Camp near Chesterfield Station.
. . . My home is in a wild pine grove and sweetest
melancholy, poesy's child, keeps watch and ward over my innocent spirit. I sit
on my bench and muse on the time when the Yank-Yanks shall meet me in battle
array and when, “Virginia leaning on her spear,” I shall retire on my laurels
with one arm and no legs to some secluded dell to sigh away my few remaining years
in blissful ignorance. But a truce to such deep Philosophy. We are all jogging
along as usual. All the day I long for night, and all the night I long for its
continuance. In fact it is very disagreeable to get up to attend Reveillé rollcall, as I do every
fourth morning, and it is vastly more pleasant to remain in my comfortable (?)
bed and have no other care upon my mind than that of keeping warm with the
least exertion possible. But then comes that inevitable too-diddle-tooty,
too-diddle-tooty, &c, &c, &c, and up I have to jump and go out in
the cold to hear that Von Spreckelson and Bullwinkle are absent and look at the
exciting process of dealing out corn in a tin cup. . . . The snowing began before daylight
yesterday morning and kept it up with scarcely an interval until late last
night. It fell to a depth of about nine inches. This morning, the 1st, 4th, and
5th Texas Regiments came by our camp, marching in irregular line of battle,
with their colors gotten up for the occasion, and with skirmishers thrown out
in advance, and passing us, attacked the camp of the 3rd Arkansas, which is
immediately on our right. A fierce contest ensued, snow balls being the
weapons. The Texans steadily advanced, passing up the right of the camp; the
Arkansians stubbornly disputing their progress, and their shouts and cheers as
they would make a charge, or as the fight would become unusually desperate,
made the welkin ring. A truce was finally declared and all four regiments
marched over the creek to attack Anderson's brigade. After crossing they formed
in line, deployed their skirmishers, and at it they went. The Georgians got
rather the best of the fight and drove them back to the creek, where they made
a stand and fought for some time. They then united and started back across the
Massoponax for Genl. Law's brigade. Just before arriving opposite our camp they
saw another brigade coming over the top of the hill behind their camp (i. e.,
Anderson's) and back they went to meet them. How that fight terminated I don't
know. . . . I suppose this rain and snow
will retard the movements of the enemy too much for them to attempt to cross
for some time to come. . . . Yesterday
and to-day have been lovely days and I trust that the weather will clear up and
continue so. I expect Burnside feels very grateful for the interposition of the
elements to give him an excuse for deferring a little longer the evil day on
which he is forced to attack us or be decapitated. . . . I saw in my ride the other day a body of
Yankees, apparently a Regiment, drawn up in line, firing. They were using blank
cartridges I suppose. This looks as though they had some very fresh troops. If
that is the case they had better keep them out of the fight, as they will do
precious little good in it. . . .
Christmas eve we went to see the Hood's Minstrels perform.
One of the best performances was “We are a band of brothers” sung by three
make-believe darkies, dressed entirely in black, with tall black hats and crepe
hatbands, looking more like a deputation from a corps of undertakers than
anything else — and was intended, I suppose, as a burlesque upon Puritanism. At
all events it was supremely ridiculous. . . . I understand that several of the tailors
in Charleston have committed suicide lately, driven to it by the ruinously low
rates at which their wares (no pun intended) are now selling. They can only
obtain two hundred and fifty dollars for a second lieutenant's uniform coat and
pantaloons. Poor wretches! They should bear their burdens with more patience,
however, and remember that (according to the newspaper) the hardships of this
war fall on all alike and must be endured by high and low, rich and poor,
equally. I saw Col. Jenifer who told me he had met Papa and Mama at a party at
Col. Ives's in the city of Richmond. Isn't that dissipation for you? Do they
have cake “and sich” at parties now, or is it merely “a feast of reason and a
flow of soul?” And in conclusion tell me of my overcoat. Have you seen
it? If not, has anybody else seen it? If not, how long will it be, in all human
probability, and speaking well within the mark, before somebody else will see
it? . . . My old one has carried me
through two winters and is now finishing the third in a sadly dilapidated
condition. There is a sort of “golden halo, hovering round decay,” about it,
which may perhaps be very poetical, but is far from being practical as regards
its weather resisting qualities. . . .
SOURCE: Louise Wigfall Wright, A Southern Girl in
’61, p. 114-7
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