July 15th, Longwood,
near Boston.
. . . I received your last letter several days ago, and I
had a letter from Mama about the same time, telling Grandmama to send us on by
the first good opportunity, but the way Mr. Walters said was the only way we
could go would not have been safe, and I am now anxiously awaiting news from
Mama as to whether we shall go to Fortress Monroe, and let Papa send a flag of
truce, and get us or not. My trunks were all packed ready to start at a
minute's notice, when we received Mr. Walter's letter, telling us that the only
way of reaching Richmond was by going through Winchester, to which you know the
troops are making a general movement.
You may imagine how I felt. When Mr. Walters wrote the last
time, all was different, and I fully expected to go home. I had already
pictured our meeting. I almost felt your kiss and I heard Papa calling us “his
darlings” and Mama's dear voice, and in one moment all was gone, and I glanced
out of my window and instead of Richmond, I saw miserable old Boston. I felt as
if my heart would break.
You ask me in your last if I am not “isolated” — that is
exactly the word. With the exception of Emma Babcock, and her family, there is
not a soul here that cares whether I go or stay, or that I could call a friend;
but if nobody likes me, there is some satisfaction in knowing there is no love
lost. If I did not follow your injunction, and never believe what I see in
Republican journals I should have an awful time of it; for they make out the
most desperate case. All the C. S. soldiers are poor, half starved, naked,
miserable wretches that will run if you stick your finger at them; who are all
waiting for a chance to desert, etc., and become loyal citizens to King
Abraham, the First, and prime minister, General Scott. The Southerners are
defeated in every engagement; all the killed and wounded are on their side, and
none are injured on the other. Such is about the summary of their statements — mais
je ne le crois pas, and so they don't disturb my mind much. I saw that Papa
had gone disguised as a cattle drover to Washington, to pick up
information for the President! That is about a specimen of their stories. Mama
writes me in her last that you have joined the Military School at the
University of Virginia, and would enter the army in three months, if you wished
to, at the end of that time. I suppose you are very glad. I don't wonder and
wish I could go too. I sit down to the piano every day and play “Dixie” and
think of you all away in “the land of cotton,” etc.
SOURCE: Louise Wigfall Wright, A Southern Girl in
’61, p. 60-2
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