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 heartbroken 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.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 20-2
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