I never understood before the full force of those questions
— What shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothed?
We have no prophet of the Lord at whose prayer the meal and oil will not waste.
Such minute attention must be given the wardrobe to preserve it that I have
learned to darn like an artist. Making shoes is now another accomplishment.
Mine were in tatters. H–– came across a moth-eaten pair that he bought
me, giving ten dollars, I think, and they fell into rags when I tried to wear
them; but the soles were good, and that has helped me to shoes. A pair of old
coat-sleeves saved — nothing is thrown away now — was in my trunk. I cut an
exact pattern from my old shoes, laid it on the sleeves, and cut out thus good
uppers and sewed them carefully; then soaked the soles and sewed the cloth to
them. I am so proud of these home-made shoes, think I'll put them in a glass
case when the war is over, as an heirloom. H–– says he has come to have an
abiding faith that everything he needs to wear will come out of that trunk
while the war lasts. It is like a fairy-casket. I have but a dozen pins
remaining, so many I gave away. Every time these are used they are straightened
and kept from rust. All these curious labors are performed while the shells are
leisurely screaming through the air; but as long as we are out of range we
don't worry. For many nights we have had but little sleep, because the Federal
gun-boats have been running past the batteries. The uproar when this is
happening is phenomenal. The first night the thundering artillery burst the
bars of sleep, we thought it an attack by the river. To get into garments and
rush upstairs was the work of a moment. From the upper gallery we have a fine
view of the river, and soon a red glare lit up the scene and showed a small
boat towing two large barges, gliding by. The Confederates had set fire to a
house near the bank. Another night, eight boats ran by, throwing a shower of
shot, and two burning houses made the river clear as day. One of the batteries has
a remarkable gun they call “Whistling Dick,” because of the screeching, whistling
sound it gives, and certainly it does sound like a tortured thing. Added to all
this is the indescribable Confederate yell, which is a soul-harrowing sound to
hear. I have gained respect for the mechanism of the human ear, which stands it
all without injury. The streets are seldom quiet at night; even the dragging
about of cannon makes a din in these echoing gullies. The other night we were
on the gallery fill the last of the eight boats got by. Next day a friend said
to H––, “It was a wonder you didn't have your heads taken off last night I
passed and saw them stretched over the gallery, and grape-shot were whizzing up
the street just on a level with you.” The double roar of batteries and boats
was so great, we never noticed the whizzing. Yesterday the Cincinnati attempted
to go by in daylight, but was disabled and sunk. It was a pitiful sight; we
could not see the finale, though we saw her rendered helpless.
SOURCE: George W. Cable, “A Woman's Diary Of The Siege Of
Vicksburg”, The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXX, No.
5, September 1885, p. 768-9
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