“To be, or not to be; that's the question.” Whether ’tis
nobler in the Confederacy to suffer the pangs of unappeasable hunger and
never-ending trouble, or to take passage to a Yankee port, and there remaining,
end them. Which is best? I am so near daft that I cannot pretend to say; I only
know that I shudder at the thought of going to New Orleans, and that my heart
fails me when I think of the probable consequence to mother if I allow a mere
outward sign of patriotism to overbalance what should be my first consideration
— her health. For Clinton is growing no better rapidly. To be hungry is there
an everyday occurrence. For ten days, mother writes, they have lived off just
hominy enough to keep their bodies and souls from parting, without being able
to procure another article — not even a potato. Mother is not in a condition to
stand such privation; day by day she grows weaker on her new regimen; I am
satisfied that two months more of danger, difficulties, perplexities, and
starvation will lay her in her grave. The latter alone is enough to put a
speedy end to her days. Lilly has been obliged to put her children to bed to
make them forget they were supperless, and when she followed their example,
could not sleep herself, for very hunger.
We have tried in vain to find another home in the
Confederacy. After three days spent in searching Augusta, Gibbes wrote that it
was impossible to find a vacant room for us, as the city was already crowded
with refugees. A kind Providence must have destined that disappointment in
order to save my life, if there is any reason for Colonel Steadman's fears. We
next wrote to Mobile, Brandon, and even that horrid little Liberty, besides
making inquiries of every one we met, while Charlie, too, was endeavoring to
find a place, and everywhere received the same answer — not a vacant room, and
provisions hardly to be obtained at all.
The question has now resolved itself to whether we shall see
mother die for want of food in Clinton, or, by sacrificing an outward show of
patriotism (the inward sentiment cannot be changed), go with her to New
Orleans, as Brother begs in the few letters he contrives to smuggle through. It
looks simple enough. Ought not mother's life to be our first consideration?
Undoubtedly! But suppose we could preserve her life and our free sentiments at
the same time? If we could only find a resting-place in the Confederacy! This,
though, is impossible. But to go to New Orleans; to cease singing “Dixie”; to
be obliged to keep your sentiments to yourself — for I would not wound Brother
by any Ultra-Secession speech, and such could do me no good and only injure him
— if he is as friendly with the Federals as they say he is; to listen to
the scurrilous abuse heaped on those fighting for our homes and liberties,
among them my three brothers — could I endure it? I fear not. Even if I did not
go crazy, I would grow so restless, homesick, and miserable, that I would pray
for even Clinton again. Oh, I don't, don't want to go! If mother would only go
alone, and leave us with Lilly! But she is as anxious to obtain Dr. Stone's
advice for me as we are to secure her a comfortable home; and I won't go
anywhere without Miriam, so we must all go together. Yet there is no disguising
the fact that such a move will place us in a very doubtful position to both
friends and enemies. However, all our friends here warmly advocate the move,
and Will Pinckney and Frank both promised to knock down any one who shrugged
their shoulders and said anything about it. But what would the boys say? The
fear of displeasing them is my chief distress. George writes in the greatest
distress about my prolonged illness, and his alarm about my condition. “Of one
thing I am sure,” he writes, “and that is that she deserves to recover; for a
better little sister never lived.” God bless him! My eyes grew right moist over
those few words. Loving words bring tears to them sooner than angry ones. Would
he object to such a step when he knows that the very medicines necessary for my
recovery are not to be procured in the whole country? Would he rather have
mother dead and me a cripple, in the Confederacy, than both well, out of it? I
feel that if we go we are wrong; but I am satisfied that it is worse to stay.
It is a distressing dilemma to be placed in, as we are certain to be blamed
whichever course we pursue. But I don't want to go to New Orleans!
Before I had time to lay down my pen this evening, General
Gardiner and Major Wilson were announced; and I had to perform a hasty toilette
before being presentable. The first remark of the General was that my face
recalled many pleasant recollections; that he had known my family very well,
but that time was probably beyond my recollection; and he went on talking about
father and Lavinia, until I felt quite comfortable, with this utter stranger. .
. . I would prefer his speaking of “our” recent success at Port Hudson to “my”;
for we each, man, woman, and child, feel that we share the glory of sinking the
gunboats and sending Banks back to Baton Rouge without venturing on an attack;
and it seemed odd to hear any one assume the responsibility of the whole affair
and say “my success” so unconsciously. But this may be the privilege of
generals. I am no judge, as this is the first Confederate general I have had
the pleasure of seeing. Wish it had been old Stonewall! I grow enthusiastic
every time I think of the dear old fellow!
I am indebted to General Gardiner for a great piece of
kindness, though. I was telling him of how many enemies he had made among the
ladies by his strict regulations that now rendered it almost impossible for the
gentlemen to obtain permission to call on them, when he told me if I would
signify to my friends to mention when they applied that their visit was to be
here, and not elsewhere, that he would answer for their having a pass whenever
they called for one. Merci du compliment; mais c’est trop tard, Monsieur!
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 342-6
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