We have been down from Montgomery on the boat to that
God-forsaken landing, Portland, Ala. Found everybody drunk — that is, the three
men who were there. At last secured a carriage to carry us to my
brother-in-law's house. Mr. Chesnut had to drive seven miles, pitch dark, over
an unknown road. My heart was in my mouth, which last I did not open. Next day
a patriotic person informed us that, so great was the war fever only six men
could be found in Dallas County. I whispered to Mr. Chesnut: “We found three of
the lone ones hors de combat at Portland.” So much for the corps of
reserves — alcoholized patriots. Saw for the first time the demoralization
produced by hopes of freedom. My mother's butler (whom I taught to read,
sitting on his knife-board) contrived to keep from speaking to us. He was as efficient
as ever in his proper place, but he did not come behind the scenes as usual and
have a friendly chat. Held himself aloof so grand and stately we had to send
him a “tip” through his wife Hetty, mother's maid, who, however, showed no
signs of disaffection. She came to my bedside next morning with everything that
was nice for breakfast. She had let me sleep till midday, and embraced me over
and over again. I remarked: “What a capital cook they have here!” She curtsied
to the ground. “I cooked every mouthful on that tray — as if I did not know
what you liked to eat since you was a baby.”
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 52-3
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