MacWooster said he would carry us as far as Criglersville, about six miles distant, and there leave us to foot it. The drive along the road was very pleasant, particularly after striking Robertson River, a beautiful clear stream with a swift current, which comes down from the mountains.
“Now, boys,” said Mac, as he bid us good-bye at a ford on the Robertson River, “you’ve got a rough road before you, and a poor country to travel through. Take my advice and stop for the night at Matt. Graves’s. His house is near the foot of the mountain. He is one of the finest men in the country. He will treat you well and give you the best he has in his house.” We afterward found good reason to be thankful for having taken this friendly advice.
When we reached the house which we supposed was to be our haven of rest, we saw a man riding up to the stable, and on accosting him found he was Mr. Graves. He invited us to his house, where he regaled us with a good drink and a bottle for our day’s journey on the morrow. This he said we would find needful before we got far on our road, for he not only repeated MacWooster’s warning as to the hardships awaiting us, but also said he feared the weather would prove unfavorable and add to our discomfort.
Monday, April 20.—At Mr. Graves’s there is a little fellow about the size, age and appearance of my youngest son, Bernardin. Seeing him playing around and fondling on his father it brought to mind thoughts of home—thoughts of home and its comforts; of the dear ones there; of the sad hearts I left, and of the glad hearts to greet me on my return. I could hardly resist the temptation to pick up the little one without saying a word, but I feared he would cry, so I made friends with him by showing him a ring on my finger, and so coaxed him on until I had banished any fears he might have. All the time I was there I could scarcely keep my eyes off him.
Paid Mr. Graves $2 each for supper, bed and breakfast, and started to cross the mountain at Milani’s Gap. We were told it was ten miles from Mr. Graves’s to the top of the ridge and six miles to the foot on the other side. Rain set in last night and this morning the clouds are very heavy, enveloping the mountains completely. The road takes a zigzag course up the slope, which is quite steep in many places. A great portion of the way we followed along the Robertson River. The scenery, as well as we could see it through the mist, appeared grand. It was mountains piled on mountains—an ocean of ridges. In some places we could travel for a long distance and then throw a stone to the place we started from. A number of huts are scattered through this mountain region, but the people are almost as wild as Indians, and it was impossible to obtain refreshments of any kind along the road.
When about four miles from the top rain again set in, and we tramped along through the driving storm. In some places, endeavoring to save distance, we would leave the main road and climb up the steep sides until we struck into the road at some point higher up. We had to ford the swift mountain streams, or cross on an old log or fallen tree, where, as also in clambering along the narrow footpath, a false step, the turning of a stone or the breaking of a limb, and one would have been precipitated into the foaming current which dashed on among the rocks. In those mountain storms a tiny stream which winds along like a silvery thread in fair weather, is in less than an hour transformed into a raging torrent, sweeping off everything in its course.
On nearing the top we fell in with a man who was traveling through the country buying up cattle and forage for the Confederate Government. He kept in company with us until we reached Marksville. Hearing a noise which sounded like the rumbling of a wagon train coming down the road, we listened and finally concluded it either proceeded from a subterranean stream which flowed through the mountains or that roaring which usually precedes a mountain storm.