Day before yesterday, just about this time of evening, as I
came home from the graveyard, Jimmy unexpectedly came in. Ever since the 12th
of February he has been waiting on the Yankees' pleasure, in the Mississippi,
at all places below Columbus, and having been under fire for thirteen days at
Tiptonville, Island No. 10 having surrendered Monday night; and Commodore
Hollins thinking it high time to take possession of the ironclad ram at New
Orleans, and give them a small party below the forts, he carried off his little
aide from the McRae Tuesday morning, and left him here Thursday evening, to our
infinite delight, for we felt as though we would never again see our dear
little Jimmy. He has grown so tall, and stout, that it is really astonishing,
considering the short time he has been away. . . . To our great distress, he
jumped up from dinner, and declared he must go to the city on the very next
boat. Commodore Hollins would need him, he must be at his post, etc., and in
twenty minutes he was off, the rascal, before we could believe he had been here
at all. There is something in his eye that reminds me of Harry, and tells me
that, like Hal, he will die young.
And these days that are going by remind me of Hal, too. I am
walking in our footsteps of last year. The eighth was the day we gave him a
party, on his return home. I see him so distinctly standing near the pier
table, talking to Mr. Sparks, whom he had met only that morning, and who, three
weeks after, had Harry's blood upon his hands. He is a murderer now, without
aim or object in life, as before; with only one desire — to die — and death
still flees from him, and he Dares not rid himself of life.
All those dancing there that night have undergone trial and
affliction since. Father is dead, and Harry. Mr. Trezevant lies at Corinth with
his skull fractured by a bullet; every young man there has been in at least one
battle since, and every woman has cried over her son, brother, or sweetheart,
going away to the wars, or lying sick and wounded. And yet we danced that
night, and never thought of bloodshed! The week before Louisiana seceded, Jack
Wheat stayed with us, and we all liked him so much, and he thought so much of
us; — and last week — a week ago to-day — he was killed on the battle-field of
Shiloh.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 6-7
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