The costs of the war were great for both sides. However, the South suffered especially severe consequences as the Union army marched through their territory in the last years of the war. Railroads tracks were ripped apart, crops were set afire, ships were scuttled, and businesses and homes were destroyed. Very little was spared during Sherman’s March to the Sea.
Union soldiers destroyed nearly everything in their path as they moved from Atlanta to Savannah, Georgia, a seaport city. Once Savannah was captured, the Union turned north and marched through the Carolinas destroying everything as they headed north.
One city in the Union's path was Columbia, South Carolina. To get a picture of how Southern towns were devastated during Sherman’s march, read the following diary entry written by Emma LeConte, who witnessed the destruction in Columbia. LeConte was 17 years old when she wrote the diary entries that chronicle the destruction and desolation wrought by the Union army in February 1865. The diary was published as When the World Ended: The Diary of Emma LeConte in 1957.
The place is literally in ruins. The entire heart of the city is in ashes—only the outer edges remain. On the whole length of Sumter Street not one house beyond the first block after the Campus is standing, except the brick house of Mr. Mordecai. Standing in the centre of the town, as far as the eye can reach nothing is to be seen but heaps of rubbish, tall dreary chimneys and shattered brick walls, while “In the hollow windows, dreary horror’s sitting.” Poor old Columbia—where is all her beauty—so admired by strangers—so loved by her children! She can only excite the pity of the former and the tears of the latter. I hear several Yankee officers remarked to some citizens on the loveliness of their town as they first saw it by sunrise across the river.
Blanding Street, crossing Main and Sumter at right angles, the finest street in town, is also a sad picture. The Preston house with its whole square of beautiful gardens escaped. It was Gen. Logan’s headquarters. The Crawford house—the Bryce’s—the Howe’s and one or two others also escaped. All nearer Main Street were burned. The Clarkson house is a heap of brick with most of its tall columns standing, blackened by the smoke. Bedell’s lovely little house is in ruins while as if in mockery the shrubbery is not even scorched—but I cannot particularize—with very few exceptions all our friends are homeless. We enter Main Street—since the war in crowd and bustle it has rivaled a city thoroughfare— what desolation! Everything has vanished as by enchantment—stores, merchants, customers—all the eager faces gone—only three or four dismal looking people to be seen picking their way over heaps of rubbish, brick and timbers. The wind moans among the bleak chimneys and whistles through the gaping windows of some hotel or warehouse. The market a ruined shell supported by crumbling arches—its spire fallen in and with it the old town clock whose familiar stroke we miss so much. After trying to distinguish localities and hunting for familiar buildings we turned to Arsenal Hill. Here things looked more natural. The Arsenal was destroyed but comparatively few dwellings. Also the Park and its surroundings looked familiar. As we passed the old State house going back I paused to gaze on the ruins— only the foundations and chimneys—and to recall the brilliant scene enacted there one short month ago. And I compared that scene with its beauty, gayety and festivity—the halls so elaborately decorated—the surging throng—with this.
