NEW ORLEANS, August, 1863.
Friday, 14th.
Doomed to be bored! To-night Miriam drags me to a _soiree musicale_,
and in the midst of my toilet, I sit down with bare shoulders to
scratch a dozen lines in my new treasure which has been by me for three
days, untouched. I don't know what tempts me to do it except
perversity; for I have nothing to say.
I was in hopes that I would never have occasion to refer to the
disagreeable subject that occupied the last pages of my old journal,
but the hope proves fallacious, and wherever I turn, the same subject
is renewed. So there is no longer any reason in waiting until all
mention can be avoided. Yesterday a little, sly, snaky creature asked
me if I knew "the Hero of Port Hudson." "Yes," I said briefly.
"Unmistakable! I see it in your face!" she remarked. "See what?" "That
you betray yourself. Do you know that every one believes that you are
engaged to him?" In surprise I said no; such a thing had never been
mentioned before me until then. "Well! they say so, and add, too, that
you are to be married as soon as the war is over." "'They' are paying
me an undeserved compliment," I returned. Where could such a report
have originated? Not certainly from him, and not, most assuredly, from
me. Where does Dame rumor spring from? He is a stranger here, and I
have never mentioned his name except to the Peirces, who would no more
report such a thing than I would myself. I won't mind it if it does not
reach his ears; but what assurance have I that it will not? That would
be unpleasant! Why can't "they say" let everybody settle their own
affairs?
Here comes Miriam after me! What a bore! What a bore! And she looks as
though it was a pleasure to go out! How I hate it!
Glancing up the page, the date strikes my eye. What tempted me to begin
it Friday? My dear Ada would shiver and declare the blank pages were
reserved for some very painful, awful, uncomfortable record, or that
"something" would happen before the end of it. Nothing very exciting
can happen, except the restoration of peace; and to bring that about, I
would make a vow to write only on Fridays.
Sunday, 16th.
Coming out of church this morning with Miriam, a young lady ran up with
an important air, as though about to create a sensation. "I have a
message for you both," she said, fixing her eyes on mine as though she
sought something in them. "I visit the prisoners frequently, you know,
and day before yesterday Captain Steadman requested me to beg you to
call, that he will not take a refusal, but entreated you to come, if it
were only once." The fates must be against me; I had almost forgotten
his existence, and having received the same message frequently from
another, I thoughtlessly said, "You mean _Colonel_, do you not?"
Fortunately Miriam asked the same question at the instant that I was
beginning to believe I had done something very foolish. The lady looked
at me with her calm, scrutinizing, disagreeable smile--a smile that had
all the unpleasant insinuations eyes and lips can convey, a smile that
looked like "I have your secret--you can't deceive _me_"--and said with
her piercing gaze, "No, _not_ the Colonel. He was very ill that day
(did you know it?) and could not see us. This was _really_ the
Captain." "He is very kind," I stammered, and suggested to Miriam that
we had better pass on. The lady was still eyeing me inquisitively.
Decidedly, this is unpleasant to have the reputation of being engaged
to a man that every girl is crazy to win! If one only cared for him, it
would not be so unpleasant; but under the circumstances,--_ah ça!_ why
don't they make him over to the young lady whose father openly avows he
would be charmed to have him for a son-in-law? This report has cost me
more than one impertinent stare. The young ladies think it a very
enviable position. Let some of them usurp it, then!
So the young lady, not having finished her examination, proposed to
accompany us part of the way. As a recompense, we were regaled with
charming little anecdotes about herself, and her visits. How she had
sent a delightful little custard to the Colonel (here was a side glance
at my demure face) and had carried an autographic album in her last
visit, and had insisted on their inscribing their names, and writing a
verse or so. "How interesting!" was my mental comment. "Can a man
respect a woman who thrusts him her album, begging for a compliment the
first time they meet? What fools they must think us, if they take such
as these for specimens of the genus!"
Did we know Captain Lanier? Know him, no! but how vividly his face
comes before me when I look back to that grand smash-up at Port Hudson,
when his face was the last I saw before being thrown, and the first I
recognized when I roused myself from my stupor and found myself in the
arms of the young Alabamian. At the sound of his name, I fairly saw the
last ray of sunset flashing over his handsome face, as I saw it then.
No, I did not know him. He had spoken to me, begging to be allowed to
hold me, and I had answered, entreating him not to touch me, and that
was all I knew of him; but she did not wait for the reply. She hurried
on to say that she had sent him a bouquet, with a piece of poetry, and
that he had been heard to exclaim, "How beautiful!" on reading it.
"And do you know," she continued, with an air that was meant to be
charmingly naïf, but which was not very successful, as naïveté at
twenty-nine is rather flat, "I am _so_ much afraid he thinks it
original! I forgot to put quotation marks, and it would be _so_ funny
in him to make the mistake! For you know I have not much of the--of
that sort of thing about me--I am not a poet--poetess, author, you
know." Said Miriam in her blandest tone, without a touch of sarcasm in
her voice, "Oh, if he has ever seen you, the mistake is natural!" If I
had spoken, my voice would have carried a sting in it. So I waited
until I could calmly say, "You know him well, of course." "No, I never
saw him before!" she answered with a new outburst of naïveté.
Monday, August 24th.
A letter from Captain Bradford to Miriam. My poor Adonis, that I used
to ridicule so unmercifully, what misfortunes have befallen him! He
writes that during the siege at Port Hudson he had the top of his ear
shot off (wonder if he lost any of that beautiful golden fleece yclept
his hair?), and had the cap of his knee removed by a shell, besides a
third wound he does not specify. Fortunately he is with kind friends.
And he gives news of Lydia, most acceptable since such a time has
elapsed since we heard from her.... He says, "Tell Miss Sarah that the
last I saw of John, he was crossing the Mississippi in a skiff, his
parole in his pocket, his sweet little sister by his side," (O you
wretch! at it again!) "and Somebody else in his heart." How considerate
to volunteer the last statement! Then followed half a page of
commendation for his bravery, daring, and skill during the siege (the
only kind word he ever spoke of him, I dare say), all looking as though
I was to take it as an especial compliment to myself, and was expected
to look foolish, blush, and say "Thanky" for it. As though I care!
Monday night.
I consider myself outrageously imposed upon! I am so indignant that I
have spent a whole evening making faces at myself. "Please, Miss Sarah,
look natural!" William petitions. "I never saw you look cross before."
Good reason! I never had more cause! However, I stop in the midst of a
hideous grimace, and join in a game of hide the switch with the
children to forget my annoyance.
Of course a woman is at the bottom of it. Last night while Ada and
Marie were here, a young lady whose name I decline to reveal for the
sake of the sex, stopped at the door with an English officer, and asked
to see me in the entry. I had met her once before. Remember this, for
that is the chief cause of my anger. Of course they were invited in;
but she declined, saying she had but a moment, and had a message to
deliver to me alone, so led me apart. "Of course you know who it is
from?" she began. I told a deliberate falsehood, and said no, though I
guessed instantly. She told me the name then. She had visited the
prison the day before, and there had met the individual whose name,
joined to mine, has given me more trouble and annoyance during the last
few months than it would be possible to mention. "And our entire
conversation was about you," she said, as though to flatter my vanity
immensely. He told her then that he had written repeatedly to me,
without receiving an answer, and at last had written again, in which he
had used some expressions which he feared had offended my reserved
disposition. Something had made me angry, for without returning letter
or message to say I was not displeased, I had maintained a resolute
silence, which had given him more pain and uneasiness than he could
say. That during all this time he had had no opportunity of explaining
it to me, and that now he begged her to tell me that he would not
offend me for worlds--that he admired me more than any one he had ever
met, that he could not help saying what he did, but was distressed at
offending me, etc. The longest explanation! And she was directed to beg
me to explain my silence, and let him know if I was really offended,
and also leave no entreaty or argument untried to induce me to visit
the prison; he _must_ see me.
As to visiting the prison, I told her that was impossible. (O how glad
I am that I never did!) But as to the letters, told her "to assure him
that I had not thought of them in that light, and had passed over the
expressions he referred to as idle words it would be ridiculous to take
offense at; and that my only reason for persevering in this silence had
been that Brother disapproved of my writing to gentlemen, and I had
promised that I would not write to him. That I had feared he would
misconstrue my silence, and had wished to explain it to him, but I had
no means of doing so except by breaking my promise; and so had
preferred leaving all explanation to time, and some future
opportunity."
"But you did not mean to pain him, did you?" the dear little creature
coaxingly lisped, standing on tiptoe to kiss me as she spoke. I assured
her that I had not. "He has been dangerously ill," she continued,
apologizingly, "and sickness has made him more morbid and more unhappy
about it than he would otherwise have been. It has distressed him a
great deal."
I felt awkwardly. How was it that this girl, meeting him for the first
and only time in her life, had contrived to learn so much that she had
no right to know, and appeared here as mediator between two who were
strangers to her, so far usurping a place she was not entitled to, as
to apologize to _me_ for his sensitiveness, and to entreat me to tell
him he had not forfeited my esteem, as though _she_ was his most
intimate friend, and I a passing acquaintance? Failing to comprehend
it, I deferred it to a leisure moment to think over, and in the mean
time exerted myself to be affable.
I can't say half she spoke of, but as she was going she said, "Then
will you give me permission to say as many sweet things for you as I
can think of? I'm going there to-morrow." I told her I would be afraid
to give her _carte blanche_ on such a subject; but that she would
really oblige me by explaining about the letters. She promised, and
after another kiss, and a few whispered words, left me.
Maybe she exaggerated, though! Uncharitable as the supposition was, it
was a consolation. I was unwilling to believe that any one who
professed to esteem me would make me the subject of conversation with a
stranger--and such a conversation! So my comfort was only in hoping
that she had related a combination of truth and fiction, and that he
had not been guilty of such folly.
Presently it grew clearer to me. I must be growing in wickedness, to
fathom that of others, I who so short a time ago disbelieved in the
very existence of such a thing. I remembered having heard that the
young lady and her family were extremely anxious to form his
acquaintance, and that her cousin had coolly informed Ada that she had
selected him among all others, and meant to have him for a "beau" as
soon as she could be introduced to him; I remembered that the young
lady herself had been very anxious to discover whether the reputation
common report had given me had any foundation.
As soon as we were alone, I told mother of our conversation in the
entry, and said, "And now I am certain that this girl has made use of
my name to become acquainted with him."
Thursday, 10th September.
O my prophetic soul! part of your forebodings are already verified! And
in what an unpleasant way!
Day before yesterday an English officer, not the one who came here, but
one totally unknown to me, said at Mrs. Peirce's he was going to visit
the Confederate prisoners. He was asked if he knew any. Slightly, he
said; but he was going this time by request; he had any quantity of
messages to deliver to Colonel ---- from Miss Sarah Morgan. "How can
that be possible, since you are not acquainted with her?" Ada demanded.
He had the impudence to say that the young lady I have already
mentioned had requested him to deliver them for her, since she found it
impossible. Fortunately for me, I have two friends left. Feeling the
indelicacy of the thing, and knowing that there must be some mistake
that might lead to unpleasant consequences, Ada and Marie, my good
angels, insisted on hearing the messages. At first he refused, saying
that they were entrusted to him confidentially; but being assured that
they were really intimate with me, whereas the other was a perfect
stranger, and that I would certainly not object to their hearing what I
could tell a gentleman, he yielded, fortunately for my peace of mind,
and told all.
I can't repeat it. I was too horrified to hear all, when they told me.
What struck me as being most shocking was my distorted explanation
about the letters. It now set forth that I was not allowed to write
myself, but would be happy to have him write to me; then there was an
earnest assurance that my _feelings_ toward him had not changed in the
least--
Here I sprang from my chair and rushed to the window for a breath of
air, wringing my hands in speechless distress. How a word more or less,
an idea omitted or added, a syllable misplaced, can transform a whole
sentence, and make what was before harmless, really shocking!
And if it had not been for Ada and Marie--! Blessed angels! they
entreated him not to deliver any of his messages, insisting that there
must be a mistake, that if he knew me he would understand that it was
impossible for me to have sent such a message by a stranger. And
although at first he declared he felt obliged to discharge the task
imposed on him, they finally succeeded in persuading him to relinquish
the errand, promising to be responsible for the consequences.
"Ah me!" I gasped last night, making frantic grimaces in the dark, and
pinching myself in disgust, "why can't they let me alone?... O
women--women! I wish he could marry all of you, so you would let me
alone! Take him, please; but _en grâce_ don't disgrace me in the
excitement of the race!"
Friday, 25th.
Write me down a witch, a prophetess, or what you will. I am certainly
something! All has come to pass on that very disagreeable subject very
much as I feared. Perhaps no one in my position would speak freely on
the subject; for that very reason I shall not hesitate to discuss it.
Know, then, that this morning, He went North along with many other
Confederate prisoners, to be exchanged. And he left--he who has written
so incessantly and so imploringly for me to visit his prison--he left
without seeing me. Bon! Wonder what happened?
* * * * * * * * * * *
Evening.
I have learned more. He has not yet left; part of the mystery is
unraveled, only I have neither patience nor desire to seek for more.
These women--! Hush! to slander is too much like them; be yourself.
My sweet little lisper informed a select circle of friends the other
night, when questioned, that the individual had not called on me, and,
what was more, would not do so. "Pray, how do you happen to be so
intimately acquainted with the affairs of two who are strangers to
you?" asked a lady present. She declined saying how she had obtained
her information, only asserting that it was so. "In fact, you cannot
expect _any_ Confederate _gentleman_ to call at the house of Judge
Morgan, a professed Unionist," she continued. So that is the story she
told to keep him from seeing me. She has told him that we had turned
Yankees! All her arts would not grieve me as much as one word against
Brother. My wrongs I can forget; but one word of contempt for Brother I
_never_ forgive! White with passion I said to my informant, "Will you
inform the young lady that her visit will never be returned, that she
is requested not to repeat hers, and that I decline knowing any one who
dares cast the slightest reflection on the name of one who has been
both father and brother to me!" This evening I was at a house where she
was announced. Miriam and I bade our hostess good-evening and left
without speaking to her. Anybody but Brother! No one shall utter his
name before me save with respect and regard.
This young woman's father is a Captain in the Yankee navy, and her
brother is a Captain in the Yankee army, while three other brothers are
in the Confederate. Like herself, I have three brothers fighting for
the South; unlike her, the only brother who avows himself a Unionist
has too much regard for his family to take up arms against his own
flesh and blood.
Tuesday, October 6th.
I hope this will be the last occasion on which I shall refer to the
topic to which this unfortunate book seems to have been devoted. But it
gives me a grim pleasure to add a link to the broken chain of the
curious story, now and then. Maybe some day the missing links will be
supplied me, and then I can read the little humdrum romance of What
might have been, or What I'm glad never was, as easily as Marie tells
her rosary.
Well! the prisoners have gone at last, to my unspeakable satisfaction.
Day before yesterday they left. Now I can go out as I please, without
fear of meeting him face to face. How odd that I should feel like a
culprit! But that is in accordance with my usual judgment and
consistency. Friday, I had a severe fright. Coming up Camp Street with
Ada, after a ramble on Canal, we met two Confederates. Everywhere that
morning we had met gray coats, but none that I recognized. Still,
without looking, I saw through my eyelids, as it were, two hands
timidly touch two gray caps, as though the question "May I?" had not
yet been answered. In vain I endeavored to meet their eyes, or give the
faintest token of greeting. I was too frightened and embarrassed to
speak, and only by a desperate effort succeeded in bending my head in a
doubtful bow, that would have disgraced a dairy maid, after we had
passed. Then, disgusted with myself, I endeavored to be comforted with
the idea that they had perhaps mistaken me for some one else; that
having known me at a time when I was unable to walk, they could have no
idea of my height and figure, or walk. So I reasoned, turning down a
side street. Lo! at a respectable distance they were following! We had
occasion to go into a daguerreau salon. While standing in the light,
two gray uniforms, watching us from the dark recess at the door,
attracted my attention. Pointing them out to Ada, I hurried her past
them downstairs to the street. Faster and faster we walked, until at
the corner I turned to look. There they were again, sauntering
leisurely along. We turned into another street, mingled in the crowd,
and finally lost sight of them. That fright lasted me an hour or two.
Whose purse have I stolen, that I am afraid to look these men in the
face?
But what has this to do with what I meant to tell? How loosely and
disconnectedly my ideas run out with the ink from my pen! I meant to
say how sorry I am for my dear little lisper that she failed in her
efforts to conquer the "Hero"; and here I have drifted off in a page of
trash that does not concern her in the least. Well! she did not
succeed, and whatever she told him was told in vain, as far as _she_
was concerned. He was not to be caught! What an extraordinary man!
Dozens fighting for the preference, and he in real, or pretended
ignorance.
I must do him the justice to say he is the most guileless, as well as
the most honest of mortals. He told the mother of a rich and pretty
daughter what he thought of me; that my superior did not exist on
earth, and my equal he had never met. Ha! ha! this pathetic story makes
me laugh in spite of myself. Is it excess of innocence, or just a rôle
he adopted? Stop! His idle word is as good as an oath. He could not
pretend to what he did not believe. He told her of his earnest and
sincere admiration--words! words! hurry on! She asked how it was
then--? Here he confessed, with a mixture of pride and penitence, that
he had written me letters which absolutely required answers, and to
which I had never deigned to reply by even a word. That, mortified
beyond measure at my silent contempt, he had tried every means of
ascertaining the cause of my coldness, but I had never vouchsafed an
answer, but had left him to feel the full force of my harsh treatment
without one word of explanation. That when he was paroled, he had hoped
that I would see him to tell him wherein he had forfeited my esteem;
but I had not invited him to call, and mortified and repulsed as he had
been, it was impossible for him to call without my permission.... Did
my little lisper change the message when the little midshipman told her
it had been intercepted because too friendly? I know she met this
martyred Lion frequently after that and had many opportunities of
telling him the simple truth, but she evidently _did not_.
He has gone away with sorely wounded feelings, to say nothing more; for
that I am sincerely sorry; but I trust to his newly acquired freedom,
and his life of danger and excitement, to make him forget the wrongs he
believes himself to have suffered at my hands. If it was all to be gone
through again (which thank Heaven, I will never be called upon to
endure again), I would follow Brother's advice as implicitly then as I
did before. He is right, and without seeing, I believe. They tell me of
his altered looks, and of his forced, reckless gaiety which, so
strangely out of keeping with his natural character, but makes his
assumed part more conspicuous. No matter! He will recover! Nothing like
a sea voyage for disorders of all kinds. And we will never meet again;
that is another consolation.
"Notice: The public are hereby informed through Mrs. ----, Chief
Manager of the Theatre of High Tragedy, that Miss Sarah M., having been
proved unworthy and incompetent to play the rôle of Ariadne, said part
will hereafter be filled by Miss Blank, of Blank Street, who plays it
with a fidelity so true to nature that she could hardly be surpassed by
the original."
Monday, November 9th.
Another odd link of the old, stale story has come to me, all the way
from New York. A friend of mine, who went on the same boat with the
prisoners, wrote to her mother to tell her that she had formed the
acquaintance of the most charming, fascinating gentleman among them, no
other than my _once_ friend. Of course, she would have been less than a
woman if she had not gossiped when she discovered who he was. So she
sends me word that he told her he had been made to believe, as long as
he was on parole in New Orleans, that we were all Unionists now, and
that Brother would not allow a Confederate to enter the house. (O my
little lisper, was I unjust to you?) He told her that I had been very
kind to him when he was in prison, and he would have forgotten the rest
and gladly have called to thank me in person for the kindness he so
gratefully remembered, if I alone had been concerned; but he felt he
could not force himself unasked into my brother's house....
She told him how false it was.
Sunday, November 22d.
A report has just reached us that my poor dear Gibbes has been taken
prisoner along with the rest of Hayes's brigade.
November 26th.
Yes! It is so, if his own handwriting is any proof. Mr. Appleton has
just sent Brother a letter he had received from Gibbes, asking him to
let Brother know he was a prisoner, and we have heard, through some one
else, that he had been sent to Sandusky. Brother has applied to have
him paroled and sent here, or even imprisoned here, if he cannot be
paroled.
Monday, November 30th.
Our distress about Gibbes has been somewhat relieved by good news from
Jimmy. The jolliest sailor letter from him came this morning, dated
only the 4th instant from Cherbourg, detailing his cruise on the
Georgia from leaving England, to Bahia, Trinidad, Cape of Good Hope, to
France again. Such a bright, dashing letter! We laughed extravagantly
over it when he told how they readily evaded the Vanderbilt, knowing
she would knock them into "pie"; how he and the French Captain
quarreled when he ordered him to show his papers, and how he did not
know French abuse enough to enter into competition with him, so went
back a first and second time to Maury when the man would not let him
come aboard, whereupon Maury brought the ship to with two or three
shots and Jimmy made a third attempt, and forced the Frenchman to show
his papers. He tells it in such a matter-of-fact way! No extravagance,
no idea of having been in a dangerous situation, he a boy of eighteen,
on a French ship in spite of the Captain's rage. What a jolly life it
must be! Now dashing in storms and danger, now floating in sunshine and
fun! Wish I was a midshipman! Then how he changes, in describing the
prize with an assorted cargo that they took, which contained all things
from a needle to pianos, from the reckless spurt in which he speaks of
the plundering, to where he tells of how the Captain, having died
several days before, was brought on the Georgia while Maury read the
service over the body and consigned it to the deep by the flames of the
dead man's own vessel. What noble, tender, manly hearts it shows, those
rough seamen stopping in their work of destruction to perform the last
rites over their dead enemy. One can fancy their bare heads and
sunburned faces standing in solemn silence around the poor dead man
when he dropped into his immense grave. God bless the "pirates"!
Thursday night, December 31st, 1863.
The last of eighteen sixty-three is passing away as I write.... Every
New Year since I was in my teens, I have sought a quiet spot where I
could whisper to myself Tennyson's "Death of the Old Year," and even
this bitter cold night I steal into my freezing, fireless little room,
_en robe de nuit_, to keep up my old habit while the others sleep....
"Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die."
No! Go and welcome! Bring Peace and brighter days, O dawning New Year.
Die, faster and faster, Old One; I count your remaining moments with
almost savage glee.
Wednesday, February 3d.
Last night we were thrown into the most violent state of commotion by
the unexpected entrance of Captain Bradford. He has been brought here a
prisoner, from Asphodel, where he has been ever since the surrender of
Port Hudson, and taking advantage of his tri-weekly parole, his first
visit was naturally here, as he has no other friends.
Poor creature, how he must have suffered! The first glance at his
altered face where suffering and passion have both left their traces
unmistakably since we last met, and the mere sight of his poor lame
leg, filled my heart with compassion.
* * * * *
How he hates Mr. Halsey! I could not forego the pleasure of provoking
him into a discussion about him, knowing how they hated each other. He
would not say anything against him; understand, that as a gentleman and
a companion, Mr. Halsey was his warmest and best friend; there was no
one he admired more; but he must say that as a soldier, he was the
worst he had ever seen--not that he was not as brave and gallant a man
as ever lived, but he neglected his duties most shamefully while
visiting Linwood so constantly, eluding the sentinels daily as he asked
for neither pass nor permission, and consulting only his inclinations
instead of his superior officers or his business. And that last night
at Linwood, when he absented himself without leave, why could he not
have signified to him, his Captain, that he wished to say good-bye,
instead of quietly doing as he pleased? When the Colonel sent for a
report of the number of men, quantity of forage and ammunition, etc.,
and it was discovered that John Halsey was absent without leave, with
the books locked up and the keys in his pocket--even after this lapse
of time, the fire flashed through the ice as the Captain spoke.
Sergeant Halsey, I am sorry for you when you reported yourself next
day! All the fun that could have been crowded into an evening at
Linwood could not have repaid you for the morning's scene. And after
all, what was it beyond very empty pleasure, with a great deal of
laughter? He could have dispensed with it just as well. Looking back, I
congratulate myself on being the only one who did not ask him to stay.
5th.
Not dead! not dead! O my God! Gibbes is _not_ dead! Where--O dear God!
Another?
Only a few days ago came a letter so cheerful and hopeful--we have
waited and prayed so patiently--at my feet lies one from Colonel
Steadman saying he is dead. Dead! Suddenly and without a moment's
warning summoned to God! No! it cannot be! I am mad! O God, have mercy
on us! My poor mother! And Lydia! Lydia! God comfort you! My brain
seems afire. Am I mad? Not yet! God would not take him yet! He will
come again! Hush, God is good! Not dead! not dead!
O Gibbes, come back to us!
11th.
O God, O God, have mercy on us! George is dead! Both in a week. George,
our sole hope--our sole dependence.
March.
Dead! Dead! Both dead! O my brothers! What have we lived for except
you? We, who would have so gladly laid down our lives for yours, are
left desolate to mourn over all we loved and hoped for, weak and
helpless; while you, so strong, noble, and brave, have gone before us
without a murmur. God knows best. But it is hard--O so hard! to give
them up....
If we had had any warning or preparation, this would not have been so
unspeakably awful. But to shut one's eyes to all dangers and risks, and
drown every rising fear with "God will send them back; I will not doubt
His mercy," and then suddenly to learn that your faith has been
presumption--and God wills that you shall undergo bitter affliction--it
is a fearful awakening! What glory have we ever rendered to God that we
should expect him to be so merciful to us? Are not all things His, and
is not He infinitely more tender and compassionate than we deserve?
We have deceived ourselves wilfully about both. After the first dismay
on hearing of Gibbes's capture, we readily listened to the assertions
of our friends that Johnson's Island was the healthiest place in the
world; that he would be better off, comfortably clothed and under
shelter, than exposed to shot and shell, half fed, and lying on the
bare ground during Ewell's winter campaign. We were thankful for his
safety, knowing Brother would leave nothing undone that could add to
his comfort. And besides that, there was the sure hope of his having
him paroled. On that hope we lived all winter--now confident that in a
little while he would be with us, then again doubting for a while, only
to have the hope grow surer afterwards. And so we waited and prayed,
never doubting he would come at last. He himself believed it, though
striving not to be too hopeful lest he should disappoint us, as well as
himself. Yet he wrote cheerfully and bravely to the last. Towards the
middle of January, Brother was sure of succeeding, as all the prisoners
had been placed under Butler's control. Ah me! How could we be so
blind? We were sure he would be with us in a few weeks! I wrote to him
that I had prepared his room.
On the 30th of January came his last letter, addressed to me, though
meant for Lavinia. It was dated the 12th--the day George died. All his
letters pleaded that I would write more frequently--he loved to hear
from me; so I had been writing to him every ten days. On the 3d of
February I sent my last. Friday the 5th, as I was running through
Miriam's room, I saw Brother pass the door, and heard him ask Miriam
for mother. The voice, the bowed head, the look of utter despair on his
face, struck through me like a knife. "Gibbes! Gibbes!" was my sole
thought; but Miriam and I stood motionless looking at each other
without a word. "Gibbes is dead," said mother as he stood before her.
He did not speak; and then we went in.
We did not ask how, or when. That he was dead was enough for us. But
after a while he told us Uncle James had written that he had died at
two o'clock on Thursday the 21st. Still we did not know how he had
died. Several letters that had been brought remained unopened on the
floor. One, Brother opened, hoping to learn something more. It was from
Colonel Steadman to Miriam and me, written a few hours after his death,
and contained the sad story of our dear brother's last hours.
He had been in Colonel Steadman's ward of the hospital for more than a
week, with headache and sore throat, but it was thought nothing; he
seemed to improve, and expected to be discharged in a few days. On the
21st he complained that his throat pained him again. After prescribing
for him, and talking cheerfully with him for some time, Colonel
Steadman left him surrounded by his friends, to attend to his other
patients. He had hardly reached his room when some one ran to him
saying Captain Morgan was dying. He hurried to his bedside, and found
him dead. Captain Steadman, sick in the next bed, and those around him,
said he had been talking pleasantly with them, when he sat up to reach
his cup of water on the table. As soon as he drank it he seemed to
suffocate; and after tossing his arms wildly in the air, and making
several fearful efforts to breathe, he died.
* * * * *
"Hush, mother, hush," I said when I heard her cries. "We have Brother
and George and Jimmy left, and Lydia has lost all!" Heaven pity us!
George had gone before--only He in mercy kept the knowledge of it from
us for a while longer.
On Thursday the 11th, as we sat talking to mother, striving to make her
forget the weary days we had cried through with that fearful sound of
"Dead! Dead!" ringing ever in our ears, some one asked for Miriam. She
went down, and presently I heard her thanking somebody for a letter.
"You could not have brought me anything more acceptable! It is from my
sister, though she can hardly have heard from us yet!" I ran back, and
sitting at mother's feet, told her Miriam was coming with a letter from
Lydia. Mother cried at the mention of her name. O my little sister! You
know how dear you are to us! "Mother! Mother!" a horrible voice cried,
and before I could think who it was, Miriam rushed in, holding an open
letter in her hand, and perfectly wild. "George is dead!" she shrieked,
and fell heavily to the ground.
O my God! I could have prayed Thee to take mother, too, when I looked
at her. I thought--I almost hoped she was dead, and that pang spared!
But I was wild myself. I could have screamed!--laughed! "It is false!
Do you hear me, mother? God would not take both! George is not dead!" I
cried, trying in vain to arouse her from her horrible state or bring
one ray of reason to her eye. I spoke to a body alive only to pain; not
a sound of my voice seemed to reach her; only fearful moans showed she
was yet alive.
Miriam lay raving on the ground. Poor Miriam! her heart's idol torn
away. God help my darling! I did not understand that George _could_ die
until I looked at her. In vain I strove to raise her from the ground,
or check her wild shrieks for death. "George! only George!" she would
cry; until at last, with the horror of seeing both die before me, I
mastered strength enough to go for the servant and bid her run quickly
for Brother.
How long I stood there alone, I never knew. I remember Ada coming in
hurriedly and asking what it was. I told her George was dead. It was a
relief to see her cry. I could not; but I felt the pain afresh, as
though it were her brother she was crying over, not mine. And the sight
of her tears brought mine, too. We could only cry over mother and
Miriam; we could not rouse them; we did not know what to do.
Some one called me in the entry. I went, not understanding what I was
doing. A lady came to me, told me her name, and said something about
George; but I could not follow what she said. It was as though she was
talking in a dream. I believe she repeated the words several times, for
at last she shook me and said, "Listen! Rouse yourself! the letter is
about George!" Yes, I said; he is dead. She said I must read the
letter; but I could not see, so she read it aloud. It was from Dr.
Mitchell, his friend who was with him when he died, telling of his
sickness and death. He died on Tuesday the 12th of January, after an
illness of six days, conscious to the last and awaiting the end as only
a Christian, and one who has led so beautiful a life, could, with the
Grace of God, look for it. He sent messages to his brothers and
sisters, and bade them tell his mother his last thoughts were of her,
and that he died trusting in the mercy of the Saviour. George! our
pride! our beautiful, angel brother! _Could_ he die? Surely God has
sent all these afflictions within these three years to teach us that
our hopes must be placed Above, and that it is blasphemy to have
earthly idols!
The letter said that the physicians had mistaken his malady, which was
inflammation of the bowels, and he had died from being treated for
something else. It seemed horrible cruelty to read me that part; I knew
that if mother or Miriam ever heard of it, it would kill them. So I
begged Mrs. Mitchell never to let them hear of it. She seemed to think
nothing of the pain it would inflict; how could she help telling if
they asked? she said. I told her I must insist on her not mentioning
it; it would only add suffering to what was already insupportable; if
they asked for the letter, offer to read it aloud, but say positively
that she would not allow any one to touch it except herself, and then
she might pass it over in silence. I roused Miriam then and sent her to
hear it read. She insisted on reading it herself, and half dead with
grief held out her hands, begging piteously to be suffered to read it
alone. I watched then until I was sure Mrs. Mitchell would keep her
promise. Horrible as I knew it to be from strange lips, I knew by what
I experienced that I had saved her from a shock that might cost her her
life; and then I went back to mother.
No need to conceal what I felt there! She neither spoke nor saw. If I
had shrieked that he died of ill treatment, she would not have
understood. But I sat there silently with that horrible secret,
wondering if God would help me bear it, or if despair would deprive me
of self-control and force me presently to cry it aloud, though it
should kill them both.
At last Brother came. I had to meet him downstairs and tell him. God
spare me the sight of a strong man's grief! Then Sister came in,
knowing as little as he. Poor Sister! I could have blessed her for
every tear she shed. It was a comfort to see some one who had life or
feeling left. I felt as though the whole world was dead. Nothing was
real, nothing existed except horrible speechless pain. Life was a
fearful dream through which but one thought ran--"Dead--Dead!"
Miriam had been taken to her room more dead than alive--Mother lay
speechless in hers. The shock of this second blow had obliterated, with
them, all recollection of the first. It was a mercy I envied them; for
I remembered both, until loss of consciousness would have seemed a
blessing. I shall never forget mother's shriek of horror when towards
evening she recalled it. O those dreadful days of misery and
wretchedness! It seems almost sacrilege to refer to them now. They are
buried in our hearts with our boys--thought of with prayers and tears.
How will the world seem to us now? What will life be without the boys?
When this terrible strife is over, and so many thousands return to
their homes, what will peace bring us of all we hoped? Jimmy! Dear
Lord, spare us that one!
November 2d, 1864.
This morning we heard Jimmy is engaged to Helen Trenholm, daughter of
the Secretary of the Confederate States. He wrote asking Brother's
consent, saying they had been engaged since August, though he had had
no opportunity of writing until that day--the middle of September. I
cried myself blind. It seems that our last one is gone. But this is the
first selfish burst of feeling. Later I shall come to my senses and
love my sister that is to be. But my darling! my darling! O Jimmy! How
can I give you up? You have been so close to me since Harry died!
Alone now; best so.
NO. 19 DAUPHINE ST.,
Saturday night, December 31st, 1864.
One year ago, in my little room in the Camp Street house, I sat
shivering over Tennyson and my desk, selfishly rejoicing over the
departure of a year that had brought pain and discomfort only to me,
and eagerly welcoming the dawning of the New One whose first days were
to bring death to George and Gibbes, and whose latter part was to
separate me from Miriam, and brings me news of Jimmy's approaching
marriage. O sad, dreary, fearful Old Year! I see you go with pain!
Bitter as you have been, how do we know what the coming one has in
store for us? What new changes will it bring? Which of us will it take?
I am afraid of eighteen sixty-five, and have felt a vague dread of it
for several years past.
Nothing remains as it was a few months ago. Miriam went to Lilly, in
the Confederacy, on the 19th of October (ah! Miriam!), and mother and I
have been boarding with Mrs. Postlethwaite ever since. I miss her
sadly. Not as much, though, as I would were I less engaged. For since
the first week in August, I have been teaching the children for Sister;
and since we have been here, I go to them every morning instead of
their coming to me. Starting out at half-past eight daily, and
returning a little before three, does not leave me much time for
melancholy reflections. And there is no necessity for indulging in them
at present; they only give pain.
NO. 211 CAMP ST.,
April 19th, 1865.
"All things are taken from us, and become portions and parcels of the
dreadful pasts."...
Thursday the 13th came the dreadful tidings of the surrender of Lee and
his army on the 9th. Everybody cried, but I would not, satisfied that
God will still save us, even though all should apparently be lost.
Followed at intervals of two or three hours by the announcement of the
capture of Richmond, Selma, Mobile, and Johnston's army, even the
stanchest Southerners were hopeless. Every one proclaimed Peace, and
the only matter under consideration was whether Jeff Davis, all
politicians, every man above the rank of Captain in the army and above
that of Lieutenant in the navy, should be hanged immediately, or _some_
graciously pardoned. Henry Ward Beecher humanely pleaded mercy for us,
supported by a small minority. Davis and all leading men _must_ be
executed; the blood of the others would serve to irrigate the country.
Under this lively prospect, Peace, blessed Peace! was the cry. I
whispered, "Never! Let a great earthquake swallow us up first! Let us
leave our land and emigrate to any desert spot of the earth, rather
than return to the Union, even as it Was!"
Six days this has lasted. Blessed with the silently obstinate
disposition, I would not dispute, but felt my heart swell, repeating,
"God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of
trouble," and could not for an instant believe this could end in an
overthrow.
This morning, when I went down to breakfast at seven, Brother read the
announcement of the assassination of Lincoln and Secretary Seward.
"Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." This is murder! God
have mercy on those who did it!
* * * * *
Charlotte Corday killed Marat in his bath, and is held up in history as
one of Liberty's martyrs, and one of the heroines of her country. To
me, it is all murder. Let historians extol blood-shedding; it is
woman's place to abhor it. And because I know that they would have
apotheosized any man who had crucified Jeff Davis, I abhor this, and
call it foul murder, unworthy of our cause--and God grant it was only
the temporary insanity of a desperate man that committed this crime!
Let not his blood be visited on our nation, Lord!
Across the way, a large building, undoubtedly inhabited by officers, is
being draped in black. Immense streamers of black and white hang from
the balcony. Downtown, I understand, all shops are closed, and all
wrapped in mourning. And I hardly dare pray God to bless us, with the
crape hanging over the way. It would have been banners, if our
President had been killed, though!
Saturday, 22d April.
To see a whole city draped in mourning is certainly an imposing
spectacle, and becomes almost grand when it is considered as an
expression of universal affliction. So it is, in one sense. For the
more violently "Secesh" the inmates, the more thankful they are for
Lincoln's death, the more profusely the houses are decked with the
emblems of woe. They all look to me like "not sorry for him, but
dreadfully grieved to be forced to this demonstration." So all things
have indeed assumed a funereal aspect. Men who have hated Lincoln with
all their souls, under terror of confiscation and imprisonment which
they _understand_ is the alternative, tie black crape from every
practicable knob and point to save their homes. Last evening the B----s
were all in tears, preparing their mourning. What sensibility! What
patriotism! a stranger would have exclaimed. But Bella's first remark
was: "Is it not horrible? This vile, _vile_ old crape! Think of hanging
it out when--" Tears of rage finished the sentence. One would have
thought pity for the murdered man had very little to do with it.
Coming back in the cars, I had a _rencontre_ that makes me gnash my
teeth yet. It was after dark, and I was the only lady in a car crowded
with gentlemen. I placed little Miriam on my lap to make room for some
of them, when a great, dark man, all in black, entered, and took the
seat and my left hand at the same instant, saying, "Good-evening, Miss
Sarah." Frightened beyond measure to recognize Captain Todd[21] of the
Yankee army in my interlocutor, I, however, preserved a quiet exterior,
and without the slightest demonstration answered, as though replying to
an internal question. "Mr. Todd." "It is a long while since we met," he
ventured. "Four years," I returned mechanically. "You have been well?"
"My health has been bad." "I have been ill myself"; and determined to
break the ice he diverged with "Baton Rouge has changed sadly." "I hope
I shall never see it again. We have suffered too much to recall home
with any pleasure." "I understand you have suffered severely," he said,
glancing at my black dress. "We have yet one left in the army, though,"
I could not help saying. He, too, had a brother there, he said.
[21] A cousin of Mrs. Lincoln.
He pulled the check-string as we reached the house, adding, "This is
it," and absurdly correcting himself with "Where do you live?"--"211. I
thank you. Good-evening"; the last with emphasis as he prepared to
follow. He returned the salutation, and I hurriedly regained the house.
Monsieur stood over the way. A look through the blinds showed him
returning to his domicile, several doors below.
I returned to my own painful reflections. The Mr. Todd who was my
"sweetheart" when I was twelve and he twenty-four, who was my brother's
friend, and daily at our home, was put away from among our acquaintance
at the beginning of the war. This one, I should not know. Cords of
candy and mountains of bouquets bestowed in childish days will not make
my country's enemy my friend now that I am a woman.
Tuesday, May 2d, 1865.
While praying for the return of those who have fought so nobly for us,
how I have dreaded their first days at home! Since the boys died, I
have constantly thought of what pain it would bring to see their
comrades return without them--to see families reunited, and know that
ours never could be again, save in heaven. Last Saturday, the 29th of
April, seven hundred and fifty paroled Louisianians from Lee's army
were brought here--the sole survivors of ten regiments who left four
years ago so full of hope and determination. On the 29th of April,
1861, George left New Orleans with his regiment. On the fourth
anniversary of that day, they came back; but George and Gibbes have
long been lying in their graves....
June 15th.
Our Confederacy has gone with one crash--the report of the pistol fired
at Lincoln.
THE END
Reading this for the first time, in all these many years, I wish to
bear record that God never failed me, through stranger vicissitudes
than I ever dared record. Whatever the anguish, whatever the extremity,
in His own good time He ever delivered me. So that I bless Him to-day
for all of life's joys and sorrows--for all He gave--for all He has
taken--and I bear witness that it was all Very Good.
SARAH MORGAN DAWSON.
July 23d, 1896.
CHARLESTON,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
End of Project Gutenberg's A Confederate Girl's Diary, by Sarah Morgan Dawson