I had so many nice things to say — which now, alas, are
knocked forever from my head — when news came that the Yankees were advancing
on us, and were already within fifteen miles. The panic which followed reminded
me forcibly of our running days in Baton Rouge. Each one rapidly threw into
trunks all clothing worth saving, with silver and valuables, to send to the
upper plantation. I sprang up, determined to leave instantly for Clinton so
mother would not be alarmed for our safety; but before I got halfway dressed,
Helen Carter came in, and insisted on my remaining, declaring that my sickness
and inability to move would prove a protection to the house, and save it from
being burned over their heads. Put on that plea, though I have no faith in
melting the bowels of compassion of a Yankee, myself, I consented to remain, as
Miriam urgently represented the dangers awaiting Clinton. So she tossed all we
owned into our trunk to send to mother as hostage of our return, and it is now
awaiting the cars. My earthly possessions are all reposing by me on the bed at
this instant, consisting of my guitar, a change of clothes, running-bag, cabas,
and this book. For in spite of their entreaties, I would not send it to
Clinton, expecting those already there to meet with a fiery death — though I
would like to preserve those of the most exciting year of my life. They tell me
that this will be read aloud to me to torment me, but I am determined to burn
it if there is any danger of that. Why, I would die without some means of
expressing my feelings in the stirring hours so rapidly approaching. I shall
keep it by me.
Such bustle and confusion! Every one hurried, anxious,
excited, whispering, packing trunks, sending them off; wondering negroes
looking on in amazement until ordered to mount the carts waiting at the door,
which are to carry them too away. How disappointed the Yankees will be at
finding only white girls instead of their dear sisters and brothers whom they
love so tenderly! Sorry for their disappointment!
“They say” they are advancing in overwhelming numbers. That
is nothing, so long as God helps us, and from our very souls we pray His
blessing on us in this our hour of need. For myself, I cannot yet fully believe
they are coming. It would be a relief to have it over. I have taken the
responsibility of Lydia's jewelry on my shoulders, and hope to be able to save
it in the rush which will take place. Down at the cars Miriam met Frank Enders,
going to Clinton in charge of a car full of Yankees, — deserters, who came into
our lines. He thinks, just as I do, that our trunks are safer here than there.
Now that they are all off, we all agree that it was the most foolish thing we
could have done. These Yankees interfere with all our arrangements.
I am almost ashamed to confess what an absurdly selfish
thought occurred to me a while ago. I was lamenting to myself all the troubles
that surround us, the dangers and difficulties that perplex us, thinking of the
probable fate that might befall some of our brave friends and defenders in Port
Hudson, when I thought, too, of the fun we would miss. Horrid, was it not? But
worse than that, I was longing for something to read, when I remembered Frank
told me he had sent to Alexandria for Bulwer's “Strange
Story” for me, and then I unconsciously said, “How I wish it would get here
before the Yankees!” I am very anxious to read it, but confess I am
ashamed of having thought of it at such a crisis. So I toss up the farthing
Frank gave me for a keepsake the other day, and say I’ll try in future to think
less of my own comfort and pleasure.
Poor Mr. Halsey! What a sad fate the pets he procures for me
meet! He stopped here just now on his way somewhere, and sent me a curious
bundle with a strange story, by Miriam. It seems he got a little
flying-squirrel for me to play with (must know my partiality for pets), and
last night, while attempting to tame him, the little creature bit his finger, whereupon
he naturally let him fall on the ground, (Temper!) which put a period to his
existence. He had the nerve to skin him after the foul murder, and sent all
that remains of him out to me to prove his original intention. The softest,
longest, prettiest fur, and such a duck of a tail! Poor little animal could n't
have been larger than my fist. Wonder if its spirit will meet with that of the
little bird which flew heavenward with all that pink ribbon and my letter from
Mr. Halsey?
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 332-5
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