When we read of the battles in India, in Italy, in the
Crimea, what did we care? Only an interesting topic, like any other, to look
for in the paper. Now you hear of a battle with a thrill and a shudder. It has
come home to us; half the people that we know in the world are under the
enemy's guns. A telegram reaches you, and you leave it on your lap. You are
pale with fright. You handle it, or you dread to touch it, as you would a
rattlesnake; worse, worse, a snake could only strike you. How many, many will
this scrap of paper tell you have gone to their death?
When you meet people, sad and sorrowful is the greeting;
they press your hand; tears stand in their eyes or roll down their cheeks, as
they happen to possess more or less self-control. They have brother, father, or
sons as the case may be, in battle. And now this thing seems never to stop. We
have no breathing time given us. It can not be so at the North, for the papers
say gentlemen do not go into the ranks there, but are officers, or clerks of
departments. Then we see so many members of foreign regiments among our
prisoners — Germans, Irish, Scotch. The proportion of trouble is awfully
against us. Every company on the field, rank and file, is filled with our
nearest and dearest, who are common soldiers.
Mem Cohen's story to-day. A woman she knew heard her son was
killed, and had hardly taken in the horror of it when they came to say it was
all a mistake in the name. She fell on her knees with a shout of joy. “Praise
the Lord, O my soul!” she cried, in her wild delight. The household was totally
upset, the swing-back of the pendulum from the scene of weeping and wailing of
a few moments before was very exciting. In the midst of this hubbub the hearse
drove up with the poor boy in his metallic coffin. Does anybody wonder so many
women die? Grief and constant anxiety kill nearly as many women at home as men
are killed on the battle-field. Mem's friend is at the point of death with
brain fever; the sudden changes from grief to joy and joy to grief were more
than she could bear.
A story from New Orleans. As some Yankees passed two boys
playing in the street, one of the boys threw a handful of burned cotton at
them, saying, “I keep this for you.” The other, not to be outdone, spit at the
Yankees, and said, “I keep this for you.” The Yankees marked the house.
Afterward, a corporal's guard came. Madam was affably conversing with a friend,
and in vain, the friend, who was a mere morning caller, protested he was not
the master of the house; he was marched off to prison.
Mr. Moise got his money out of New Orleans. He went to a
station with his two sons, who were quite small boys. When he got there, the
carriage that he expected was not to be seen. He had brought no money with him,
knowing he might be searched. Some friend called out, “I will lend you my
horse, but then you will be obliged to leave the children.” This offer was
accepted, and, as he rode off, one of the boys called out, “Papa, here is your
tobacco, which you have forgotten.” Mr. Moise turned back and the boy handed up
a roll of tobacco, which he had held openly in his hand all the time. Mr. Moise
took it, and galloped off, waving his hat to them. In that roll of tobacco was
encased twenty-five thousand dollars.
Now, the Mississippi is virtually open to the Yankees.
Beauregard has evacuated Corinth.1
Henry Nott was killed at Shiloh; Mrs. Auze wrote to tell us.
She had no hope. To be conquered and ruined had always been her fate, strive as
she might, and now she knew it would be through her country that she would be
made to feel. She had had more than most women to endure, and the battle of
life she had tried to fight with courage, patience, faith. Long years ago, when
she was young, her lover died. Afterward, she married another. Then her husband
died, and next her only son. When New Orleans fell, her only daughter was there
and Mrs. Auze went to her. Well may she say that she has bravely borne her
burden till now.2
Stonewall said, in his quaint way: “I like strong drink, so
I never touch it.” May heaven, who sent him to help us, save him from all harm!
My husband traced Stonewall's triumphal career on the map.
He has defeated Fremont and taken all his cannon; now he is after Shields. The
language of the telegram is vague: “Stonewall has taken plenty of prisoners” — plenty,
no doubt, and enough and to spare. We can't feed our own soldiers, and how are
we to feed prisoners?
They denounce Toombs in some Georgia paper, which I saw
to-day, for planting a full crop of cotton. They say he ought to plant
provisions for soldiers.
And now every man in Virginia, and the eastern part of South
Carolina is in revolt, because old men and boys are ordered out as a reserve
corps, and worst of all, sacred property, that is, negroes, have been seized
and sent out to work on the fortifications along the coast line. We are in a
fine condition to fortify Columbia!
_______________
1 Corinth was besieged by the Federals, under
General Halleck, in May, 1862, and was evacuated by the Confederates under
Beauregard on May 29th.
2 She lost her life in the Windsor Hotel fire in
New York.
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 177-80
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