BOOK I

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A CONFEDERATE GIRL'S DIARY

[Illustration: SARAH FOWLER MORGAN]

A CONFEDERATE GIRL'S DIARY

By

SARAH MORGAN DAWSON

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

WARRINGTON DAWSON

AND WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1913

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY WARRINGTON DAWSON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

_Published September 1913_

TO

THOSE WHO ENDURED AND FORGAVE

ILLUSTRATIONS

SARAH FOWLER MORGAN _Frontispiece_

From a daguerreotype in the possession of the family.

MIRIAM MORGAN 64

From a daguerreotype in the possession of the family.

JAMES MORRIS MORGAN 114

From a daguerreotype in the possession of the family.

FACSIMILE OF A PAGE OF THE DIARY 150

SARAH FOWLER 192

Sully's portrait of Mrs. Morgan.

LINWOOD 236

Built by General A. G. Carter in 1848, now the home of his

grandson, Howell Morgan. This was a Spanish grant and has

always remained in the family.

THE ANTE-BELLUM HOME OF JUDGE THOMAS GIBBES MORGAN 308

On Church Street, Baton Rouge, La., now the property of

St. Joseph Academy, and used as an annex.

JUDGE THOMAS GIBBES MORGAN 346

INTRODUCTION

It is perhaps due to a chance conversation, held some seventeen years

ago in New York, that this Diary of the Civil War was saved from

destruction.

A Philadelphian had been talking with my mother of North and South, and

had alluded to the engagement between the Essex and the Arkansas, on

the Mississippi, as a brilliant victory for the Federal navy. My mother

protested, at once; said that she and her sister Miriam, and several

friends, had been witnesses, from the levee, to the fact that the

Confederates had fired and abandoned their own ship when the machinery

broke down, after two shots had been exchanged: the Federals,

cautiously turning the point, had then captured but a smoking hulk. The

Philadelphian gravely corrected her; history, it appeared, had

consecrated, on the strength of an official report, the version more

agreeable to Northern pride.

"But I wrote a description of the whole, just a few hours after it

occurred!" my mother insisted. "Early in the war I began to keep a

diary, and continued until the very end; I had to find some vent for my

feelings, and I would not make an exhibition of myself by talking, as

so many women did. I have written while resting to recover breath in

the midst of a stampede; I have even written with shells bursting over

the house in which I sat, ready to flee but waiting for my mother and

sisters to finish their preparations."

"If that record still existed, it would be invaluable," said the

Philadelphian. "We Northerners are sincerely anxious to know what

Southern women did and thought at that time, but the difficulty is to

find authentic contemporaneous evidence. All that I, for one, have

seen, has been marred by improvement in the light of subsequent

events."

"You may read my evidence as it was written from March 1862 until April

1865," my mother declared impulsively.

At our home in Charleston, on her return, she unstitched with trembling

hands a linen-bound parcel always kept in her tall, cedar-lined

wardrobe of curled walnut. On it was scratched in ink "To be burned

unread after my death"; it contained, she had once told me, a record of

no interest save to her who had written it and lacked the courage to

re-read it; a narrative of days she had lived, of joys she had lost; of

griefs accepted, of vain hopes cherished.

From the linen, as the stitches were cut, fell five blank books of

different sizes. Two, of convenient dimensions, might have been

intended for diaries; the other three, somewhat unwieldy, were partly

used ledgers from Judge P. H. Morgan's office. They were closely

written in a clear, firm hand; the ink, of poor quality, had faded in

many places to a pale brown scarcely darker than the deep yellow to

which time had burned the paper. The effort to read under such

conditions, and the tears shed over the scenes evoked, might well have

cost my mother her sight; but she toiled for many weeks, copying out

the essential portions of the voluminous record for the benefit of the

Northerner who really wished to know.

Her transcription finished, she sent it to Philadelphia. It was in due

course returned, with cold regrets that the temptation to rearrange it

had not been resisted. No Southerner at that time could possibly have

had opinions so just or foresight so clear as those here attributed to

a young girl. Explanation was not asked, nor justification allowed: the

case, tried by one party alone, with evidence seen from one standpoint

alone, had been judged without appeal.

Keenly wounded and profoundly discouraged, my mother returned the

diaries to their linen envelope, and never saw them again. But my

curiosity had been roused by these incidents; in the night, thoughts of

the records would haunt me, bringing ever the ante-bellum scent of the

cedar-lined wardrobe. I pleaded for the preservation of the volumes,

and succeeded at last when, beneath the injunction that they should be

burned, my mother wrote a deed of gift to me with permission to make

such use of them as I might think fitting.

Reading those pages for myself, of late, as I transcribed them in my

turn, I confess to having blamed the Philadelphian but lightly for his

skepticism.

Here was a girl who, by her own admission, had known but ten months'

schooling in her life, and had educated herself at home because of her

yearning for knowledge; and yet she wrote in a style so pure, with a

command of English so thorough, that rare are the pages where she had

to stop for the alteration of so much as one word. The very haste of

noting what had just occurred, before more should come, had disturbed

the pure line of very few among these flowing sentences. There are

certain uses of words to which the twentieth century purist will take

exception; but if he is familiar with Victorian literature he will know

that these points have been solved within the last few decades--and not

all solved to the satisfaction of everyone, even now.

But underlying this remarkable feat of style, are a fairness of

treatment and a balance of judgment incredible at such a period and in

an author so young. On such a day, we may note an entry denouncing the

Federals before their arrival at Baton Rouge; another page, and we see

that the Federal officers are courteous and considerate, we hear

regrets that denunciations should have been dictated by prejudice. Does

Farragut bombard a town occupied by women and children, or does Butler

threaten to arm negroes against them? Be sure, then, that this Southern

girl will not spare adjectives to condemn them! But do Southern women

exaggerate in applying to all Federals the opprobrium deserved by some?

Then those women will be criticized for forgetting the reserve imposed

upon ladies. This girl knew then what history has since established,

and what enlightened men and women on both sides of Mason and Dixon's

line have since acknowledged: that in addition to the gentlemen in the

Federal ranks who always behaved as gentlemen should, there were

others, both officers and privates, who had donned the Federal uniform

because of the opportunity for rapine which offered, and who were as

unworthy of the Stars and Stripes as they would have been of the Stars

and Bars.

I can understand, therefore, that this record should meet with

skepticism at the hands of theorists committed to an opinion, or of

skimmers who read guessing the end of a sentence before they reach the

middle. But the originals exist to-day, and have been seen by others

than myself; and I pledge myself here to the assertion that I have

taken no liberties, have made no alterations, but have strictly adhered

to my task of transcription, merely omitting here and there passages

which deal with matters too personal to merit the interest of the

public.

Those who read seriously, and with unbiased mind, will need no external

guarantees of authenticity, however; for the style is of that

spontaneous quality which no imitation could attain, and which

attempted improvement could only mar. The very construction of the

whole--for it does appear as a whole--is influenced by the

circumstances which made the life of that tragic period.

The author begins with an airy appeal to Madame Idleness--in order to

forget. Then, the war seemed a sacred duty, an heroic endeavor, an

inevitable trial, according as Southerners chose to take it; but the

prevailing opinion was that the solution would come in victory for

Southern arms, whether by their own unaided might or with the support

of English intervention. The seat of war was far removed, and but for

the absence of dear ones at the front and anxiety about them, Southern

women would have been little disturbed in their routine of household

duties. But presently the roar of cannon draws near, actual danger is

experienced in some cases, suffering and privation must be accepted in

all. Thenceforth, the women are part of the war; there may be

interludes of plantation life momentarily secure from bullets and from

oppression, yet the cloud is felt hanging ever lower and blacker.

Gradually, the writer's gay spirit fails; an injury to her spine, for

which adequate medical care cannot be found in the Confederacy, and the

condition of her mother, all but starving at Clinton, drive these

Southern women to the protection of a Union relative in New Orleans.

The hated Eagle Oath must be taken, the beloved Confederacy must be

renounced at least in words. Entries in the Diary become briefer and

briefer, yet are sustained unto the bitter end, when the deaths of two

brothers, and the crash of the Lost Cause, are told with the tragic

reserve of a broken heart.

* * * * *

I have alluded to passages omitted because too personal. That the

clearness of the narrative may not suffer, I hope to be pardoned for

explaining briefly, here, the position of Sarah Morgan's family at the

outbreak of the Civil War.

Her father, Judge Thomas Gibbes Morgan, had been Collector of the Port

of New Orleans, and in 1861 was Judge of the District Court of the

Parish of Baton Rouge. In complete sympathy with Southern rights, he

disapproved of Secession as a movement fomented by hotheads on both

sides, but he declared for it when his State so decided. He died at his

home in Baton Rouge in November, 1861, before the arrival of Farragut's

fleet.

Judge Thomas Gibbes Morgan's eldest son, Philip Hickey Morgan, was also

a Judge, of the Second District Court of the Parish of Orleans. Judge

P. H. Morgan (alluded to as "Brother" and his wife as "Sister"

throughout the Diary) disapproved of Secession like his father, but did

not stand by his State. He declared himself for the Union, and remained

in New Orleans when the Federals took possession, but refused to bear

arms against his brothers and friends. His position enabled him to

render signal services to many Confederate prisoners suffering under

Butler's rule. And it was a conversation of his with President Hayes,

when he told the full, unprejudiced truth about the Dual Government and

the popular sentiment of Louisiana, which put an end to Reconstruction

there by the Washington Government's recognition of General Francis T.

Nicholls, elected Governor by the people, instead of Packard, declared

Governor by the Republican Returning Board of the State. Judge P. H.

Morgan had proved his disinterestedness in his report to the President;

for the new Democratic régime meant his own resignation from the post

of Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Louisiana which he held

under the Republicans. He applied then to himself a piece of advice

which he later was to give a young relative mentioned in the pages of

this Diary: "Always remember that it is best to be in accord with the

sentiments of the vast majority of the people in your State. They are

more apt to be right, on public questions of the day, than the

individual citizen."

If Judge Thomas Gibbes Morgan's eldest son stayed within the Union

lines because he would not sanction Secession, his eldest

daughter--Lavinia--was on the Federal side also, married to Colonel

Richard Coulter Drum, then stationed in California, and destined to

become, in days of peace, Adjutant-General under President Cleveland's

first administration. Though spared the necessity of fighting against

his wife's brothers, Colonel Drum was largely instrumental in checking

the Secession movement in California which would probably have assured

the success of the South.

In the early days of Secession agitation, another son of Judge T. G.

Morgan, Henry, had died in a duel over a futile quarrel which

busybodies had envenomed. The three remaining sons had gone off to the

war. Thomas Gibbes Morgan, Jr., married to Lydia, daughter of General

A. G. Carter and a cousin of Mrs. Jefferson Davis, was Captain in the

Seventh Louisiana Regiment, serving under Stonewall Jackson; George

Mather Morgan, unmarried, was a Captain in the First Louisiana, also

with Jackson in Virginia. The youngest, James Morris Morgan, had

resigned from Annapolis, where he was a cadet, and hurried back to

enlist in the Confederate navy.

At the family home in Baton Rouge, only women and children remained.

There was Judge Morgan's widow, Sarah Fowler Morgan; a married

daughter, Eliza or "Lilly," with her five children; and two unmarried

daughters, Miriam and Sarah. "Lilly's" husband, J. Charles La Noue,

came and went; unable to abandon his large family without protector or

resources, he had not joined the regular army, but took a part in

battles near whatever place of refuge he had found for those dependent

on him. We note, for instance, that he helped in the Confederate attack

on Baton Rouge, together with General Carter, whose age had prevented

him from taking regular service.

A word more as to the author of this Diary, and I have finished.

The war over, Sarah Morgan knitted together the threads of her torn

life and faced her present, in preparation for whatever the future

might hold. In South Carolina, under Reconstruction, she met a young

Englishman, Captain Francis Warrington Dawson, who had left his home in

London to fight for a cause where his chivalrous nature saw right

threatened by might. In the Confederate navy under Commodore Pegram, in

the Army of Northern Virginia under Longstreet, at the close of the war

he was Chief Ordnance officer to General Fitzhugh Lee. But although the

force of arms, of men, of money, of mechanical resources, of

international support, had decided against the Confederacy, he refused

to acknowledge permanent defeat for Southern ideals, and so cast his

lot with those beside whom he had fought. His ambition was to help his

adopted country in reconquering through journalism and sound politics

that which seemed lost through war. What he accomplished in South

Carolina is a matter of public record to-day. The part played in this

work by Sarah Morgan as his wife is known to all who approached them

during their fifteen years of a married life across which no shadow

ever fell.

Sarah Morgan Dawson was destined to outlive not only her husband, but

all save three of her eight brothers and sisters, and most of the

relatives and friends mentioned in the pages which follow; was destined

to endure deep affliction once more, and to renounce a second home

dearer than that first whose wreck she recorded during the war. Yet

never did her faith, her courage, her steadfastness fail her, never did

the light of an almost childlike trust in God and in mankind fade from

her clear blue eyes. The Sarah Morgan who, as a girl, could stifle her

sobs as she forced herself to laugh or to sing, was the mother I knew

in later years.

I love most to remember her in the broad tree-shaded avenues of

Versailles where, dreaming of a distant tragic past, she found ever new

strength to meet the present. Death claimed her not far from there, in

Paris, at a moment when her daughter in America, her son in Africa,

were powerless to reach her. But souls like unto hers leave their mark

in passing through the world; and, though in a foreign land, separated

from all who had been dear to her, she received from two friends such

devotion as few women deserve in life, and such as few other women are

capable of giving.

She had done more than live and love:--she had endured while endurance

was demanded; and, released from the house of bondage, she had, without

trace of bitterness in her heart, forgiven those who had caused her

martyrdom.

WARRINGTON DAWSON.

VERSAILLES, FRANCE,

July, 1913.

A CONFEDERATE GIRL'S DIARY

BOOK I

BATON ROUGE, LOUISIANA,

March 9th, 1862.

Here I am, at your service, Madame Idleness, waiting for any suggestion

it may please you to put in my weary brain, as a means to pass this

dull, cloudy Sunday afternoon; for the great Pike clock over the way

has this instant struck only half-past three; and if a rain is added to

the high wind that has been blowing ever since the month commenced, and

prevents my going to Mrs. Brunot's before dark, I fear I shall fall a

victim to "the blues" for the first time in my life. Indeed it is dull.

Miriam went to Linwood with Lydia yesterday, and I miss them beyond all

expression. Miriam is _so_ funny! She says she cannot live without me,

and yet she can go away, and stay for months without missing me in the

slightest degree. Extremely funny! And I--well, it is absurd to fancy

myself alive without Miriam. She would rather not visit with me, and

yet, be it for an hour or a month, I never halfway enjoy myself without

her, away from home. Miriam is my "Rock ahead" in life; I'll founder on

her yet. It's a grand sight for people out of reach, who will not come

in contact with the breakers, but it is quite another thing to me,

perpetually dancing on those sharp points in my little cockleshell that

forms so ludicrous a contrast to the grand scene around. I am sure to

founder!

I hold that every family has at heart one genius, in some line, no

matter what--except in our family, where each is a genius, in his own

way. Hem! And Miriam has a genius for the piano. Now I never could bear

to compete with any one, knowing that it is the law of my being to be

inferior to others, consequently to fail, and failure is so humiliating

to me. So it is, that people may force me to abandon any pursuit by

competing with me; for knowing that failure is inevitable, rather than

fight against destiny I give up _de bonne grâce_. Originally, I was

said to have a talent for the piano, as well as Miriam. Sister and Miss

Isabella said I would make a better musician than she, having more

patience and perseverance. However, I took hardly six months' lessons

to her ever so many years; heard how well she played, got disgusted

with myself, and gave up the piano at fourteen, with spasmodic fits of

playing every year or so. At sixteen, Harry gave me a guitar. Here was

a new field where I would have no competitors. I knew no one who played

on it; so I set to work, and taught myself to manage it, mother only

teaching me how to tune it. But Miriam took a fancy to it, and I taught

her all I knew; but as she gained, I lost my relish, and if she had not

soon abandoned it, I would know nothing of it now. She does not know

half that I do about it; they tell me I play much better than she; yet

they let her play on it in company before me, and I cannot pretend to

play after. Why is it? It is _not_ vanity, or I would play, confident

of excelling her. It is not jealousy, for I love to see her show her

talents. It is not selfishness; I love her too much to be selfish to

her. What is it then? "Simply lack of self-esteem" I would say if

there was no phrenologist near to correct me, and point out that

well-developed hump at the extreme southern and heavenward portion of

my Morgan head. Self-esteem or not, Mr. Phrenologist, the result is,

that Miriam is by far the best performer in Baton Rouge, and I would

rank forty-third even in the delectable village of Jackson.

And yet I must have some ear for music. To "know as many songs as

Sarah" is a family proverb; not very difficult songs, or very beautiful

ones, to be sure, besides being very indifferently sung; but the tunes

_will_ run in my head, and it must take _some_ ear to catch them.

People say to me, "Of course you play?" to which I invariably respond,

"Oh, no, but Miriam plays beautifully!" "You sing, I believe?" "Not

at all--except for father" (that is what I used to say)--"and the

children. But _Miriam_ sings." "You are fond of dancing?" "Very; but I

cannot dance as well as Miriam." "Of course, you are fond of society?"

"No, indeed! Miriam is, and she goes to all the parties and returns

all the visits for me." The consequence is, that if the person who

questions is a stranger, he goes off satisfied that "that Miriam must

be a great girl; but that little sister of hers--! Well! a _prig_, to

say the least!"

So it is Miriam catches all my fish--and so it is, too, that it is not

raining, and I'm off.

April 7th.

Until that dreary 1861, I had no idea of sorrow or grief.... How I love

to think of myself at that time! Not as _myself_, but as some happy,

careless child who danced through life, loving God's whole world too

much to love any particular one, outside of her own family. She was

more childish then--yet I like her for all her folly; I can say it now,

for she is as dead as though she was lying underground.

Now do not imagine that Sarah has become an aged lady in the fifteen

months that have elapsed since, for it is no such thing; her heart does

ache occasionally, but that is a secret between her and this little

rosewood furnished room; and when she gets over it, there is no one

more fond of making wheelbarrows of the children, or of catching

Charlie or mother by the foot and making them play lame chicken.... Now

all this done by a young lady who remembers eighteen months ago with so

much regret that she has lost so much of her high spirits--might argue

that her spirits were before tremendous; and yet they were not. That

other Sarah was ladylike, I am sure, in her wildest moments, but there

is something hurried and boisterous in this one's tricks that reminds

me of some one who is making a merit of being jolly under depressing

circumstances. No! that is not a nice Sarah now, to _my_ taste.

The commencement of '61 promised much pleasure for the rest of the

year, and though Secession was talked about, I do not believe any one

anticipated the war that has been desolating our country ever since,

with no prospect of terminating for some time to come. True the

garrison was taken, but then several pleasant officers of the Louisiana

army were stationed there, and made quite an agreeable addition to our

small parties, and we did not think for a moment that trouble would

grow out of it--at least, we girls did not. Next Louisiana seceded, but

still we did not trouble ourselves with gloomy anticipations, for many

strangers visited the town, and our parties, rides, and walks grew

gayer and more frequent.

One little party--shall I ever forget it?--was on the 9th of March, I

think; such an odd, funny little party! Such queer things happened!

What a fool Mr. McG---- made of himself! Even more so than usual. But

hush! It's not fair to laugh at a lady--under peculiar circumstances.

And he tried so hard to make himself agreeable, poor fellow, that I

ought to like him for being so obedient to my commands. "Say something

new; something funny," I said, tired of a subject on which he had been

expatiating all the evening; for I had taken a long ride with him

before sunset, he had escorted me to Mrs. Brunot's, and here he was

still at my side, and his conversation did not interest me. To hear,

with him, was to obey. "Something funny? Well--" here he commenced

telling something about somebody, the fun of which seemed to consist in

the somebody's having "knocked his _shins_" against something else. I

only listened to the latter part; I was bored, and showed it. "Shins!"

was I to laugh at such a story?

April 12th.

Day before yesterday, just about this time of evening, as I came home

from the graveyard, Jimmy unexpectedly came in. Ever since the 12th of

February he has been waiting on the Yankees' pleasure, in the

Mississippi, at all places below Columbus, and having been under fire

for thirteen days at Tiptonville, Island No. 10 having surrendered

Monday night; and Commodore Hollins thinking it high time to take

possession of the ironclad ram at New Orleans, and give them a small

party below the forts, he carried off his little aide from the McRae

Tuesday morning, and left him here Thursday evening, to our infinite

delight, for we felt as though we would never again see our dear little

Jimmy. He has grown so tall, and stout, that it is really astonishing,

considering the short time he has been away.... To our great distress,

he jumped up from dinner, and declared he must go to the city on the

very next boat. Commodore Hollins would need him, he must be at his

post, etc., and in twenty minutes he was off, the rascal, before we

could believe he had been here at all. There is something in his eye

that reminds me of Harry, and tells me that, like Hal, he will die

young.

And these days that are going by remind me of Hal, too. I am walking in

our footsteps of last year. The eighth was the day we gave him a party,

on his return home. I see him so distinctly standing near the pier

table, talking to Mr. Sparks, whom he had met only that morning, and

who, three weeks after, had Harry's blood upon his hands. He is a

murderer now, without aim or object in life, as before; with only one

desire--to die--and death still flees from him, and he Dares not rid

himself of life.

All those dancing there that night have undergone trial and affliction

since. Father is dead, and Harry. Mr. Trezevant lies at Corinth with

his skull fractured by a bullet; every young man there has been in at

least one battle since, and every woman has cried over her son,

brother, or sweetheart, going away to the wars, or lying sick and

wounded. And yet we danced that night, and never thought of bloodshed!

The week before Louisiana seceded, Jack Wheat stayed with us, and we

all liked him so much, and he thought so much of us;--and last week--a

week ago to-day--he was killed on the battle-field of Shiloh.

April 16th.

Among the many who visited us, in the beginning of 1861, there was Mr.

Bradford. I took a dislike to him the first time I ever saw him, and,

being accustomed to say just what I pleased to all the other gentlemen,

tried it with him. It was at dinner, and for a long while I had the

advantage, and though father would sometimes look grave, Gibbes, and

all at my end of the table, would scream with laughter. At last Mr.

Bradford commenced to retaliate, and my dislike changed into respect

for a man who could make an excellent repartee with perfect

good-breeding; and after dinner, when the others took their leave, and

he asked permission to remain,--during his visit, which lasted until

ten o'clock, he had gone over such a variety of subjects, conversing so

well upon all, that Miriam and I were so interested that we forgot to

have the gas lit!

April 17th.

And another was silly little Mr. B----r, my little golden calf. What

a--don't call names! I owe him a grudge for "cold hands," and the other

day, when I heard of his being wounded at Shiloh, I could not help

laughing a little at Tom B----r's being hurt. What was the use of

throwing a nice, big cannon ball, that might have knocked a man down,

away on that poor little fellow, when a pea from a popgun would have

made the same impression? Not but what he is brave, but little Mr.

B----r is so soft.

Then there was that rattle-brain Mr. T----t who, commencing one

subject, never ceased speaking until he had touched on all. One evening

he came in talking, and never paused even for a reply until he bowed

himself out, talking still, when Mr. Bradford, who had been forced to

silence as well as the rest, threw himself back with a sigh of relief

and exclaimed, "This man talks like a woman!" I thought it the best

description of Mr. T----t's conversation I had ever heard. It was all

on the surface, no pretensions to anything except to put the greatest

possible number of words of no meaning in one sentence, while speaking

of the most trivial thing. Night or day, Mr. T----t never passed home

without crying out to me, "_Ces jolis yeux bleus!_" and if the parlor

were brightly lighted so that all from the street might see us, and be

invisible to us themselves, I always nodded my head to the outer

darkness and laughed, no matter who was present, though it sometimes

created remark. You see, I knew the joke. Coming from a party escorted

by Mr. B----r, Miriam by Mr. T----t,[1] we had to wait a long time

before Rose opened the door, which interval I employed in dancing up

and down the gallery--followed by my cavalier--singing,--

"Mes jolis yeux bleus,

Bleus comme les cieux,

Mes jolis yeux bleus

Ont ravi son âme," etc.;

which naïve remark Mr. B----r, not speaking French, lost entirely, and

Mr. T----t endorsed it with his approbation and belief in it, and ever

afterwards called me "_Ces jolis yeux bleus_."

[1] Note added at the time: "O propriety! Gibbes and Lydia were

with us too."

April 19th, 1862.

Another date in Hal's short history! I see myself walking home with Mr.

McG---- just after sundown, meeting Miriam and Dr. Woods at the gate;

only that was a Friday instead of a Saturday, as this. From the other

side, Mr. Sparks comes up and joins us. We stand talking in the bright

moonlight which makes Miriam look white and statue-like. I am holding

roses in my hand, in return for which one little pansy has been begged

from my garden, and is now figuring as a shirt-stud. I turn to speak to

that man of whom I said to Dr. Woods, before I even knew his name, "Who

is this man who passes here so constantly? I feel that I shall hate him

to my dying day." He told me his name was Sparks, a good, harmless

fellow, etc. And afterwards, when I did know him, [Dr. Woods] would ask

every time we met, "Well! do you hate Sparks yet?" I could not really

hate any one in my heart, so I always answered, "He is a good-natured

fool, but I will hate him yet." But even now I cannot: my only feeling

is intense pity for the man who has dealt us so severe a blow; who made

my dear father bow his gray head, and shed such bitter tears.

The moon is rising still higher now, and people are hurrying to the

grand Meeting, where the state of the country is to be discussed, and

the three young men bow and hurry off, too. Later, at eleven o'clock,

Miriam and I are up at Lydia's waiting (until the boat comes) with Miss

Comstock who is going away. As usual, I am teasing and romping by

turns. Harry suddenly stands in the parlor door, looking very grave,

and very quiet. He is holding father's stick in his hand, and says he

has come to take us over home. I was laughing still, so I said, "Wait,"

while I prepared for some last piece of folly, but he smiled for the

first time, and throwing his arm around me, said, "Come home, you

rogue!" and laughing still, I followed him.

He left us in the hall, saying he must go to Charlie's a moment, but to

leave the door open for him. So we went up, and I ran in his room, and

lighted his gas for him, as I did every night when we went up together.

In a little while I heard him come in and go to his room. I knew

nothing then; but next day, going into mother's room, I saw him

standing before the glass door of her armoir, looking at a black coat

he had on. Involuntarily I cried out, "Oh, don't, Hal!" "Don't what?

Isn't it a nice coat?" he asked. "Yes; but it is buttoned up to the

throat, and I don't like to see it. It looks--" here I went out as

abruptly as I came in; that black coat so tightly buttoned troubled me.

He came to our room after a while and said he was going ten miles out

in the country for a few days. I begged him to stay, and reproached him

for going away so soon after he had come home. But he said he must,

adding, "Perhaps I am tired of you, and want to see something new. I'll

be so glad to get back in a few days." Father said yes, he must go, so

he went without any further explanation.

Walking out to Mr. Davidson's that evening, Lydia and I sat down on a

fallen rail beyond the Catholic graveyard, and there she told me what

had happened. The night before, sitting on Dr. Woods's gallery, with

six or eight others who had been singing, Hal called on Mr. Henderson

to sing. He complied by singing one that was not nice.[2] Old Mr.

Sparks got up to leave, and Hal said, "I hope we are not disturbing

you?" No, he said he was tired and would go home. As soon as he was

gone, his son, who I have since _heard_ was under the influence of

opium,--though Hal always maintained that he was not,--said it was a

shame to disturb his poor old father. Hal answered, "You heard what he

said. We did _not_ disturb him." "You are a liar!" the other cried.

That is a name that none of our family has either merited or borne

with; and quick as thought Hal sprang to his feet and struck him across

the face with the walking-stick he held. The blow sent the lower part

across the balcony in the street, as the spring was loosened by it,

while the upper part, to which was fastened the sword--for it was

father's sword-cane--remained in his hand. I doubt that he ever before

knew the cane could come apart. Certainly he did not perceive it, until

the other whined piteously he was taking advantage over an unarmed man;

when, cursing him, he (Harry) threw it after the body of the cane, and

said, "_Now_ we are equal." The other's answer was to draw a knife,[3]

and was about to plunge it into Harry, who disdained to flinch, when

Mr. Henderson threw himself on Mr. Sparks and dragged him off.

[2] Note by Mrs. Dawson in 1896: "Annie Laurie!"

[3] Note by Mrs. Dawson: Bowie knife.

It was a little while after that Harry came for us. The consequence of

this was a challenge from Mr. Sparks in the morning, which was accepted

by Harry's friends, who appointed Monday, at Greenwell, to meet. Lydia

did not tell me that; she said she thought it had been settled

peaceably, so I was not uneasy, and only wanted Harry to come back from

Seth David's soon. The possibility of his fighting never occurred to

me.

Sunday evening I was on the front steps with Miriam and Dr. Woods,

talking of Harry and wishing he would come. "You want Harry!" the

doctor repeated after me; "you had better learn to live without him."

"What an absurdity!" I said and wondered when he would come. Still

later, Miriam, father, and I were in the parlor, when there was a tap

on the window, just above his head, and I saw a hand, for an instant.

Father hurried out, and we heard several voices; and then steps going

away. Mother came down and asked who had been there, but we only knew

that, whoever it was, father had afterward gone with them. Mother went

on: "There is something going on, which is to be kept from me. Every

one seems to know it, and to make a secret of it." I said nothing, for

I had promised Lydia not to tell; and even I did not know all.

When father came back, Harry was with him. I saw by his nod, and "How

are you, girls," how he wished us to take it, so neither moved from our

chairs, while he sat down on the sofa and asked what kind of a sermon

we had had. And we talked of anything except what we were thinking of,

until we went upstairs.

Hal afterwards told me that he had been arrested up there, and father

went with him to give bail; and that the sheriff had gone out to

Greenwell after Mr. Sparks. He told me all about it next morning,

saying he was glad it was all over, but sorry for Mr. Sparks; for he

had a blow on his face which nothing would wash out. I said, "Hal, if

you _had_ fought, much as I love you, I would rather he had killed you

than that you should have killed him. I love you too much to be willing

to see blood on your hands." First he laughed at me, then said, "If I

had killed him, I never would have seen you again."

We thought it was all over; so did he. But Baton Rouge was wild about

it. Mr. Sparks was the bully of the town, having nothing else to do,

and whenever he got angry or drunk, would knock down anybody he chose.

That same night, before Harry met him, he had slapped one man, and had

dragged another over the room by the hair; but these coolly went home,

and waited for a _voluntary apology_. So the mothers, sisters, and

intimate friends of those who had patiently borne the blows, and being

"woolled," vaunted the example of their heroes, and asked why Dr.

Morgan had not acted as _they_ had done, and waited for an apology?

Then there was another faction who cried only blood could wash out that

blow and make a gentleman of Mr. Sparks again,--as though he ever _had_

been one! So knots assembled at street corners, and discussed it, until

father said to us that Monday night, "These people are so excited, and

are trying so hard to make this affair worse, that I would not be

surprised if they shot each other down in the street," speaking of

Harry and the other.

Hal seemed to think of it no more, though, and Wednesday said he must

go to the city and consult Brother as to where he should permanently

establish himself. I was sorry; yet glad that he would then get away

from all this trouble. I don't know that I ever saw him in higher

spirits than he was that day and evening, the 24th. Lilly and Charlie

were here until late, and he laughed and talked so incessantly that we

called him crazy. We might have guessed by his extravagant spirits that

he was trying to conceal something from us....

He went away before daybreak, and I never saw him again.

April 26th, 1862.

There is no word in the English language that can express the state

in which we are, and have been, these last three days. Day before

yesterday, news came early in the morning of three of the enemy's boats

passing the Forts, and then the excitement began. It increased rapidly

on hearing of the sinking of eight of our gunboats in the engagement,

the capture of the Forts, and last night, of the burning of the wharves

and cotton in the city while the Yankees were taking possession.

To-day, the excitement has reached the point of delirium. I believe I

am one of the most self-possessed in my small circle; and yet I feel

such a craving for news of Miriam, and mother, and Jimmy, who are in

the city, that I suppose I am as wild as the rest. It is nonsense to

tell me I am cool, with all these patriotic and enthusiastic sentiments.

Nothing can be positively ascertained, save that our gunboats are sunk,

and theirs are coming up to the city. Everything else has been

contradicted until we really do not know whether the city has been

taken or not. We only know we had best be prepared for anything. So day

before yesterday, Lilly and I sewed up our jewelry, which may be of use

if we have to fly. I vow I will not move one step, unless carried away.

Come what will, here I remain.

We went this morning to see the cotton burning--a sight never before

witnessed, and probably never again to be seen. Wagons, drays,--everything

that can be driven or rolled,--were loaded with the bales and taken a

few squares back to burn on the commons. Negroes were running around,

cutting them open, piling them up, and setting them afire. All were as

busy as though their salvation depended on disappointing the Yankees.

Later, Charlie sent for us to come to the river and see him fire a

flatboat loaded with the precious material for which the Yankees are

risking their bodies and souls. Up and down the levee, as far as we

could see, negroes were rolling it down to the brink of the river where

they would set them afire and push the bales in to float burning down

the tide. Each sent up its wreath of smoke and looked like a tiny

steamer puffing away. Only I doubt that from the source to the mouth of

the river there are as many boats afloat on the Mississippi. The

flatboat was piled with as many bales as it could hold without sinking.

Most of them were cut open, while negroes staved in the heads of

barrels of alcohol, whiskey, etc., and dashed bucketsful over the

cotton. Others built up little chimneys of pine every few feet, lined

with pine knots and loose cotton, to burn more quickly. There, piled

the length of the whole levee, or burning in the river, lay the work of

thousands of negroes for more than a year past. It had come from every

side. Men stood by who owned the cotton that was burning or waiting to

burn. They either helped, or looked on cheerfully. Charlie owned but

sixteen bales--a matter of some fifteen hundred dollars; but he was the

head man of the whole affair, and burned his own, as well as the

property of others. A single barrel of whiskey that was thrown on the

cotton, cost the man who gave it one hundred and twenty-five dollars.

(It shows what a nation in earnest is capable of doing.) Only two men

got on the flatboat with Charlie when it was ready. It was towed to the

middle of the river, set afire in every place, and then they jumped

into a little skiff fastened in front, and rowed to land. The cotton

floated down the Mississippi one sheet of living flame, even in the

sunlight. It would have been grand at night. But then we will have fun

watching it this evening anyway; for they cannot get through to-day,

though no time is to be lost. Hundreds of bales remained untouched. An

incredible amount of property has been destroyed to-day; but no one

begrudges it. Every grog-shop has been emptied, and gutters and

pavements are floating with liquors of all kinds. So that if the

Yankees are fond of strong drink, they will fare ill.

Yesterday, Mr. Hutchinson and a Dr. Moffat called to ask for me, with a

message about Jimmy. I was absent, but they saw Lilly. Jimmy, they

said, was safe. Though sick in bed, he had sprung up and had rushed to

the wharf at the first tap of the alarm bell in New Orleans. But as

nothing could be done, he would probably be with us to-day, bringing

mother and Miriam. I have neither heard nor seen more. The McRae, they

said, went to the bottom with the others. They did not know whether any

one aboard had escaped. God be praised that Jimmy was not on her then!

The new boat to which he was appointed is not yet finished. So he is

saved! I am distressed about Captain Huger, and could not refrain from

crying, he was so good to Jimmy. But I remembered Miss Cammack might

think it rather tender and obtrusive, so I dried my eyes and began to

hope he had escaped. Oh! how glad I should be to know he has suffered

no harm. Mr. Hutchinson was on his way above, going to join others

where the final battle is to be fought on the Mississippi. He had not

even time to sit down; so I was doubly grateful to him for his

kindness. I wish I could have thanked him for being so considerate of

me in my distress now. In her agitation, Lilly gave him a letter I had

been writing to George when I was called away; and begged him to

address it and mail it at Vicksburg, or somewhere; for no mail will

leave here for Norfolk for a long while to come. The odd part is, that

he does not know George. But he said he would gladly take charge of it

and remember the address, which Lilly told him was Richmond. Well! if

the Yankees get it they will take it for an insane scrawl. I wanted to

calm his anxiety about us, though I was so wildly excited that I could

only say, "Don't mind us! We are safe. But fight, George! Fight for

us!" The repetition was ludicrous. I meant so much, too! I only wanted

him to understand he could best defend us there. Ah! Mr. Yankee! if you

had but your brothers in this world, and their lives hanging by a

thread, you too might write wild letters! And if you want to know what

an excited girl can do, just call and let me show you the use of a

small seven-shooter and a large carving-knife which vibrate between my

belt and my pocket, always ready for emergencies.

April 27th.

What a day! Last night came a dispatch that New Orleans was under

British protection, and could not be bombarded; consequently, the

enemy's gunboats would probably be here this morning, such few as had

succeeded in passing the Forts; from nine to fifteen, it was said. And

the Forts, they said, had _not_ surrendered. I went to church; but I

grew very anxious before it was over, feeling that I was needed at

home. When I returned, I found Lilly wild with excitement, picking up

hastily whatever came to hand, preparing for instant flight, she knew

not where. The Yankees were in sight; the town was to be burned; we

were to run to the woods, etc. If the house had to be burned, I had to

make up my mind to run, too. So my treasure-bag tied around my waist as

a bustle, a sack with a few necessary articles hanging on my arm, some

few quite unnecessary ones, too, as I had not the heart to leave the

old and new prayer books father had given me, and Miriam's, too;--pistol

and carving-knife ready, I stood awaiting the exodus. I heaped on the

bed the treasures I wanted to burn, matches lying ready to fire the

whole at the last minute. I may here say that, when all was over, I

found I had omitted many things from the holocaust. This very diary was

not included. It would have afforded vast amusement to the Yankees.

There may yet be occasion to burn them, and the house also. People

fortunately changed their minds about the _auto-da-fé_ just then; and

the Yankees have not yet arrived, at sundown. So, when the excitement

calmed down, poor Lilly tumbled in bed in a high fever in consequence

of terror and exertion.

[A page torn out]

I was right in that prophecy. For this was not the Will Pinckney I saw

last. So woebegone! so subdued, careworn, and sad! No trace of his once

merry self. He is good-looking, which he never was before. But I would

rather never have seen him than have found him so changed. I was

talking to a ghost. His was a sad story. He had held one bank of the

river until forced to retreat with his men, as their cartridges were

exhausted, and General Lovell omitted sending more. They had to pass

through swamps, wading seven and a half miles, up to their waists in

water. He gained the edge of the swamp, saw they were over the worst,

and fell senseless. Two of his men brought him milk, and "woke him up,"

he said. His men fell from exhaustion, were lost, and died in the

swamp; so that out of five hundred, but one hundred escaped. This he

told quietly and sadly, looking so heart-broken that it was piteous to

see such pain. He showed me his feet, with thick clumsy shoes which an

old negro had pulled off to give him; for his were lost in the swamp,

and he came out bare-footed. They reached the Lafourche River, I

believe, seized a boat, and arrived here last night. His wife and child

were aboard. Heaven knows how they got there! The men he sent on to

Port Hudson, while he stopped here. I wanted to bring his wife to stay

with us; but he said she could not bear to be seen, as she had run off

just as she had happened to be at that moment. In half an hour he would

be off to take her to his old home in a carriage. There he would rejoin

his men, on the railroad, and march from Clinton to the Jackson road,

and so on to Corinth. A long journey for men so disheartened! But they

will conquer in the end. Beauregard's army will increase rapidly at

this rate. The whole country is aroused, and every man who owns a gun,

and many who do not, are on the road to Corinth. We will conquer yet.

May 5th.

Vile old Yankee boats, four in number, passed up this morning without

stopping. After all our excitement, this "silent contempt" annihilated

me! What in the world do they mean? The river was covered with burning

cotton; perhaps they want to see where it came from.

May 9th.

Our lawful (?) owners have at last arrived. About sunset, day before

yesterday, the Iroquois anchored here, and a graceful young Federal

stepped ashore, carrying a Yankee flag over his shoulder, and asked the

way to the Mayor's office. I like the style! If we girls of Baton Rouge

had been at the landing, instead of the men, that Yankee would never

have insulted us by flying his flag in our faces! _We_ would have

opposed his landing except under a flag of truce; but the men let him

alone, and he even found a poor Dutchman willing to show him the road!

He did not accomplish much; said a formal demand would be made next

day, and asked if it was safe for the men to come ashore and buy a few

necessaries, when he was assured the air of Baton Rouge was very

unhealthy for Yankee soldiers at night. He promised very magnanimously

not to shell us out if we did not molest him; but I notice none of them

dare set their feet on _terra firma_, except the officer who has now

called three times on the Mayor, and who is said to tremble visibly as

he walks the streets.

Last evening came the demand: the town must be surrendered immediately;

the Federal flag must be raised; they would grant us the same terms

they granted New Orleans. Jolly terms those were! The answer was worthy

of a Southerner. It was, "The town was defenseless; if we had cannon,

there were not men enough to resist; but if forty vessels lay at the

landing,--it was intimated we were in their power, and more ships

coming up,--we would not surrender; if they wanted, they might come and

take us; if they wished the Federal flag hoisted over the Arsenal, they

might put it up for themselves, the town had no control over Government

property." Glorious! What a pity they did not shell the town! But they

are taking us at our word, and this morning they are landing at the

Garrison.

"All devices, signs, and flags of the Confederacy shall be suppressed."

So says Picayune Butler. _Good._ I devote all my red, white, and blue

silk to the manufacture of Confederate flags. As soon as one is

confiscated, I make another, until my ribbon is exhausted, when I will

sport a duster emblazoned in high colors, "Hurra! for the Bonny blue

flag!" Henceforth, I wear one pinned to my bosom--not a duster, but a

little flag; the man who says take it off will have to pull it off for

himself; the man who dares attempt it--well! a pistol in my pocket

fills up the gap. I am capable, too.

This is a dreadful war, to make even the hearts of women so bitter! I

hardly know myself these last few weeks. I, who have such a horror of

bloodshed, consider even killing in self-defense murder, who cannot

wish them the slightest evil, whose only prayer is to have them sent

back in peace to their own country,--_I_ talk of killing them! For what

else do I wear a pistol and carving-knife? I am afraid I _will_ try

them on the first one who says an insolent word to me. Yes, and repent

for it ever after in sack-cloth and ashes. _O!_ if I was only a man!

Then I could don the breeches, and slay them with a will! If some few

Southern women were in the ranks, they could set the men an example

they would not blush to follow. Pshaw! there are _no_ women here! We

are _all_ men!

May 10th.

Last night about one o'clock I was wakened and told that mother and

Miriam had come. Oh, how glad I was! I tumbled out of bed half asleep

and hugged Miriam in a dream, but waked up when I got to mother. They

came up under a flag of truce, on a boat going up for provisions,

which, by the way, was brought to by half a dozen Yankee ships in

succession, with a threat to send a broadside into her if she did not

stop--the wretches knew it _must_ be under a flag of truce; no boats

leave, except by special order to procure provisions.

What tales they had to tell! They were on the wharf, and saw the ships

sail up the river, saw the broadside fired into Will Pinckney's

regiment, the boats we fired, our gunboats, floating down to meet them

all wrapped in flames; twenty thousand bales of cotton blazing in a

single pile; molasses and sugar thrown over everything. They stood

there opposite to where one of the ships landed, expecting a broadside,

and resolute not to be shot in the back. I wish I had been there! And

Captain Huger is not dead! They had hopes of his life for the first

time day before yesterday. Miriam saw the ball that had just been

extracted. He will probably be lame for the rest of his life. It will

be a glory to him. For even the Federal officers say that never did

they see so gallant a little ship, or one that fought so desperately as

the McRae. Men and officers fought like devils. Think of all those

great leviathans after the poor little "Widow Mickey"! One came tearing

down on her sideways, while the Brooklyn fired on her from the other

side, when brave Captain Warley put the nose of the Manassas under the

first, and tilted her over so that the whole broadside passed over,

instead of through, the McRae, who spit back its poor little fire at

both. And after all was lost, she carried the wounded and the prisoners

to New Orleans, and was scuttled by her own men in port. Glorious

Captain Huger! And think of his sending word to Jimmy, suffering as he

was, that "his little brass cannon was game to the last." Oh! I hope he

will recover. Brave, dare-devil Captain Warley is prisoner, and on the

way to Fort Warren, that home of all brave, patriotic men. We'll have

him out. And my poor little Jimmy! If I have not spoken of him, it is

not because I have lost sight of him for a moment. The day the McRae

went down, he arose from his bed, ill as he was, and determined to

rejoin her, as his own boat, the Mississippi, was not ready. When he

reached the St. Charles, he fell so very ill that he had to be carried

back to Brother's. Only his desperate illness saved him from being

among the killed or wounded on that gallant little ship. A few days

after, he learned the fate of the ship, and was told that Captain Huger

was dead. No wonder he should cry so bitterly! For Captain Huger was as

tender and as kind to him as his own dear father. God bless him for it!

The enemy's ships were sailing up; so he threw a few articles in a

carpet-bag and started off for Richmond, Corinth, anywhere, to fight.

Sick, weak, hardly able to stand, he went off, two weeks ago yesterday.

We know not where, and we have never heard from him since. Whether he

succumbed to that jaundice and the rest, and lies dead or dying on the

road, God only knows. We can only wait and pray God to send dear little

Jimmy home in safety.

And this is WAR! Heaven save me from like scenes and experiences again.

I was wild with excitement last night when Miriam described how the

soldiers, marching to the depot, waved their hats to the crowds of

women and children, shouting, "God bless you, ladies! We will fight for

you!" and they, waving their handkerchiefs, sobbed with one voice, "God

bless you, Soldiers! Fight for us!"

We, too, have been having our fun. Early in the evening, four more

gunboats sailed up here. We saw them from the corner, three squares

off, crowded with men even up in the riggings. The American flag was

flying from every peak. It was received in profound silence, by the

hundreds gathered on the banks. I could hardly refrain from a groan.

Much as I once loved that flag, I hate it now! I came back and made

myself a Confederate flag about five inches long, slipped the staff in

my belt, pinned the flag to my shoulder, and walked downtown, to the

consternation of women and children, who expected something awful to

follow. An old negro cried, "My young missus got her flag flyin',

anyhow!" Nettie made one and hid it in the folds of her dress. But we

were the only two who ventured. We went to the State House terrace, and

took a good look at the Brooklyn which was crowded with people who took

a good look at us, likewise. The picket stationed at the Garrison took

alarm at half a dozen men on horseback and ran, saying that the

citizens were attacking. The kind officers aboard the ship sent us word

that if they were molested, the town would be shelled. Let them!

Butchers! Does it take thirty thousand men and millions of dollars to

murder defenseless women and children? O the great nation! Bravo!

May 11th.

I--I am disgusted with myself. No unusual thing, but I am _peculiarly_

disgusted this time. Last evening, I went to Mrs. Brunot's, without an

idea of going beyond, with my flag flying again. They were all going to

the State House, so I went with them; to my great distress, some

fifteen or twenty Federal officers were standing on the first terrace,

stared at like wild beasts by the curious crowd. I had not expected to

meet them, and felt a painful conviction that I was unnecessarily

attracting attention, by an unladylike display of defiance, from the

crowd gathered there. But what was I to do? I felt humiliated,

conspicuous, everything that is painful and disagreeable; but--strike

my colors in the face of the enemy? Never! Nettie and Sophie had them,

too, but that was no consolation for the shame I suffered by such a

display so totally distasteful to me. How I wished myself away, and

chafed at my folly, and hated myself for being there, and every one for

seeing me. I hope it will be a lesson to me always to remember a lady

can gain nothing by such display.

I was not ashamed of the flag of my country,--I proved that by never

attempting to remove it in spite of my mortification,--but I was

ashamed of my position; for these are evidently gentlemen, not the

Billy Wilson's crew we were threatened with. Fine, noble-looking men

they were, showing refinement and gentlemanly bearing in every motion.

One cannot help but admire such foes! They set us an example worthy of

our imitation, and one we would be benefited by following. They come as

visitors without either pretensions to superiority, or the insolence of

conquerors; they walk quietly their way, offering no annoyance to the

citizens, though they themselves are stared at most unmercifully, and

pursued by crowds of ragged little boys, while even men gape at them

with open mouths. They prove themselves gentlemen, while many of our

citizens have proved themselves boors, and I admire them for their

conduct. With a conviction that I had allowed myself to be influenced

by bigoted, narrow-minded people, in believing them to be unworthy of

respect or regard, I came home wonderfully changed in all my newly

acquired sentiments, resolved never more to wound their feelings, who

were so careful of ours, by such unnecessary display. And I hung my

flag on the parlor mantel, there to wave, if it will, in the shades of

private life; but to make a show, make me conspicuous and ill at ease,

as I was yesterday,--never again!

There was a dozen officers in church this morning, and the psalms for

the 11th day seemed so singularly appropriate to the feelings of the

people, that I felt uncomfortable for them. They answered with us,

though.

May 14th.

I am beginning to believe that we are even of more importance in Baton

Rouge than we thought we were. It is laughable to hear the things a

certain set of people, who know they can't visit us, say about the

whole family.... When father was alive, they dared not talk about us

aloud, beyond calling us the "Proud Morgans" and the "Aristocracy of

Baton Rouge".... But now father is gone, the people imagine we are

public property, to be criticized, vilified, and abused to their

hearts' content....

And now, because they find absurdities don't succeed, they try

improbabilities. So yesterday the town was in a ferment because it was

reported the Federal officers had called on the Miss Morgans, and all

the gentlemen were anxious to hear how they had been received. One had

the grace to say, "If they did, they received the best lesson there

that they could get in town; those young ladies would meet them with

the true Southern spirit." The rest did not know; they would like to

find out.

I suppose the story originated from the fact that we were unwilling to

blackguard--yes, that is the word--the Federal officers here, and would

not agree with many of our friends in saying they were liars, thieves,

murderers, scoundrels, the scum of the earth, etc. Such epithets are

unworthy of ladies, I say, and do harm, rather than advance our cause.

Let them be what they will, it shall not make me less the lady; I say

it is unworthy of anything except low newspaper war, such abuse, and I

will not join in.

I have a brother-in-law in the Federal army whom I love and respect as

much as any one in the world, and shall not readily agree that his

being a Northerner would give him an irresistible desire to pick my

pockets, and take from him all power of telling the truth. No! There

are few men I admire more than Major Drum, and I honor him for his

independence in doing what he believes right. Let us have liberty of

speech and action in our land, I say, but not gross abuse and calumny.

Shall I acknowledge that the people we so recently called our brothers

are unworthy of consideration, and are liars, cowards, dogs? Not I!

_If_ they conquer us, I acknowledge them as a superior race; I will not

say that we were conquered by cowards, for where would that place us?

It will take a brave people to gain us, and that the Northerners

undoubtedly are. I would scorn to have an inferior foe; I fight only my

equals. These women may acknowledge that _cowards_ have won battles in

which their brothers were engaged, but I, I will ever say _mine_ fought

against brave men, and won the day. Which is most honorable?

I was never a Secessionist, for I quietly adopted father's views on

political subjects without meddling with them. But even father went

over with his State, and when so many outrages were committed by the

fanatical leaders of the North, though he regretted the Union, said,

"Fight to the death for our liberty." I say so, too. I want to fight

until we win the cause so many have died for. I don't believe in

Secession, but I do in Liberty. I want the South to conquer, dictate

its own terms, and go back to the Union, for I believe that, apart,

inevitable ruin awaits both. It is a rope of sand, this Confederacy,

founded on the doctrine of Secession, and will not last many years--not

five. The North Cannot subdue us. We are too determined to be free.

They have no right to confiscate our property to pay debts they

themselves have incurred. Death as a nation, rather than Union on such

terms. We will have our rights secured on so firm a basis that it can

never be shaken. If by power of overwhelming numbers they conquer us,

it will be a barren victory over a desolate land. We, the natives of

this loved soil, will be beggars in a foreign land; we will not submit

to despotism under the garb of Liberty. The North will find herself

burdened with an unparalleled debt, with nothing to show for it except

deserted towns, burning homes, a standing army which will govern with

no small caprice, and an impoverished land.

If that be treason, make the best of it!

May 17th.

One of these days, when peace is restored and we are quietly settled in

our allotted corners of this wide world without any particularly

exciting event to alarm us; and with the knowledge of what is now the

future, and will then be the dead past; seeing that all has been for

the best for us in the end; that all has come right in spite of us, we

will wonder how we could ever have been foolish enough to await each

hour in such breathless anxiety. We will ask ourselves if it was really

true that nightly, as we lay down to sleep, we did not dare plan for

the morning, feeling that we might be homeless and beggars before the

dawn. How unreal it will then seem! We will say it was our wild

imagination, perhaps. But how bitterly, horribly true it is now!

Four days ago the Yankees left us, to attack Vicksburg, leaving their

flag flying in the Garrison without a man to guard it, and with the

understanding that the town would be held responsible for it. It was

intended for a trap; and it succeeded. For night before last, it was

pulled down and torn to pieces.

Now, unless Will will have the kindness to sink a dozen of their ships

up there,--I hear he has command of the lower batteries,--they will

be back in a few days, and will execute their threat of shelling the

town. If they do, what will become of us? All we expect in the way of

earthly property is as yet mere paper, which will be so much trash if

the South is ruined, as it consists of debts due father by many

planters for professional services rendered, who, of course, will be

ruined, too, so all money is gone. That is nothing, we will not be

ashamed to earn our bread, so let it go.

But this house is at least a shelter from the weather, all sentiment

apart. And our servants, too; how could they manage without us? The

Yankees, on the river, and a band of guerrillas in the woods, are

equally anxious to precipitate a fight. Between the two fires, what

chance for us? It would take only a little while to burn the city over

our heads. They say the women and children must be removed, these

guerrillas. Where, please? Charlie says we must go to Greenwell. And

have this house pillaged? For Butler has decreed that no unoccupied

house shall be respected. If we stay through the battle, if the

Federals are victorious, we will suffer. For the officers here were

reported to have said, "If the people here did not treat them decently,

they would know what it was when Billy Wilson's crew arrived. _They_

would give them a lesson!" That select crowd is now in New Orleans.

Heaven help us when they reach here! It is in these small cities that

the greatest outrages are perpetrated. What are we to do?

A new proclamation from Butler has just come. It seems that the ladies

have an ugly way of gathering their skirts when the Federals pass, to

avoid any possible contact. Some even turn up their noses. Unladylike,

to say the least. But it is, maybe, owing to the odor they have, which

is said to be unbearable even at this early season of the year. Butler

says, whereas the so-called ladies of New Orleans insult his men and

officers, he gives one and all permission to insult any or all who so

treat them, then and there, with the assurance that the women will not

receive the slightest protection from the Government, and that the men

will all be justified. I did not have time to read it, but repeat it as

it was told to me by mother, who is in utter despair at the brutality

of the thing. These men our brothers? Not mine! Let us hope for the

honor of their nation that Butler is not counted among the gentlemen of

the land. And so, if any man should fancy he cared to kiss me, he could

do so under the pretext that I had pulled my dress from under his feet!

That will justify them! And if we decline their visits, they can insult

us under the plea of a prior affront. Oh! Gibbes! George! Jimmy! never

did we need your protection as sorely as now. And not to know even

whether you are alive! When Charlie joins the army, we will be

defenseless, indeed. Come to my bosom, O my discarded carving-knife,

laid aside under the impression that these men were gentlemen. We will

be close friends once more. And if you must have a sheath, perhaps I

may find one for you in the heart of the first man who attempts to

Butlerize me. I never dreamed of kissing any man save my father and

brothers. And why any one should care to kiss any one else, I fail to

understand. And I do not propose to learn to make exceptions.

Still no word from the boys. We hear that Norfolk has been evacuated;

but no details. George was there. Gibbes is wherever Johnston is,

presumably on the Rappahannock; but it is more than six weeks since we

have heard from either of them, and all communication is cut off.

May 21st.

I have had such a search for shoes this week that I am disgusted with

shopping. I am triumphant now, for after traversing the town in every

direction and finding nothing, I finally discovered a pair of _boots_

just made for a little negro to go fishing with, and only an inch and a

half too long for me, besides being unbendable; but I seized them with

avidity, and the little negro would have been outbid if I had not soon

after discovered a pair more seemly, if not more serviceable, which I

took without further difficulty. Behold my tender feet cased in

crocodile skin, patent-leather tipped, low-quarter boy's shoes, No. 2!

"What a fall was there, my country," from my pretty English glove-kid,

to sabots made of some animal closely connected with the hippopotamus!

_A dernier ressort, vraiment!_ for my choice was that, or cooling my

feet on the burning pavement _au naturel_; I who have such a terror of

any one seeing my naked foot! And this is thanks to war and blockade!

Not a decent shoe in the whole community! _N'importe!_ "Better days are

coming, we'll all"--have shoes--after a while--perhaps! Why did not

Mark Tapley leave me a song calculated to keep the spirits up, under

depressing circumstances? I need one very much, and have nothing more

suggestive than the old Methodist hymn, "Better days are coming, we'll

all go right," which I shout so constantly, as our prospects darken,

that it begins to sound stale.

May 27th.

The cry is "Ho! for Greenwell!" Very probably this day week will see us

there. I don't want to go. If we were at peace, and were to spend a few

months of the warmest season out there, none would be more eager and

delighted than I: but to leave our comfortable home, and all it

contains, for a rough pine cottage seventeen miles away even from this

scanty civilization, is sad. It must be! We are hourly expecting two

regiments of Yankees to occupy the Garrison, and some fifteen hundred

of our men are awaiting them a little way off, so the fight seems

inevitable. And we must go, leaving what little has already been spared

us to the tender mercies of Northern volunteers, who, from the specimen

of plundering they gave us two weeks ago, will hardly leave us even the

shelter of our roof. O my dear Home! How can I help but cry at leaving

you forever? For if this fight occurs, never again shall I pass the

threshold of this house, where we have been so happy and sad, the scene

of joyous meetings and mournful partings, the place where we greeted

each other with glad shouts after even so short a parting, the place

where Harry and father kissed us good-bye and never came back again!

I know what Lavinia has suffered this long year, by what we have

suffered these last six weeks. Poor Lavinia, so far away! How easier

poverty, if it must come, would be if we could bear it together! I

wonder if the real fate of the boys, if we ever hear, can be so

dreadful as this suspense? Still no news of them. My poor little Jimmy!

And think how desperate Gibbes and George will be when they read

Butler's proclamation, and they not able to defend us! Gibbes was in

our late victory of Fredericksburg, I know.

In other days, going to Greenwell was the signal for general noise and

confusion. All the boys gathered their guns and fishing-tackle, and

thousand and one amusements; father sent out provisions; we helped

mother pack; Hal and I tumbled over the libraries to lay in a supply of

reading material; and all was bustle until the carriage drove to the

door at daylight one morning, and swept us off. It is not so gay this

time. I wandered around this morning selecting books alone. We can only

take what is necessary, the rest being left to the care of the Northern

militia in general. I never knew before how many articles were

perfectly "indispensable" to me. This or that little token or keepsake,

piles of letters I hate to burn, many dresses, etc., I cannot take

conveniently, lie around me, and I hardly know which to choose among

them, yet half _must_ be sacrificed; I can only take one trunk.

May 30th,

GREENWELL.

After all our trials and tribulations, here we are at last, and no

limbs lost! How many weeks ago was it since I wrote here? It seems very

long after all these events; let me try to recall them.

Wednesday the 28th,--a day to be forever remembered,--as luck would

have it, we rose very early, and had breakfast sooner than usual, it

would seem for the express design of becoming famished before dinner. I

picked up some of my letters and papers and set them where I could find

them whenever we were ready to go to Greenwell, burning a pile of trash

and leaving a quantity equally worthless, which were of no value even

to myself except from association. I was packing up my traveling-desk

with all Harry's little articles that were left to me, and other

things, and I was saying to myself that my affairs were in such

confusion that if obliged to run unexpectedly I would not know what to

save, when I heard Lilly's voice downstairs, crying as she ran in--she

had been out shopping--"Mr. Castle has killed a Federal officer on a

ship, and they are going to shell--" _Bang!_ went a cannon at the word,

and that was all our warning.

Mother had just come in, and was lying down, but sprang to her feet and

added her screams to the general confusion. Miriam, who had been

searching the libraries, ran up to quiet her; Lilly gathered her

children, crying hysterically all the time, and ran to the front door

with them as they were; Lucy saved the baby, naked as she took her from

her bath, only throwing a quilt over her. I bethought me of my

"running-bag" which I had used on a former case, and in a moment my few

precious articles were secured under my hoops, and with a sunbonnet on,

I stood ready for anything.

The firing still continued; they must have fired half a dozen times

before we could coax mother off. What awful screams! I had hoped never

to hear them again, after Harry died. Charlie had gone to Greenwell

before daybreak, to prepare the house, so we four women, with all those

children and servants, were left to save ourselves. I did not forget my

poor little Jimmy; I caught up his cage and ran down. Just at this

moment mother recovered enough to insist on saving father's

papers--which was impossible, as she had not an idea of where the

important ones were. I heard Miriam plead, argue, insist, command her

to run; Lilly shriek, and cry she should go; the children screaming

within; women running by without, crying and moaning; but I could not

join in. I was going I knew not where; it was impossible to take my

bird, for even if I could carry him, he would starve. So I took him out

of his cage, kissed his little yellow head, and tossed him up. He gave

one feeble little chirp as if to ascertain where to go, and then for

the first and last time I cried, laying my head against the gate-post,

and with my eyes too dim to see him. Oh, how it hurt me to lose my

little bird, one Jimmy had given me, too!

But the next minute we were all off, in safety. A square from home, I

discovered that boy shoes were not the most comfortable things to run

in, so I ran back, in spite of cannonading, entreaties, etc., to get

another pair. I got home, found an old pair that were by no means

respectable, which I seized without hesitation; and being perfectly at

ease, thought it would be so nice to save at least Miriam's and my

tooth-brushes, so slipped them in my corsets. These in, of course we

must have a comb--that was added--then how could we stand the sun

without starch to cool our faces? This included the powder-bag; then I

must save that beautiful lace collar; and my hair was tumbling down, so

in went the tucking-comb and hair-pins with the rest; until, if there

had been any one to speculate, they would have wondered a long while at

the singular appearance of a girl who is considered as very slight,

usually. By this time, Miriam, alarmed for me, returned to find me,

though urged by Dr. Castleton not to risk her life by attempting it,

and we started off together.

We had hardly gone a square when we decided to return a second time,

and get at least a few articles for the children and ourselves, who had

nothing except what we happened to have on when the shelling commenced.

She picked up any little things and threw them to me, while I filled a

pillow-case jerked from the bed, and placed my powder and brushes in it

with the rest. Before we could leave, mother, alarmed for us both, came

to find us, with Tiche.[4] All this time they had been shelling, but

there was quite a lull when she got there, and she commenced picking up

father's papers, vowing all the time she would not leave. Every

argument we could use was of no avail, and we were desperate as to what

course to pursue, when the shelling recommenced in a few minutes. Then

mother recommenced her screaming and was ready to fly anywhere; and

holding her box of papers, with a faint idea of saving something, she

picked up two dirty underskirts and an old cloak.

[4] Mrs. Morgan's negro maid, Catiche.

By dint of Miriam's vehement appeals, aided by a great deal of pulling,

we got her down to the back door. We had given our pillow-case to

Tiche, who added another bundle and all our silver to it, and had

already departed.

As we stood in the door, four or five shells sailed over our heads at

the same time, seeming to make a perfect corkscrew of the air,--for it

sounded as though it went in circles. Miriam cried, "Never mind the

door!" mother screamed anew, and I stayed behind to lock the door, with

this new music in my ears. We reached the back gate, that was on the

street, when another shell passed us, and Miriam jumped behind the

fence for protection. We had only gone half a square when Dr. Castleton

begged us to take another street, as they were firing up that one. We

took his advice, but found our new street worse than the old, for the

shells seemed to whistle their strange songs with redoubled vigor. The

height of my ambition was now attained. I had heard Jimmy laugh about

the singular sensation produced by the rifled balls spinning around

one's head; and here I heard the same peculiar sound, ran the same

risk, and was equal to the rest of the boys, for was I not in the midst

of flying shells, in the middle of a bombardment? I think I was rather

proud of it.

We were alone on the road,--all had run away before,--so I thought it

was for our especial entertainment, this little affair. I cannot

remember how long it lasted; I am positive that the clock struck ten

before I left home, but I had been up so long, I know not what time it

began, though I am told it was between eight and nine. We passed the

graveyard, we did not even stop, and about a mile and a half from home,

when mother was perfectly exhausted with fatigue and unable to proceed

farther, we met a gentleman in a buggy who kindly took charge of her

and our bundles. We could have walked miles beyond, then, for as soon

as she was safe we felt as though a load had been removed from our

shoulders; and after exhorting her not to be uneasy about us, and

reminding her we had a pistol and a dagger,--I had secured a "for true"

one the day before, fortunately,--she drove off, and we trudged on

alone, the only people in sight on foot, though occasionally carriages

and buggies would pass, going towards town. One party of gentlemen put

their heads out and one said, "There are Judge Morgan's daughters

sitting by the road!"--but I observed he did not offer them the

slightest assistance. However, others were very kind. One I never heard

of had volunteered to go for us, and bring us to mother, when she was

uneasy about our staying so long, when we went home to get clothes. We

heard him ring and knock, but, thinking it must be next door, paid no

attention, so he went back and mother came herself.

We were two miles away when we sat down by the road to rest, and have a

laugh. Here were two women married, and able to take care of

themselves, flying for their lives and leaving two lorn girls alone on

the road, to protect each other! To be sure, neither could help us, and

one was not able to walk, and the other had helpless children to save;

but it was so funny when we talked about it, and thought how sorry both

would be when they regained their reason! While we were yet resting, we

saw a cart coming, and, giving up all idea of our walking to Greenwell,

called the people to stop. To our great delight, it proved to be a cart

loaded with Mrs. Brunot's affairs, driven by two of her negroes, who

kindly took us up with them, on the top of their luggage; and we drove

off in state, as much pleased at riding in that novel place as though

we were accustomed to ride in wheelbarrows. Miriam was in a hollow

between a flour barrel and a mattress; and I at the end, astride, I am

afraid, of a tremendous bundle, for my face was down the road and each

foot resting very near the sides of the cart. I tried to make a better

arrangement, though, after a while. These servants were good enough to

lend us their umbrella, without which I am afraid we would have

suffered severely, for the day was intensely warm.

Three miles from town we began to overtake the fugitives. Hundreds of

women and children were walking along, some bareheaded, and in all

costumes. Little girls of twelve and fourteen were wandering on alone.

I called to one I knew, and asked where her mother was; she didn't

know; she would walk on until she found out. It seems her mother lost a

nursing baby, too, which was not found until ten that night. White and

black were all mixed together, and were as confidential as though

related. All called to us and asked where we were going, and many we

knew laughed at us for riding on a cart; but as they had walked only

five miles, I imagined they would like even these poor accommodations

if they were in their reach.

The negroes deserve the greatest praise for their conduct. Hundreds

were walking with babies or bundles; ask them what they had saved, it

was invariably, "My mistress's clothes, or silver, or baby." Ask what

they had for themselves, it was, "Bless your heart, honey, I was glad

to get away with mistress's things; I didn't think 'bout mine."

It was a heart-rending scene. Women searching for their babies along

the road, where they had been lost; others sitting in the dust crying

and wringing their hands; for by this time we had not an idea but what

Baton Rouge was either in ashes, or being plundered, and we had saved

nothing. I had one dress, Miriam two, but Tiche had them, and we had

lost her before we left home.

Presently we came on a guerrilla camp. Men and horses were resting on

each side of the road, some sick, some moving about carrying water to

the women and children, and all looking like a monster barbecue, for as

far as the eye could see through the woods, was the same repetition of

men and horses. They would ask for the news, and one, drunk with

excitement or whiskey, informed us that it was our own fault if we had

saved nothing, the people must have been ---- fools not to have known

trouble would come before long, and that it was the fault of the men,

who were aware of it, that the women were thus forced to fly. In vain

we pleaded that there was no warning, no means of foreseeing this; he

cried, "_You_ are ruined; so am I; and my brothers, too! And by ----

there is nothing left but to die now, and I'll die!" "Good!" I said.

"But die fighting for us!" He waved his hand, black with powder, and

shouted, "That I will!" after us. That was the only swearing guerrilla

we met; the others seemed to have too much respect for us to talk loud.

Lucy had met us before this; early in the action, Lilly had sent her

back to get some baby-clothes, but a shell exploding within a few feet

of her, she took alarm, and ran up another road, for three miles, when

she cut across the plantations and regained the Greenwell route. It is

fortunate that, without consultation, the thought of running here

should have seized us all.

May 31st.

I was interrupted so frequently yesterday that I know not how I

continued to write so much. First, I was sent for, to go to Mrs.

Brunot, who had just heard of her son's death, and who was alone with

Dena; and some hours after, I was sent for, to see Fanny, now Mrs.

Trezevant, who had just come with her husband to bring us news of

George. A Mrs. Montgomery, who saw him every day at Norfolk, said Jimmy

was with him, and though very sick at first, was now in good health.

The first news in all that long time! When the city was evacuated,

George went with his regiment seven miles from Richmond, Jimmy to the

city itself, as aide to Com. Hollins. This lady brought George's opal

ring and diamond pin. Howell and Mr. Badger, who had just joined the

guerrillas as independents, spent the day with me. We were all in such

confusion that I felt ashamed: every one as dirty as possible; I had on

the same dress I had escaped in, which, though then perfectly clean,

was now rather--dirty. But they knew what a time we had had.

To return to my journal.

Lucy met mother some long way ahead of us, whose conscience was already

reproaching her for leaving us, and in answer to her "What has become

of my poor girls?" ran down the road to find us, for Lucy thinks the

world can't keep on moving without us. When she met us, she walked by

the cart, and it was with difficulty we persuaded her to ride a mile;

she said she felt "used" to walking now. About five miles from home, we

overtook mother. The gentleman had been obliged to go for his wife, so

Mary gave her her seat on the cart, and walked with Lucy three miles

beyond, where we heard that Lilly and the children had arrived in a

cart, early in the day. All the talk by the roadside was of burning

homes, houses knocked to pieces by balls, famine, murder, desolation;

so I comforted myself singing, "Better days are coming" and "I hope to

die shouting, the Lord will provide"; while Lucy toiled through the sun

and dust, and answered with a chorus of "I'm a-runnin', a-runnin' up to

glo-ry!"

It was three o'clock when we reached Mr. David's and found Lilly. How

warm and tired we were! A hasty meal, which tasted like a feast after

our fatigue, gave us fresh strength, and Lilly and Miriam got in an old

cart with the children to drive out here, leaving me with mother and

Dellie to follow next day. About sunset, Charlie came flying down the

road, on his way to town. I decided to go, and after an obstinate

debate with mother, in which I am afraid I showed more determination

than amiability, I wrung a reluctant consent from her, and, promising

not to enter if it was being fired or plundered, drove off in triumph.

It was a desperate enterprise for a young girl, to enter a town full of

soldiers on such an expedition at night; but I knew Charlie could take

care of me, and if he was killed I could take care of myself; so I

went.

It was long after nine when we got there, and my first act was to look

around the deserted house. What a scene of confusion! armoirs spread

open, with clothes tumbled in every direction, inside and out; ribbons,

laces on floors; chairs overturned; my desk wide open covered with

letters, trinkets, etc.; bureau drawers half out, the bed filled with

odds and ends of everything. I no longer recognized my little room. On

the bolster was a little box, at the sight of which I burst out

laughing. Five minutes before the alarm, Miriam had been selecting

those articles she meant to take to Greenwell, and, holding up her box,

said, "If we were forced to run for our lives without a moment's

warning, I'd risk my life to save this, rather than leave it!" Yet here

lay the box, and she was safe at Greenwell!

It took me two hours to pack father's papers, then I packed Miriam's

trunk, then some of mother's and mine, listening all the while for a

cannon; for men were constantly tramping past the house, and only on

condition our guerrillas did not disturb them had they promised not to

recommence the shelling. Charlie went out to hear the news, and I

packed alone.

It seems the only thing that saved the town was two gentlemen who rowed

out to the ships, and informed the illustrious commander that there

were no men there to be hurt, and he was only killing women and

children. The answer was, "He was sorry he had hurt them; he thought of

course the town had been evacuated before the men were fools enough to

fire on them, and had only shelled the principal streets to intimidate

the people." These streets were the very ones crowded with flying women

and children, which they must have seen with their own eyes, for those

lying parallel to the river led to the Garrison at one end and the

crevasse at the other, which cut off all the lower roads, so that the

streets he shelled were the only ones that the women could follow,

unless they wished to be drowned. As for the firing, four guerrillas

were rash enough to fire on a yawl which was about to land without a

flag of truce, killing one, wounding three, one of whom afterwards

died.

They were the only ones in town, there was not a cannon in our hands,

even if a dozen men could be collected, and this cannonading was kept

up in return for half a dozen shots from as many rifles, without even a

show of resistance after! So ended the momentous shelling of Baton

Rouge, during which the valiant Farragut killed one whole woman,

wounded three, struck some twenty houses several times apiece, and

indirectly caused the death of two little children who were drowned in

their flight, one poor little baby that was born in the woods, and

several cases of the same kind, besides those who will yet die from the

fatigue, as Mrs. W. D. Phillips who had not left her room since

January, who was carried out in her nightgown, and is now supposed to

be in a dying condition. The man who took mother told us he had taken a

dying woman--in the act of expiring--in his buggy, from her bed, and

had left her a little way off, where she had probably breathed her last

a few moments after. There were many similar cases. Hurrah for the

illustrious Farragut, the Woman Killer!!!

It was three o'clock before I left off packing, and took refuge in a

tub of cold water, from the dust and heat of the morning. What a luxury

the water was! and when I changed my underclothes I felt like a new

being. To be sure I pulled off the skin of my heel entirely, where it

had been blistered by the walk, dust, sun, etc., but that was a trifle,

though still quite sore now. For three hours I dreamed of rifled shells

and battles, and at half-past six I was up and at work again. Mother

came soon after, and after hard work we got safely off at three, saving

nothing but our clothes and silver. All else is gone. It cost me a pang

to leave my guitar, and Miriam's piano, but it seems there was no help

for it, so I had to submit.

It was dark night when we reached here. A bright fire was blazing in

front, but the house looked so desolate that I wanted to cry. Miriam

cried when I told her her piano was left behind. Supper was a new

sensation, after having been without anything except a _glass_ of

clabber (no saucers) and a piece of bread since half-past six. I laid

down on the hard floor to rest my weary bones, thankful that I was so

fortunate as to be able to lie down at all. In my dozing state, I heard

the wagon come, and Miriam ordering a mattress to be put in the room

for me. I could make out, "Very well! you may take that one to Miss

Eliza,[5] but the next one shall be brought to Miss Sarah!" Poor

Miriam! She is always fighting my battles. She and the servants are

always taking my part against the rest of the world.... She and Lucy

made a bed and rolled me in it with no more questions, and left me with

damp eyes at the thought of how good and tender every one is to me.

Poor Lucy picked me a dish of blackberries to await my arrival, and I

was just as grateful for it, though they were eaten by some one else

before I came.

[5] Lilly.

Early yesterday morning, Miriam, Nettie, and Sophie, who did not then

know of their brother's death, went to town in a cart, determined to

save some things, Miriam to save her piano. As soon as they were

halfway, news reached us that any one was allowed to enter, but none

allowed to leave the town, and all vehicles confiscated as soon as they

reached there. Alarmed for their safety, mother started off to find

them, and we have heard of none of them since. What will happen next? I

am not uneasy. They dare not harm them. It is glorious to shell a town

full of women, but to kill four lone ones is not exciting enough.

June 1st, Sunday.

From the news brought by one or two persons who managed to reach here

yesterday, I am more uneasy about mother and the girls. A gentleman

tells me that no one is permitted to leave without a pass, and of

these, only such as are separated from their families, who may have

left before. All families are prohibited to leave, and furniture and

other valuables also. Here is an agreeable arrangement! I saw the

"pass," just such as we give our negroes, signed by a Wisconsin

colonel. Think of being obliged to ask permission from some low plowman

to go in or out of our own house! Cannon are planted as far out as

Colonel Davidson's, six of them at our graveyard, and one or more on

all the other roads. If the guerrillas do not attempt their capture, I

shall take it upon myself to suggest it to the very next one I see.

Even if they cannot use them, it will frighten the Yankees, who are in

a state of constant alarm about them. Their reason for keeping people

in town is that they hope they will not be attacked so long as our own

friends remain; thereby placing us above themselves in the scale of

humanity, since they acknowledge we are not brute enough to kill women

and children as they did not hesitate to do.

Farragut pleads that he could not restrain his men, they were so

enraged when the order was once given to fire, and says they _would_

strike a few houses, though he ordered them to fire solely at horses,

and the clouds of dust in the street, where guerrillas were supposed to

be. The dust was by no means thick enough to conceal that these

"guerrillas" were women, carrying babies instead of guns, and the

horses were drawing buggies in which many a sick woman was lying.

A young lady who applied to the Yankee general for a pass to come out

here, having doubtless spoken of the number of women here who had fled,

and the position of the place, was advised to remain in town and write

to the ladies to return immediately, and assure them that they would be

respected and protected, etc., but that it was madness to remain at

Greenwell, for a terrific battle would be fought there in a few days,

and they would be exposed to the greatest danger. The girl wrote the

letter, but, Mr. Fox, we are not quite such fools as to return there to

afford you the protection our petticoats would secure to you, thereby

preventing you from receiving condign punishment for the injuries and

loss of property already inflicted upon us by you. No! we remain

_here_; and if you are not laid low before you pass the Comite Bridge,

we can take to the woods again, and camp out, as many a poor woman is

doing now, a few miles from town. Many citizens have been arrested, and

after being confined a while, and closely questioned, have been

released, if the information is satisfactory. A negro man is informing

on all cotton burners and violent Secessionists, etc.

Sunday night.

The girls have just got back, riding in a mule team, on top of baggage,

but without either mother or any of our affairs. Our condition is

perfectly desperate. Miriam had an interview with General Williams,

which was by no means satisfactory. He gave her a pass to leave, and

bring us back, for he says there is no safety here for us; he will

restrain his men in town, and protect the women, but once outside, he

will answer neither for his men, nor the women and children. As soon as

he gets horses enough, he passes this road, going to Camp Moore with

his cavalry, and then we are in greater danger than ever. Any house

shut up shall be occupied by soldiers. Five thousand are there now,

five more expected. What shall we do? Mother remained, sending Miriam

for me, determined to keep us there, rather than sacrifice both our

lives and property by remaining here. But then--two weeks from now the

yellow fever will break out; mother has the greatest horror of it, and

we have never had it; dying is not much in the present state of our

affairs, but the survivor will suffer even more than we do now. If

we stay, how shall we live? I have seventeen hundred dollars in

Confederate notes now in my "running-bag," and three or four in silver.

The former will not be received there, the latter might last two days.

If we save our house and furniture, it is at the price of starving. I

am of opinion that we should send for mother, and with what money we

have, make our way somewhere in the interior, to some city where we can

communicate with the boys, and be advised by them. This is not living.

Home is lost beyond all hope of recovery; if we wait, what we have

already saved will go, too; so we had better leave at once, with what

clothing we have, which will certainly establish us on the footing of

ladies, if we chance to fall among vulgar people who never look beyond.

I fear the guerrillas will attack the town to-night; if they do, God

help mother!

General Williams offered Miriam an escort when he found she was without

a protector, in the most fatherly way; he must be a good man. She

thanked him, but said "she felt perfectly safe on _that_ road." He bit

his lip, understanding the allusion, and did not insist. She was to

deliver a message from parties in town to the first guerrillas they

met, concerning the safest roads, and presently six met them, and

entered into conversation. She told them of the proffered escort, when

one sprang forward crying, "Why didn't you accept, Miss? The next time,

_ask_ for one, and if it is at all disagreeable to you, _I_ am the very

man to rid you of such an inconvenience! I'll see that you are not

annoyed long." I am glad it was not sent; she would have reproached

herself with murder forever after. I wonder if the General would have

risked it?

BATON ROUGE,

June 3d.

Well! Day before yesterday, I almost vowed I would not return, and last

evening I reached here. Verily, consistency, thou art a jewel! I

determined to get to town to lay both sides of the question before

mother; saving home and property, by remaining, thereby cutting

ourselves off forever from the boys and dying of yellow fever; or

flying to Mississippi, losing all save our lives. So as Mrs. Brunot was

panic-stricken and determined to die in town rather than be starved at

Greenwell, and was going in on the same wagon that came out the night

before, I got up with her and Nettie, and left Greenwell at ten

yesterday morning, bringing nothing except this old book, which I would

rather not lose, as it has been an old and kind friend during these

days of trouble. At first, I avoided all mention of political affairs,

but now there is nothing else to be thought of; if it is not burnt for

treason, I will like to look it over some day--if I live. I left

Greenwell, without ever looking around it, beyond one walk to the

hotel, so I may say I hardly know what it looks like. Miriam stayed,

much against her will, I fear, to bring in our trunks, if I could send

a wagon.

A guerrilla picket stopped us before we had gone a mile, and seemed

disposed to turn us back. We said we must pass; our all was at stake.

They then entreated us not to enter, saying it was not safe. I asked if

they meant to burn it; "We will help try it," was the answer. I begged

them to delay the experiment until we could get away. One waved his hat

to me and said he would fight for me. Hope he will--at a distance. They

asked if we had no protectors; "None," we said. "Don't go, then"; and

they all looked so sorry for us. We said we must; starvation, and

another panic awaited us out there, our brothers were fighting, our

fathers dead; we had only our own judgment to rely on, and that told us

home was the best place for us; if the town must burn, let us burn in

our houses, rather than be murdered in the woods. They looked still

more sorry, but still begged us not to remain. We would, though, and

one young boy called out as we drove off, "What's the name of that

young lady who refused the escort?" I told him, and they too expressed

the greatest regret that she had not accepted. We met many on the road,

nearly all of whom talked to us, and as they were most respectful in

their manner (though they saw us in a mule team!), we gave them all the

information we could, which was all news to them, though very little.

Such a ride in the hot sun, perched up in the air! One of the servants

remarked, "Miss Sarah ain't ashamed to ride in a wagon!" With truth I

replied, "No, I was never so high before."

Two miles from home we met the first Federal pickets, and then they

grew more numerous, until we came on a large camp near our graveyard,

filled with soldiers and cannon. From first to last none refrained from

laughing at us; not aloud, but they would grin and be inwardly

convulsed with laughter as we passed. One laughed so comically that I

dropped my veil hastily for fear he would see me smile. I could not

help it; if any one smiled at me while I was dying, I believe I would

return it. We passed crowds, for it was now five o'clock, and all

seemed to be promenading. There were several officers standing at the

corner, near our house, who were very much amused at our vehicle. I did

not feel like smiling then. After reducing us to riding in a mule team,

they were heartless enough to laugh! I forgot them presently, and gave

my whole attention to getting out respectably. Now getting _in_ a wagon

is bad enough; but getting out--! I hardly know how I managed it. I had

fully three feet to step down before reaching the wheel; once there,

the driver picked me up and set me on the pavement. The net I had

gathered my hair in, fell in my descent, and my hair swept down halfway

between my knee and ankle in one stream. As I turned to get my little

bundle, the officers had moved their position to one directly opposite

to me, where they could examine me at leisure. Queens used to ride

drawn by oxen hundreds of years ago, so I played this was old times,

the mules were oxen, I a queen, and stalked off in a style I am

satisfied would have imposed on Juno herself. When I saw them as I

turned, they were perfectly quiet; but Nettie says up to that moment

they had been in convulsions of laughter, with their handkerchiefs to

their faces. It was not polite!

I found mother safe, but the house was in the most horrible confusion.

Jimmy's empty cage stood by the door; it had the same effect on me that

empty coffins produce on others. Oh, my birdie! At six, I could no

longer stand my hunger. I had fasted for twelve hours, with the

exception of a mouthful of hoe-cake at eleven; I that never fasted in

my life!--except last Ash Wednesday when Lydia and I tried it for

breakfast, and got so sick we were glad to atone for it at dinner. So I

got a little piece of bread and corn beef from Mrs. Daigre's servant,

for there was not a morsel here, and I did not know where or what to

buy. Presently some kind friend sent me a great short-cake, a dish of

strawberry preserves, and some butter, which I was grateful for, for

the fact that the old negro was giving me part of her supper made me

rather sparing, though she cried, "Eat it all, honey! I get plenty

more!"

Mother went to Cousin Will's, and I went to Mrs. Brunot's to sleep, and

so ended my first day's ride on a mule team. Bah! A lady can make

anything respectable by the way she does it! What do I care if I had

been driving mules? Better that than walk seventeen miles.

I met Dr. DuChêne and Dr. Castleton twice each, this morning. They were

as kind to me as they were to the girls the other day. The latter saved

them a disagreeable visit, while here. He and those three were packing

some things in the hall, when two officers passed, and prepared to come

in, seeing three good-looking girls seemingly alone, for Miriam's dress

hid Dr. Castleton as he leaned over the box. Just then she moved, the

Doctor raised his head, and the officers started back with an "Ah!" of

surprise. The Doctor called them as they turned away, and asked for a

pass for the young ladies. They came back bowing and smiling, said they

would write one in the house, but they were told very dryly that there

were no writing accommodations there. They tried the fascinating, and

were much mortified by the coldness they met. Dear me! "Why wasn't I

born old and ugly?" Suppose I should unconsciously entrap some

magnificent Yankee! What an awful thing it would be!!

Sentinels are stationed at every corner; Dr. Castleton piloted me

safely through one expedition; but on the next, we had to part company,

and I passed through a crowd of at least fifty, alone. They were

playing cards in the ditch, and swearing dreadfully, these pious

Yankees; many were marching up and down, some sleeping on the pavement,

others--picking odious bugs out of each other's heads! I thought of the

guerrillas, yellow fever, and all, and wished they were all safe at

home with their mothers and sisters, and we at peace again.

What a day I have had! Here mother and I are alone, not a servant on

the lot. We will sleep here to-night, and I know she will be too

nervous to let me sleep. The dirt and confusion were extraordinary in

the house. I could not stand it, so I applied myself to making it

better. I actually swept two whole rooms! I ruined my hands at

gardening, so it made no difference. I replaced piles of books,

crockery, china, that Miriam had left packed for Greenwell; I

discovered I could empty a dirty hearth, dust, move heavy weights, make

myself generally useful and dirty, and all this is thanks to the

Yankees! Poor me! This time last year I thought I would never walk

again! If I am not laid up forever after the fatigue of this last week,

I shall always maintain I have a Constitution. But it all seems nothing

in this confusion; everything is almost as bad as ever. Besides that, I

have been flying around to get Miriam a wagon. I know she is half

distracted at being there alone. Mother chose staying with all its

evils. Charlie's life would pay the penalty of a cotton burner if he

returned, so Lilly remains at Greenwell with him. We three will get on

as best we can here. I wrote to the country to get a wagon, sent a pass

from Headquarters, but I will never know if it reached her until I see

her in town. I hope it will; I would be better satisfied with Miriam.

June 4th.

Miriam and Mattie drove in, in the little buggy, last evening after

sunset, to find out what we were to do. Our condition is desperate.

Beauregard is about attacking these Federals. They say he is coming

from Corinth, and the fight will be in town. If true, we are lost

again. Starvation at Greenwell, fever and bullets here, will put an end

to us soon enough. There is no refuge for us, no one to consult.

Brother, whose judgment we rely on as implicitly as we did on father's,

we hear has gone to New York; there is no one to advise or direct us,

for, if he is gone, there is no man in Louisiana whose decision I would

blindly abide by. Let us stay and die. We can only die once; we can

suffer a thousand deaths with suspense and uncertainty; the shortest is

the best. Do you think the few words here can give an idea of our agony

and despair? Nothing can express it. I feel a thousand years old

to-day. I have shed the bitterest tears to-day that I have shed since

father died. I can't stand it much longer; I'll give way presently, and

I know my heart will break. Shame! Where is God? A fig for your

religion, if it only lasts while the sun shines! "Better days are

coming"--I can't!

Troops are constantly passing and repassing. They have scoured the

country for ten miles out, in search of guerrillas. We are here without

servants, clothing, or the bare necessaries of life: suppose they

should seize them on the way! I procured a pass for the wagon, but it

now seems doubtful if I can get the latter--a very faint chance. Well!

let them go; our home next; then we can die sure enough. With God's

help, I can stand anything yet in store for me. "I hope to die

shouting, the Lord will provide!" Poor Lavinia! if she could only see

us! I am glad she does not know our condition.

5 P.M.

What a day of agony, doubt, uncertainty, and despair! Heaven save me

from another such! Every hour fresh difficulties arose, until I believe

we were almost crazy, every one of us.

As Miriam was about stepping in the buggy, to go to Greenwell to bring

in our trunks, mother's heart misgave her, and she decided to sacrifice

her property rather than remain in this state any longer. After a

desperate discussion which proved that each argument was death, she

decided to go back to Greenwell and give up the keys of the house to

General Williams, and let him do as he pleased, rather than have it

broken open during her absence. Mattie and Mr. Tunnard were present at

the discussion, which ended by the latter stepping in the buggy and

driving Miriam to the Garrison. General Williams called her by name,

and asked her about Major Drum. It seems all these people, native and

foreign, know us, while we know none. Miriam told him our condition,

how our brothers were away, father dead, and mother afraid to remain,

yet unwilling to lose her property by going away; how we three were

alone and unprotected here, but would remain rather than have our home

confiscated. He assured her the house should not be touched, that it

would be respected in our absence as though we were in it, and he would

place a sentinel at the door to guard it against his own men who might

be disposed to enter. The latter she declined, but he said he would

send his aide to mark the house, that it might be known. A moment after

they got back, the aide, Mr. Biddle (I have his name to so many passes

that I know it now), came to the door. Mr. Tunnard left him there,

uncertain how we would receive a Christian, and I went out and asked

him in. He looked uncertain of his reception, too, when we put an end

to his doubt by treating him as we invariably treat gentlemen who

appear such. He behaved remarkably well under the trying circumstances,

and insisted on a sentinel; for, he said, though they would respect the

property, there were many bad characters among the soldiers who might

attempt to rob it, and the sentinel would protect it. After a visit of

ten minutes, devoted exclusively to the affair, he arose and took his

leave, leaving me under the impression that he was a gentleman wherever

he came from, even if there were a few grammatical errors in the pass

he wrote me yesterday; but "thou that judgest another, dost thou sin?"

Well, now we say, fly to Greenwell. Yes! and by to-night, a most

exaggerated account of the whole affair will be spread over the whole

country, and we will be equally suspected by our own people. Those who

spread useless falsehoods about us will gladly have a foundation for a

monstrous one. Didn't Camp Moore ring with the story of our

entertaining the Federal officers? Didn't they spread the report that

Miriam danced with one to the tune of "Yankee Doodle" in the State

House garden? What will they stop at now? O! if I was only a man, and

knew what to do!

[Illustration: MIRIAM MORGAN]

Night.

We were so distressed by the false position in which we would be placed

by a Federal sentinel, that we did not know what course to pursue. As

all our friends shook their heads and said it was dangerous, we knew

full well what our enemies would say. If we win Baton Rouge, as I pray

we will, they will say we asked protection from Yankees against our own

men, are consequently traitors, and our property will be confiscated by

our own Government. To decline General Williams's kind offer exposes

the house to being plundered. In our dilemma, we made up our minds to

stay, so we could say the sentinel was unnecessary.

Presently a file of six soldiers marched to the gate, an officer came

to the steps and introduced himself as Colonel McMillan, of 21st

Indiana Volunteers. He asked if this was Mrs. Morgan's; the General had

ordered a guard placed around the house; he would suggest placing them

in different parts of the yard. "Madam, the pickets await your orders."

Miriam in a desperate fright undertook to speak for mother, and asked

if he thought there was any necessity. No, but it was an additional

security, he said. "Then, if no actual necessity, we will relieve you

of the disagreeable duty, as we expect to remain in town," she said. He

was very kind, and discussed the whole affair with us, saying when we

made up our minds to leave,--we told him after we could not decide,--to

write him word, and he would place a guard around to prevent his men

and the negroes from breaking in. It was a singular situation: our

brothers off fighting them, while these Federal officers leaned over

our fence, and an officer standing on our steps offered to protect us.

These people are certainly very kind to us. General Williams especially

must be a dear old gentleman; he is so good.

How many good, and how many mean people these troubles have shown us! I

am beginning to see my true friends, now; there is a large number of

them, too. Everybody from whom we least expected attention has

agreeably surprised us....

General Williams will believe we are insane from our changing so often.

His guard positively refused.

June 5th.

Last night I determined to stay. Miriam went after our trunks at

daylight. A few hours after, Lilly wrote we must go back. McClellan's

army was cut to pieces and driven back to Maryland, by Jackson; the

Federals were being driven into the swamp from Richmond, too.

Beauregard is undoubtedly coming to attack Baton Rouge; his fire would

burn the town, if the gunboats do not; the Yankees will shell, at all

events, if forced to retire. It cannot stand. We can't go to New

Orleans. Butler says he will lay it in ashes if he is forced to

evacuate it, from yellow fever or other causes. Both must be burned.

Greenwell is not worth the powder it would cost, so we must stand the

chance of murder and starvation there, rather than the certainty of

being placed between two fires here. Well, I see nothing but bloodshed

and beggary staring us in the face. Let it come. "I hope to die

shouting, the Lord will provide."

June 6th.

We dined at Mrs. Brunot's yesterday, and sitting on the gallery later,

had the full benefit of a Yankee drill. They stopped in front of the

house and went through some very curious manoeuvres, and then marched

out to their drill-ground beyond. In returning, the whole regiment drew

up directly before us, and we were dreadfully quiet for five minutes,

the most uncomfortable I have experienced for some time. For it was

absurd to look at the sky, and I looked in vain for one man with

downcast eyes whereon I might rest mine; but from the officers down to

the last private, they were all looking at us. I believe I would have

cried with embarrassment if the command had not been given at that

moment. They drilled splendidly, and knew it, too, so went through it

as though they had not been at it for an hour before. One conceited,

red-headed lieutenant smiled at us in the most fascinating way; perhaps

he smiled to think how fine he was, and what an impression he was

making.

We got back to our solitary house before twilight, and were sitting on

the balcony, when Mr. Biddle entered. He came to ask if the guard had

been placed here last night. It seems to me it would have saved him

such a long walk if he had asked Colonel McMillan. He sat down, though,

and got talking in the moonlight, and people passing, some citizens,

some officers, looked wonderingly at this unheard-of occurrence. I

won't be rude to any one in my own house, Yankee or Southern, say what

they will. He talked a great deal, and was very entertaining; what

tempted him, I cannot imagine. It was two hours before he thought of

leaving. He was certainly very kind. He spoke of the scarcity of flour

in town; said they had quantities at the Garrison, and asked permission

to send us a barrel, which of course we refused. It showed a very good

heart, though. He offered to take charge of any letters I would write;

said he had heard General Williams speak of Harry; and when he at last

left, I was still more pleased with him for this kindness to us. He

says Captain Huger is dead. I am very, very much distressed. They are

related, he says. He talked so reasonably of the war, that it was quite

a novelty after reading the abusive newspapers of both sides. I like

him, and was sorry I could not ask him to repeat his visit. We are

unaccustomed to treat gentlemen that way; but it won't do in the

present state to act as we please. Mob governs.

Mother kept me awake all night to listen to the mice in the garret.

Every time I would doze she would ask, "What's that?" and insist that

the mice were men. I had to get up and look for an imaginary host, so I

am tired enough this morning.

Miriam has just got in with all the servants, our baggage is on the

way, so we will be obliged to stay whether we will or no. I don't care;

it is all the same, starve or burn. Oh! I forgot. Mr. Biddle did _not_

write that pass! It was his clerk. He speaks _very_ grammatically, so

far as I can judge!!

June 8th, Sunday.

These people mean to kill us with kindness. There is such a thing as

being too kind. Yesterday General Williams sent a barrel of flour to

mother, accompanied by a note begging her to accept it "in

consideration of the present condition of the circulating currency,"

and the intention was so kind, the way it was done so delicate, that

there was no refusing it. I had to write her thanks, and got in a

violent fit of the "trembles" at the idea of writing to a stranger. One

consolation is, that I am not a very big fool, for it took only three

lines to prove myself one. If I had been a thundering big one, I would

have occupied two pages to show myself fully. And to think it is out of

our power to prove them our appreciation of the kindness we have

universally met with! Many officers were in church this morning, and as

they passed us while we waited for the door to be opened, General

Williams bowed profoundly, another followed his example; we returned

the salute, of course. But by to-morrow, those he did not bow to will

cry treason against us. Let them howl. I am tired of lies, scandal, and

deceit. All the loudest gossips have been frightened into the country,

but enough remain to keep them well supplied with town talk.... It is

such a consolation to turn to the dear good people of the world after

coming in contact with such cattle. Here, for instance, is Mr.

Bonnecase on whom we have not the slightest claims. Every day since we

have been here, he has sent a great pitcher of milk, knowing our cow is

out; one day he sent rice, the next sardines, yesterday two bottles of

Port and Madeira, which cannot be purchased in the whole South. What a

duck of an old man! That is only one instance.

June 10th.

This morning while I was attending to my flowers ... several soldiers

stopped in front of me, and holding on the fence, commenced to talk

about some brave Colonel, and a shooting affair last night. When all

had gone except one who was watching me attentively, as he seemed to

wish to tell me, I let him go ahead. The story was that Colonel

McMillan was shot through the shoulder, breast, and liver, by three

guerrillas while four miles from town last night, on a scout. He was a

quarter of a mile from his own men at the time, killed one who shot

him, took the other two prisoners, and fell from his horse himself,

when he got within the lines. The soldier said these two guerrillas

would probably be hanged, while the six we saw pass captives, Sunday,

would probably be sent to Fort Jackson for life. I think the guerrilla

affair mere murder, I confess; but what a dreadful fate for these young

men! One who passed Sunday was Jimmy's schoolmate, a boy of sixteen;

another, Willie Garig, the pet of a whole family of good, honest

country people....

These soldiers will get in the habit of talking to me after a while,

through my own fault. Yesterday I could not resist the temptation to

ask the fate of the six guerrillas, and stopped two volunteers who were

going by, to ask them. They discussed the fate of the country, told me

Fort Pillow and Vicksburg were evacuated, the Mississippi opened from

source to mouth; I told them of Banks's and McClellan's defeat; they

assured me it would all be over in a month,--which I fervently pray may

be so; told me they were from Michigan (one was Mr. Bee, he said,

cousin of our General); and they would probably have talked all day if

I had not bowed myself away with thanks for their information.

It made me ashamed to contrast the quiet, gentlemanly, liberal way

these volunteers spoke of us and our cause, with the rabid, fanatical,

abusive violence of our own female Secession declaimers. Thank Heaven,

I have never yet made my appearance as a Billingsgate orator on these

occasions. All my violent feelings, which in moments of intense

excitement were really violent, I have recorded in this book; I am

happy to say only the reasonable dislike to seeing my country

subjugated has been confided to the public ear, when necessary; and

that even now, I confess that nothing but the reign of terror and gross

prejudice by which I was surrounded at that time could justify many

expressions I have here applied to them. Fact is, these people have

disarmed me by their kindness. I expected to be in a crowd of ruffian

soldiers, who would think nothing of cutting your throat or doing

anything they felt like; and I find, among all these thousands, not one

who offers the slightest annoyance or disrespect. The former is the

thing as it is believed by the whole country, the latter the true state

of affairs. I admire foes who show so much consideration for our

feelings.

Contrast these with our volunteers from New Orleans--all gentlemen--who

came to take the Garrison from Major Haskins. Several of them passing

our gate where we were standing with the Brunots, one exclaimed, "What

pretty girls!" It was a stage aside that we were supposed not to hear.

"Yes," said another; "beautiful! but they look as though they could be

fast." Fast! and we were not even speaking! not even looking at them!

Sophie and I were walking presently, and met half a dozen. We had to

stop to let them pass the crossing; they did not think of making way

for us; No. 1 sighed--such a sigh! No. 2 followed, and so on, when they

all sighed in chorus for our edification, while we dared not raise our

eyes from the ground. That is the time I would have made use of a

dagger. Two passed in a buggy, and trusting to our not recognizing them

from the rapidity of their vehicle, kissed their hands to us until they

were out of sight! All went back to New Orleans vowing Baton Rouge had

the prettiest girls in the world. These were our own people, the élite

of New Orleans, loyal Southerners and gentlemen. These Northerners pass

us satisfied with a simple glance; some take off their hats, for all

these officers know our name, though we may not know theirs; how, I

can't say.

When I heard of Colonel McMillan's misfortune, mother conspired with me

to send over some bandages, and something Tiche manufactured of flour

under the name of "nourishment," for he is across the street at

Heroman's. Miriam objected on account of what "our people" will say,

and what we will suffer for it if the guerrillas reach town, but we

persuaded her we were right.... You can imagine our condition at

present, many years hence, Sarah, when you reflect that it is the

brave, noble-hearted, generous Miriam who is afraid to do that deed on

account of "public opinion," which indeed is "down" on us. At Greenwell

they are frantic about our returning to town, and call us traitors,

Yankees, and vow vengeance.... A lady said to me, "The guerrillas have

a black list containing the names of those remaining in town. All the

men are to be hanged, their houses burned, and all the women are to be

tarred and feathered." I said, "Madam, if I believed them capable of

such a vile _threat_, even, much less the execution, I would see them

cut down without a feeling of compassion" (which is not true), "and

swear I was a Yankee rather than claim being a native of the same

country with such brutes." She has a long tongue; when I next hear of

it, it will be that _I_ told the story, and called them brutes and

hoped they would be shot, etc. And so goes the world. No one will think

of saying that I did not believe them guilty of the thought, even. Our

three brothers may be sick or wounded at this minute; what I do for

this man, God will send some one to do for them, and with that belief I

do it....

June 11th.

Last evening mother and Miriam went to the Arsenal to see if they would

be allowed to do anything for the prisoners. General Williams received

them, and fascinated Miriam by his manner, as usual. Poor Miriam is

always being fascinated, according to her own account. He sent for

little Nathan Castle and Willie Garig, and left them alone in the room

with them, showing his confidence and delicacy by walking away. The

poor young men were very grateful to be remembered; one had his eyes

too full of tears to speak. Mr. Garig told Miriam that when the story

of her refusing the escort was told in camp, the woods rang with shouts

of "Three cheers for Miss Morgan!" They said they were treated very

well, and had no want, except clean clothes, and to let their mothers

know they were well and content.

I have been hard at work mending three or four suits of the boys'

clothing for those poor young men. Some needed thread and needle very

much, but it was the best we could do. So I packed them all up--not

forgetting a row of pins--and sent Tiche off with the bundle, perched

real Congo fashion on her many-colored head-handkerchief, which was

tied in the most superb Creole style in honor of the occasion.

June 16th, Monday.

My poor old diary comes to a very abrupt end, to my great distress. The

hardest thing in the world is to break off journalizing when you are

once accustomed to it, and mine has proved such a resource to me in

these dark days of trouble that I feel as though I were saying good-bye

to an old and tried friend. Thanks to my liberal supply of pens, ink,

and paper, how many inexpressibly dreary days I have filled up to my

own satisfaction, if not to that of others! How many disagreeable

affairs it has caused me to pass over without another thought, how many

times it has proved a relief to me where my tongue was forced to remain

quiet! Without the blessed materials, I would have fallen victim to

despair and "the Blues" long since; but they have kept my eyes fixed on

"Better days a-coming" while slightly alluding to present woes; kept me

from making a fool of myself many a day; acted as lightning rod to my

mental thunder, and have made me happy generally. For all of which I

cry, "Vivent pen, ink, and paper!" and add with regret, "Adieu, my

mental Conductor. I fear this unchained lightning will strike

somewhere, in your absence!"