Another gloomy Sabbath-day and harrowing night. We went to
St. Paul's in the morning, and heard a very fine sermon from Dr. Minnegerode — at
least so said my companions. My attention, which is generally riveted by his
sermons, wandered continually. I could not listen; I felt so strangely, as if
in a vivid, horrible dream. Neither President was prayed for; in compliance
with some arrangement with the Federal authorities, the prayer was used as for
all in authority! How fervently did we all pray for our own President! Thank
God, our silent prayers are free from Federal authority. “The oppressor keeps the
body bound, but knows not what a range the spirit takes.” Last night, (it seems
strange that we have lived to speak or write of it,) between nine and ten
o'clock, as some of the ladies of the house were collected in our room, we were
startled by the rapid firing of cannon. At first we thought that there must be
an attack upon the city; bright thoughts of the return of our army darted
through my brain; but the firing was too regular. We began to think it must be
a salute for some great event. We threw up the windows, and saw the flashes and
smoke of cannon towards Camp Jackson. Some one present counted one hundred
guns. What could it be? We called to passers-by: “What do those guns mean?” Sad
voices answered several times: “I do not know.” At last a voice pertly,
wickedly replied: “General Lee has surrendered, thank God!” Of course we did
not believe him, though the very sound was a knell. Again we called out: “What
is the matter?” A voice answered, as if from a broken heart: “They say General
Lee has surrendered.” We cannot believe it, but my heart became dull and heavy,
and every nerve and muscle of my frame seems heavy too. I cannot even now shake
it off. We passed the night, I cannot tell how — I know not how we live at all.
At daybreak the dreadful salute commenced again. Another hundred guns at twelve
to-day. Another hundred — can it be so? No, we do not believe it, but how can
we bear such a doubt? Where are all our dear ones, our beloved soldiers, and
our noble chief to-night, while the rain falls pitilessly? Are they lying on
the cold, hard ground, sleeping for sorrow? or are they moving southward triumphantly,
to join General Johnston, still able and willing — ah, far more than willing — to
avenge their country's wrongs? God help us! — we must take refuge in unbelief.
SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern
Refugee, During the War, p. 351-2
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