Sally Hampton went to Richmond with the Rev. Mr. Martin. She
arrived there on Wednesday. On Thursday her father, Wade Hampton, fought a
great battle, but just did not win it — a victory narrowly missed. Darkness
supervened and impenetrable woods prevented that longed-for consummation.
Preston Hampton rode recklessly into the hottest fire. His father sent his
brother, Wade, to bring him back. Wade saw him reel in the saddle and galloped
up to him, General Hampton following. As young Wade reached him, Preston fell
from his horse, and the one brother, stooping to raise the other, was himself
shot down. Preston recognized his father, but died without speaking a word.
Young Wade, though wounded, held his brother's head up. Tom Taylor and others
hurried up. The General took his dead son in his arms, kissed him, and handed
his body to Tom Taylor and his friends, bade them take care of Wade, and then
rode back to his post. At the head of his troops in the thickest of the fray he
directed the fight for the rest of the day. Until night he did not know young
Wade's fate; that boy might be dead, too! Now, he says, no son of his must be
in his command. When Wade recovers, he must join some other division. The agony
of such a day, and the anxiety and the duties of the battle-field — it is all
more than a mere man can bear.
Another letter from Mrs. Davis. She says: “I was dreadfully
shocked at Preston Hampton's fate — his untimely fate. I know nothing more
touching in history than General Hampton's situation at the supremest moment of
his misery, when he sent one son to save the other and saw both fall; and could
not know for some moments whether both were not killed.'”
A thousand dollars have slipped through my fingers already
this week. At the Commissary's I spent five hundred to-day for candles, sugar,
and a lamp, etc. Tallow candles are bad enough, but of them there seems to be
an end, too. Now we are restricted to smoky, terrabine lamps — terrabine is a preparation of turpentine. When
the chimney of the lamp cracks, as crack it will, we plaster up the place with
paper, thick old letter-paper, preferring the highly glazed kind. In the hunt
for paper queer old letters come to light.
Sherman, in Atlanta, has left Thomas to take care of Hood.
Hood has thirty thousand men, Thomas forty thousand, and as many more to be had
as he wants; he has only to ring the bell and call for them. Grant can get all
that he wants, both for himself and for Thomas. All the world is open to them,
while we are shut up in a bastile. We are at sea, and our boat has sprung a
leak.
SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 332-3
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