SPRINGFIELD-WATT HOUSE
The story of the Watt house is true and very touching, also it applies within the History of the Kidd family. Therefore it is necessary that you should have a background reference of some family genealogy prior to reading the story.
Isaac Kidd, a Kin-folk and also a descendent of Thomas Kidd who came into Virginia during the year 1648, married Sarah Bohannan in the year 1756 in Essex Co., Virginia. We know that Isaac Kidd was married for the second time to Lucy Minton in the year 1761. Isaac Kidd died in Essex Co., Virginia in the year 1777.
The following children came from the issue of Isaac Kidd:
(1) William Pittman Kidd, born by 1761, Essex Co., Virginia
(2) Benjamin Kidd, born by 1761, Essex Co., Virginia
(3) Isaac Kidd, Jr., born by 1761, Essex Co., Virginia
At the death of their father the sons were placed under the Guardianship of Henry Kidd, the brother and Administrator of the Will of Isaac Kidd, deceased.
The first son, William Pittman, married his first wife Mary Austin, they had a daughter born in 1784, she was named Sarah Bohannan Kidd after his mother. After the death of his first wife Mary Austin, he married Agnes Richardson Sharp, she was a widow with two daughters, this 2nd marriage was on 29 Dec 1779, they resided in Hanover Co., Virginia for thirteen or more years.
Agnes Richardson Sharp daughters from her previous marriage were namely: Susan H. Sharp and Mary R. Sharp. Agnes died 17 Jan 1830, in Henrico Co., Virginia. Pittman Kidd died in 1803 and is buried somewhere in the land on the Springfield Plantation.
At the age of 18, Sarah Bohannan Kidd married Hugh Watt in the year 1802, her father Pittman Kidd owned the Springfield Plantation and this Plantation was left to Sarah Bohannan (Kidd) Watt. However she did not receive the property until after the death of Agnes (Sharp) Kidd.
Hugh Watt died in 1850, his wife Sarah Bohannan (Kidd) Watt died in the year 1862, both are buried in unmarked graves at the Springfield Plantation, close to the Watt house.
As you travel the main Highway toward the Springfield Plantation, near Richmond, Virginia, the highway is bordered by rail fences, overrun with the graceful Virginia creeper, the gorgeous trumpet vine, wild grape and sloe vines.
You suddenly plunge into the dim, cool shade of a dense wood. The road goes across Limpid brooks, ripling over their pebbly beds and bordered up to the roadway with ferns, wild iris, and feathery grasses.
At one point, the road led by a rustic bridge over the dark slowly flowing waters of Totopotomoy Creek, into which the willow, beeches, and cork-elms dipped their pendent branches. When you turn off from the wooded highway, you must travel a private road, which leads through another strip of woods and an open field to the house which is a quarter of a mile away.
The house stood on the edge of a plateau, which sloped gently to the valley of the Chickahominy River, except at one point where the land, jutting out into the valley, rose considerably above the plateau. This plateau when not in cultivation, was called The Pea Mount, as it commanded an extensive view, and moreover was crowned with a group of seedling peach trees whose fruit was considered very fine.
The drinking water was brought from a spring on the opposite side of the Plantation. The path to this spring led through the peach orchard, down a wooded hill, across a pebbly brook and up another wooded hill. On the side of this hill, densely shaded by beech and laurel, lined with green moss and fringed with ferns and grasses, was Parson’s Spring, its ice-cold water so clear that every pebble on its glistening, white bottom was plainly visible.
In the spring of 1862, a sad and gloomy time period hung over the country side. For a year the country had been writhing in the throes of a cruel war. Fathers, husbands, and brothers were gathered in distant camps; bloody battles had been fought; thousands had been slain and other thousands were maimed for life.
But so far the Springfield Plantation (which was close to Richmond) had escaped the ravages of the War Between The States, and those protected by this Plantation and house were hoping to remain undisturbed.
Their dream of fancied security was rudely broken by the report that McClellan’s army was advancing up the Peninsula and the Confederate army falling back before it, which would bring one or the other army upon the Plantation.
Sarah Bohannan (Kidd) Watt was now seventy-eight years old, she had been seriously ill, and a daughter had been at her bedside. One day her daughter unexpectedly returned to the house and shocked everyone with the tidings that the Confederate army, now rapidly approaching, would take a position in defense of Richmond on the other side of the Chickahominy river (1/2 mile away), this left the Plantation in the Federal Lines.
Quoting from a grand-daughter of Sarah Bohannan (Kidd) Watt:
When I arrived at the Plantation near night-fall, everything was so quiet and unchanged that I could scarcely believe we were on the verge of such terrible experiences. But as soon as it grew dark, we could plainly see the glow of the Confederate camp fires on the hills beyond the Chickahominy.
A slave returning from Richmond brought messages from my three brothers, whose regiment, the Fifteenth Virginia Infantry, was occuping the most advanced position opposite to us.
Soon after my arrival, my grandmother rallied and seemed so much stronger, that the friend who had been assisting in nursing her returned to her home to look after her own family.
Several days of anxiety and suspense followed. Uncle Peter rode out daily to hear the news and watch the passing of the Confederate army. Then he reported that he had seen the rearguard pass out of sight, and that by the morning, the Federal enemy would be upon us.
About ten o’clock the next morning, we saw a squadron of cavalry pass through the place, and a little later, some stragglers from an infantry camp near by, came into the yard. They politely requested us to sell them milk, butter and eggs, but did not attempt to enter the house or to disturb anything outside. Nor were they noisy or disagreeable. Our own soldiers could not have behaved better.
We did not realize until two years later, how blessed we were in having as commander of this invading army a Christian gentleman, who maintained perfect discipline in his army and strictly observed the rules of civilized warfare.
Still, how harrowing was the situation. At night I watched the light of my brothers’ camp fires, and by day trembled as the house rocked with the roar of cannon throwing shot and shell into their camp. There was frequent skirmishing, daily cannonading, and hourly expectation of a terrible battle.
The season advanced, the turf was like emerald, the roses bloomed, and the old locusts with their small pale green leaves and showers of snowy blossoms look like huge bouquets.
As I looked out upon the dewy freshness of a bright May morning, or at midnight gazed upon the still landscape bathed in the white moonbeams, the beauty which had heretofore delighted me, seemed to mock the anguish of my spirit.
Grandmother’s great age and the extreme weakness of serious illness had so benumbed her faculties that she was incapable of fully comprehending the surrounding conditions; and fortunately, she slept a great deal.
In previous periods of convalescence, she had been accustomed to tempting her appetite with favorite delicacies, which she now craved and for which she would beg piteously. It was hard to make her understand why she could not have them; and sometimes she would seem deeply wounded by my apparent indifference and hard-heartedness, which sorely grieved me.
She had one of her hungry spells while the battle of Seven Pines was raging, the house was shaking from the roaring of musketry and the booming of cannon.
As with an aching heart I was watching the smoke of battle rise over the trees beyond the Chickahominy, the Federal soldiers constructing a pontoon bridge across the swollen stream, the long, blue column wading through the flooded low grounds to pass over it, and the green branches of trees cut off by cannon balls breaking the glassy surface of the water, she was begging and fretting for something wholly unattainable.
McClellan did not permit his soldiers to steal, so the cattle and poultry being left us; we had milk, eggs and chicken soup with which to nourish her; and, in spite of the unfavorable surroundings, she slowly strengthened.
Most fortunately, too, the slaves remained faithful. Although persuaded and entreated, and lured by spacious stories and golden promises to leave, not one of them left or showed the slightest sign of insurbordination.
On the afternoon of June 27, 1862, instead of the slow booming of cannon usual at that hour, we heard in the direction of Richmond rapid artillery firing and the rattling roar of musketry.
Couriers dashing about, activity in the camp, and officers in groups talking excitedly, indicated that something unusual was goin on. The noise of conflict continued and seemed to grow louder and nearer. Could this be the long expected battle?
To our eager inquiries, an officer replied that the rebels had attacked McClellan’s right wing. The battle which was to decide the fate of Richmond had begun. A miserable, sleepless night followed.
In the early morning, cannonading was begun. All around us was bustle and commotion, infantry marching, cavalry dashing about, artillery and ammunition wagons rumbling through the fields.
Cannon balls began to plow holes in the lower farming fields. Then one tore through the roof of the stable, and another knocked off the top of the kitchen chimney.
The slaves ran from the outlying quarters to the dwelling house for protection. Aunt Betsy, our cook, rushed into the yard and cried wildly, “Whar is Mars Peter? Somebody go find Mars Peter. Ef they don’t stop this foolishness, somebody is gwine to git hurt presently.”
A Federal officer found Mars Peter and told him that the Union army was falling back to this position, where they would make a stand, and that he must remove the family at once.
Grandmother at first flatly refused to leave her home, but yielded to our entreaties on the condition that Uncle Peter would remain to take care of the house and the slaves.
So Uncle Peter stayed (a little while) to take care of things, as did the old man at Waterloo, of whom Victor Hugo tells in his graphic description of that famous battle. Thus does history repeat itself.
While the slave men were harnessing the horses to the carriage and a mule to a farm cart, the maid, Jane, and I thrust some clothing and valuables into a trumk, which was taken to the cart. Two slave men bore their mistress tenderly to the carriage, where a bed had been arranged for her. I crept in beside her, our maid Jane mounted the box with the driver, and we drove off.
Thus grandmother (Sarah Bohannan [Kidd] Watt) left for the last time the home where she had reigned as mistress for sixty years.
For some distance we drove along the rear of the Federal line of battle, passing regiment after regiment drawn up in battle array. Then we turned to the right and drove as speedily as we could along the encumbered road to the rear.
About three miles from the battlefield, we stopped at the house of a friend beyond Cold Harbor. It was a perilous journey. Sometimes a bomb would go shrieking over our heads, or a cannon shot would cutt off a branch from a tree close beside us.
We were not the only refugees. Forty others, driven from their homes by the tide of battle, had taken refuge there before us; and in that wretched company, there was not one who did not have some near relative or dear friend fighting with General Lee that day.
The smoke of battle hung a “sulphurous canopy” over the woods bounding the horizon, and the roar of the guns was deafening.
Separately or in groups, we sat about the yards or on the porches, with bowed heads and tearful eyes, engaged in silent prayer for the safety of our loved ones, the success of our cause.
Early the next morning, some passing Confederate cavalry brought the news that the Union army had been defeated and was retreating across the Chickahominy River. That afternoon my uncle, who lived in Richmond and had been searching all day for his mother, brought the welcome news that my brothers were unhurt.
Grandmother’s home, he said, had been the scene of the fiercest fighting of the day, and was a total wreck. It was now being used as a hospital, and every building left standing on the Plantation was crowded with the enemy’s wounded.
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Once more I visited my grandmother’s former home. It was in September, two months after the battle.
As we emerged from the wood into the open, what a scene of desolation! There was not a trace of any inclosures, and where had been green fields of waving corn and dun meadows dotted with haystacks, was a wide expanse of weeds dotted with patches of yellow clay. As we drew nearer, a sickening odor pervaded the air.
The Confederates, wearied with marching and fighting, toiling under the heat of a June sun, and hurrying to follow up the retreating enemy, had given slight burial to either friend or foe.
Many open graves from which their own dead had been removed, were not more that two feet deep; and upon the corpes of the enemy, they had simply thrown up mounds of earth. Everywhere were dead horses, dried away in their skins like mummies.
What profound stillness and mournful silence brooded over the scene! In the tall weeds, the bushes and trees, there was not a twitter nor the flutter of a wing. For it is a well known fact that the sulphurous smoke and the noise of the guns drive every bird far away from the battlefield.
As we wandered over the fields, we found graves everywhere. From some of these graves, the rain had washed away much of the earth, disclosing grinning skulls and protruding hands upon which the skin had dried away like a shriveled glove. Into others wild animals had burrowed, scattering the bones around.
Through a tangle of wild pea vines, we climbed the Pea Mount, where a battery had been placed to rake the valley over which the Confederates had to advance. On its crest were several dead horses, and around its base and sides many graves.
We strolled through the orchards and along the woods bordering them, through which led the path to Parson’s Spring. Here had been the fiercest fighting of the day, when Hood’s Texans charged down one hill, across the brook, up another hill, and over a barricade of bales of hay and the branches of trees, driving the enemy before them.
Where the peach orchard joined the apple orchard, a battery had been posted; and here were four dead horses lying almost in a heap. Along this line, in the shade of the trees and among the weeds and wild flowers, were not only single graves but trenches of the dead.
Last of all we visited the house. Rank weeds had sprung up even to the doors, except where the yellow clay glared in the sunlight.
Even in the corners of the yard there were graves, and bordering it was a long trench. In the garden was another trench said to contain forty dead.
The house, what a wreck! The walls and roof were torn by shot and shell, the weather-boarding honeycombed by minnie balls, and every pane of glass shattered.
And the floors!—Grandmother’s immaculate floors! In the summer they had always been kept bare, and the first sound heard in the morning would be a maid plying the dry-rubbing brush in the hall, while at almost any hour in the day, a couple of half grown girls might have been seen on their knees with an old slipper and a cracked plate of fine white sand rubbing up spots invisible to any eye but grandmother’s.
Now, from garret to cellar there was scarcely a space of flooring as large as a man’s hand that did not bear the dark purple stain of blood.
What a harrowing spectacle this, of a once neat and comfortable home, now a tenantless, foul and battered wreck–the household furnishings accumulated and carefully preserved through many years- the comforts of the living and the cherished momentoes of the dead, all scattered and destroyed.
I sat there and cried, and thought of Aunt Sarah’s little white dresses, and dimity petticoats torn up to bandage bloody wounds- and the little red slippers and golden curl, what had been their fate?
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This house is under the preservation of the Federal Government, and during the month of June 1996, while visiting Richmond, Virginia.
A telephone call was placed by William T. (Bill) Kidd and wife Kitty, to the National Park Service that Lawrie K. Kidd and his wife Jo Ann from Sandy, Utah would be taken to the residence, and would the Park Service give a personal guided tour of the house to them?
When William (Bill) T. Kidd and wife Kitty, arrived at the house with their guests Lawrie K. Kidd & wife Jo Ann, they were met by a Park Ranger who had the key to the house; the National Park Service then gave a personal tour to the Kidd’s, they were allowed to sit in the kitchen and other areas, as the story was unfolded to their ears. Then the Park Ranger agreed to mail them copies of the granddaughters story.
This story has only been given to you in part, there are many pages to be typed if the complete story was given to you.
Because this history is so important in the lives of the Kidd families, we feel that you should also know the ancestory of Isaac Kidd the father of Pittman Kidd.
The father of Isaac Kidd, b. abt. 1746, Middlesex Co., Virginia who married Sarah Bohannan was:
Benjamin Kidd, b. abt. 1718, Middlesex Co., Virginia who married Judith Chowning, the father of Benjamin was:
William Kidd, b. 22 Mar 1674, Middlesex Co, Virginia who married Margaret Chowning, the father of William was:
Thomas Kidd, b. 8 Jan 1625, Soham, England who married Jane Willis, the father of Thomas was:
William Kidd, b. 6 Jul 1589, Soham, England who married Elizabeth Nethercote, the father of William was:
William Kidd, b. 16 Mar 1559, Soham, England who married Marian ……….
As a follow up to the Watt House, we felt you would also appreciate receiving a copy of the GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF THE BATTLE OF GAINES’S MILL. This battle was fought on June 17, 1862 on the Chickahominy River, and was down the hill from the back porch of the Watt House.
The attached picture is of the Watt House: