I have moved again, and now I am looking from a window high,
with something more to see than the sky. We have the third story of Dr. Da
Vega's house, which opens on the straight street that leads to the railroad
about a mile off.
Mrs. Bedon is the loveliest of young widows. Yesterday at
church Isaac Hayne nestled so close to her cap-strings that I had to touch him
and say, “Sit up!” Josiah Bedon was killed in that famous fight of the
Charleston Light Dragoons. The dragoons stood still to be shot down in their
tracks, having no orders to retire. They had been forgotten, doubtless, and
they scorned to take care of themselves.
In this high and airy retreat, as in Richmond, then in
Columbia, and then in Lincolnton, my cry is still: If they would only leave me
here in peace and if I were sure things never could be worse with me. Again am
I surrounded by old friends. People seem to vie with each other to show how
good they can be to me.
To-day Smith opened the trenches and appeared laden with a
tray covered with a snow-white napkin. Here was my first help toward
housekeeping again. Mrs. Pride has sent a boiled ham, a loaf of bread, a huge
pancake; another neighbor coffee already parched and ground; a loaf of sugar
already cracked; candles, pickles, and all the other things one must trust to
love for now. Such money as we have avails us nothing, even if there were
anything left in the shops to buy.
We had a jolly luncheon. James Lowndes called, the best of good
company. He said of Buck, “She is a queen, and ought to reign in a palace. No
Prince Charming yet; no man has yet approached her that I think half good
enough for her.”
Then Mrs. Prioleau Hamilton, née Levy, came with
the story of family progress, not a royal one, from Columbia here: “Before we
left home,” said she, “Major Hamilton spread a map of the United States on the
table, and showed me with his finger where Sherman was likely to go. Womanlike,
I demurred. “But, suppose he does not choose to go that way?” “Pooh, pooh! what
do you know of war?” So
we set out, my husband, myself, and two children, all in one small buggy. The
14th of February we took up our line of march, and straight before Sherman's
men for five weeks we fled together. By incessant hurrying and scurrying from
pillar to post, we succeeded in acting as a sort of avant-courier of the
Yankee army. Without rest and with much haste, we got here last Wednesday, and
here we mean to stay and defy Sherman and his legions. Much the worse for wear
were we.”
The first night their beauty sleep was rudely broken into at
Alston with a cry, “Move on, the Yanks are upon us!” So they hurried on,
half-awake, to Winnsboro, but with no better luck. There they had to lighten
the ship, leave trunks, etc., and put on all sail, for this time the Yankees
were only five miles behind. “Whip and spur, ride for your life!” was the cry. “Sherman's
objective point seemed to be our buggy,” said she; “for you know that when we
got to Lancaster Sherman was expected there, and he keeps his appointments;
that is, he kept that one. Two small children were in our chariot, and I began
to think of the Red Sea expedition. But we lost no time, and soon we were in
Cheraw, clearly out of the track. We thanked God for all his mercies and hugged
to our bosoms fond hopes of a bed and bath so much needed by all, especially
for the children.
At twelve o'clock General Hardee himself knocked us up with
word to “March! march!” for “all the blue bonnets are over the border.” In mad
haste we made for Fayetteville, when they said: “God bless your soul! This is the seat of war
now; the battle-ground where Sherman and Johnston are to try conclusions.” So
we harked back, as the hunters say, and cut across country, aiming for this
place. Clean clothes, my dear? Never a one except as we took off garment by
garment and washed it and dried it by our camp fire, with our loins girded and
in haste.” I was snug and comfortable all that time in Lincolnton.
To-day Stephen D. Lee's corps marched through — only to
surrender. The camp songs of these men were a heartbreak; so sad, yet so
stirring. They would have warmed the blood of an Icelander. The leading voice
was powerful, mellow, clear, distinct, pathetic, sweet. So, I sat down, as
women have done before, when they hung up their harps by strange streams, and I
wept the bitterness of such weeping. Music? Away, away! Thou speakest to
me of things which in all my long life I have not found, and I shall not find.
There they go, the gay and gallant few, doomed; the last gathering of the
flower of Southern pride, to be killed, or worse, to a prison. They continue to
prance by, light and jaunty. They march with as airy a tread as if they still
believed the world was all on their side, and that there were no Yankee bullets
for the unwary. What will Joe Johnston do with them now?
The Hood melodrama is over, though the curtain has not
fallen on the last scene. Cassandra croaks and makes many mistakes, but to-day
she believes that Hood stock is going down. When that style of enthusiasm is on
the wane, the rapidity of its extinction is miraculous. It is like the snuffing
out of a candle; “one moment white, then gone forever.” No, that is not right;
it is the snow-flake on the river that is referred to. I am getting things as
much mixed as do the fine ladies of society.
Lee and Johnston have each fought a drawn battle; only a few
more dead bodies lie stiff and stark on an unknown battle-field. For we do not
so much as know where these drawn battles took place.
Teddy Barnwell, after sharing with me my first luncheon,
failed me cruelly. He was to come for me to go down to the train and see
Isabella pass by. One word with Isabella worth a thousand ordinary ones! So,
she has gone by and I've not seen her.
Old Colonel Chesnut refuses to say grace; but as he leaves
the table audibly declares, “I thank God for a good dinner.” When asked why he
did this odd thing he said: '' My way is to be sure of a thing before I return
thanks for it." Mayor Goodwyn thanked Sherman for promised protection to
Columbia ; soon after, the burning began.
I received the wife of a post-office robber. The poor thing
had done no wrong, and I felt so sorry for her. Who would be a woman? Who that
fool, a weeping, pissing, faithful woman? She hath hard measures still when she
hopes kindest. And all her beauty only makes ingrates!
SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin
and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 369-72
