I had a calm, solemn, two-hours conversation yesterday, with
an intelligent and seemingly Christian man, which has filled me with entire
despair for the Confederacy. He listened to my solemn declarations that I knew
the spirit which animated every man, woman, and child was a martyr spirit;
was a conscientious belief that in the sight of heaven they were doing their
holiest duty; that there was a deadly earnestness among our men which would
make the last remnant of them fly to our mountain fastnesses and fight like
tigers till the last inch of ground was taken from them: that then the women
and children would be swept into the Ocean on one side, and into the wilds of
Mexico on the other, but there could be no yielding. “If,” said he,
after listening with deep interest to what I had been saying, “if I believed that your spirit
animated your army, I would feel obliged to lay down this sword; I could not
fight against men who fought for conscience’ sake.” “I beseech you, sir,” I
said, “to believe it; for it is as true as that the heavens are above us.” This
is the sentiment expressed by the best of them. He took from his pocket-book
some leaves which he had gathered from Jackson's grave, which he said he would
keep as sacred mementos. One of the guard which he sent us, decent fellows, who
have kept us from being insulted, asked me for some trifle that had belonged to
Jackson, saying, “We think as much of him as you do.” I gave them each an
autograph.
We were told the house was to be searched for arms as some
of our neighbors’ have been. I delivered up all the sporting guns, but forgot
that I had hidden Jackson’s sword in a dark loft above the portico. At one
o'clock last night I crept up there as stealthily as a burglar, and brought it
down, intending to deliver it up to this Lt. B.; but on running up the back way
to Dr. White's gate, and consulting him, he said he had his old sword, which
had never been in the service, and advised me to keep it as long as I could. I
have hidden it in Anna Jackson's piano. We hear that we are to be searched this
morning; almost every house in town has been, and but for the interest this Lt.
has taken in us, I believe we should have been too.
Gen. Smith's house has not been burned; they have not yet
discovered our wounded man. Oh! I am so exhausted — so heart and soul weary! We
have heard many times this morning that the Cadets have been captured.
Lynchburg no doubt has fallen, for there was no force there. The servants are
flocking away. The soldiers almost force them into the omnibuses. We have a
young girl here now, our Mary's sister, whom they were about to drag away; Mary
went and brought her here for safe keeping.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and
Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 192-4
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