I do not write often now, not for want of something to say,
but from a loathing of all I see and hear, and why dwell upon those things?
Colonel Chesnut, poor old man, is worse — grows more restless.
He seems to be wild with “homesickness.” He wants to be at Mulberry. When there
he can not see the mighty giants of the forest, the huge, old, wide-spreading
oaks, but he says he feels that he is there so soon as he hears the carriage
rattling across the bridge at the Beaver Dam.
I am reading French with Johnny — anything to keep him
quiet. We gave a dinner to his company, the small remnant of them, at Mulberry
house. About twenty idle negroes, trained servants, came without leave or
license and assisted. So there was no expense. They gave their time and labor
for a good day's feeding. I think they love to be at the old place.
Then I went up to nurse Kate Withers. That lovely girl,
barely eighteen, died of typhoid fever. Tanny wanted his sweet little sister to
have a dress for Mary Boykin's wedding, where she was to be one of the
bridesmaids. So Tanny took his horses, rode one, and led the other thirty miles
in the broiling sun to Columbia, where he sold the led horse and came back with
a roll of Swiss muslin. As he entered the door, he saw Kate lying there dying.
She died praying that she might die. She was weary of earth and wanted to be at
peace. I saw her die and saw her put in her coffin. No words of mine can tell
how unhappy I am. Six young soldiers, her friends, were her pall-bearers. As
they marched out with that burden sad were their faces.
Princess Bright Eyes writes: “Our soldier boys returned,
want us to continue our weekly dances.” Another maiden fair indites: “Here we have
a Yankee garrison. We are told the officers find this the dullest place they
were ever in. They want the ladies to get up some amusement for them. They also
want to get into society.”
From Isabella in Columbia: “General Hampton is home again.
He looks crushed. How can he be otherwise? His beautiful home is in ruins, and
ever present with him must be the memory of the death tragedy which closed
forever the eyes of his glorious boy, Preston! Now! there strikes up a serenade
to General Ames, the Yankee commander, by a military band, of course. . . .
Your last letters have been of the meagerest. What is the matter ?'”
SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta
Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 403-4
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