Since that day the regular siege has continued. We are
utterly cut off from the world, surrounded by a circle of fire. Would it be
wise like the scorpion to sting ourselves to death? The fiery shower of shells goes
on day and night. H—'s occupation, of course, is gone, his office closed. Every
man has to carry a pass in his pocket. People do nothing but eat what they can
get, sleep when they can, and dodge the shells. There are three intervals when
the shelling stops, either for the guns to cool or for the gunners' meals, I
suppose, — about eight in the morning, the same in the evening, and at noon. In
that time we have both to prepare and eat ours. Clothing cannot be washed or
anything else done. On the 19th and 22d, when the assaults were made on the
lines, I watched the soldiers cooking on the green opposite. The half-spent
balls coming all the way from those lines were flying so thick that they were
obliged to dodge at every turn. At all the caves I could see from my high perch, people were sitting, eating
their poor suppers at the cave doors, ready to plunge in again. As the first
shell again flew they dived, and not a human being was visible. The sharp
crackle of the musketry-firing was a strong contrast to the scream of the
bombs. I think all the dogs and cats must be killed or starved, we don't see
any more pitiful animals prowling around. * * * The cellar is so damp and musty
the bedding has to be carried out and laid in the sun every day, with the
forecast that it may be demolished at any moment. The confinement is dreadful.
To sit and listen as if waiting for death in a horrible manner would drive me
insane. I don't know what others do, but we read when I am not scribbling in
this. H— borrowed somewhere a lot of Dickens's novels, and we reread them by
the dim light in the cellar. When the shelling abates H— goes to walk about a
little or get the “Daily Citizen,” which is still issuing a tiny sheet at
twenty-five and fifty cents a copy. It is, of course, but a rehash of
speculations which amuses a half hour. To-day he heard while out that expert
swimmers are crossing the Mississippi on logs at night to bring and carry news
to Johnston. I am so tired of corn-bread, which I never liked, that I eat it
with tears in my eyes. We are lucky to get a quart of milk daily from a family
near who have a cow they hourly expect to be killed. I send five dollars to
market each morning, and it buys a small piece of mule-meat. Rice and milk is
my main food; I can't eat the mule-meat. We boil the rice and eat it cold with
milk for supper. Martha runs the gauntlet to buy the meat and milk once a day
in a perfect terror. The shells seem to have many different names; I hear the
soldiers say, “That's a mortar-shell. There goes a Parrott. That's a
rifle-shell.” They are all equally terrible. A pair of chimney-swallows have
built in the parlor chimney. The concussion of the house often sends down parts
of their nest, which they patiently pick up and reascend with.
SOURCE: George W. Cable, “A Woman's Diary Of The Siege Of
Vicksburg”, The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Vol. XXX, No.
5, September 1885, p. 771
