I must describe an adventure I had in Kingsville. Of course,
I know nothing of children: in point of fact, am awfully afraid of them.
Mrs. Edward Barnwell came with us from Camden. She had a
magnificent boy two years old. Now don't expect me to reduce that adjective,
for this little creature is a wonder of childlike beauty, health, and strength.
Why not? If like produces like, and with such a handsome pair to claim as
father and mother! The boy's eyes alone would make any girl's fortune.
At first he made himself very agreeable, repeating nursery
rhymes and singing. Then something went wrong. Suddenly he changed to a little
fiend, fought and kicked and scratched like a tiger. He did everything that was
naughty, and he did it with a will as if he liked it, while his lovely mamma,
with flushed cheeks and streaming eyes, was imploring him to be a good boy.
When we stopped at Kingsville, I got out first, then Mrs.
Barnwell's nurse, who put the little man down by me. “Look after him a moment, please, ma'am,” she said, “I must help
Mrs. Barnwell with the bundles,” etc. She stepped hastily back and the cars
moved off. They ran down a half mile to turn. I trembled in my shoes. This
child! No man could ever frighten me so. If he should choose to be bad again!
It seemed an eternity while I waited for that train to turn and come back
again. My little charge took things quietly. For me he had a perfect contempt,
no fear whatever. And I was his abject slave for the nonce.
He stretched himself out lazily at full length. Then he
pointed downward. “Those are great legs,” said he solemnly, looking at his own.
I immediately joined him in admiring them enthusiastically. Near him he spied a
bundle. “Pussy cat tied up in that bundle.” He was up in a second and pounced
upon it. If we were to be taken up as thieves, no matter, I dared not meddle
with that child. I had seen what he could do. There were several cooked sweet
potatoes tied up in an old handkerchief—belonging to some negro probably. He
squared himself off comfortably, broke one in half and began to eat. Evidently
he had found what he was fond of. In this posture Mrs. Barnwell discovered us.
She came with comic dismay in every feature, not knowing what our relations
might be, and whether or not we had undertaken to fight it out alone as best we
might. The old nurse cried, “Lawsy me!” with both hands uplifted. Without a
word I fled. In another moment the Wilmington train would have left me. She was
going to Columbia.
We broke down only once between Kingsville and Wilmington,
but between Wilmington and Weldon we contrived to do the thing so effectually
as to have to remain twelve hours at that forlorn station.
The one room that I saw was crowded with soldiers. Adam Team
succeeded in securing two chairs for me, upon one of which I sat and put my
feet on the other. Molly sat flat on the floor, resting her head against my
chair. I woke cold and cramped. An officer, who did not give his name; but said
he was from Louisiana, came up and urged me to go near the fire. He gave me his
seat by the fire, where I found an old lady and two young ones, with two men in
the uniform of common soldiers.
We talked as easily to each other all night as if we had
known one another all our lives. We discussed the war, the army, the news of
the day. No questions were asked, no names given, no personal discourse whatever,
and yet if these men and women were not gentry, and of the best sort, I do not
know ladies and gentlemen when I see them.
Being a little surprised at the want of interest Mr. Team
and Isaac showed in my well-doing, I walked out to see, and I found them
working like beavers. They had been at it all night. In the break-down my boxes
were smashed. They had first gathered up the contents and were trying to hammer
up the boxes so as to make them once more available.
At Petersburg a smartly dressed woman came in, looked around
in the crowd, then asked for the seat by me. Now Molly's seat was paid for the
same as mine, but she got up at once, gave the lady her seat and stood behind
me. I am sure Molly believes herself my body-guard as well as my servant.
The lady then having arranged herself comfortably in Molly's
seat began in plaintive accents to tell her melancholy tale. She was a widow.
She lost her husband in the battles around Richmond. Soon some one went out and
a man offered her the vacant seat. Straight as an arrow she went in for a
flirtation with the polite gentleman. Another person, a perfect stranger, said
to me, '”Well, look yonder. As soon as she began whining about her dead beau I knew
she was after another one.” “Beau, indeed!” cried another listener, “she said
it was her husband.” “Husband or lover, all the same. She won't lose any time.
It won't be her fault if she doesn't have another one soon.”
But the grand scene was the night before: the cars crowded
with soldiers, of course; not a human being that I knew. An Irish woman, so
announced by her brogue, came in. She marched up and down the car, loudly
lamenting the want of gallantry in the men who would not make way for her. Two
men got up and gave her their seats, saying it did not matter, they were going
to get out at the next stopping-place.
She was gifted with the most pronounced brogue I ever heard,
and she gave us a taste of it. She continued to say that the men ought all to
get out of that; that car was “shuteable” only for ladies. She placed on the
vacant seat next to her a large looking-glass. She continued to harangue until
she fell asleep.
A tired soldier coming in, seeing what he supposed to be an
empty seat, quietly slipped into it. Crash went the glass. The soldier groaned,
the Irish woman shrieked. The man was badly cut by the broken glass. She was
simply a mad woman. She shook her fist in his face; said she was a lone woman
and he had got into that seat for no good purpose. How did he dare to? — etc. I
do not think the man uttered a word. The conductor took him into another car to
have the pieces of glass picked out of his clothes, and she continued to rave.
Mr. Team shouted aloud, and laughed as if he were in the Hermitage Swamp. The
woman's unreasonable wrath and absurd accusations were comic, no doubt.
Soon the car was silent and I fell into a comfortable doze.
I felt Molly give me a gentle shake. “Listen, Missis, how loud Mars Adam Team
is talking, and all about ole marster and our business, and to strangers. It's
a shame.” “Is he saying any harm of us?” “No, ma'am, not that. He is bragging
for dear life 'bout how ole ole marster is and how rich he is, an' all that. I
gwine tell him stop.” Up started Molly. “Mars Adam, Missis say please don't
talk so loud. When people travel they don't do that a way.”
Mr. Preston's man, Hal, was waiting at the depot with a
carriage to take me to my Richmond house. Mary Preston had rented these
apartments for me.
I found my dear girls there with a nice fire. Everything
looked so pleasant and inviting to the weary traveler. Mrs. Grundy, who
occupies the lower floor, sent me such a real Virginia tea, hot cakes, and
rolls. Think of living in the house with Mrs. Grundy, and having no fear of “what
Mrs. Grundy will say.”
My husband has come; he likes the house, Grundy's, and everything.
Already he has bought Grundy's horses for sixteen hundred Confederate dollars
cash. He is nearer to being contented and happy than I ever saw him. He has not
established a grievance yet, but I am on the lookout daily. He will soon find
out whatever there is wrong about Gary Street.
I gave a party; Mrs. Davis very witty; Preston girls very
handsome; Isabella's fun fast and furious. No party could have gone off more
successfully, but my husband decides we are to have no more festivities. This
is not the time or the place for such gaieties.
Maria Freeland is perfectly delightful on the subject of her
wedding. She is ready to the last piece of lace, but her hard-hearted father
says “No.” She adores John Lewis. That goes without saying. She does not pretend,
however, to be as much in love as Mary Preston. In point of fact, she never saw
any one before who was. But she is as much in love as she can be with a man
who, though he is not very handsome, is as eligible a match as a girl
could make. He is all that heart could wish, and he comes of such a handsome
family. His mother, Esther Maria Coxe, was the beauty of a century, and his
father was a nephew of General Washington. For all that, he is far better
looking than John Darby or Mr. Miles. She always intended to marry better than
Mary Preston or Bettie Bierne.
Lucy Haxall is positively engaged to Captain Coffey, an
Englishman. She is convinced that she will marry him. He is her first fancy.
Mr. Venable, of Lee's staff, was at our party, so out of
spirits. He knows everything that is going on. His depression bodes us no good.
To-day, General Hampton sent James Chesnut a fine saddle that he had captured
from the Yankees in battle array.
Mrs. Scotch Allan (Edgar Allan Poe's patron's wife) sent me
ice-cream and lady-cheek apples from her farm. John R. Thompson,1
the sole literary fellow I know in Richmond, sent me Leisure Hours in Town, by
A Country Parson.
My husband says he hopes I will be contented because he came
here this winter to please me. If I could have been satisfied at home he would
have resigned his aide-de-campship and gone into some service in South
Carolina. I am a good excuse, if good for nothing else.
Old tempestuous Keitt breakfasted with us yesterday. I wish
I could remember half the brilliant things he said. My husband has now gone
with him to the War Office. Colonel Keitt thinks it is time he was promoted. He
wants to be a brigadier.
Now, Charleston is bombarded night and day. It fairly makes
me dizzy to think of that everlasting racket they are beating about people's
ears down there. Bragg defeated, and separated from Longstreet. It is a long
street that knows no turning, and Rosecrans is not taken after all.
_______________
1 John R. Thompson was a native of Richmond and
in 1847 became editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Under his direction,
that periodical acquired commanding influence. Mr. Thompson's health failed
afterward. During the war he spent a part of his time in Richmond and a part in
Europe. He afterward settled in New York and became literary editor of the
Evening Post.
SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 253-8
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