We are scattered and stunned, the remnant of heart left
alive within us filled with brotherly hate. We sit and wait until the drunken
tailor who rules the United States of America issues a proclamation, and
defines our anomalous position.
Such a hue and cry, but whose fault? Everybody is blamed by
somebody else. The dead heroes left stiff and stark on the battle-field escape,
blame every man who stayed at home and did not fight. I will not stop to hear
excuses. There is not one word against those who stood out until the bitter
end, and stacked muskets at Appomattox.
SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 390
