Isabella has been reading my diaries. How we laugh because
my sage divinations all come to naught. My famous “insight into character” is
utter folly. The diaries were lying on the hearth ready to be burned, but she
told me to hold on to them; think of them a while and don't be rash. Afterward
when Isabella and I were taking a walk, General Joseph E. Johnston joined us.
He explained to us all of Lee's and Stonewall Jackson's mistakes. We had
nothing to say — how could we say anything? He said he was very angry when he
was ordered to take command again. He might well have been in a genuine rage. This
on and off procedure would be enough to bewilder the coolest head. Mrs.
Johnston knows how to be a partizan of Joe Johnston and still not make his
enemies uncomfortable. She can be pleasant and agreeable, as she was to my
face.
A letter from my husband who is at Charlotte. He came near
being taken a prisoner in Columbia, for he was asleep the morning of the 17th,
when the Yankees blew up the railroad depot. That woke him, of course, and he
found everybody had left Columbia, and the town was surrendered by the mayor,
Colonel Goodwyn. Hampton and his command had been gone several hours. Isaac
Hayne came away with General Chesnut. There was no fire in the town when they
left. They overtook Hampton's command at Meek's Mill. That night, from the
hills where they encamped, they saw the fire, and knew the Yankees were burning
the town, as we had every reason to expect they would. Molly was left in charge
of everything of mine, including Mrs. Preston's cow, which I was keeping, and
Sally Goodwyn's furniture.
Charleston and Wilmington have surrendered. I have no
further use for a newspaper. I never want to see another one as long as I live.
Wade Hampton has been made a lieutenant-general, too late. If he had been made
one and given command in South Carolina six months ago I believe he would have
saved us. Shame, disgrace, beggary, all have come at once, and are hard to bear
— the grand smash! Rain, rain, outside, and naught but drowning floods of tears
inside. I could not bear it; so I rushed down in that rainstorm to the Martins’.
Rev. Mr. Martin met me at the door. “Madam,” said he, “Columbia is burned to
the ground.” I bowed my head and sobbed aloud. “Stop that!” he said, trying to speak
cheerfully. “Come here, wife,” said he to Mrs. Martin. “This woman cries with
her whole heart, just as she laughs.” But in spite of his words, his voice
broke down, and he was hardly calmer than myself.
SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 350-1
