Westover.
Enfin nous sommes arrivées! And after what a trip! As we reached the
ferry, I discovered I had lost the pass, and had to walk back and search for
it, aided by Mr. Tunnard, who met me in my distress, as it has always been his
luck to do. But somebody had already adopted the valuable trifle, so I had to
rejoin mother and Miriam without it. The guard resolutely refused to let us
pass until we got another, so off flew Mr. Tunnard to procure a second — which
was vastly agreeable, as I knew he would have to pay twenty-five cents for it,
Yankees having come down as low as that, to procure money. But he had gone
before we could say anything, and soon returned with the two-bits' worth of
leave of absence. Then we crossed the river in a little skiff after sundown, in
a most unpleasant state of uncertainty as to whether the carriage was waiting
at the landing for us, for I did not know if Phillie had received my note, and
there was no place to go if she had not sent for us. However, we found it
waiting, and leaving mother and Miriam to pay the ferry, I walked on to put our
bundles in the carriage. A man stepped forward, calling me by name and giving
me a note from Charlie before I reached it; and as I placed my foot on the
step, another came up and told me he had left a letter at home for me at one
o'clock. I bowed Yes (it was from Howell; must answer to-morrow). He asked me
not to mention it was “him”; a little servant had asked his name, but he told
her it was none of her business. I laughed at the refined remark, and said I
had not known who it was — he would hardly have been flattered to hear I had
not even inquired. He modestly said that he was afraid I had seen him through
the window. Oh, no! I assured him. “Well, please, anyhow, don't say it's
me!” he pleaded most grammatically. I answered, smiling, “I did not know who it
was then, I know no more now, and if you choose, I shall always remain in
ignorance of your identity.” He burst out laughing, and went off with, “Oh, do,
Miss Morgan, forget all about me!” as though it was a difficult matter! Who can
he be?
We had a delightful drive in the moonlight, though it was
rather long; and it was quite late when we drove up to the house, and were most
cordially welcomed by the family. We sat up late on the balcony listening for
the report of cannon, which, however, did not come. Baton Rouge is to be
attacked to-morrow, “they say.” Pray Heaven it will all be over by that time!
Nobody seems to doubt it, over here. A while ago a long procession of
guerrillas passed a short distance from the house, looking for a party of
Yankees they heard of in the neighborhood, and waved their hats, for lack of
handkerchiefs, to us as we stood on the balcony.
I call this writing under difficulties! Here I am employing
my knee as a desk, a position that is not very natural to me, and by no means
comfortable. I feel so stupid, from want of sleep last night, that no wonder I
am not even respectably bright. I think I shall lay aside this diary with my
pen. I have procured a nicer one, so I no longer regret its close. What a
stupid thing it is! As I look back, how faintly have I expressed things that
produced the greatest impression on me at the time, and how completely have I
omitted the very things I should have recorded! Bah! it is all the same trash! And
here is an end of it — for this volume, whose stupidity can only be
equaled by the one that precedes, and the one that is to follow it. But who
expects to be interesting in war times? If I kept a diary of events, it would
be one tissue of lies. Think! There was no battle on the 10th or 11th,
McClellan is not dead, and Gibbes was never wounded! After that, who
believes in reliable information? Not I!
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 140-3
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