70 or 80 Pairs of Mittens

The entry is from Blue-Eyed Child of Fortune, The Civil War Letters of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, edited by Russell Duncan.  Later in the war Shaw would become the colonel in command of the all-black 54th Regiment,  but that was still a couple of years off.  Christmas time 1861 he was  second lieutenant with the 2nd Massachusetts Infantry.

Shaw was from a privileged background, which helps explain this entry..

Camp Hicks, near Frederick Maryland, 3 1/2 o’clock

December 25, 1861

. . . Also, tell the girls that Harry would be very much obliged if they would send him seventy or eighty pairs of mittens.  I heard him say he would like to have some.   The men were all glad to get them, though, as usual, they didn’t express their thanks.  They get so many things that they are spoilt, and think thy have a right to all these extras.  Thirteen dollars per month, with board, lodging, and clothes, is more than nine men out of ten could make at home.  Poor soldiers!  Poor drumsticks!  But this is not the sort of language for me to use, who am supposed to stand in the light of half  mother to the men of my company. I should like about fifteen more pairs mittens; and some warm flannel shirts and drawers would be very useful, if there are any spare ones.  “Uncle Sam’s” are miserable things.  “Merry Christmas” and love to all  . . .

Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, May 1863, photograph, Boston Athenaeum

Christmas 1861 with the Kosciusko, Indiana Guards

This entry is from the Journal of the Kosciusko Guards [Indiana] • Company E • 12th Regiment, written by William S. Hemphill, Transcribed by Marjorie Priser as found at Kosciusko County Indiana Yesteryear in Print website (http://yesteryear.clunette.com/kosguard6.html)

It is Christmas Eve! The cold wind sweeps in fitful gusts around the lowly cot of the poor, and piles the snow in mimic mountains at the door of the rich. The inmates draw close to the bright fireside and laugh and chat merrily over the return of the day so anxiously looked for in childhood, as each succeeding year brings its "Merry Christmas", its friendly greetings, and its tokens of love and friendship to each one in the home circle. But, in how many homes is there a vacant chair to-night? In how many beaming faces is there a shadow of sadness, stealing in between the smiles? And why? A father, a husband, a brother, or a son is not there. Why is that chair vacant tonight of all nights! Come with me to the banks of the Potomac, to the fields of Kentucky, or to the broad prairies of Missouri, and you shall have your answer.

"A Merry Christmas!" Tis the old familiar greeting! Echoed from tent to tent, throughout the camp. It passes around the guard line. The sentinel on duty, whose unceasing tramp tramp tramp was keeping time to his thoughts, looks around him while a bright smile illuminates his face, which is bronzed by exposure to the sun and the elements, he passes the magic words to his comrades, and resumes his wearying walk and watch, while his thoughts, at a bound, go back to the cheerful cottage so far away, where he knows his loved ones are assembled, and in his heart he greets their wish "A Merry Christmas". Look at him now, as he calls up fond recollections of home, and you would think his heart had never known a care; that the face, now so cheerful and bright, had never worn the fierce look of determination; that the eye, now so gentle in its expression, that perchance you may detect a truant tear, rolling slowly down the brown cheek, had never blazed with the fire of passion as he glanced along the trusty rifle, now held so lovingly to his bosom, (as though it were one of the loved ones, of whom he is thinking) with the determination to send its death-dealing contents to the heart of some luckless foe-man.

Those cheering words, which brought such bright visions of happiness in childhood, still wield a magic influence over the heart of the soldier, and place him once more, in imagination, within the walls of home. But it is only the reflected joys of former years that causes his heart to beat quicker, and causes the smile to linger upon his lips. Lay aside the ideal and look at the real. All is changed. Christmas brings to the soldier none of the festivities, or unions and merrymakings that it brings to the citizens at home. He only enjoys in imagination the bright scenes, the memories of the past; while they, greeted by loved ones at every step, forget the cares of life for the time being, and mingle in scenes of mirth and pleasure.

Instead of the holiday they enjoy, the soldier has the same weary routine of duty to perform. Whilst the citizen is looking for a cherished friend, a loved brother or sister, to spend the day with him in pleasant festivities, the soldier is watching for the approach of a subtle enemy, whose appearance would probably mean the approach of the "grim monster" to one, or both. Whilst the one is watching to guard against a pleasant susprise by some loved one, which would only call forth a happy laugh, the other is watching to guard against a surprise which would call forth all the fierce elements in man's nature strife, bloodshed and death.

The one takes his place at the festal board and partakes of the luxuries of the season; while the other has the poor pittance of coarse food that is doled out to him by the government he is defending, and on which he is expected to subsist, month after month without uttering a complaint. And yet there are those who spend their lives in ease, enjoying the blessings and privileges, the soldier has sacrificed so much to secure to those, who will say "A soldier's life is a life of pleasure." It is; and the man is unworthy [of] the name of soldier, or the proud title of American Citizen, who does not take pleasure in discharging the duties assigned him; though those duties should require him to face storms and danger, and even death. It is a proud pleasure to know that he is doing his whole duty; but it is not the kind of pleasure that is found by the home fireside.

In camp, the holiday passes slowly away. Perhaps some lucky one has procured some little luxury, which is shared with all, so far as it will reach, and while the loved ones are gathered around the cheerful hearthstone, in the cozy room at home, the soldier draws his blanket about him, and whilst a comrade keeps up the weary watch and tramp tramp tramp he sits down by the camp fire to think of, and talk of the loved ones at home; of the happy hours he has spent with them, and of their probable enjoyment of "Merry Christmas". And deep down in his heart he sighs and wonders if they are thinking of him, if they regret his absence. But time passes; "Taps" have sounded. All is quiet in camp save that unceasing tramp tramp tramp of the sentinel on his lonely beat.

Let us look into this tent. There lies a soldier, with his coarse blanket drawn around him, resting his wearied form on the cold, damp ground, with nothing but this thin bit of canvas to shelter him from the storm. He sleeps. Yes, just as soundly and sweetly as those who are resting upon beds of down, at home. Watch his features and read his thoughts. A bright smile steals over his bronzed features. He mingles again with his loved ones around the festal board. Hears again the old, familiar voices, as they ring out with their "Merry Christmas" greeting. Again he sits by the fireside and joins in the innocent amusements of the occasion. But see! The smile is gone, the scene has changed. The bright visions of home have fled. A step or the challenge of the sentinel falls on the ear that is always open to detect the sound of approaching danger. Look again. Would you recognize those features now? A look of defiance, of hatred, of stern determination rests now where you so lately found a bright smile. See! His hand grasps his trusty rifle which is always by his side and with a start he awakes and finds 'tis but a dream!

Don't go yet. Wait. Again he sleeps, and again he dreams of home and loved ones. Hark! What sound is that? Like a flash he springs to his feet and as the "long-roll" swells out on the midnight air, with rifle in hand he rushes forth to join his comrades in repelling a night attack. The commands are given in a low firm voice; a cautious movement is made; a whispered "there they are" is heard; then, "Steady men!" and then - the rifles are pouring forth their deadly contents! The splintering fire; the hoarse commands; the shouts and cheers of the combatants; the shrieks and groans of the wounded and dying; the roar of artillery; the bursting of shells, and the clashing of arms, all mingle together in an indescribable roar, which once heard can never be forgotten. See there! Would you recognize in that powder blackened image the features of the loved and loving one we were gazing upon but a moment ago?

"Charge!" The effect is like that produced by a current of electricity as it passes through the ranks. With a shout of defiance to the foe he rushes forward unmindful of danger. The bright flash is seen, the sharp report of the rifle is heard; he staggers forward a few steps, reels and falls! His life blood is turning the snow to a bright crimson. Again he essays to go forward; but Death orders him to "halt". With a last effort his rifle is raised to his cheek; a wild light gleams from his eyes as his last leaden messenger speeds on its mission of death.

The rifle falls from his hands; his eyes are turned toward Heaven; his lips move; Listen! He breathes a prayer. The name of some loved one lingers on his lips. Now he catches the sound of familiar voices. They call him back from the land of shadows. With a last effort he raises his hand as they approach and with his fast failing strength he joins in the glad shout of "Victory!" a triumphant smile playing upon his features. His men-mates gather around. Gently they bear him back to camp. Tenderly they gaze upon his face and minister to his wants. Sadly they bend over him to catch from his lips the last message to the loved ones at home. A moment more and the soldier's Merry Christmas is closed in death. He has gone on his last march. Has stood his last guard. Has fought his last battle, and spoken for the last time of home and loved ones. While those dear ones at home are perhaps speaking his name and indulging the fond hope that he will soon return. Tears roll down their manly cheeks. All his faults are carried with him; his virtues only are remembered. Sadly his name is spoken as they linger around the camp fire; and often do they speak of the vacant seat in that far off home, which will never again be filled and of the cheerful voice which greeted them with "Mery Christmas!" now forever hushed.

Time rolls along and while the "Home Guard" speaks with enthusiasm of the pleasures of a soldier's life, he has the weary, monotonous duties to perform, cheered occasionally by a letter from home, a token by which he knows that he is not forgotten. Cheered at all times by the knowledge that loving hearts yearn for his safe return; that a mother's, a sister's, a wife's, or a sweetheart's prayers go up to the throne of Grace by day and by night, in his behalf. But above all things cheered by the knowledge that he is discharging his duty to his God and his country. With the bright dreams of the future and of fame ever before him, he goes steadily forward in the discharge of duty, expecting a safe return to home and loved ones, where he can fight his battles over by the fireside, surrounded by their dear familiar faces, when Time again brings in his train the "Merry Christmas" greetings.

January 3, 1863 cover of Harper's Weekly, one of the first depictions of Santa Claus

Long and Loose In The Joints

This entry is from Diary of a Union Lady 1861 - 1865 edited by Harold Earl Hammond.

This is from the diary of Maria Lydig Daly, wife of a justice of the Court of Common Pleas in New York City.  She is not a fan of Lincoln, as you will see by this quote, which was a common opinion in New York City at the time.

December 19, 1861

Lincoln is mentally what he is physically, long and loose in the joints.  He cannot gather himself up easily for an effort, but all agree he is a conscientious, honest fellow, most unfit for his high position, not realizing the peril of the country, content to be President and have Mrs. Lincoln dress herself up and hold levees. . . . She is not a young woman by any means, but dresses like one and rather bullies her husband, which they say accounts for his meekness.  The people of Springfield say that she was often heard crying from her doorstep:  "Abraham, Abraham, we want a bushel of potatoes."

The Life of a Book that Survived Two Wars and a Great Lake

Sometimes the history of a book can be as interesting as the book itself. I recently came across such a book --  a book that reveals its story through names, dates and places written inside and placed on labels.  There is even an interesting piece of paper stuck between the pages -- but I will get to that later.. The name of the book?  Arctic Explorations in the Years 1853, ’54 ‘55 by Elisha Kent Kane, Volume II copyright 1857.

The first owner of the book could have been the U. S. Government, and if not, then likely John James Abert, Chief of the Topographical Bureau at Washington, and colonel in command of that branch of engineers.  Abert is associated in the supervision of many earlier national engineering works and map making projects.  It would be appropriate that he would have a copy of Elisha Kent Kane’s book.

John James Abert

Inside the front of book a light yellow label has been adhered, most likely being the label used when this book was shipped from Washington where Abert was.  In the right upper right hand corner:  “On Official Business , Bureau Topopgraphy,” then in different handwriting J. J. Abert., Col. Corps. T E. (Colonel of the Corps of Topographical Engineers).   This yellow label has a postmark dated Feb. 9, 1857 and says “Washington Free”.

Close-up of the postmark

It appears to be the actual handwriting of Abert on this envelope when compared to a sample of Abert’s signature found online in a couple of places.  Here is one I found in the Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution, 1897. 

Abert may have even known Elisha Kent Kane. After all, they were both explorers in their own fields.   An interesting aside is that Kane died seven days after the postmark found in this book, on February 16, 1857, at the age of 36, while in Havana traveling for his health.

Now we come to the second owner of this book, Joseph Adams Potter. 

Joseph Adams Potter

The yellow label is addressed to Adjutant  J.A. Potter, Survey of the N W Lakes, Detroit Michigan.  J A Potter’s name is also written on the title page of the book, along with the date, 1857.  At the time Potter received the book he was working as a surveyor on Lake Superior, under then Captain George Meade, a name with which you may be familiar, because he later was a Major General during the Civil War.   And this surveyor would also became an officer  -- a brevet general --  and a quartermaster in the Union army during the Civil War.  Possibly Abert sent Potter this book since his bore similarities to Potter’s own work as a surveyor in the north waters.

The Civil War arrived, and during the war the now quartermaster Potter moved around as soldiers are apt to do. Did the book go with him?  

When the war ended Potter continued to act in the capacity of a quartermaster, and in 1867 found himself stationed in Galveston, Texas.  Much to his bad luck, there was a yellow fever epidemic while he was there, and he was not spared. One day he was attacked by the fever and on the evening of the third day he was pronounced dying.  He had a young wife and an infant son, and they both caught the fever, too.  The night Potter was pronounced dying the fever took a favorable turn, and he lived.  When he was well enough to leave his bed twelve day later, he found that his wife, his commanding general, and his two body servants were all dead, and no one left but his little boy.  His house was in the hands of servants and strangers, and every trunk and drawer ransacked, and many valuables gone.  But not the book.

Was the book with Potter in Galveston?  We’ll never know for sure, but we can surmise the next and third owner, is Potter’s son H. W. Potter (Howard), the little boy who survived the Yellow Fever.  His label is in the front of the book.  H. W. grew up, married, and had two daughters who were born in Streator Illinois.  And when H.W. came to Streator the book must have come with him, some time in the late 1800’s.

Now we come to the fourth owner.  This is F. L. (Frank) Angier.  Just how did he get it? My guess is that he bought it as a used book, or perhaps even was given it.  A bookplate in the front of the book shows that Angier lived or worked in Kangley, Illinois, which is not far away from Streator, Illinois, where H W Potter lived.

Angier was also in the army, a Colonel during the Spanish American War, and his name is written in the book, along with Major General Matthew Calbraith Butler’s name.

My speculation is that during the Spanish American War Angier worked for Major General Matthew Calbraith Buter.  Butler’s name is in the same handwriting as Angier’s and it doesn’t appear to be Butler’s handwriting, and so was probably written there by Angier.

Butler has an interesting past, too. From South Carolina, he is a famous Civil War Confederate cavalry officer, related to prominent people of the south, has Revoluntary War heroes as ancestors, and married the daughter of Governor F. W. Pickens.  After the Civil War he was elected to the United State Senate, and later appointed a major-general in the volunteer army of the United States, for the war with Spain.  That’s when this book must have been in his hands, when  he was at Camp Alger, Virginia.

Matthew Calbraith Butler

After the Spanish American war Angier must have retained the book for some time.  Inside the book I found a little slip of paper, a campaign advertisement if you will, for the 24^th Annual Encampment of the U. S. W. V. (United Spanish War Veterans).  It says . “F.L. Angier, Let us vote for ‘Friday’ on Saturday.  Angier ran for some office during this encampment that probably took place in 1923.  This means Angier owned the book for at least 25 years, and maybe longer.

So there you have it.  A book with ties to one great lake and at least two wars, and some people of note in America’s past.

You may ask, how is it that I have this book.  Serendipity I suppose. It was a part of a group of books that sat in an old railroad depot in the Midwest, not far from Streator, untouched, for many years, and finally sold at auction a few months back.  Will the book’s history revealed end here?  I don’t know, but it has come a long way already.

A Confederate Woman's Rights Considered

This appeared in the Clarksville Chronicle, December 20, 1861, regarding the consideration of the woman's right to vote and a fine on women for entrapping men.

In the legislature of Tennessee, upon the consideration of bill No. 94; to protect the property of femes covert:


Mr. Fleming offered the following amendment to the bill:
Be it further enacted, That in all popular elections in this State, every unmarried woman, being the owner of taxable property, shall be entitled to vote as male citizens are now authorized by law to vote; and every married woman, having separate property, whose husband may be insolvent, shall, in like manner, be entitled to vote, and the husband of such woman is hereby disfranchised.


Mr. Rankin offered the following amendment to the amendment:
Be it enacted by the General Assembly of the State of Tennessee, That all women, of whatever age, rank, profession, or degree, whether virgin, maid, or widow, that shall, from and after the passage of this act, impose upon, seduce, or betray into marriage any male subject in the Confederate States of America, and particularly in the State of Tennessee, by the means of scents, paints, cosmetics, washes, artificial teeth, false hair, Spanish wool, iron stays, high-heeled shoes, or bolstered hips, shall be guilty of misdemeanor, and upon conviction, shall be fined in the sum of $100, and imprisoned at the discretion of the court trying the cause.|


On motion of Mr. Speaker Keeble, (Mr. Estes in the chair,) the amendments were laid upon the table.

The newspaper's comments on this second paragraph: 

Now wouldn't it create a flutteration among the women if that bill were to pass! But it didn't, ladies. You can go on taking the boys in.

 Farm Women take a moment from their sewing at Cedar Mountain, Georgia (from Library of Congress)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Father and Sons Become Enemies

This contents of this entry can be found at the Wisconsin Historical Society's Website (http://www.wisconsinhistory.org) , and is called "Father and Sons Become Enemies."  It is from a diary entry dated December 18, 1861.

"In the fall of 1861, blacksmith William Moore of Black River Falls was chosen captain of Company G, 10th Wisconsin Infantry. It left for Louisville, Kentucky, on October 8. Near Leesville, Kentucky, Moore learned about the sad realities of a divided Southern family. On December 18, 1861, he writes in his diary about a Kentucky father and his sons who chose to fight on opposite sides of the war."

Here I learned from a citizen the history of a family who present a sad picture of the deplorable effects of civil war. The Father and two sons, each feeling a desire to do something for their country according to their individual notions of right, enlisted; the two sons in the Union army, and the Father in the Rebel army. The two sons expostulated with the Father, but to no purpose, when one of the sons addressed his father in the following language.

"Father, if we meet in battle and you get your gun to your face to shoot, and find that you got sight on one [of us], don't take it down until you have pulled the trigger. For as I live, I shall know no man as a friend who is an enemy to my country, and the cause I am fighting for."

Shaking hands they parted, to meet perhaps in the deadly conflict. Such are the deplorable consequences of one Brother going to war with another.

 Source: Moore, William P. "Civil War Diary, 1861-1862," pages 13-14.

Two unidentified soldiers in Union artillery shell jackets, photo from the Library of Congress

The Confederate Flag of 1861

This entry is from the Richmond Dispatch from December 7, 1861, (as found in the Rebellion Record by Frank Moore), concerning the Confederate flag. Interestingly, this article is not referring to the flag we are accustomed to seeing and is commonly known as the Confederate flag ("the Stainless banner"), but an earlier version ("the Stars and Bars.")  The Stainless banner wasn't adopted as the official Confederate flag until 1863.

The adoption of our present flag was a natural, but most pernicious blunder.  As the old flag itself was not the author of our wrongs, we tore off a piece of the dear old rag and set it up as a standard.  We took it for granted a flag was a divisible thing, and proceeded to set off our proportion. So we took, at a rough calculation, our share of the stars and our fraction of the stripes, and put them together, and called them the ' Confederate flag.'   Even as Aaron of old put the gold into the fire, and then came out this calf, so certain stars and stripes went into committee, and then came out this flag. All this was honest and fair to a fault. We were clearly entitled to from seven to eleven of the stars, and three or four of the stripes.

Indeed, as we were maintaining the principles it was intended to represent, and the North had abandoned them, we were honestly entitled to the whole flag. Had we kept it, and fought for it and under it, and conquered it from the North, it would have been no robbery, but all right and fair.   And we should either have done this, i.e. kept the flag as a whole, or else we should have abandoned it as a whole and adopted another.  But if we did not choose to assert our title to the whole, was it politic or judicious to split the flag and claim one of the fractions?  We had an equal right, also, to ' Hail Columbia' and' Yankee Doodle.'  We might have adopted a part of ' Yankee Doodle' (say every third stanza), or else 'Yankee Doodle' with variations, as our national air. In the choice of an air we were not guilty of this absurdity, but we have perpetrated one exactly parallel to it in the choice of a national flag. There is no exaggeration in the illustration. It seems supremely ridiculous, yet it scarcely does our folly justice.

There is but one feature essential to a flag, and that is distinctness. Beauty, appropriateness, good taste, are all desirable; but the only thing indispensable is distinctness, — wide, plain, unmistakable distinction from other flags. Unfortunately, this indispensable thing is just the thing which the Confederate flag lacks; and failing in this, it is a lamentable and total failure, absolute and irredeemable.

The failure is in a matter of essence. It is as complete as that of writing which cannot be read, of a gun which cannot be shot, of a coat which cannot be worn. It is the play of Hamlet with the part of Hamlet left out. A flag which does not distinguish may be a very nice piece of bunting; it may be handsomely executed, tasteful, expressive, and a thousand other things, but it has no title at all to bear the name of ' flag.'

We knew the flag we had to fight; yet, instead of getting as far from it, we were guilty of the huge mistake of getting as near to it as possible. We sought similarity, adopting a principle diametrically wrong, we made a flag as nearly like theirs as could only under favorable circumstances, be distinguished from it.  Under unfavorable circumstances (such as constantly occur in practice), the two flags are indistinguishable. In the wars of the Roses in Great Britain, one side adopted the white and the other the red rose. Suppose that one side had adopted milk white and the other flesh white, or one a deep pink and the other a lighter shade of pink, would there have been any end to the confusion?

When a body of men is approaching in time of war, it is rather an important matter to ascertain, if practicable, whether they are friends or foes. Certainly no question could well be more radical in its influence upon our actions, plans, and movements. To solve this important question is the object of a flag. When they get near us, there may be other means of information; but to distinguish friends from enemies at a distance is the specific purpose of a flag. Human ingenuity is great, and may conceive some other small purposes, presentations, toasts, speeches, &c.: but that this is the great end of a flag will not be denied; and it is in this that the Confederate flag fails.

There is no case in history in which broad distinction in the symbols of the combatants was more necessary than it has been in the present war. Our enemies are of the same race with ourselves, of the same color and even shade of complexion; they speak the same language, wear like clothing, and are of like form and stature. (The more shame that they should make war upon us !)

Our general appearance being the same, we must rely solely upon symbols for distinction. The danger of mistake is great, after all possible precautions have been taken; sufficient attention has never been paid to this important matter, involving life or death, victory or defeat. Our badges, uniforms, flags, should be perfectly distinguishable from those of the enemy. Our first and distant information is dependent solely on the flag."

The Black Flag is Raised

This entry is from the Memphis Daily Appeal, December 4, 1861.  This was one approach towards the war that was being advocated by some Confederates.

A call to raise the "black flag" in Memphis; the rhetoric and logic of war  We unhesitatingly say that the cause of justice and the cause of humanity itself, demands that the black flag shall be unfurled on every battlefield-that extermination and death shall be proclaimed against the hellish miscreants who persist in polluting our soil with their crimes. We will stop the effusion of blood, we will arrest the horrors of war, by terrific slaughter of the foe, by examples of overwhelming and unsparing vengeance. When Olive Cromwell massacred the garrison at Drogheda, suffering not a man to escape, he justified it on the ground that his object was to bring the war to a close-to stop the effusion of blood-and, that it was, therefore, a merciful act on his part. The South can afford no longer to trifle-she must strike the most fearful blows-the war-cry of extermination must be raised.

Putting It Down in Black and White

This entry comes from Vanity Fair, July 18, 1861, and concerns an slave woman disguised as a soldier.

. .. An exchange, published somewhere in the country, fills out a column with this sublime statement::  A slave woman has been discovered in one of the Ohio regiments.  She was discharged.  

That is all.  Clear, Quiet, and simple in language, thrilling in meaning, and totally incomprehensible of understanding, we present it to our readers just as we find it.  Our eyes do not deceive us. 


A black woman has passed herself off for a white soldier.  Shade of Jasper!  What a metamorphosis.  Was she whitewashed?  Did she "paint an inch thick" to come "to that complexion?"  How did she pass the medical examination unsuspected?  What was her object?  Did she wear a beard?  The more questions we ask, the more profound our mystification grows.  Is it an enigma, a conundrum?  What Is It?  We give it up.  But, if this sort of thing is prevalent, what regiment is safe from these female ethiopan Jaspers?   How do we know that our army, which we have loved and esteemed so much, is not largely composed of negro wenches!  Can anybody swear the Brigadier-General Pierce is not a colored maiden in disguise?  If he is, let him also be discharged, and speedily.


Seriously, it doesn't seem likely that this can be a very common case. Jasper's was not and Munchausen's adventures were unique.  Let us hope that the Ohio regiment is the only one in whose ranks a Chloe or a Phyllis has found even a temporary asylum, and let us rejoice that in that case "she was discharged."  It is probably that McAhone's (?) army alone boasts of an organization of "light quadroons;" and that we can put down rebellion better than by Putting it Down in Black and White.

Brigadier-General Byron Root Pierce