“Any more, Mr. Lincoln, any more?” Can't you leave our
racked homes in repose? We are all wild. Last night, five citizens were
arrested, on no charge at all, and carried down to Picayune Butler's ship. What
a thrill of terror ran through the whole community! We all felt so helpless, so
powerless under the hand of our tyrant, the man who swore to uphold the
Constitution and the laws, who is professedly only fighting to give us all
Liberty, the birthright of every American, and who, nevertheless, has ground us
down to a state where we would not reduce our negroes, who tortures and sneers
at us, and rules us with an iron hand! Ah! Liberty! what a humbug! I would
rather belong to England or France, than to the North! Bondage, woman that I
am, I can never stand! Even now, the Northern papers, distributed among us,
taunt us with our subjection and tell us “how coolly Butler will grind them
down, paying no regard to their writhing and torture beyond tightening the
bonds still more!” Ah, truly! this is the bitterness of slavery, to be insulted
and reviled by cowards who are safe at home and enjoy the protection of the
laws, while we, captive and overpowered, dare not raise our voices to throw
back the insult, and are governed by the despotism of one man, whose word is
our law! And that man, they tell us, “is the right man in the right place. He
will develop a Union sentiment among the people, if the thing can be done!”
Come and see if he can! Hear the curse that arises from thousands of hearts at
that man's name, and say if he will “speedily bring us to our senses.” Will he
accomplish it by love, tenderness, mercy, compassion? He might have done it;
but did he try? When he came, he assumed his natural role as tyrant, and
bravely has he acted it through, never once turning aside for Justice or Mercy.
. . . This degradation is worse than the bitterness of death!
I see no salvation on either side. No glory awaits the
Southern Confederacy, even if it does achieve its independence; it will be a
mere speck in the world, with no weight or authority. The North confesses
itself lost without us, and has paid an unheard-of ransom to regain us. On the
other hand, conquered, what hope is there in this world for us? Broken in
health and fortune, reviled, contemned, abused by those who claim already to
have subdued us, without a prospect of future support for those few of our brothers
who return; outcasts without home or honor, would not death or exile be
preferable? Oh, let us abandon our loved home to these implacable enemies, and
find refuge elsewhere! Take from us property, everything, only grant us
liberty! Is this rather frantic, considering I abhor politics, and women who
meddle with them, above all? My opinion has not yet changed; I still feel the
same contempt for a woman who would talk at the top of her voice for the
edification of Federal officers, as though anxious to receive an invitation
requesting her presence at the Garrison. “I can suffer and be still” as far as
outward signs are concerned; but as no word of this has passed my lips, I give
it vent in writing, which is more lasting than words, partly to relieve my heart,
partly to prove to my own satisfaction that I am no coward; for one line of
this, surrounded as we are by soldiers, and liable to have our houses searched
at any instant, would be a sufficient indictment for high treason.
Under General Williams's rule, I was perfectly satisfied
that whatever was done, was done through necessity, and under orders from
Headquarters, beyond his control; we all liked him. But now, since Butler's
arrival, I believe I am as frantic in secret as the others are openly. I know that
war sanctions many hard things, and that both sides practice them; but now we
are so completely lost in Louisiana, is it fair to gibe and taunt us with our
humiliation? I could stand anything save the cowardly ridicule and triumph of
their papers. Honestly, I believe if all vile abusive papers on both sides were
suppressed, and some of the fire-eating editors who make a living by lying were
soundly cowhided or had their ears clipped, it would do more towards
establishing peace, than all the bloodshedding either side can afford. I hope
to live to see it, too. Seems to me, more liberty is allowed to the press than
would be tolerated in speech. Let us speak as freely as any paper, and see if
to-morrow we do not sleep at Fort Jackson!
This morning the excitement is rare; fifteen more citizens
were arrested and carried off, and all the rest grew wild with expectation. So
great a martyrdom is it considered, that I am sure those who are not arrested
will be woefully disappointed. It is ludicrous to see how each man thinks he is
the very one they are in search of! We asked a two-penny lawyer, of no more
importance in the community than Dophy is, if it was possible he was not
arrested. “But I am expecting to be every instant!” So much for his self-assurance!
Those arrested have, some, been quietly released (those are so smiling and
mysterious that I suspect them), some been obliged to take the oath, some sent
to Fort Jackson. Ah, Liberty! What a blessing it is to enjoy thy privileges! If
some of these poor men are not taken prisoners, they will die of mortification
at the slight.
Our valiant Governor, the brave Moore, has by order of the
real Governor, Moise, made himself visible at some far-distant point, and
issued a proclamation, saying, whereas we of Baton Rouge were held forcibly in
town, he therefore considered men, women, and children prisoners of war, and as
such the Yankees are bound to supply us with all necessaries, and consequently
any one sending us aid or comfort or provisions from the country will be severely
punished. Only Moore is fool enough for such an order. Held down by the
Federals, our paper money so much trash, with hardly any other to buy food and
no way of earning it; threatened with starvation and utter ruin, our own
friends, by way of making our burden lighter, forbid our receiving the means of
prolonging life, and after generously warning us to leave town, which they know
is perfectly impossible, prepare to burn it over our heads, and let the women
run the same risk as the men. Penned in on one little square mile, here we
await our fate like sheep in the slaughter-pen. Our hour may be at hand now, it
may be to-night; we have only to wait; the booming of the cannon will announce
it to us soon enough.
Of the six sentenced to Fort Jackson, one is the Methodist
minister, Mr. Craven. The only charge is, that he was heard to pray for the
Confederate States by some officers who passed his house during his family
prayers. According to that, which of us would escape unhung? I do not believe
there is a woman in the land who closes her eyes before praying for God's
blessing on the side on which her brothers are engaged. Are we all to cease?
Show me the dungeon deep enough to keep me from praying for them! The man
represented that he had a large family totally dependent on him, who must
starve. “Let them get up a subscription,” was General Butler's humane answer. “I
will head it myself.” It is useless to say the generous offer was declined.
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 92-7
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