Commanding Beaureguard Scouts.
I would like to know if he tried it and came to grief or abandoned the
project. As letters can now get through to New Orleans, I wrote there.
_July 14th, 1863_.--Moved yesterday into a house I call "Fair Rosamond's
bower" because it would take a clue of thread to go through it without
getting lost. One room has five doors opening into the house, and no
windows. The stairs are like ladders, and the colonel's contraband valet
won't risk his neck taking down water, but pours it through the windows on
people's heads. We shan't stay in it. Men are at work closing up the
caves; they had become hiding-places for trash. Vicksburg is now like one
vast hospital--every one is getting sick or is sick. My cook was taken
to-day with bilious fever, and nothing but will keeps me up.
_July 23d, 1863_.--We moved again two days ago.
_Aug. 20_.--Sitting in my easy chair to-day, looking out upon a grassy
slope of the hill in the rear of this house, I have looked over this
journal as if in a dream; for since the last date sickness and sorrow have
been with me. I feel as if an angry wave had passed over me bearing away
strength and treasure. For on one day there came to me from New Orleans
the news of Mrs. B.'s death, a friend whom no tie of blood could have made
nearer. The next day my beautiful boy ended his brief life of ten days and
died in my arms. My own illness caused him to perish; the fatal cold in
the cave was the last straw that broke down strength. The colonel's sweet
wife has come, and I do not lack now for womanly companionship. She says
that with such a pre-natal experience perhaps death was the best for him.
I try to think so, and to be glad that H. has not been ill, though I see
the effects. This book is exhausted, and I wonder whether there will be
more adventures by flood and field to cause me to begin another.