This morning while I was attending to my flowers . . .
several soldiers stopped in front of me, and holding on the fence, commenced to
talk about some brave Colonel, and a shooting affair last night. When all had
gone except one who was watching me attentively, as he seemed to wish to tell
me, I let him go ahead. The story was that Colonel McMillan was shot through
the shoulder, breast, and liver, by three guerrillas while four miles from town
last night, on a scout. He was a quarter of a mile from his own men at the
time, killed one who shot him, took the other two prisoners, and fell from his
horse himself, when he got within the lines. The soldier said these two
guerrillas would probably be hanged, while the six we saw pass captives, Sunday,
would probably be sent to Fort Jackson for life. I think the guerrilla affair
mere murder, I confess; but what a dreadful fate for these young men! One who
passed Sunday was Jimmy's schoolmate, a boy of sixteen; another, Willie Garig,
the pet of a whole family of good, honest country people. . . .
These soldiers will get in the habit of talking to me after
a while, through my own fault. Yesterday I could not resist the temptation to
ask the fate of the six guerrillas, and stopped two volunteers who were going
by, to ask them. They discussed the fate of the country, told me Fort Pillow
and Vicksburg were evacuated, the Mississippi opened from source to mouth; I
told them of Banks's and McClellan's defeat; they assured me it would all be
over in a month, — which I fervently pray may be so; told me they were from
Michigan (one was Mr. Bee, he said, cousin of our General); and they would
probably have talked all day if I had not bowed myself away with thanks for
their information. It made me ashamed to contrast the quiet, gentlemanly,
liberal way these volunteers spoke of us and our cause, with the rabid,
fanatical, abusive violence of our own female Secession declaimers. Thank
Heaven, I have never yet made my appearance as a Billingsgate orator on these occasions.
All my violent feelings, which in moments of intense excitement were really
violent, I have recorded in this book; I am happy to say only the reasonable
dislike to seeing my country subjugated has been confided to the public ear,
when necessary; and that even now, I confess that nothing but the reign of
terror and gross prejudice by which I was surrounded at that time could justify
many expressions I have here applied to them. Fact is, these people have
disarmed me by their kindness. I expected to be in a crowd of ruffian soldiers,
who would think nothing of cutting your throat or doing anything they felt
like; and I find, among all these thousands, not one who offers the slightest
annoyance or disrespect. The former is the thing as it is believed by the whole
country, the latter the true state of affairs. I admire foes who show so much
consideration for our feelings.
Contrast these with our volunteers from New Orleans — all
gentlemen — who came to take the Garrison from Major Haskins. Several of them
passing our gate where we were standing with the Brunots, one exclaimed, “What
pretty girls!” It was a stage aside that we were supposed not to hear. “Yes,”
said another; “beautiful! but they look as though they could be fast.” Fast!
and we were not even speaking! not even looking at them! Sophie and I were
walking presently, and met half a dozen. We had to stop to let them pass the
crossing; they did not think of making way for us; No. I sighed — such a sigh!
No. 2 followed, and so on, when they all sighed in chorus for our edification,
while we dared not raise our eyes from the ground. That is the time I would
have made use of a dagger. Two passed in a buggy, and trusting to our not
recognizing them from the rapidity of their vehicle, kissed their hands to us
until they were out of sight! All went back to New Orleans vowing Baton Rouge
had the prettiest girls in the world. These were our own people, the elite of
New Orleans, loyal Southerners and gentlemen. These Northerners pass us
satisfied with a simple glance; some take off their hats, for all these
officers know our name, though we may not know theirs; how, I can't say.
When I heard of Colonel McMillan's misfortune, mother
conspired with me to send over some bandages, and something Tiche manufactured
of flour under the name of “nourishment,” for he is across the street at
Heroman's. Miriam objected on account of what “our people” will say, and what
we will suffer for it if the guerrillas reach town, but we persuaded her we
were right. . . . You can imagine our condition at present, many years hence,
Sarah, when you reflect that it is the brave, noble-hearted, generous Miriam
who is afraid to do that deed on account of "public opinion,” which indeed
is “down” on us. At Greenwell they are frantic about our returning to town, and
call us traitors, Yankees, and vow vengeance. . . . A lady said to me, “The guerrillas have
a black list containing the names of those remaining in town. All the men are
to be hanged, their houses burned, and all the women are to be tarred and
feathered.” I said, “Madam, if I believed them capable of such a vile threat,
even, much less the execution, I would see them cut down without a feeling
of compassion” (which is not true), “and swear I was a Yankee rather than claim
being a native of the same country with such brutes.” She has a long tongue;
when I next hear of it, it will be that I told the story, and called
them brutes and hoped they would be shot, etc. And so goes the world. No one
will think of saying that I did not believe them guilty of the thought, even.
Our three brothers may be sick or wounded at this minute; what I do for this
man, God will send some one to do for them, and with that belief I do it. . . .
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 71-5
