A melancholy pause in my diary. After returning from church
on the night of the 13th, a telegram was handed me from Professor Minor, of the
University of Virginia, saying, “Come at once, Colonel Colston is extremely
ill.” After the first shock was over, I wrote an explanatory note to Major
Brewer, why I could not be at the office next day, packed my trunk, and was in
the cars by seven in the morning. That evening I reached the University, and
found dear R. desperately ill with pneumonia, which so often follows, as in the
case of General Jackson, the amputation of limbs. Surgeons Davis and Cabell
were in attendance, and R's uncle, Dr. Brockenbrough, arrived the next day.
After ten days of watching and nursing, amid alternate hopes and fears, we saw
our friend Dr. Maupin close our darling's eyes, on the morning of the 23d; and
on Christmas-day a military escort laid him among many brother soldiers in the
Cemetery of the University of Virginia. He died in the faith of Christ, and
with the glorious hope of immortality. His poor mother is heart-stricken, but
she, together with his sisters, and one dearer still, had the blessed, and what
is now the rare privilege, of soothing and nursing him in his last hours. To
them, and to us all, his life seemed as a part of our own. His superior
judgment and affectionate temper made him the guide of his whole family. To
them his loss can never be supplied. His country has lost one of its earliest
and best soldiers. Having been educated at the Virginia Military Institute, he
raised and drilled a company in his native County of Berkeley, at the time of
the John Brown raid. In 1861 he again led that company to Harper's Ferry. From
that time he was never absent more than a week or ten days from his command,
and even when wounded at Gaines's Mills, he absented himself but three days,
and was again at his post during the several last days of those desperate
fights. His fatal wound was received in his nineteenth general engagement, in
none of which had he his superior in bravery and devotion to the cause. He was
proud of belonging to the glorious Stonewall Brigade, and I have been told by
those who knew the circumstances, that he was confided in and trusted by
General Jackson to a remarkable degree.
Thus we bury, one by one, the dearest, the brightest, the
best of our domestic circles. Now, in our excitement, while we are scattered,
and many of us homeless, these separations are poignant, nay, overwhelming; but
how can we estimate the sadness of heart which will pervade the South when the
war is over, and we are again gathered together around our family hearths and
altars, and find the circles broken? One and another gone. Sometimes the father
and husband, the beloved head of the household, in whom was centred all that
made life dear. Again the eldest son and brother of the widowed home, to whom
all looked for guidance and direction; or, perhaps, that bright youth, on whom
we had not ceased to look as still a child, whose fair, beardless cheek we had
but now been in the habit of smoothing with our hands in fondness—one to whom
mother and sisters would always give the good-night kiss, as his peculiar due,
and repress the sigh that would arise at the thought that college or business
days had almost come to take him from us. And then we will remember the mixed
feeling of hope and pride when we first saw this household pet don his jacket
of gray and shoulder his musket for the field; how we would be bright and
cheerful before him, and turn to our chambers to weep oceans of tears when he
is fairly gone. And does he, too, sleep his last sleep? Does our precious one
fill a hero's grave? 0 God! help us, for the wail is in the whole land!"
Rachel weeping for her children, and will not be comforted, because they are
not." In all the broad South there will be scarcely a fold without its
missing lamb, a fireside without its vacant chair. And yet we must go on. It is
our duty to rid our land of invaders; we must destroy the snake which is
endeavouring to entwine us in its coils, though it drain our heart's blood. We
know that we are right in the sight of God, and that we must
“With patient mind our course of
duty run.
God nothing does, or suffers to be
done,
But we would do ourselves, if we
could see
The end of all events as well as
He."
The Lord reigneth, be the earth never so unquiet.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 248-50
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