Early last evening
the tremendous clatter of a sword that made such unnecessary noise that one
might imagine the owner thereof had betaken himself to the favorite pastime of
his childhood, and was prancing in on his murderous weapon, having mistaken it
for his war steed, announced the arrival of Captain Bradford, who with two
friends came to say adieu. Those vile Yankees have been threatening Ponchatoula,
and his battery, with a regiment of infantry, was on its way there to drive
them back. The Captain sent me word of the distressing departure, with many
assurances that he would take care of “my” John.
Scarcely had he
departed, when lo! John arrives, and speaks for himself. Yes! he is going! Only
a moment to say good-bye . . . sunset approaches. Well! he must say good-bye
now! Chorus of young ladies: “Oh, will you not spend the evening with us? You
can easily overtake the battery later.” Chorus of married ladies: “You must not
think of going. Here is a comfortable room at your service, and after an early
breakfast you can be on the road as soon as the others.” No necessity for
prayers; he readily consents. And yet, as the evening wore on, when we laughed
loudest I could not help but think of poor little Mrs. McPhaul sitting alone
and crying over her brother's departure, fancying his precious bones lying on
the damp ground with only the soldier's roof — the blue vault of heaven —
above, while two miles away he sat in a comfortable parlor amusing himself.
About sunrise,
while the most delightful dreams floated through my brain, a little voice
roused me exclaiming, “Sady! Sady! John Hawsey say so! Say give Sady!” I opened
my eyes to see little Gibbes standing by me, trying to lay some flowers on my
cheek, his little face sparkling with delight at his own importance. A
half-opened rosebud with the faintest blush of pink on its creamy leaves — a
pink, and a piece of arbor vitae, all sprinkled with dew, this was my bouquet.
The servant explained that Mr. Halsey had just left, and sent me that with his
last good-bye. And he has gone! “And now there's nothing left but weeping! His
face I ne’er shall see, and naught is left to me, save” — putting away my book
and all recollections of nonsense. So here goes!
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 340-2
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