The Siege of Vicksburg As Experienced by a Woman

Emma Kline

 Hundreds of women served at Vicksburg in one way or another. A Confederate woman named Emma Kline was arrested for smuggling, and a Union nurse known as “Mother Bickerdyke” faced sexism from doctors while caring for the wounded of both sides. At least three women disguised themselves as men and served as soldiers while other women worked as laundresses. Former slaves became paid servants (aka “pet niggers”) to Union soldiers, and currently enslaved women braved the bombardment to prepare food, wash laundry, and run errands for their cave-dwelling mistresses. Women also numbered among Vicksburg’s war diarists. Among them were Emma Balfour, a Mississippi-born Confederate; Alice Shirley, a Mississippi-born Unionist; Dora Richards Miller, a Northern traveler who had become trapped in the city; and New York born, twenty-six-year-old, Mary Loughborough. This post will contain excerpts (in green font) from the diary of Mary Loughborough.

Mother Bickerdyke

By the time Mary was five, her mother was dead, and Mary was living in a New York City almshouse. By age thirteen, she and her father had moved to St. Louis, Missouri, where she later married James Moore Loughborough, a prominent lawyer. When war came in 1861, Missouri remained true to the Union, but Moore joined the Confederate army. That same year, the couple’s toddler died and Mary and their remaining child began following Moore as his unit moved through Arkansas, Tennessee, and Mississippi. In May, 1863, Mary and two-year-old Jean were in Jackson when word came that Grant was approaching. As the city panicked, they took one of the last trains to Vicksburg where Moore was stationed:

A Transgender Soldier?

The depot was crowded with crushing and elbowing human beings, swaying to and fro—baggage being thrown hither and thither—horses wild with fright, and negroes with confusion; and so we found ourselves in a car, amid the living stream that flowed and surged along—seeking the Mobile cars—seeking the Vicksburg cars—seeking anything to bear them away from the threatened and fast depopulating town.

Upon arriving in Vicksburg, she wrote:

“Ah! Vicksburg, our city of refuge, the last to yield thou wilt be; and within thy homes we will not fear the footstep of the victorious army, but rest in safety amid thy hills! and those whom we love so dearly will comfort and sustain us in our frightened and panic-stricken condition—will laugh away our woman’s fears, and lighten our hearts from the dread and suffering we have experienced.

The Shirley House

Her hope of safety was short-lived for, even as she traveled, the rebel army of John Pemberton was retreating to the Big Black River Bridge where it lost a sixth battle that was meant to stop Grant from reaching the city. After burning the bridge, tens of thousands of hungry and exhausted Confederates streamed into Vicksburg where they were jeered by the city’s frightened women. Meanwhile, Grant’s 77,000-man army was ten miles away crossing the Big Black on inflatable pontoons.

“What can be the matter?” we all cried, as the streets and pavements became full of these worn and tired-looking men. We sent down to ask, and the reply was: “We are whipped; and the Federals are after us.” We hastily seized veils and bonnets, and walked down the avenue to the iron railing that separates the yard from the street. “Where are you going?” we asked. 

Mary Loughborough

“No one seemed disposed to answer the question. An embarrassed, pained look came over some of the faces that were raised to us; others seemed only to feel the weariness of the long march; again we asked: “Where on earth are you going?”

At last one man looked up in a half-surly manner, and answered:

“We are running.”

“From whom?” exclaimed one of the young girls of the house.

“The Feds, to be sure,” said another, half laughing and half shamefaced.

 “Oh! shame on you!” cried the ladies; “and you running!”

“It’s all Pem’s fault,” said an awkward, long-limbed, weary-looking man.

“It’s all your own fault. Why don’t you stand your ground?” was the reply.

“Shame on you all!” cried some of the ladies across the street, becoming excited…

“We are disappointed in you!” 

“Who shall we look to now for protection?”

“Oh!” said one of them, “it’s the first time I ever ran. We are Georgians, and we never ran before; but we saw them all breaking and running, and we could not bear up alone.”

The women’s terror was partly due to the behavior of Grant’s army in northern Mississippi a year earlier when, repulsed by the sight of wealthy planters living on the backs of overworked slaves, and embittered by their heavy losses at Shiloh, entire regiments defied orders to respect civilians and their property. Smoke filled the horizon in every direction as troops burned what they could burn; stole what they could steal; killed pets and livestock; and destroyed family heirlooms.

Even the threat of execution failed to deter men whose officers were their partners in crime, and instead of feeling ashamed, they boasted of their misdeeds in letters home. Another reason for the women’s behavior was that, after a winter spent watching mud-encrusted Northerners skulk in the willows on the far side of the mile-wide Mississippi, many had come to believe the propaganda about hardy Southerners whipping ten times their weight in pasty-faced Yankees. Later that day, the courage of Vicksburg’s women revived when fresh troops arrived from below the city. 

As the troops from Warrenton passed by, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, cheering them, and crying:

“These are the troops that have not run. You’ll stand by us, and protect us, won’t you? You won’t retreat and bring the Federals behind you.”

And the men, who were fresh and lively, swung their hats, and promised to die for the ladies—never to run—never to retreat; while the poor fellows on the pavement, sitting on their blankets—lying on the ground—leaning against trees, or anything to rest their wearied bodies, looked on silent and dejected.

After the war, the Loughborough family settled in Arkansas where Moore served as state senator and Mary published the popular Southern Ladies’ Journal. In 1876, forty-two-year-old Moore committed suicide. Eleven years later, fifty-year-old Mary Ann died of an unknown illness while expanding her magazine, which died with her. What follows are additional excerpts from her 138-page Vicksburg diary, which covers the period from April to July, 1863. Because the entries are undated, I will preface each with an underlined introduction.

The Nighttime Sinking of a Union Troop Transport: The lurid glare from the burning boat fell in red and amber light upon the house, the veranda, and the animated faces turned toward the river—lighting the white magnolias, paling the pink crape myrtles [see photo], and bringing out in bright distinctness the railing of the terrace, where drooped in fragrant wreaths the clustering passion vine: fair and beautiful, but false, the crimson, wavering light. I sat and gazed upon the burning wreck of what an hour ago had thronged with human life; with men whose mothers had this very night prayed for them; with men whose wives tearfully hovered over little beds, kissing each tender, sleeping lid for the absent one. Had this night made them orphans? Did this smooth, deceitful current of the glowing waters glide over forms loved and lost to the faithful ones at home? O mother and wife! ye will pray and smile on, until the terrible tidings come: “Lost at Vicksburg!” Lost at Vicksburg! In how many a heart the name for years will lie like a brand!—lie until the warm heart and tried soul shall be at peace forever.

Pink Crepe Myrtle

Housekeeping: And so I went regularly to work, keeping house under ground. Our new habitation was an excavation made in the earth, and branching six feet from the entrance, forming a cave in the shape of a T. In one of the wings my bed fitted; the other I used as a kind of dressing room; in this the earth had been cut down a foot or two below the floor of the main cave; I could stand erect here; and when tired of sitting in other portions of my residence, I bowed myself into it, and stood impassively resting at full height.

Bombardment: Terror stricken, we remained crouched in the cave, while shell after shell followed each other in quick succession. I endeavored by constant prayer to prepare myself for the sudden death I was almost certain awaited me. My heart stood still as we would hear the reports from the guns, and the rushing and fearful sound of the shell as it came toward us. As it neared, the noise became more deafening; the air was full of the rushing sound; pains darted through my temples; my ears were full of the confusing noise; and, as it exploded, the report flashed through my head like an electric shock, leaving me in a quiet state of terror the most painful that I can imagine—cowering in a corner, holding my child to my heart—the only feeling of my life being the choking throbs of my heart, that rendered me almost breathless. As singly they fell short, or beyond the cave, I was aroused by a feeling of thankfulness that was of short duration.

Union Artillery Battery

The Death of A Child: Sitting in the cave, one evening, I heard the most heartrending screams and moans. I was told that a mother had taken a child into a cave about a hundred yards from us; and having laid it on its little bed, as the poor woman believed, in safety, she took her seat near the entrance of the cave. A mortar shell came rushing through the air, and fell with much force, entering the earth above the sleeping child—cutting through into the cave—oh! most horrible sight to the mother—crushing in the upper part of the little sleeping head, and taking away the young innocent life without a look or word of passing love to be treasured in the mother’s heart.

I could not hear those sobs and cries without thinking of the night—that last night—when I held my darling to my heart, thinking that, though so suddenly stricken and so scared, she would still live to bless my life. And the terrible awakening!—to find that, lying in my arms all my own, as I believed, she was going swiftly—going into the far unknown eternity! Sliding from my embrace, the precious life was called by One so mighty—so all-powerful—yet so merciful, that I bowed my head in silence.

Still the moans from the bereaved mother came borne on the pleasant air, floating through the silvery moonlit scene—saddening hearts that had never known sorrow, and awakening chords of sympathy in hearts that before had thrilled and suffered. Yet, “it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”  

Pretty Airs: That evening some friends sat with me: one took up my guitar and played some pretty little airs for us; yet, the noise of the shells threw a discord among the harmonies. To me it seemed like the crushing and bitter spirit of hate near the light and grace of happiness.

The Following Was Written After Moore Moved Mary from the City to A Cave at the Front

Wounded Federals: I was distressed to hear of a young Federal lieutenant who had been severely wounded and left on the field by his comrades. He had lived in this condition from Saturday until Monday, lying in the burning sun without water or food; and the men on both sides could witness the agony of the life thus prolonged, without the power to assist him in any way. I was glad, indeed, when I heard the poor man had expired on Monday morning. 

Another soldier left on the field, badly wounded in the leg, had begged most piteously for water; and lying near the Confederate intrenchments, his cries were all directed to the Confederate soldiers. The firing was heaviest where he lay; and it would have been at the risk of a life to have gone to him; yet, a Confederate soldier asked and obtained leave to carry water to him, and stood and fanned him in the midst of the firing, while he eagerly drank from the heroic soldier’s canteen… Truly, “the bravest are the tenderest; the loving are the daring.” [Quotation by Bayard Taylor]

Amusements: They amused themselves, while lying in the pits, by cutting out little trinkets from the wood of the parapet and the MiniÉ balls [a large caliber rifle bullet—see photo] that fell around them. Major Fry, from Texas, excelled in skill and ready invention, I think: he sent me one day an arm chair that he had cut from a MiniÉ ball—the most minute affair of the kind I ever saw, yet perfectly symmetrical. At another time, he sent me a diminutive plough made from the parapet wood, with traces of lead, and a lead point made from a MiniÉ ball. I had often remarked how cheerfully the soldiers bore the hardships of the siege. I saw them often passing with their little sacks containing scanty rations, whistling and chatting pleasantly, as around them thickly flew the balls and shells.

Worn and Pale: I am told by my friends, who call, that I am looking worn and pale, and frequently asked if I am not weary of this cave life. I parry the question as well as possible, for I do not like to admit it for M——’s sake; yet, I am tired and weary—ah! so weary! I never was made to exist under ground; and when I am obliged to, what wonder that I vegetate, like other unfortunate plants—grow wan, spindling, and white! Yet, I must reason with myself: I had chosen this life of suffering with one I love; and what suffering, after all, have I experienced?—privations in the way of good and wholesome food, not half what the poor people around us are experiencing…To reason with myself in this time of danger was one of the chief employments of my cave life.

Eloquent Suffering: One evening I noticed one of the horses tied in the ravine, acting very strangely—writhing and struggling as if in pain. One of the soldiers went to him and found that he was very badly wounded in the flank by a MiniÉ ball. The poor creature’s agony was dreadful: he would reach his head up as far as possible into the tree to which he was tied, and cling with his mouth, while his neck and body quivered with the pain. Every motion, instead of being violent, as most horses would have been when wounded, had a stately grace of eloquent suffering that is indescribable. How I wanted to go to him and pat and soothe him! The halter was taken off, and he was turned free. Going to a tree, he leaned his body against it, and moaned, with half closed eyes, shivering frequently throughout his huge body, as if the pain were too great to bear…

Becoming restless with the pain, the poor brute staggered blindly on. And now my eyes fill with tears; for he has fallen, with a weary moan, between the banks of the little rivulet in the ravine, his head thrown on the sod, and the bright, intelligent eye turned still upon the men who have been his comrades in many a battle, standing still near him. Poor fellow!—those low and frequent moans and trembling limbs tell them that death has stricken you already—that you are far beyond human sympathy. In the midst of all the falling shells, cannot one reach him, giving him peace and death? I see an axe handed to one of the bystanders, and turn suddenly away from the scene.

A Gray-headed Soldier: One old, gray-headed, cheerful-hearted soldier, whom I had talked with often, was passing through the ravine for water, immediately opposite our cave. A MiniÉ ball struck him in the lower part of the leg; he coolly stooped down, tied his handkerchief around it, and passed on. So constantly fell projectiles of all descriptions, that I became almost indifferent to them. Only the hideous noise of numerous shrapnell could startle me now.

The Death of Henry: A soldier, named Henry, had noticed my little girl often, bringing her flowers at one time, an apple at another, and again a young mocking bird, and had attached her to him much by these little kindnesses. Frequently, on seeing him pass, she would call his name, and clap her hands gleefully…

Afterward I saw him come down the hill opposite, with an unexploded shrapnel shell in his hand. In a few moments I heard a quick explosion in the ravine, followed by a cry—a sudden, agonized cry… Henry—oh, poor Henry!—holding out his mangled arms—the hands torn and hanging from the bleeding, ghastly wrists—a fearful wound in his head—the blood pouring from his wounds. Shot, gasping, wild, he staggered around, crying piteously, “Where are you, boys? O boys, where are you? Oh, I am hurt! I am hurt! Boys, come to me!—come to me! God have mercy! Almighty God, have mercy!” 

My little girl clung to my dress, saying, “O mamma, poor Henny’s killed! Now he’ll die, mamma. Oh, poor Henny!” I carried her away from the painful sight. My first impulse was to run down to them with the few remedies I possessed. Then I thought of the crowd of soldiers around the men; and if M—— should come and see me there—the only lady—he might think I did wrong; so I sent my servant, with camphor and other slight remedies I possessed, and turned into my cave, with a sickened heart.

A Jaybird: We were now swiftly nearing the end of our siege life: the rations had nearly all been given out. For the last few days I had been sick; still I tried to overcome the languid feeling of utter prostration. My little one had swung in her hammock, reduced in strength, with a low fever flushing in her face. M—— was all anxiety, I could plainly see. A soldier brought up, one morning, a little jaybird, as a plaything for the child. After playing with it for a short time, she turned wearily away. “Miss Mary,” said the servant, “she’s hungry; let me make her some soup from the bird.” At first I refused: the poor little plaything should not die; then, as I thought of the child, I half consented. With the utmost haste, Cinth disappeared; and the next time she appeared, it was with a cup of soup, and a little plate, on which lay the white meat of the poor little bird.

After the Surrender: On the hill above us, the earth was literally covered with fragments of shell – Parrott, shrapnel, canister; besides lead in all shapes and forms, and a long kind of solid shot, shaped like a small Parrott shell. Minie balls lay in every direction, flattened, dented, and bent from the contact with trees and pieces of wood in their flight. The grass seemed deadened – the ground ploughed into furrows in many places; while scattered over all, like giants’ pepper, in numberless quantity, were the shrapnel balls.

Vicksburg Passes from View: Saturday evening, Vicksburg, with her terraced hills—with her pleasant homes and sad memories, passed from my view in the gathering twilight—passed, but the river flowed on the same, and the stars shone out with the same calm light! But the many eyes—O Vicksburg!—that have gazed on thy terraced hills—on thy green and sunny gardens—on the flow of the river—the calm of the stars—those eyes! how many thou hast closed on the world forever!