Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: April 17, 1862

Took a squad of 14 men and went on an expedition to the East end of the island, and a short description of it at this time, perhaps, will not be out of place. It is about seven miles long from east to west and about a mile wide, lying along the southern shore of Mississippi about twelve miles from the mainland. The center is narrow, and when the tides are in the water breaches clean across the island. The surface is somewhat undulating owing to the shifting of the sands by the action of the winds and water. There is but little vegetation on the west end of the island, but on the east end, which is much the widest, there is a stunted grove of yellow pines and shrub oaks, with some other shrubs and plants indigenous to the climate. But what is peculiar and perhaps the main reason for its being chosen for the quartering of troops is the fact that good, cool, fresh water can be had in any part of the island by digging anywhere from eighteen inches to two feet in the sand. I never knew of any scientific reason for it, but I suppose the salt water of the ocean is made fresh by leaching through the sand. We started from the west end of the island, where the troops are quartered, at 9 a. m. On reaching the center of the island we found the water breaching over for about a mile, and this we waded. After this our course lay along the south shore to the further extremity of the island. We found many curious shells, nuts, fruit, and branches of trees washed from the surrounding islands. Many pieces of wrecks lay along the beach embedded in the sand, and some almost whole skeletons of vessels lay rotting on the shore. These told sad tales of anguish and death in ages past. From the extremity of the island the southern shore of Mississippi could be seen quite plain. Some porpoises were sporting in the water and many birds were seen. Some of the men caught a few fish. Ripe blackberries were found among the pines. An alligator had been imprudent enough to show himself in a small pond of fresh water, and several officers and soldiers were watching for him with guns, but he was too cunning for them and they did not get him. After wandering about the island until about 4 p. m. all hands collected as many fan palms as they could carry and bent their steps for camp. The water had receded from the island so that it was dry ground all the way. The palms made a good floor for our tents. Next morning I was foot sore and weary. From this time until May 4 drilling and inspections were the order of the day. Heavy cannonading was heard more or less every day in the direction of Fort Jackson until the early morning of April 26, when at about 2 a. m. the most fearful cannonading ever heard on this continent broke loose. Ship Island shook as with an earthquake from the terrific explosions which continued until daylight. On the second of May a steamer from New Orleans came in, giving an account of the capture of that city and all the forts below.

SOURCE: George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 9-12

Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: April 8, 1862

Sergeant of the guard. Benjamin Jones of Company H, and Charles F. Cleveland of Company B, died and were buried in the ocean. Next day spoke ship Black Prince, of Boston, from Ship Island, who reported that a large fleet of gunboats left that island a day or two before she sailed. It was generally supposed they were bound for Forts Jackson and St. Philip.

SOURCE: George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 7-8

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Friday, June 26, 1863

O praise the Lord, O my soul! Here is good news enough to make me happy for a month! Brother is so good about that! Every time he hears good news on our side, he tells it just as though it was on his side, instead of on ours; while all bad news for us he carefully avoids mentioning, unless we question him. So to-day he brought in a budget for us.

Lee has crossed the Potomac on his way to Washington with one hundred and sixty thousand men. Gibbes and George are with him. Magruder is marching on Fort Jackson, to attack it in the rear. One or two of our English ironclads are reported at the mouth of the river, and Farragut has gone down to capture them. O Jimmy! Jimmy! suppose he should be on one of them? We don't know the name of his ship, and it makes us so anxious for him, during these months that we have heard nothing of his whereabouts.

It is so delightful to see these frightened Yankees! One has only to walk downtown to be satisfied of the alarm that reigns. Yesterday came the tidings of the capture of Brashere City by our troops, and that a brigade was fifteen miles above here, coming down to the city. Men congregated at corners whispering cautiously. These were evidently Confederates who had taken the oath. Solitary Yankees straggled along with the most lugubrious faces, troubling no one. We walked down to Blineau's with Mrs. Price, and over our ice-cream she introduced her husband, who is a true blue Union man, though she, like ourselves, is a rank Rebel. Mr. Price, on the eve of making an immense fortune, was perfectly disconsolate at the news. Every one was to be ruined; starvation would follow if the Confederates entered; there was never a more dismal, unhappy creature. Enchanted at the news, I naturally asked if it were reliable. “Perfectly! Why, to prove how true, standing at the door of this salon five minutes ago, I saw two young ladies pass with Confederate flags, which they flirted in the face of some Federal officers, unrebuked!” Verily, thought I, something is about to happen! Two days ago the girls who were “unrebuked” this evening would have found themselves in jail instead.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 393-4

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Monday, September 1, 1862

I woke up this morning and, to my great surprise, find that summer has already passed away, and that we have already entered the first month of fall. Where has the summer gone to? Since the taking of Fort Jackson, the days have gone by like a dream. I had hardly realized spring, when now I find it is autumn. I am content to let the time fly, though, as every day brings us nearer Peace — or something else.

How shockingly I write! Will I ever again have a desk or a table to write on? At present, my seat is a mattress, and my knee my desk; and that is about the only one I have had since the 2d of August. This is the dreariest day I have seen for some time. Outside, it has been raining since daybreak, and inside, no one feels especially bright or cheerful. I sometimes wish mother would carry out her threat and brave the occasional shellings at Baton Rouge. I would dare anything, to be at home again. I know that the Yankees have left us little besides the bare house; but I would be grateful for the mere shelter of the roof. I often fancy how we will miss little articles that we thought necessary to our comfort before, when we return. . . . And the shoes I paid five dollars for, and wore a single time? I am wishing I had them now that I am almost barefooted, and cannot find a pair in the whole country. . . . Would it not be curious, if one of these days while traveling in the North (if I ever travel again), I should find some well-loved object figuring in a strange house as a “trophy of the battle of Baton Rouge”? I should have to seek for them in some very low house, perhaps; respectable people had very little to do with such disgraceful work, I fancy. Suppose I should see father's cigar-stand, for instance, or Miriam's little statues? I wonder if the people would have the conscience to offer to return them? A young lady, passing by one of the pillaged houses, expressed her surprise at seeing an armoir full of women's and children's clothes being emptied, and the contents tied up in sheets. “What can you do with such things?” she asked a soldier who seemed more zealous than the rest. “Ain't I got a wife and four children in the North?” was the answer. So we, who have hardly clothes enough for our own use, are stripped to supply Northerners!

One would think that I had no theme save the wreck of our house, if they read this. But I take it all out in here. I believe I must be made of wood, or some other tough material, not to feel it more. I sometimes ask myself if it is because I did not care for home, that I take it so quietly now. But I know that is not it. I was wild about it before I knew what had happened; since I learned all, few are the words that have escaped my lips concerning it. Perhaps it is because I have the satisfaction of knowing what all women crave for — the Worst. Indeed it is a consolation in such days as these when truth concerning either side is difficult to discover. The certainty of anything, fortune or misfortune, is comfort to me. I really feel sorry for the others who suffered; but it does not strike me that sympathy is necessary in our case.

Mrs. Flynn came to Lilly's room, when she heard of it, well prepared for sympathy, with a large handkerchief and a profusion of tears, when she was horrified to find both her and Miriam laughing over the latter's description of some comical scene that met her sight in one of the rooms. Seems to me that tears on all occasions come in as the fortieth article, to the articles of belief of some people.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 207-10

Diary of Sarah Morgan: July 7, 1862

As we have no longer a minister — Mr. Gierlow having gone to Europe — and no papers, I am in danger of forgetting the days of the week, as well as those of the month; but I am positive that yesterday was Sunday because I heard the Sunday-School bells, and Friday I am sure was the Fourth, because I heard the national salute fired. I must remember that to find my dates by.

Well, last night being Sunday, a son of Captain Hooper, who died in the Fort Jackson fight, having just come from New Orleans, stopped here on his way to Jackson, to tell us the news, or rather to see Charlie, and told us afterwards. He says a boat from Mobile reached the city Saturday evening, and the captain told Mr. La Noue that he brought an extra from the former place, containing news of McClellan's surrender with his entire army, his being mortally wounded, and the instant departure of a French, and English, man-of-war, from Hampton Roads, with the news. That revived my spirits considerably — all except McClellan's being wounded; I could dispense with that. But if it were true, and if peace would follow, and the boys come home —! Oh, what bliss! I would die of joy as rapidly as I am pining away with suspense now, I am afraid!

About ten o'clock, as we came up, mother went to the window in the entry to tell the news to Mrs. Day, and while speaking, saw a man creeping by under the window, in the narrow little alley on the side of the house, evidently listening, for he had previously been standing in the shadow of a tree, and left the street to be nearer. When mother ran to give the alarm to Charlie, I looked down, and there the man was, looking up, as I could dimly see, for he crouched down in the shadow of the fence. Presently, stooping still, he ran fast towards the front of the house, making quite a noise in the long tangled grass. When he got near the pepper-bush, he drew himself up to his full height, paused a moment as though listening, and then walked quietly towards the front gate. By that time Charlie reached the front gallery above, and called to him, asking what he wanted. Without answering the man walked steadily out, closed the gate deliberately; then, suddenly remembering drunkenness would be the best excuse, gave a lurch towards the house, walked off perfectly straight in the moonlight, until seeing Dr. Day fastening his gate, he reeled again.

That man was not drunk! Drunken men cannot run crouching, do not shut gates carefully after them, would have no inclination to creep in a dim little alley merely to creep out again. It may have been one of our detectives. Standing in the full moonlight, which was very bright, he certainly looked like a gentleman, for he was dressed in a handsome suit of black. He was no citizen. Form your own conclusions! Well! after all, he heard no treason. Let him play eavesdropper if he finds it consistent with his character as a gentleman.

The captain who brought the extra from Mobile wished to have it reprinted, but it was instantly seized by a Federal officer, who carried it to Butler, who monopolized it; so that will never be heard of again; we must wait for other means of information. The young boy who told us, reminds me very much of Jimmy; he is by no means so handsome, but yet there is something that recalls him; and his voice, though more childish, sounds like Jimmy's, too. I had an opportunity of writing to Lydia by him, of which I gladly availed myself, and have just finished a really tremendous epistle.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 107-9

Diary of Sarah Morgan: July 4, 1862

Here I am, and still alive, having wakened but once in the night, and that only in consequence of Louis and Morgan crying; nothing more alarming than that. I ought to feel foolish; but I do not. I am glad I was prepared, even though there was no occasion for it.

While I was taking my early bath, Lilly came to the bath-house and told me through the weatherboarding of another battle. Stonewall Jackson has surrounded McClellan completely, and victory is again ours. This is said to be the sixth battle he has fought in twenty days, and they say he has won them all. And the Seventh Regiment distinguished itself, and was presented with four cannon on the battlefield in acknowledgment of its gallant conduct! Gibbes belongs to the “ragged howling regiment that rushed on the field yelling like unchained devils and spread a panic through the army,” as the Northern papers said, describing the battle of Manassas. Oh, how I hope he has escaped!

And they say “Palmerston has urged the recognition of the Confederacy, and an armed intervention on our side.” Would it not be glorious? Oh, for peace, blessed peace, and our brothers once more! Palmerston is said to have painted Butler as the vilest oppressor, and having added he was ashamed to acknowledge him of Anglo-Saxon origin. Perhaps knowing the opinion entertained of him by foreign nations, caused Butler to turn such a somersault. For a few days before his arrival here, we saw a leading article in the leading Union paper of New Orleans, threatening us with the arming of the slaves for our extermination if England interfered, in the same language almost as Butler used when here; three days ago the same paper ridiculed the idea, and said such a brutal, inhuman thing was never for a moment thought of, it was too absurd. And so the world goes! We all turn somersaults occasionally.

And yet, I would rather we would achieve our independence alone, if possible. It would be so much more glorious. And then I would hate to see England conquer the North, even if for our sake; my love for the old Union is still too great to be willing to see it so humiliated. If England would just make Lincoln come to his senses, and put an end to all this confiscation which is sweeping over everything, make him agree to let us alone and behave himself, that will be quite enough. But what a task! If it were put to the vote to-morrow to return free and unmolested to the Union, or stay out, I am sure Union would have the majority; but this way, to think we are to be sent to Fort Jackson and all the other prisons for expressing our ideas, however harmless, to have our houses burned over our heads, and all the prominent men hanged, who would be eager for it? — unless, indeed, it was to escape even the greater horrors of a war of extermination.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 102-4

Diary of Sarah Morgan: July 1, 1862

I heard such a good joke last night! If I had belonged to the female declaiming club, I fear me I would have resigned instantly through mere terror. (Thank Heaven, I don't!) These officers say the women talk too much, which is undeniable. They then said, they meant to get up a sewing society, and place in it every woman who makes herself conspicuous by her loud talking about them. Fancy what a refinement of torture! But only a few would suffer; the majority would be only too happy to enjoy the usual privilege of sewing societies, slander, abuse, and insinuations. How some would revel in it. The mere threat makes me quake! If I could so far forget my dignity, and my father's name, as to court the notice of gentlemen by contemptible insult, etc., and if I should be ordered to take my seat at the sewing society —!!! I would never hold my head up again! Member of a select sewing circle! Fancy me! (I know “there is never any gossip in our society, though the one over the way gets up dreadful reports”; I have heard all that, but would rather try neither.) Oh, how I would beg and plead! Fifty years at Fort Jackson, good, kind General Butler, rather than half an hour in your sewing society! Gentle, humane ruler, spare me and I split my throat in shouting “Yankee Doodle” and “Hurrah for Lincoln!” Any, every thing, so I am not disgraced! Deliver me from your sewing society, and I'll say and do what you please!

Butler told some of these gentlemen that he had a detective watching almost every house in town, and he knew everything. True or not, it looks suspicious. We are certainly watched. Every evening two men may be seen in the shadow on the other side of the street, standing there until ever so late, sometimes until after we have gone to bed. It may be that, far from home, they are attracted by the bright light and singing, and watch us for their amusement. A few nights ago, so many officers passed and repassed while we were singing on the balcony, that I felt as though our habit of long standing had suddenly become improper. Saturday night, having secured a paper, we were all crowding around, Lilly and I reading every now and then a piece of news from opposite ends of the paper, Charlie, walking on the balcony, found five officers leaning over the fence watching us as we stood under the light, through the open window. Hope they won't elect me to the sewing society!

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 98-9

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Sunday, June 29, 1862

“Any more, Mr. Lincoln, any more?” Can't you leave our racked homes in repose? We are all wild. Last night, five citizens were arrested, on no charge at all, and carried down to Picayune Butler's ship. What a thrill of terror ran through the whole community! We all felt so helpless, so powerless under the hand of our tyrant, the man who swore to uphold the Constitution and the laws, who is professedly only fighting to give us all Liberty, the birthright of every American, and who, nevertheless, has ground us down to a state where we would not reduce our negroes, who tortures and sneers at us, and rules us with an iron hand! Ah! Liberty! what a humbug! I would rather belong to England or France, than to the North! Bondage, woman that I am, I can never stand! Even now, the Northern papers, distributed among us, taunt us with our subjection and tell us “how coolly Butler will grind them down, paying no regard to their writhing and torture beyond tightening the bonds still more!” Ah, truly! this is the bitterness of slavery, to be insulted and reviled by cowards who are safe at home and enjoy the protection of the laws, while we, captive and overpowered, dare not raise our voices to throw back the insult, and are governed by the despotism of one man, whose word is our law! And that man, they tell us, “is the right man in the right place. He will develop a Union sentiment among the people, if the thing can be done!” Come and see if he can! Hear the curse that arises from thousands of hearts at that man's name, and say if he will “speedily bring us to our senses.” Will he accomplish it by love, tenderness, mercy, compassion? He might have done it; but did he try? When he came, he assumed his natural role as tyrant, and bravely has he acted it through, never once turning aside for Justice or Mercy. . . . This degradation is worse than the bitterness of death!

I see no salvation on either side. No glory awaits the Southern Confederacy, even if it does achieve its independence; it will be a mere speck in the world, with no weight or authority. The North confesses itself lost without us, and has paid an unheard-of ransom to regain us. On the other hand, conquered, what hope is there in this world for us? Broken in health and fortune, reviled, contemned, abused by those who claim already to have subdued us, without a prospect of future support for those few of our brothers who return; outcasts without home or honor, would not death or exile be preferable? Oh, let us abandon our loved home to these implacable enemies, and find refuge elsewhere! Take from us property, everything, only grant us liberty! Is this rather frantic, considering I abhor politics, and women who meddle with them, above all? My opinion has not yet changed; I still feel the same contempt for a woman who would talk at the top of her voice for the edification of Federal officers, as though anxious to receive an invitation requesting her presence at the Garrison. “I can suffer and be still” as far as outward signs are concerned; but as no word of this has passed my lips, I give it vent in writing, which is more lasting than words, partly to relieve my heart, partly to prove to my own satisfaction that I am no coward; for one line of this, surrounded as we are by soldiers, and liable to have our houses searched at any instant, would be a sufficient indictment for high treason.

Under General Williams's rule, I was perfectly satisfied that whatever was done, was done through necessity, and under orders from Headquarters, beyond his control; we all liked him. But now, since Butler's arrival, I believe I am as frantic in secret as the others are openly. I know that war sanctions many hard things, and that both sides practice them; but now we are so completely lost in Louisiana, is it fair to gibe and taunt us with our humiliation? I could stand anything save the cowardly ridicule and triumph of their papers. Honestly, I believe if all vile abusive papers on both sides were suppressed, and some of the fire-eating editors who make a living by lying were soundly cowhided or had their ears clipped, it would do more towards establishing peace, than all the bloodshedding either side can afford. I hope to live to see it, too. Seems to me, more liberty is allowed to the press than would be tolerated in speech. Let us speak as freely as any paper, and see if to-morrow we do not sleep at Fort Jackson!

This morning the excitement is rare; fifteen more citizens were arrested and carried off, and all the rest grew wild with expectation. So great a martyrdom is it considered, that I am sure those who are not arrested will be woefully disappointed. It is ludicrous to see how each man thinks he is the very one they are in search of! We asked a two-penny lawyer, of no more importance in the community than Dophy is, if it was possible he was not arrested. “But I am expecting to be every instant!” So much for his self-assurance! Those arrested have, some, been quietly released (those are so smiling and mysterious that I suspect them), some been obliged to take the oath, some sent to Fort Jackson. Ah, Liberty! What a blessing it is to enjoy thy privileges! If some of these poor men are not taken prisoners, they will die of mortification at the slight.

Our valiant Governor, the brave Moore, has by order of the real Governor, Moise, made himself visible at some far-distant point, and issued a proclamation, saying, whereas we of Baton Rouge were held forcibly in town, he therefore considered men, women, and children prisoners of war, and as such the Yankees are bound to supply us with all necessaries, and consequently any one sending us aid or comfort or provisions from the country will be severely punished. Only Moore is fool enough for such an order. Held down by the Federals, our paper money so much trash, with hardly any other to buy food and no way of earning it; threatened with starvation and utter ruin, our own friends, by way of making our burden lighter, forbid our receiving the means of prolonging life, and after generously warning us to leave town, which they know is perfectly impossible, prepare to burn it over our heads, and let the women run the same risk as the men. Penned in on one little square mile, here we await our fate like sheep in the slaughter-pen. Our hour may be at hand now, it may be to-night; we have only to wait; the booming of the cannon will announce it to us soon enough.

Of the six sentenced to Fort Jackson, one is the Methodist minister, Mr. Craven. The only charge is, that he was heard to pray for the Confederate States by some officers who passed his house during his family prayers. According to that, which of us would escape unhung? I do not believe there is a woman in the land who closes her eyes before praying for God's blessing on the side on which her brothers are engaged. Are we all to cease? Show me the dungeon deep enough to keep me from praying for them! The man represented that he had a large family totally dependent on him, who must starve. “Let them get up a subscription,” was General Butler's humane answer. “I will head it myself.” It is useless to say the generous offer was declined.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 92-7

Diary of Sarah Morgan: June 18, 1862

How long, O how long, is it since I have lain down in peace, thinking, “This night I will rest in safety”? Certainly not since the fall of Fort Jackson. If left to myself, I would not anticipate evil, but would quietly await the issue of all these dreadful events; but when I hear men, who certainly should know better than I, express their belief that in twenty-four hours the town will be laid in ashes, I begin to grow uneasy, and think it must be so, since they say it. These last few days, since the news arrived of the intervention of the English and French, I have alternately risen and fallen from the depth of despair to the height of delight and expectation, as the probability of another exodus diminishes, and peace appears more probable. If these men would not prophesy the burning of the city, I would be perfectly satisfied. . . .

Well! I packed up a few articles to satisfy my conscience, since these men insist that another run is inevitable, though against my own conviction. I am afraid I was partly influenced by my dream last night of being shelled out unexpectedly and flying without saving an article. It was the same dream I had a night or two before we fled so ingloriously from Baton Rouge, when I dreamed of meeting Will Pinckney suddenly, who greeted me in the most extraordinarily affectionate manner, and told me that Vicksburg had fallen. He said he had been chiefly to blame, and the Southerners were so incensed at his losing, the Northerners at his defending, that both were determined to hang him; he was running for his life. He took me to a hill from which I could see the Garrison, and the American flag flying over it. I looked, and saw we were standing in blood up to our knees, while here and there ghastly white bones shone above the red surface. Just then, below me I saw crowds of people running. “What is it?” I asked. “It means that in another instant they will commence to shell the town. Save yourself.” “But Will — I must save some clothes, too! How can I go among strangers with a single dress? I will get some!'” I cried. He smiled and said, “You will run with only what articles you happen to have on.” Bang! went the first shell, the people rushed by with screams, and I awakened to tell Miriam what an absurd dream I had had. It happened as Will had said, either that same day or the day after; for the change of clothes we saved apiece were given to Tiche, who lost sight of us and quietly came home when all was over, and the two dirty skirts and old cloak mother saved, after carrying them a mile and a half, I put in the buggy that took her up; so I saved nothing except the bag that was tied under my hoops. Will was right. I saved not even my powder-bag. (Tiche had it in the bundle.) My handkerchief I gave mother before we had walked three squares, and throughout that long fearfully warm day, riding and walking through the fiery sunshine and stifling dust, I had neither to cool or comfort me.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 82-4

Diary of Sarah Morgan: June 10, 1862

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

How New Orleans was Taken

The following graphic account, and the only one we have seen of the taking of the city of New Orleans, was transmitted by telegraph on Monday from Cairo to the Chicago Tribune:–

A gentleman who left New Orleans on the 29th ult., o the last train which departed, under Confederate auspices, arrived at Cairo this evening on the Diligent.  The Federals took possession on Thursday at 2 P. M.  On that morning at half-past 3 the Hartford, Richmond, Brookland, and five gunboats passed Forts St. Philip and Jackson, and steamed to the city without being fired at, except at a point called Chalmetto.  At the time of the passage there were eight or ten Confederate steamers above the fort without steam up, and the crews asleep.  When the Federal boats hove in sight, the Confederates set fire to these and blew up the splendid gunboat Louisiana, without firing a shot.  During the bombardment, several of our vessels were badly damaged.  When they passed the forts three were lashed together, so that if one was disabled the others could cut loose and proceed on their way.  In this manner they succeeded in passing.

As soon as the rumor of the passage of the forts reached New Orleans, there was a tremendous consternation in the city.  The authorities immediately set fire to the transports, and two gunboats lying at the levee, a few steamers belonging to the tributaries of the Mississippi, fled crowded with the citizens, up the Arkansas, Red, White, Ouachita, and Yazoo Rivers.  Every dray and vehicle suitable for the service, was impressed by the authorities to carry cotton, sugar and molasses to the levee, where they were piled and burned.  All military stores where removed to the depot of the New Orleans and Jackson Railroad, except the powder, which was thrown into the river.  The conflagration was tremendous, and the sky for several miles was lurid with flame.  The smoke was so thick as to completely darken the atmosphere.

Disorganized Confederate troops in companies and parts of companies fled in wild disorder to the depot to seek a passage to Ponchartulas, fifty miles in the interior, where the military rendezvous was located.  The negroes stole molasses and sugar from the levee, and women and children could be seen in great numbers rolling barrels of sweets over the pavements to their huts in the suburbs.  The streets were so slippery with the drippings that the cab horses could hardly stand upright.

While affairs were in this confusion, the eight Federal frigates and gunboats in firing trim, topmast, guns shotted and run out of the port holes, and the stars and stripes flying from every masthead, anchored on at the foot of each principal street leading to the river, the Hartford, with Com. Farragut’s blue pennant flying from her foretop, taking her position at the foot of Canal street.  After the ships were in position, Capt. Bayless, second in command of the gulf squadron, in a pinnance, unattended and alone, landed on the levee.  Just before him a man stood at the levee with a loaded pistol, and threatened to shoot him if he stepped his foot upon the shore without a flag of truce.  Capt. B. pulled out a white handkerchief and waving it, stepped upon the levee and proceeded directly to the city Hall through a crowd of full twenty-five-thousand men, women and children.  This act of bravery elicited a shout of admiration form the vast assemblage.  He called upon the Mayor, presented a dispatch from Commodore Farragut, and demanded the surrender of the city.  He required the Louisiana State flag to be lowered, and the Stars and Stripes to be hoisted upon the Mint, Custom House, and all the public buildings.  The Mayor informed him that the city was under martial law, that Maj. Lovell was in command, and that he, the Mayor, had no authority to act in the premises.  At this juncture, Gen. Lovell appeared, refused to surrender the city, but offered to withdraw his forces and surrender his authority to the civil authorities.  The Mayor then told Capt. Bayles that he would convene a session of the Common Council that evening, and send an answer to the Commodore’s dispatch in the morning.  The answer, as promised was returned the next day.

On Tuesday the 28th, 500 marines landed with a few small brass pieces and marched to the City Hall, demanded to be shown to the top of the building, hauled down the State flag, which a marine rolled up and carried off under his arm, and then proceeded to the Custom House, where the remains of two hundred gun carriages were still burning, hoisted the National Emblem, left a guard to protect it, and returned to the gunboat.

The day previous forts St. Philip and Jackson had surrendered, their own men spiking the guns and refusing to fight longer.  In consequence of this mutiny, General Duncan was compelled to raise the white flag and surrender the fort.  Gen. Duncan and all his officers were released upon their parole and allowed to retain their side arms.  The former came up to the City Hall and made a speech in which he counseled the people not to despair, everything would come out right yet.

The fort having surrendered, the way was clear for transports, which at the same time our informant left were expected.  Order was re-established in the city, shops were being opened, but the St. Charles and principal hotels remained closed, more in consequence of the currency and the scarcity of provisions than from any fear of the Federal soldiers.

Considerable apprehension was felt that the lower classes, Spanish, French, Germans, and foreigners generally, taking advantage of the disorganized condition of the city, might commit excess, and plunder the citizens, the inhabitants were more fearful of these than of the Federals.  Confederate scrip was still current, but prices of provisions were enormously high.

The day after the gunboats arrived, two of them steamed up the river to Baton Rouge, hoisted the U. S. flag on the capital building and arsenal, and captured two steamers for transport service.  Thousands of people were constantly on the levee, gazing at the gunboats and soldiers, towards whom they manifested no ill will or bitterness of filling.

Our informant passed through Gen. Lovell’s camp at a point called Songapoa, about 125 miles north of New Orleans, on the New Orleans and Jackson railroad.  Munitions of war, troops, provisions, &c., were lying about on the utmost confusion.  They were intending to join Gen. Beauregard at Corinth.  People by the thousands were leaving Vicksburg and Natchez for Jackson, which place was crowded to over flowing. – There was an alarming scarcity of provisions.  Our informant reached Memphis on the 2d inst., and left on the morning of the 5th, for a point on the Memphis and Ohio Railroad, 14 miles south of Humboldt, just before dispatches were received confirming reports that six thousand troops had landed at New Orleans.  The citizens of Memphis were satisfied that upon the first determined attack on Ft. Pillow it would surrender.  On the Hatchee river, below Ft. Pillow, and twenty-five from its mouth, an Aid-de Camp of Gen. Beauregard is superintending the construction of a pontoon bridge, to facilitate the retreat of troops from the Fort, in case an evacuation becomes necessary.  Our informant thinks, that if, on the consummation of that event a gunboat will run up the Hatchee river, it will be able to destroy the bridge and cut of their retreat.

A mile and a half below Memphis, 4,000 bales of cotton are piled ready for the torch, as soon as the fall of Ft. Pillow is ascertained; there are also several thousand hogsheads of sugar and molasses ready to be rolled into the river.  There is no telegraph from the Fort, and if, on the occupation; a gunboat will steam directly towards Memphis, then anchor opposite the pile, the entire lot can be secured from the station on the railroad.  When our informant left, he went by land to within fourteen miles of the Mississippi, to a point twenty miles above Ft. Pillow.  By this means he evaded the Confederate pickets and reached the river in a dug-out through the backwater.  On his way thither he passed hundreds of deserters from the Confederate army.  On the 10th he reached the encampment of the 47th Indiana, at Tiptonville, and reported to Col. Slack, Commandant.

– Published in The Davenport Daily Gazette, Davenport, Iowa, Wednesday Morning, May 14, 1862, p. 2