Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: March 14, 1863

At 3 a.m. long roll sounded and the First Louisiana fell into line. Colonel Holcomb gave instructions to be ready to embark at the earliest possible moment and ordered the troops to break ranks. Soon bon-fires were in every company street and beds, camp furniture and everything the soldiers could not carry in their knapsacks was going up in smoke. As soon as daylight came the good people of Donaldsonville began to find out what was going on and came flocking into camp. A kind of intimacy or friendship had sprung up between the citizens and soldiers of the First Louisiana and on this occasion the sentiment was exhibited in its full light. Many good byes were said and many affectionate leave takings were seen. I noticed it was the home of many of the members of the regiment and reminded me of a regiment leaving home in the North land for the seat of war. At 11 o'clock a. m., the regiment was all on board the good steamer Iberville, and to the tune of the “Mocking Bird” by the band, and amid the waving of handkerchiefs and other manifestations of friendship we bade adieu perhaps forever to Donaldsonville. At 5 p. m. we landed in Baton Rouge, disembarked and marched about a mile in rear of the town and camped in the tents of the Thirtieth Massachusetts regiment. The main forces had arrived before we did and had been disposed in line of battle: the right resting in rear of Port Hudson and the left at Baton Rouge, a distance of eighteen miles.

SOURCE: Abstracted from George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 39-40

Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: March 8, 1863

General Banks went up the river to Baton Rouge, and next day the Mississippi and Hartford.

SOURCE: Abstracted from George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 38

Colonel William F. Bartlett to Harriett Plummer Bartlett, June 13, 1863

Baton Rouge, June 13, 1863.

Dear Mother: — I have improved very much within the last few days. My appetite has returned, and I feel much better every way. My arm is suppurating very freely under the application of warm woollen cloths, which act like a mild poultice. All the doctors who look at my arm say it is doing finely. Even those who thought it was impossible to save the hand at first, think now there isn't the least doubt. It will be a long time getting well, on account of the little pieces of bone, two of which came out this morning. I have no pain in the wrist now, except when it has to be moved. My foot is doing very well, almost all healed up. I keep simple cerate on that, some of my old supply. I had a long letter from Anna yesterday, from Baltimore. It was quite an interesting letter, — all but the writing; and that was amusing. You must write to Sallie for me a few lines. Had a letter from Little too, dated the latter part of April. Have they published the account of our storming the works? The New Orleans papers have not been allowed to mention it. Didn't want to gratify the many rebs there. General Augur told one of Banks' staff the other day, in speaking of me, that I “was the best colonel in his Division, and he had rather have lost any other!”

Talk about your one leg, I don't see but it is as good as some people's two. I have heard other things, which, as the “correspondents” say, “I am not at liberty to divulge at present.”

I don't want all those strawberries to be gone before I get there. They have the meanest strawberries and the meanest tomatoes here that you can imagine. It's a mean place anyway, the whole State, and I wouldn't live here for it.

I long to get out on to salt water; that will set me up, I expect. Well, it won't be long now, I hope. I suppose you are all worrying yourselves at a great rate, by this time. You ought to have got my first letter now.

Love to all.

Your affectionate son,

W. F. B.

The other officers, as far as I can find out, are doing very well. Ben is well, at least he was a day or two since.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 87-8

Mrs. Ann Ware Winsor* To Charles L. Bartlett, June 10, 1863

June 10, 1863.

My Dear Sir: — I have dates to-day to the 30th. I suppose you have the same, but give extracts: —

“May 28. Colonel Bartlett got a ball in left wrist, which I took out; the bone is broken, but I am sanguine in the opinion that his arm and hand can be saved. His pluck was splendid, and he thought far more of his regiment than of himself. He is on his way to Baton Rouge. Lieut-colonel got a ball in the shoulder, but no bones broken.”

“May 29. General Augur said every officer there was brave, but Colonel Bartlett the bravest, and one of his best colonels.”

“May 30, 7½ A. M. Colonel Bartlett was hit in left wrist by round musket ball, which went through from one side to the other, where I took it out. The hand will be saved.”

_______________

* Wife of Frederick Winsor, Surgeon of the 49th Massachusetts Infantry.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 86-7

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Tuesday, March 24, 1863

Rode down to Baton Rouge, saw Dr. Winsor; he is much better, will be out soon. Banks' staff goes to New Orleans, to-day. A letter from Uncle Edwin last night. Lieutenant-colonel Rodman (New Bedford), Massachusetts Thirty-eighth, called this evening.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 81

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Saturday, March 21, 1863

Rode down town this morning to see Dr. Winsor, whom we left sick. He is much better; will be out in a few days.

I invited George Wheatland (of Salem), Major of the Forty-eighth, to dine with me this evening. We dine at six. I gave him a very good dinner. We used the new mess pail; just right for three. I had a pork steak off a young pig, French bread, which Jacques gets in Baton Rouge, and chocolate, which the latter makes very well, fried sweet potatoes, guava jelly, boiled rice, butter, and for dessert, figs, coffee, and cigars, and a thimbleful of whiskey. He said it was the first decent dinner he had had since he left Boston. The mail came this evening too, a letter from Mother and one from Anna and Nellie Putnam.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 80

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Friday, March 20, 1863

Orders this morning to march to Baton Rouge. We got in about three P. M. We got our tents up and began to make ourselves at home again.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 80

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Saturday, March 21, 1863

Rode down town this morning to see Dr. Winsor, whom we left sick. He is much better; will be out in a few days.

I invited George Wheatland (of Salem), Major of the Forty-eighth, to dine with me this evening. We dine at six. I gave him a very good dinner. We used the new mess pail; just right for three. I had a pork steak off a young pig, French bread, which Jacques gets in Baton Rouge, and chocolate, which the latter makes very well, fried sweet potatoes, guava jelly, boiled rice, butter, and for dessert, figs, coffee, and cigars, and a thimbleful of whiskey. He said it was the first decent dinner he had had since he left Boston. The mail came this evening too, a letter from Mother and one from Anna and Nellie Putnam.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 80

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Tuesday, March 24, 1863

Rode down to Baton Rouge, saw Dr. Winsor; he is much better, will be out soon. Banks' staff goes to New Orleans, to-day. A letter from Uncle Edwin last night. Lieutenant-colonel Rodman (New Bedford), Massachusetts Thirty-eighth, called this evening.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 81

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Wednesday, March 18, 1863

Slept on my gridiron of rails till late this morning, not feeling well. Three hours of a cool northern breeze, and a good dinner at home or at Parker's, would make me all right. What must it be here in July! We are likely to find out, I guess. When we came away from Baton Rouge I left my little leather-covered pocket flask on my bed. It was dark and no one saw it, to bring it along. I would not have lost it for anything, I have had it so long. Some nigger picked it up after we had gone, probably. While we were lying in the shade this afternoon, trying to keep cool, I began to make up some verses on the subject of the present expedition. It reminded me, our marching up to Port Hudson and then turning about and marching back again without fighting, of the

"King of France with twenty thousand men

Marched up the hill and then marched down again."

Perhaps I will send them to you, if you won't show them. We tried to make them absurd. You can't understand all the “hits.”

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 79

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: March 15, 1863

At two in the morning, I was ordered to get the regiment under arms and into line. It was now Sunday morning, 15th. We expected we were going straight to the front. The cannonading was still going on, but was on the river, down nearer to us. Colonel Chapin came to me and told me that we had been repulsed with great loss. He ordered me to take the advance, to clear the road back, with two regiments of infantry and a section of artillery. They were afraid that our passage back would be disputed at the bridge across the Bayou Montesino, by the enemy's coming down on the Clinton Road, to cut us off.

I was told to make for that bridge as fast as possible, and hold it.

Just after we started, I saw an aide of General Emory's, who told me that we hadn't “got a gunboat left, and the army was all cut to pieces.” I knew this was impossible, for we should have been ordered to the front if there had been any fighting of the land force.

At this time a tremendous report came from the river, a quarter of a mile on our right, and several shells seemed to burst directly over our heads. It was the Mississippi when she blew up, a magnificent sight. Everything seemed to give indication of a panic. Teamsters were frightened, and were rushing and crowding with their teams, blocking up the road.

I sent ahead and ordered the wagon train to be stopped, as there were gaps of a mile in some places, which I had to close up. At last I got the troops and artillery to the front. The Forty-eighth had been ordered to start ahead, and they were in such a hurry that I, not overtaking them, sent Ben ahead to stop them till we came up. When we got to the Bayou we found it all clear, the two bridges still there. The plank bridge needed some repair, and I left the Major with two companies to put it in order and make it safe for the teams. I sent one company across on to the Clinton Road to guard against any attack of cavalry on our flank. After the wagon train was well up, I kept on, intending to feel the way into Baton Rouge. After we had marched a mile or two, an order came from Banks to halt until further orders. I waited two hours, and then had orders to go on to Baton Rouge and go into camp. Meantime I heard from an aide-de-camp that, as I supposed, the report of a repulse was false. That two of our gunboats had succeeded in passing the fort. The Mississippi had got aground, been set on fire, floated down, and blown up. We had got within a few rods of our old camp, the men were tired, having been marching since three A. M., when an order came to me to turn round and march back to the Bayou again.

This was rather discouraging, but there was no help for it. I let the men rest an hour, the artillery feed their horses, etc. We got back to the Bayou about hall past four. We met Banks and his staff going into Baton Rouge as we were coming out. Charley Sargent stopped and told me that they had done what they intended to; get the gunboats by. Banks had sent despatches by Farragut to Grant at Vicksburg. The plan had been to draw the enemy out to fight us at Port Hudson, but he had refused offer. I know however that Banks was frightened in the morning, for I saw the order from him himself, ordering the trains to the rear, and back to Baton Rouge as soon as possible. I felt safe from the first, for Banks has made so many good retreats that he must understand it pretty well. We went into camp on the south side of the Bayou, in a large cornfield. I didn't get off my horse till after five; in the saddle nearly fourteen hours the second day. It began to rain now, and the field was soon two or three inches deep with water and mud. I had just got off my horse when I received an order, saying that the Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Massachusetts regiments would be in readiness to march to-night or to-morrow morning on an important expedition, under command of Colonel Bartlett. I was to report immediately to Banks at Baton Rouge, for instructions. I knew that it was absolutely impossible for the men to march in the condition they were, all used up; no chance for sleep in the night on account of the rain, etc.

I also thought it was rather “rubbing it in,” to make me ride all the way back to Baton Rouge in the rain, for instructions, after I had been on the go since three that morning, and it was by this time dark, and thence back here again, and by the time I got here, start off on this new tramp.

So I sent Ben over to Augur's Headquarters, from whence the order came, to explain that my regiment had just got in, had been marching all day, having been to Baton Bouge and back. He said certainly they need not go, that he “did not know they had been marching.” He “had designated Colonel Bartlett to go in command of the expedition as a compliment,” etc. This of course was all very pleasant, and if it had been at any other time I should have liked nothing better. But the regiment was too much exhausted, and I was tired, to say the least. I got some rails to keep us out of the water, which was two or three inches deep in the tent, and slept on these, like a log, till reveille.

I could hardly realize it when some one mentioned that it was Sunday. So different from the quiet day a week before.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 75-8

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: July 31, 1862

Gen. Breckinridge has beaten the Yankees at Baton Rouge, but without result, as we have no co-operating fleet.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 147

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Tuesday, March 31, 1863

“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

Diary of Sarah Morgan: March 17, 1863

On dit the Yankees have gone back to Baton Rouge, hearing we had sixty thousand men coming down after them. I believe I am positively disappointed! I did want to see them soundly thrashed! The light we thought was another burning house was that of the Mississippi. They say the shrieks of the men when our hot shells fell among them, and after they were left by their companions to burn, were perfectly appalling.

Another letter from Lilly has distressed me beyond measure. She says the one chicken and two dozen eggs Miriam and I succeeded in buying from the negroes by prayers and entreaties, saved them from actual hunger; and for two days they had been living on one egg apiece and some cornbread and syrup. Great heavens! has it come to this? Nothing to be bought in that abominable place for love or money. Where the next meal comes from, nobody knows.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 340

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Sunday Morning, March 15, 1863, Half-past One o’clock A.M.

It has come at last! What an awful sound! I thought I had heard a bombardment before; but Baton Rouge was child's play compared to this. At half-past eleven came the first gun — at least the first I heard, and I hardly think it could have commenced many moments before. Instantly I had my hand on Miriam, and at my first exclamation, Mrs. Badger and Anna answered. All three sprang to their feet to dress, while all four of us prayed aloud. Such an incessant roar! And at every report the house shaking so, and we thinking of our dear soldiers, the dead and dying, and crying aloud for God's blessing on them, and defeat and overthrow to their enemies. That dreadful roar! I can't think fast enough. They are too quick to be counted. We have all been in Mrs. Carter's room, from the last window of which we can see the incessant flash of the guns and the great shooting stars of flame, which must be the hot shot of the enemy. There is a burning house in the distance, the second one we have seen to-night. For Yankees can't prosper unless they are pillaging honest people. Already they have stripped all on their road of cattle, mules, and negroes.

Gathered in a knot within and without the window, we six women up here watched in the faint starlight the flashes from the guns, and silently wondered which of our friends were lying stiff and dead, and then, shuddering at the thought, betook ourselves to silent prayer. I think we know what it is to “wrestle with God in prayer”; we had but one thought. Yet for women, we took it almost too coolly. No tears, no cries, no fear, though for the first five minutes everybody's teeth chattered violently. Mrs. Carter had her husband in Fenner's battery, the hottest place if they are attacked by the land force, and yet to my unspeakable relief she betrayed no more emotion than we who had only friends there. We know absolutely nothing; when does one ever know anything in the country? But we presume that this is an engagement between our batteries and the gunboats attempting to run the blockade.

Firing has slackened considerably. All are to lie down already dressed; but being in my nightgown from necessity, I shall go to sleep, though we may expect at any instant to hear the tramp of Yankee cavalry in the yard.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 337-8

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Saturday, March 14, 1863, 5 o’clock P.M.

They are coming! The Yankees are coming at last! For four or five hours the sound of their cannon has assailed our ears. There! — that one shook my bed! Oh, they are coming! God grant us the victory! They are now within four miles of us, on the big road to Baton Rouge. On the road from town to Clinton, we have been fighting since daylight at Readbridge, and have been repulsed. Fifteen gunboats have passed Vicksburg, they say. It will be an awful fight. No matter! With God's help we'll conquer yet! Again! — the report comes nearer. Oh, they are coming! Coming to defeat, I pray God.

Only we seven women remain in the house. The General left this morning, to our unspeakable relief. They would hang him, we fear, if they should find him here. Mass' Gene has gone to his company; we are left alone here to meet them. If they will burn the house, they will have to burn me in it. For I cannot walk, and I know they shall not carry me. I'm resigned. If I should burn, I have friends and brothers enough to avenge me. Create such a consternation! Better than being thrown from a buggy — only I'd not survive to hear of it!

Letter from Lilly to-day has distressed me beyond measure. Starvation which threatened them seems actually at their door. With more money than they could use in ordinary times, they can find nothing to purchase. Not a scrap of meat in the house for a week. No pork, no potatoes, fresh meat obtained once as a favor, and poultry and flour articles unheard of. Besides that, Tiche crippled, and Margret very ill, while Liddy has run off to the Yankees. Heaven only knows what will become of them. The other day we were getting ready to go to them (Thursday) when the General disapproved of my running such a risk, saying he'd call it a d--- piece of nonsense, if I asked what he thought; so we remained. They will certainly starve soon enough without our help; and yet — I feel we should all be together still. That last superfluous word is the refrain of Gibbes's song that is ringing in my ears, and that I am chanting in a kind of ecstasy of excitement: —

“Then let the cannon boom as it will,

We’ll be gay and happy still!”

And we will be happy in spite of Yankee guns! Only — my dear This, That, and the Other, at Port Hudson, how I pray for your safety! God spare our brave soldiers, and lead them to victory! I write, touch my guitar, talk, pick lint, and pray so rapidly that it is hard to say which is my occupation. I sent Frank some lint the other day, and a bundle of it for Mr. Halsey is by me. Hope neither will need it! But to my work again!

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 335-6

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Tuesday, March 10, 1863

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

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Friday Night, January 23, 1863

I am particularly happy to-day, for we have just heard from Brother for the first time since last July. And he is well, and happy, and wants us to come to him in New Orleans so he can take care of us, and no longer be so anxious for our safety. If we only could! —To be sure the letter is from a gentleman who is just out of the city, who says he writes at Brother's earnest request; still it is something to hear, even indirectly. One hundred and fifty dollars he encloses with the request that mother will draw for any amount she wishes. Dear Brother, money is the least thing we need; first of all, we are dying for want of a home. If we could only see ours once more!

During this time we have heard incidentally of Brother; of his having taken the oath of allegiance — which I am confident he did not do until Butler's October decree — of his being a prominent Union man, of his being a candidate for the Federal Congress, and of his withdrawal; and finally of his having gone to New York and Washington, from which places he only returned a few weeks since. That is all we ever heard. A very few people have been insolent enough to say to me, “Your brother is as good a Yankee as any.” My blood boils as I answer, “Let him be President Lincoln if he will, and I would love him the same.” And so I would. Politics cannot come between me and my father's son. What he thinks right, is right, for him, though not for me. If he is for the Union, it is because he believes it to be in the right, and I honor him for acting from conviction, rather than from dread of public opinion. If he were to take up the sword against us to-morrow, Miriam and I, at least, would say, “If he thinks it his duty, he is right; we will not forget he is our father's child.” And we will not. From that sad day when the sun was setting for the first time on our father's grave, when the great, strong man sobbed in agony at the thought of what we had lost, and taking us both on his lap put his arms around us and said, “Dear little sisters, don't cry; I will be father and brother, too, now,” he has been both. He respects our opinions, we shall respect his. I confess myself a rebel, body and soul. Confess? I glory in it! Am proud of being one; would not forego the title for any other earthly one!

Though none could regret the dismemberment of our old Union more than I did at the time, though I acknowledge that there never was a more unnecessary war than this in the beginning, yet once in earnest, from the secession of Louisiana I date my change of sentiment. I have never since then looked back; forward, forward! is the cry; and as the Federal States sink each day in more appalling folly and disgrace, I grow prouder still of my own country and rejoice that we can no longer be confounded with a nation which shows so little fortitude in calamity, so little magnanimity in its hour of triumph. Yes! I am glad we are two distinct tribes! I am proud of my country; only wish I could fight in the ranks with our brave soldiers, to prove my enthusiasm; would think death, mutilation, glorious in such a cause; cry, “War to all eternity before we submit.” But if I can't fight, being unfortunately a woman, which I now regret for the first time in my life, at least I can help in other ways. What fingers can do in knitting and sewing for them, I have done with the most intense delight; what words of encouragement and praise could accomplish, I have tried on more than one bold soldier boy, and not altogether in vain; I have lost my home and all its dear contents for our Southern Rights, have stood on its deserted hearthstone and looked at the ruin of all I loved — without a murmur, almost glad of the sacrifice if it would contribute its mite towards the salvation of the Confederacy. And so it did, indirectly; for the battle of Baton Rouge which made the Yankees, drunk with rage, commit outrages in our homes that civilized Indians would blush to perpetrate, forced them to abandon the town as untenable, whereby we were enabled to fortify Port Hudson here, which now defies their strength. True they have reoccupied our town; that Yankees live in our house; but if our generals said burn the whole concern, would I not put the torch to our home readily, though I love its bare skeleton still? In deed I would, though I know what it is to be without one. Don't Lilly and mother live in a wretched cabin in vile Clinton while strangers rest under our father's roof? Yankees, I owe you one for that!

Well! I boast myself Rebel, sing “Dixie,” shout Southern Rights, pray for God's blessing on our cause, without ceasing, and would not live in this country if by any possible calamity we should be conquered; I am only a woman, and that is the way I feel. Brother may differ. What then? Shall I respect, love him less? No! God bless him! Union or Secession, he is always my dear, dear Brother, and tortures could not make me change my opinion.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 316-9

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Sunday, January 4, 1863

One just from Baton Rouge tells us that my presentiment about our house is verified; Yankees do inhabit it, a Yankee colonel and his wife. They say they look strangely at home on our front gallery, pacing up and down. . . . And a stranger and a Yankee occupies our father's place at the table where he presided for thirty-one years. . . . And the old lamp that lighted up so many eager, laughing faces around the dear old table night after night; that with its great beaming eye watched us one by one as we grew up and left our home; that witnessed every parting and every meeting; by which we sang, read, talked, danced, and made merry; the lamp that Hal asked for as soon as he beheld the glittering chandeliers of the new innovation, gas; the lamp that all agreed should go to me among other treasures, and be cased in glass to commemorate the old days, — our old lamp has passed into the hands of strangers who neither know nor care for its history. And mother's bed (which, with the table and father's little ebony stand, alone remained uninjured) belongs now to a Yankee woman! Father prized his ebony table. He said he meant to have a gold plate placed in its centre, with an inscription, and I meant to have it done myself when he died so soon after. A Yankee now sips his tea over it, just where some beau or beauty of the days of Charles II may have rested a laced sleeve or dimpled arm. . .¹  Give the devil his due. Bless Yankees for one thing; they say they tried hard to save our State House.

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¹ This “little ebony table” — which happened to be mahogany so darkened with age as to be recognized only by an expert many years after the war — and a mahogany rocking-chair are the two pieces of furniture which survived the sacking of Judge Morgan's house and remain to his descendants to-day. Such other furniture as could be utilized was appropriated by negroes. — W. D.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 308-9

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Sunday, November 2, 1862

Yesterday was a day of novel sensations to me. First came a letter from mother announcing her determination to return home, and telling us to be ready next week. Poor mother! she wrote drearily enough of the hardships we would be obliged to undergo in the dismantled house, and of the new experience that lay before us; but n’importe! I am ready to follow her to Yankeeland, or any other place she chooses to go. It is selfish for me to be so happy here while she leads such a distasteful life in Clinton. In her postscript, though, she said she would wait a few days longer to see about the grand battle which is supposed to be impending; so our stay will be indefinitely prolonged. How thankful I am that we will really get back, though! I hardly believe it possible, however; it is too good to be believed.

The nightmare of a probable stay in Clinton being removed, I got in what the boys call a “perfect gale,” and sang all my old songs with a greater relish than I have experienced for many a long month. My heart was open to every one. So forgiving and amiable did I feel that I went downstairs to see Will Carter! I made him so angry last Tuesday that he went home in a fit of sullen rage. It seems that some time ago, some one, he said, told him such a joke on me that he had laughed all night at it. Mortified beyond all expression at the thought of having had my name mentioned between two men, I, who have thus far fancied myself secure from all remarks good, bad, or indifferent (of men), I refused to have anything to say to him until he should either explain me the joke, or, in case it was not fit to be repeated to me, until he apologized for the insult. He took two minutes to make up a lie. This was the joke, he said. Our milkman had said that that Sarah Morgan was the proudest girl he ever saw; that she walked the streets as though the earth was not good enough for her. My milkman making his remarks! I confess I was perfectly aghast with surprise, and did not conceal my contempt for the remark, or his authority either. But one can't fight one's milkman! I did not care for what he or any of that class could say; I was surprised to find that they thought at all! But I resented it as an insult as coming from Mr. Carter, until with tears in his eyes fairly, and in all humility, he swore that, if it had been anything that could reflect on me in the slightest degree, he would thrash the next man who mentioned my name. I was not uneasy about a milkman's remarks, so I let it pass, after making him acknowledge that he had told me a falsehood concerning the remark which had been made. But I kept my revenge. I had but to cry “Milk!” in his hearing to make him turn crimson with rage. At last he told me that the less I said on the subject, the better it would be for me. I could not agree. “Milk” I insisted was a delightful beverage. I had always been under the impression that we owned a cow, until he had informed me it was a milkman, but was perfectly indifferent to the animal so I got the milk. With some such allusion, I could make him mad in an instant. Either a guilty conscience, or the real joke, grated harshly on him, and I possessed the power of making it still worse. Tuesday I pressed it too far. He was furious, and all the family warned me that I was making a dangerous enemy.

Yesterday he came back in a good humor, and found me in unimpaired spirits. I had not talked even of “curds,” though I had given him several hard cuts on other subjects, when an accident happened which frightened all malicious fun out of me. We were about going out after cane, and Miriam had already pulled on one of her buckskin gloves, dubbed “old sweety” from the quantity of cane-juice they contain, when Mr. Carter slipped on its mate, and held it tauntingly out to her. She tapped it with a case-knife she held, when a stream of blood shot up through the glove. A vein was cut and was bleeding profusely.

He laughed, but panic seized the women. Some brought a basin, some stood around. I ran after cobwebs, while Helen Carter held the vein and Miriam stood in silent horror, too frightened to move. It was, indeed, alarming, for no one seemed to know what to do, and the blood flowed rapidly. Presently he turned a dreadful color, and stopped laughing. I brought a chair, while the others thrust him into it. His face grew more deathlike, his mouth trembled, his eyes rolled, his head dropped. I comprehended that these must be symptoms of fainting, a phenomenon I had never beheld. I rushed after water, and Lydia after cologne. Between us, it passed away; but for those few moments I thought it was all over with him, and trembled for Miriam. Presently he laughed again and said, “Helen, if I die, take all my negroes and money and prosecute those two girls! Don't let them escape!” Then, seeing my long face, he commenced teasing me. “Don't ever pretend you don't care for me again! Here you have been unmerciful to me for months, hurting more than this cut, never sparing me once, and the moment I get scratched, it's ‘O Mr. Carter!’ and you fly around like wild and wait on me!” In vain I represented that I would have done the same for his old lame dog, and that I did not like him a bit better; he would not believe it, but persisted that I was a humbug and that I liked him in spite of my protestations. As long as he was in danger of bleeding to death, I let him have his way; and, frightened out of teasing, spared him for the rest of the evening.

Just at what would have been twilight but for the moonshine, when he went home after the blood was stanched and the hand tightly bound, a carriage drove up to the house, and Colonel Allen was announced. I can't say I was ever more disappointed. I had fancied him tall, handsome, and elegant; I had heard of him as a perfect fascinator, a woman-killer. Lo! a wee little man is carried in, in the arms of two others, — wounded in both legs at Baton Rouge, he has never yet been able to stand. . . . He was accompanied by a Mr. Bradford, whose assiduous attentions and boundless admiration for the Colonel struck me as unusual.  . . . I had not observed him otherwise, until the General whispered, “Do you know that that is the brother of your old sweetheart?” Though the appellation was by no means merited, I recognized the one he meant. Brother to our Mr. Bradford of eighteen months ago! My astonishment was unbounded, and I alluded to it immediately. He said it was so; that his brother had often spoken to him of us, and the pleasant evenings he had spent at home.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 266-70