A woman's war record, 1861-1865

by Septima M. Collis

GENL. GRANT AND STAFF—CITY POINT, 1864-5. TAKEN IN THE FIELD.

It was on the memorable second of April, 1865 (Sunday), about daylight, that my husband asked me whether I would not like to jump on my horse and go to the front to see a battle, which he felt sure would take place that day; he assured me that whatever might befall him, I would not be in the slightest danger. It was a damp, disagreeable morning, and, as my daughter was only convalescing, I said: “No, I am afraid to leave the child.” Well! I slept on; when suddenly I heard such a roar of cannon as made every timber in my little house tremble and vibrate from cellar to roof. I dressed quickly, for my utter ignorance of what was going on made me imagine all kinds of terrible things, and the hospital nurse only served further to demoralize me, exclaiming every moment: “I am not afraid, but we are not safe here.” From my front-door I distinctly saw the flash of the cannon; and twenty-four eventful years have not effaced from my memory those bursts of vivid lightning and the continuous roar of angry thunder, while the whole air was black with smoke from the burning tobacco-warehouses in Petersburg.

You can imagine that this was a day to me of great anxiety. I looked out upon my husband’s camp, and found it was deserted. He had slipped away with his brigade, gone to the front, and I had not known it. He preferred that I should not know it. City Point had but a few soldiers left to protect the government stores, and General Grant’s head-quarters were occupied only by his Adjutant-General, Colonel Bowers, and Mr. President Lincoln.[A] I got immediately into the saddle, and, with my trusty orderly, was not long in placing myself within view of the fighting. The cannonading was dying out, but the small-arms kept up their fusillade; the black column of smoke was still steadily ascending, several houses were in flames, and the whole town seemed to be enshrouded in a white vapor cloud, common, I suppose, to all battle-fields. Ambulances were coming to the rear laden with the unfortunate wounded, and some who were not wounded, I regret to say, were also facing the wrong way; and of these cowards I was deadly afraid, always changing my course to avoid them. I could learn nothing more of our brigade, than that they had stormed the works early in the morning, had been successful, and were still holding them. Evening came! Night came! and in the shadow of the doomed city, with its glare of smouldering ruins lit up occasionally by the flash from a cannon or the explosion of a shell, sat two anxious figures on horseback, hoping against hope for some word of comfort. Finally, I gave it up, and returned to my sick child. Was I widowed? Was my husband lying in the trenches suffering from some horrible wound, and I not near him? Oh, what an anxious night! Colonel Bowers and Mr. Lincoln were still at City Point. I could only learn from them that, so far, our army had been victorious, but they knew nothing of what I wanted most to hear. The few men in camp were in high glee, cheering and singing and lighting bonfires, but my little household knew not whether to be joyous or sad. Ours was an awful suspense, which seemed an eternity. Daylight found me in the saddle again, and in half an hour I was at the house of good old Mrs. Bott, whose property, near Petersburg, my husband had always carefully protected, and from whom I frequently purchased butter and eggs. If my husband was alive and well, I knew he would stop here on his return, just as I knew he would expect to find me there awaiting him. Here I learned that our brigade had made a desperate charge, and that Mr. Collis’ own regiment, with which he led the assault, had suffered severely, three of his favorite officers having been killed, Captain Eddy and Lieutenants Cunningham and Marion, all gallant soldiers who had risen from the ranks of his old “independent” company, and all of whom on that fatal Sunday morning had every reason to believe that the war was substantially over, and that they would soon return to their homes. Poor Captain Eddy I saw just before he died; the bullet had torn away a portion of his skull, and he never recovered consciousness. Oh, how sickening, in these days of peace, come the memories of those ensanguined hours! Learning the direction in which the brigade was returning, I rode on at a rapid pace, my young heart full of gratitude for God’s mercy to me while others had been made to so severely suffer, when suddenly, just as the troops came within sight, to my horror I found myself in the midst of a shower of bullets, whizzing thick and fast around my ears like the buzzing of angry wasps. Only the presence of mind of my faithful orderly saved my life. “Follow me,” he cried, and, in less time than it takes to write it, we and our horses were in a ravine or quarry at the road-side, where we remained until the firing had ceased. Was it the enemy? Was I to be captured? After all, were these rebels and not Union soldiers whom I had seen as I looked through the strip of trees which separated us? They proved to be my husband’s own men, firing into the timber to empty their loaded muskets, and thus save the trouble of drawing the loads. I will not repeat the elegant “army” language which my spouse used on that occasion, but I assure you the firing promptly ceased, and he galloped up to receive my congratulations on his safety. But he was a sorry sight, literally covered from head to foot with cakes of mud—his high top-boots full of it, and his hair matted with it. His beautiful white horse, which he could not take with him into the trenches, was the only clean thing in the entire command. The brigade had lain literally “in the last ditch” the whole night, and the ditch, he told me, had six inches of water in it.

THE FIELD LINE AND STAFF OF OUR REGIMENT. TAKEN IN FRONT OF PETERSBURG, VA.—BEFORE THE FIGHT.

Quite a humorous and yet pathetic incident occurred during our ride back. We overtook a negro soldier very badly wounded in the arm, but marching proudly erect to City Point, still carrying his gun, cartridge-box, and haversack. Mr. Collis told him to throw these encumbrances away, but he refused, and then upon being ordered to do so, begged most earnestly to be permitted to retain them, because, as he expressed it, “I don’t want de fellows at de hospital to mistake me for a teamster.” We were soon home and in camp, and having eaten a hearty breakfast, Mr. Collis donned his only remaining suit of clothes and by direction of General Grant started for Richmond, which had been evacuated by Jefferson Davis and was then being entered by our troops. A little party of distinguished sight-seers had just come down from the North, little anticipating the exciting scenes in store for them; they consisted of “Prince” John Van Buren and his charming daughter, Mrs. Stoughton and General and Colonel Stoughton, Mr. Arthur Leary, Mrs. Paran Stevens, Miss Reed, and some others whose names I regret to have forgotten. It did not take long to supply the entire party with horses, saddles, and side-saddles, and getting aboard a steamer in the harbor, we went as far up the river as the torpedoes would permit (I think the place was called Rockett’s), and then rode with our cavalry escort right into the city of Richmond, though the last mile was in a drenching rain, which wet us all to the skin. The capital of the Confederacy really did seem evacuated, and save for the fact that every now and then there was a slamming of a door or shutter with an unmistakable emphasis of the contempt in which we were held by the lady on the other side, one would have supposed that the inhabitants had entirely abandoned it. Riding at a quick canter, we did not rein up until we reached the residence of Mr. Davis himself, where we found some of the colored servants still in possession, who received us with civility and helped us to dry our clothes. Having done this (to a certain extent), we rode around to the Capitol, the horrible and filthy Libby Prison, the burning district, and other places of interest and returned home in the evening, quite proud of the fact that we were the first Northern women to enter the beleaguered city.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF PETERSBURG, VA., APRIL, 1865.

While the people of the North were celebrating with guns and brass bands and bunting the capture of Petersburg and the evacuation of Richmond, while every loyal city was dressed in its holiday attire, and its inhabitants were intoxicated with joy, the chain of events at City Point “all of which I saw, and part of which I was,” kept me still within the gloom and shadow of the war, while those removed from its actual presence were merry-making in the brilliance of the victory. City Point became one vast hospital for suffering humanity. As far as the eye could reach from the door-step of my humble home, the plain was dotted with tents which were rapidly filled with wounded men, Northern and Southern, white and black without distinction; army surgeons, and volunteer physicians just arrived, were kept sleeplessly at work; hospital nurses and the good Samaritans of the Sanitary Commission, laden with comforts for the sick and wounded, were passing to and fro, and amidst them all strode the tall gaunt figure of Abraham Lincoln, his moistened eyes even more eloquent than the lips, which had a kindly word of cheer for every sufferer. I had met Mr. Lincoln a few days before the crisis of which I am writing arrived, and was glad to know that he remembered me. My husband, who was present, asked him en passant how long he intended to remain with the army; “Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, with as much caution as though he were being interviewed for publication, “I am like the western pioneer who built a log-cabin. When he commenced he didn’t know how much timber he would need, and when he had finished, he didn’t care how much he had used up”; and then added with a merry laugh: “So you see I came down among you without any definite plans, and when I go home I sha’n’t regret a moment I have spent with you.”

About this time a very touching incident occurred, which serves, as well as any anecdote yet told, to illustrate that “charity for all and malice toward none” were not mere “words” with Abraham Lincoln, but that they were a part of his very nature and being.