The following is taken from “Thy People Shall Be My People or Elizabeth Ann and the Roberts Clan” by Daisy Roberts Malone. These excerpts were written by Elizabeth Ann Chadwell who was born 10 May 1825, the daughter of John Shepherd and Sarah Clark. She married William Rufus Roberts 18 Aug 1841 and after his death married Charles W. Chadwell 9 Nov 1849, both marriages in Williamson Co., Illinois. Elizabeth Ann died 13 May 1916 and is buried in Zion Cemetery, Corinth, Illinois.
“There were dozens of war weddings and there wasn’t much time for the sorrow of partings, when that day of departure was at hand, solemn thoughts and tears seemed to have no place in that busy, exciting hour. The now thoroughly aroused people made great preparations for the occasion, nothing was too good for their volunteers who would soon be in training camps.
In those days there were empty chairs at many firesides and tables and unmarked graves in the enemy territory, maimed and wounded loved ones in faraway camps, delayed messages or letters and broken hearts long before the country had passed through the agony of the war.
Our country needed every pair of hands, so the women at home worked with a will knitting socks and nubies, sewing and rolling bandages, writing cheerful letters and consoling bereaved ones at home. All were touched by the constant needs about them, even out in our country community, so neighbor helped neighbor put in and harvest crops, often supplying needed food and clothing.
All luxuries were scarce, even the cheapest cotton cloth was prohibitive in price to many, so old looms were brought out and most everyone again wore some homespun garments. We seldom had sugar or white flour. We began to realize what our pioneer parents had endured during their early settling days, the lack of what we’d become accustomed to having.
Women took on new responsibilities during these tragic years. While heads of families were gone they became the providers, looking after the business in stores, mills, factories and tended farms and stock, fed and clothes families of the men who had been drafted in as well as those of the honored volunteers. They all bore their losses and their crosses as proudly and bravely as their men folks fought for their country’s flag. Few passed through those trying days unscathed, many homes had their ‘war widows and ‘orphans’. Some babies came into sorrowing homes that would never see their fathers’ faces.
When I look back on that day, my son came to me with the words, “It’s my duty to go, Mother.” I can hardly believe yet I met the full force of that shock with at least a show of courage. I knew pleadings would avail nothing, even though he was only a boy, hardly nineteen, and it seemed I couldn’t bear to see him leave home to go to war. War! How terrible! 0 God, stop wars! But I began getting his things ready, clean clothes, darning his socks, making needle book with thread and needle case. Now I was glad he’d been taught how to sew on buttons and sew up a rip, perhaps he could of a necessity even sew on a patch, goodness knows he’s seen me do it often enough. Then I prayerfully wrote a message in his little testament, his own father’s precious book, and doing these little things for my boy did seem to allay my fears. But when night came I could only stare into the darkness and worry. Charles said it would be much easier if I didn’t let my imagination run away with itself, for most I let my mind’s eye see, could never come to pass. [She is talking about her son, Leander Roberts.)
Leander was in the Battle of Fort Donelson in February 1862. It was many days before we learned that he was wounded and the enemy passed over his supposedly dead body. Later he became conscious and resumed his duty, fighting until the end of the engagement.
In April of 1863, our little Alice died, on the very day she was four, the baby of the family and the best loved by everyone who knew our darling. I walked the floor in an agony of sympathy with Charles; he just seemed unable to reconcile himself to the fact of her going. I’d been through such losses of loved ones many times but this seemed the hardest of any of them.
When a letter came from the boys that our Maggie’s sweetheart, Gus Stewart (Lieut. William Augustus Stewart) was quite ill, we just couldn’t refuse her when, with tearful eyes, she pled to be allowed to go and help care for him. Recently, Maggie had been quiet and graver than she had ever been and her cheeks were not so red, or eyes so bright. She seemed to be waiting, waiting, while she spent much time scraping lint, rolling bandages and knitting but uninterestedly and with a faraway look in her beautiful eyes.
To be strong for other people took almost more courage than I had during those trying days, but the tragedy in the eyes of my child made me less aware of my own sorrows. Sometimes I felt I should receive a little of her sympathy and was a little jealous that Margaret was thinking of Gus all the time, when her brothers were exposed to the same dangers; but we all got her ready, which in this case meant a pretty white dress tucked into the carpetbag with her other simple and much worn garments.
I felt repaid for any sacrifices, by the shine on her face, as from the old horse block she waved as she got on behind Charles, who took her on this journey, to be for all she knew, with her lover in his last hours or as she hoped, to soon become his bride. As never before, I realized our children were growing up. We couldn’t manage their lives for them anymore; they have to stand on their own feet. As soon as Gus was able to be up, the Logan’s and some other officers did all they possibly could, under wartime conditions, to give them a memorable wedding. Leander wrote, “There never was a prettier bride than our Maggie.” [She is talking about her daughter, Sarah Margaret Roberts.]
To them, for a short time, there was no war; all troubles were forgotten in their happiness. Gus forgot she’d soon have to go back home and that it wouldn’t be so long now until he’d be marching into the South, engaging in the hardships and dangers of battles with only dear memories of this honest sweet girl who had given herself along with her heart.
Relatives and friends were quite thrilled and the entire community appreciated the glory of romance that seemed to surround her when, with the wide gold band on her slender finger, she returned home to await the coming of her young soldier husband; the sweet memory of the kindnesses of everyone in the camp was treasured in Margaret’s heart until the day of her death, which was before “the boys” came home.
Again the sad task of writing them of our heartbreak fell to me, it almost seemed I couldn’t, her mother, but theirs too and the message must be simply lovingly sent them, for they would grieve over the loss of a dearly loved sister and would be in sore need of the comforting words I might write.
“For another I can do what I haven’t the strength to do for myself,” is the secret of passing through these earthly sorrows that seem too great for us to bear.
[Sarah Margaret Roberts Stewart born 1 Jan 1844, died 10 Jan 1864. Her son, William Roberts Stewart also died 10 Jan 1864, at birth. Both buried in Zion Cemetery, Corinth.]
One Sunday, about the middle of April, while we were all at church services, a messenger came on horseback from Marion, county seat. He hurriedly entered and interrupted the sermon as he stopped in the doorway with tears streaming down his face, in a choking voice broke the sad news that, “Lincoln has been assassinated.” What a terrible shock to all of us, for a moment there was an impressive silence, then from everyone there came moans, tears or prayers, even the little children cried aloud. As our white haired old minister said, “Let us pray,” there seemed to have never been a time of greater need. All fell to their knees and lifted their hearts to Him, the Father of the fatherless. At first there seemed only a personal loss, a beloved friend had died, for a time many were too stunned to realize the greater loss that had fallen a nation.
The war was over! The beat of war drums ceased! Lee surrendered. The drums of peace sounded an undivided country! The tragedy of war would be but a poignant memory, the people now pledged their lives to live in peace and preserve this freedom for which our dead had died.
The people in the churches lead by their ministers raised their voices in thanksgiving for the saving of our Union. Parents gathered their little ones around the family altar and thanked God that they would soon be a reunited family. Children stopped their play, wide-eyed they looked at one another and whispered, “The war is over.”
When the soldier boys returned, there was great joy and excitement, but very different from that excitement felt when these same boys and “others” left their homes three years or more ago. This was now a deep-felt thankfulness, pride of their boys was mixed with sadness at the remembering of those who were not there, but who lay in distant graves.”
(Taken from “Thy People Shall Be My People or Elizabeth Ann and the Roberts Clan” by Daisy Roberts Malone. Excerpts written by Elizabeth Ann Chadwell; republished in “Footprints”, WCHS, Volume 1, #2, Summer 1998)