Yesterday I broke down — gave way to abject terror under the
news of Sherman's advance with no news of my husband. To-day, while wrapped up
on the sofa, too dismal even for moaning, there was a loud knock. Shawls on and
all, just as I was, I rushed to the door to find a telegram from my husband: “All
well; be at home Tuesday.” It was dated from Adam's Run. I felt as lighthearted
as if the war were over. Then I looked at the date and the place — Adam's Run.
It ends as it began — in a run — Bull's Run, from which their first sprightly
running astounded the world, and now Adam's Run. But if we must run, who are
left to run? From Bull Run they ran full-handed. But we have fought until
maimed soldiers, women, and children are all that remain to run.
To-day Kershaw's brigade, or what is left of it, passed
through. What shouts greeted it and what bold shouts of thanks it returned! It
was all a very encouraging noise, absolutely comforting. Some true men are
left, after all.
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