On The Eve Of Chancellorsville...

With Gen. Hooker before them and Old Dominion behind them, the ladies and gentlemen of the 1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry gather for dancing and celebration before the long march to the battlefield.

From the letters of Pvt. Christopher Francis
Dauggerotypes by Sgt. Michael C.

April 26, 1863

To My Dearest Family And Friends,

I can only approximate the stew of anticipation and dread enveloping the next few days. As I write this, my comrades are leaving for Chancellorsville, and word has spread among us of the thousands of Federals across the Rappahannock. All I can see are the lines of Yankees and my rifle at my shoulder, picking as many of them off as I can as the Captain barks orders to advance. I think about how rusty my drill is, even though I am getting better.

But before I leave, I am laboring to tell you of the sendoff we received last evening. My comrades and I danced with dozens of the finest ladies in Virginia. I tell you, we made a thunderous racket, loud enough to reach all the way to Manassas, but at the same time the members of my unit lived up to their gentlemanly reputations.

Imagine my shock, however, at the beginning of the promenade when I spot a youthful private standing next to a pretty young girl and see him turn to find some other partner.

"He is walking away," I say to the lady, airing out my disgust and offering a bow. "But I am walking toward you. Would you be my partner?" She accepts instantly.

With The Privvytippers' accompaniment, we journey through several dances, and as I put the words to this page, my ankles still remind me of my exuberance through the mixers and line dances. Our accompanists ponder their musical arrangements.

"You know 'Sarah Andrews'?" one of them queries, testing the depths of their repertoire.

"What's wrong with Sarah Lee?" I counter, suggesting something in honor of our General.

I draw comfort in knowing several ladies trust me to head up a set. All I have is my reputation, and living up to the fair ones' expectations makes me work harder on the ballroom floor. An artificial wind device provides us some relief from the unseasonably warm evening, but I can feel myself losing several pounds in perspiration alone. Lemonade does its best to replenish the loss.

"I hope that we can scare those Federals back across the Potomac!" I tell a lady.

My experience in numerous set dances leads me to offer a word of warning. In a well-attended ballroom, the lines of ladies and gentlemen often crowd together and one must make way for hoopskirts. Unfortunately in the swirl of the figures, stray threads can catch and fix on a properly placed foot. Ripping lace emits an unmistakable sound. But the true hazard is the tug at the leg indicating ensnarement. I nearly loose my balance as the pour soul to my left unravels, but I am able to shake it off and continue dancing with a blush of embarrassment as the lady and her partner toss aside the frill and continue with no discernible annoyance. One must also take care during the shoe dance, that ritual of gentlemen attacking a pile of footwear donated by the ladies to determine their next partners. The Captain nearly has to stop the dance when a guest discovers her black shoes are suddenly mismatched.

I fret over my long hair. At first I dispense with my kepi after it falls into my hands upon a bow and in keeping with custom. Yet as my dancing intensifies, I can feel the strands of hair lashing at my face and I despair over what the ladies might think of me, especially as the members of our unit prepare to present numerous Virginia Belles. The kepi returns, and no one says a word about it or my locks.

In previous occasions, we have run discouragingly short of gentlemen to escort said Belles. Tonight the numbers approach respectability, although it means escorting only one lass. Having presented the ladies, Captain Scott gives them the honor of choosing their next partner, preferably one of the gentlemen in gray. All I can do is stand at attention, smile, and plead in silence.

Pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me, pick me!

I am relieved when a lady approaches. In fact, several ladies desire my partnership this evening, including an Indian scout well regarded for her ability to detect enemy movements several miles away. She requests not one but two dances, and I fulfill the obligation even though I worry I am leaving other ladies in want of a partner. One must sacrifice.

A lady coaxes a shy little girl in a blue gown towards me as another waltz begins, and I know what I need to do. I bow and ask her for a dance, and I see her eyes glow through her tiny spectacles as I move in gentle steps. "You're a fine waltzer," I encourage, not stretching the truth for flattery. Her mouth offers no words, but a smile is more than enough compliment.

The festivities pause so that a prayer may be offered for the ladies and gentlemen of the 1st Virginia, for our safety, for our mission, for our purpose. With the request to Heaven raised, the call goes out for volunteers to set up four groups of three chairs.

The Pineapple Dance begins, an amusement so familiar to us it needs no formal explanation, yet I shall briefly elaborate for the uninitiated. Two lines of mixed couples lines up before three chairs. Three people sit down, the one in the middle holding a pineapple. The person with the pineapple passes it to one of the people beside him and sashays off with the other, preferably a person of the opposite gender. The person left holding the pineapple moves to the middle, two others from the lines fill in the empty seats, and the pineapple is passed again.


Enthusiasm boils throughout the room as couples constantly sashay about, or in some cases, groups of three if all ladies or all gentlemen are left occupying the seats.


Screams and whoops of joy pierce the air.


A rambunctious private tries to slip off with the pineapple rather than doing right by a lady and two of us chase him about to recover it.


The Privvytippers play with inexhaustible energy, leading us through at least 10 minutes of sashaying and quickening the pace.

At this point I cannot exhaust myself. I owe another lady a dance. Her sister introduced me earlier in the evening, and she made the request. After struggling to locate her again, I finally find her in time for "the Old Virginia Reel!" Whatever energy we may have left, the Captain says, we will be relieved of it here.

"Every set should have an experienced couple at the top!" Capt. Scott directs. The couple heading our set decides they are not experienced enough, so they hastily change places with myself and my partner. Now comes the test of Virginia citizenship. Without fail, I need to demonstrate to my partner, my set, and my comrades I can dance a flawless Virginia Reel. As the Captain leads us through a brief refresher, I assume the role of Dance Captain, gesturing to the couples along the line as to who moves and when and how -- honors, right hands, left hands, both hands, do-si-dos, sashays and the all-important reeling of the set. My partner picks up the figures immediately.

"You reel like a pro!" I call to her as we work our way through the set.

We lose ourselves in the dance, losing track of time, and we're not the only ones. The Privvytippers, perhaps convinced we need even more merriment or merely running out of musical arrangements, segue into a round of "Jingle Bells" -- in March. We all sing along, beginning to end.

"Dashing through the snow! In a one horse open sleigh! Over the fields we go! Laughing all the way--HA HA HA!"

Ho, ho, ho, that's the way the heroes go! Having done my duty, I escort my partner back to her sister with heaps of praise for her abilities.

Usually the evening ends with a final waltz, but none of us are ready to let it end that way. A freestyle dance commences and I find myself swinging wildly with several ladies who drain from me what little stamina I regained in the last waltz. I will admit to you here, this is where I realize how much I enjoy set dancing, where one knows what step comes next and you don't have to read the mind of your partner. I feel I am the most monotonous freestyler, doing little but swinging round and round. What does the lady want me to do? I think. Does she not desire some other steps? A young lad in a tall stovepipe hat taps me on the back, politely cutting in and relieving me.

As the couples depart the hall, I come across the lady and the little girl I waltzed with earlier. The child's companion thanks me for the dance.

"She doesn't know much English."

"Oh," I reply in curious astonishment.

"She's from Russia," the lady adds before I can inquire further.

I turn to the child and offer the only Russian words I know: "Doisvedania! Spaceba!" Goodbye! Thank You!

The little girl's face brightens once again. "Doisvedania! Spaceba!" she cries out as she leaves. I am no stranger anymore. As I write this to you, I still hear those words in my ears as I prepare for battle.

So I ask for your sendoff and your prayers as well. I know many years have passed since several of us have met. Some of you I have never seen at all, but you have written to me with encouraging tidings. A great engagement lies before me, and I have full confidence in our commanders. Yet I know of no skirmish without danger or fear. By God's grace, I shall return home soon. But until then, I shall write when I can to advise you of our progress in beating back the northern aggressors.

With Highest Regards,
Pvt. Christopher Francis
1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry

TO BE CONTINUED...

More pictures of this sendoff celebration here.