Letter from a Virginia Lady to the Federal Commander at Winchester.
By Mrs. Dr. R. C. Randolph.
[The following letter, written in the winter of 1863-4, by a lady residing in Clarke county, explains itself and gives a vivid picture of life in that region during the period of which it speaks. If it had been written some months later when Sheridan was carrying out his wicked threat to "make the Shenandoah Valley such a waste that a crow flying over would be compelled to carry his own rations," there would have been a still more vivid story of outrage and oppression; but that chapter will yet be written.]
The officer in command the 26th of October may remember the capture of young Thomas Randolph at his father's house. On the Wednesday following, a part of the same command returned by this route, parties from which were visiting the yard and house for some time after the head of the column had gone by. At first their wants were supplied, so far as our present restrictions enabled us to do it; but while handing the "cup of cold water" to some, who, if not politely, at least not rudely requested it, more came into the porch, and turning to one, I asked if he wanted water. "I don't want no water," was the coarse reply. I said there was no more bread, &c., to offer. The same absence of all courtesy was shown in his second reply—"I don't want no bread." Well, what do you want? "A shot-gun, and I mean to have it." With a countenance, tone and manner indicating that he "neither feared God or regarded man," the sacredness of woman, her delicacy, her helplessness, were thoughts which never seemed to have entered a mind and heart so brutal. She would meet with no respect. Unaccustomed as we are to contact with persons of that stamp, with nerves unstrung by the trials and anxieties of the preceding days, and foreseeing that this was but the beginning, our fears were very evident, and some who seemed to possess the feelings of humanity tried to quiet them, but said they were powerless and could do nothing. Into the house these ruffians came, searched every room, took mattresses and beds from their steads, searched trunks, boxes, wardrobes, bureaus and closets, appropriating whatever suited their fancy—the winter wrappings of Dr. Randolph and my little son, coats, pantaloons (new black broadcloth), knives, candlesticks, &c. Knowing the war that these valiant men have ever waged with colors and buttons, the gray clothes had been placed by a female member of the family without my know-
