My husband is at home once more — for how long, I do not
know. His aides fill the house, and a group of hopelessly wounded haunt the
place. The drilling and the marching go on outside. It rains a flood, with
freshet after freshet. The forces of nature are befriending us, for our enemies
have to make their way through swamps.
A month ago my husband wrote me a letter which I promptly
suppressed after showing it to Mrs. McCord. He warned us to make ready, for the
end had come. Our resources were exhausted, and the means of resistance could
not be found. We could not bring ourselves to believe it, and now, he thinks,
with the railroad all blown up, the swamps made impassable by the freshets,
which have no time to subside, so constant is the rain, and the negroes utterly
apathetic (would they be so if they saw us triumphant?), if we had but an army
to seize the opportunity we might do something; but there are no troops; that
is the real trouble.
To-day Mrs. McCord exchanged $16,000 in Confederate bills
for $300 in gold — sixteen thousand for three hundred.
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