Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: March 6, 1865

To-day came a godsend. Even a small piece of bread and the molasses had become things of the past. My larder was empty, when a tall mulatto woman brought a tray covered by a huge white serviette. Ellen ushered her in with a flourish, saying, “Mrs. McDaniel's maid.” The maid set down the tray upon my bare table, and uncovered it with conscious pride. There were fowls ready for roasting, sausages, butter, bread, eggs, and preserves. I was dumb with delight. After silent thanks to heaven my powers of speech returned, and I exhausted myself in messages of gratitude to Mrs. McDaniel.

“Missis, you oughtn't to let her see how glad you was,” said Ellen. “It was a lettin' of yo'sef down.”

Mrs. Glover gave me some yarn, and I bought five dozen eggs with it from a wagon — eggs for Lent. To show that I have faith yet in humanity, I paid in advance in yarn for something to eat, which they promised to bring to-morrow. Had they rated their eggs at $100 a dozen in “Confederick” money, I would have paid it as readily as $10. But I haggle in yarn for the millionth part of a thread.

Two weeks have passed and the rumors from Columbia are still of the vaguest. No letter has come from there, no direct message, or messenger. “My God!” cried Dr. Frank Miles, “but it is strange. Can it be anything so dreadful they dare not tell us?” Dr. St. Julien Ravenel has grown pale and haggard with care. His wife and children were left there.

Dr. Brumby has at last been coaxed into selling me enough leather for the making of a pair of shoes, else I should have had to give up walking. He knew my father well. He intimated that in some way my father helped him through college. His own money had not sufficed, and so William C. Preston and my father advanced funds sufficient to let him be graduated. Then my uncle, Charles Miller, married his aunt. I listened in rapture, for all this tended to leniency in the leather business, and I bore off the leather gladly. When asked for Confederate money in trade I never stop to bargain. I give them $20 or $50 cheerfully for anything — either sum.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 361-2

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: May 5, 1863

Today brings news of a terrible battle — but no particulars; only that General Frank Paxton is killed; Jackson and A. P. Hill wounded. Of the mothers in this town, almost all of them have sons in this battle; not one lays her head on her pillow this night, sure that her sons are not slain. This suspense must be awful. Mrs. Estill has four sons there; Mrs. Moore two; Mrs. Graham three, and so on. Yet not a word of special news, except that a copy of General Lee's telegram came, saying, a decided victory, but at great cost. God pity the tortured hearts that will pant through this night! And the agony of the poor wife who has heard that her husband is really killed! I was told to-night that a few weeks ago General Paxton wrote to his wife, sending his will, with minute directions in regard to his property; telling her that he had made a profession of religion; that he was expecting to be killed in the next battle, and was resigned and willing to die.

My brother John is a surgeon in the Federal army; it is routed, we hear; so I don't know what may be his fate; nor can I know. I pray God he may be safe. The Northern people can't conceive the horrors of this war. It is far away from them; their private soldiers are all from the lower classes — persons with whom the masses of Christian and cultivated people feel no tie in common; while the mass of Southern private soldiers are from the educated classes; this makes a woeful difference in the suffering a battle entails: not that these Dutch and Irish and uneducated people have no friends to mourn for them — But oh! the sickness of soul with which almost every household in this town awaits the tidings to-morrow may bring!

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 163

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: December 24, 1862

Christmas Eve: How different the scene our house presents tonight, and this time last year! Then every one of Mr. P.'s children was here, except Frank; himself only absent; the utmost hilarity reigned. We had a beautiful Christmas tree, filled with innumerable presents for everybody, servants and all. The Library was a scene of innocent gayety. Dear Willy P. distributed the contents of the tree, as his Father had done the year before. Everybody was pleased and happy. The war had not then claimed any victim from our circle, and the chief shadow that for that night rested upon us was Mr. P.'s absence in the army. Now the sadness of the household forbids any recognition of Christmas; we are scattered to our own separate rooms to mourn over the contrast, and the Library is in darkness. Willy, whose genial face rises so brightly before me, lies in a distant grave — cut off by a violent death. Randolph's coffin has been carried out of the house so recently that no sunshine has yet come back. Frank is here with his one arm, making me feel perpetually grieved for him. Yet why complain? This is nothing to what many others have suffered. My husband and children are spared to me, so that I have peculiar cause for gratitude. I have been permitted to hear of my father's and sisters' and brothers' welfare, too. Surely it does illy become me to utter lamentations. Rather let me bless God that his rod has been laid on me so lightly.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 157-8

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: December 19, 1862

This evening, just before sunset, we saw the mortal remains of the dear boy committed to the grave. It is a sore blow to his precious father, to his sisters, and to us all. God grant it may be a sanctified affliction! We have surely need of chastisement, or it would not have been repeated so painfully, within so brief a period. Three months and a half only, since dear Willy laid down his life on the battle field; and now another, as full of life — as perfect a model of health — as seemingly fitted for long life as any one I ever saw, after a lingering illness of seven weeks, is cut off. How mysterious the providence appears! Few parents have as noble boys to lose; and yet their father bows to the stroke with entireness of Christian resignation. May God sustain his bruised heart!

Had a note from Gen. Jackson yesterday, most kindly written amidst the hurry of a day or two succeeding the Fredericksburg battle, informing me that Bro. John was met on the field by one of his aids, as he was removing the dead — he being a Federal surgeon — and that a cousin named Junkin, whom I have never seen, was among the slain. Bro. John sent word through the aid that my friends were all well. I desire to be thankful for this last item of information.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 156-7

Major-General Thomas J. Jackson to Margaret Junkin Preston

Bunker Hill, Berkeley Co., Va.

[Undated. After October 3, 1862]

My Dear Maggie, — In haste I drop you a line in answer to your letter of October 3d. I regret not having a position to which with propriety Mr. E. can be assigned. The best opening that I see for him is to secure an appointment as an ordnance officer. There are to be seventy appointed, after being examined by a Board upon their qualifications. Mr. E.'s brother is among the number. It appears to me that he ought to pass upon examination, by giving attention to the subject. I am much obliged to you for your kindness.

I deeply sympathize with you all in the death of dear Willy. He was in my first Sabbath school class, where I became attached to him when he was a little boy. I had expected to have him as one of my aides-de-camp, but God in His providence has ordered otherwise. Remember me very kindly to Colonel Preston and all the family.

Affectionately your brother,

T. J. Jackson.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 152

Major-General Thomas J. Jackson to Colonel John T. L. Preston, July 22, 1862

Headquarters, Valley District,

July 22d, 1862.

Dear Colonel Preston, — Your letter, and the touching poetical production of Maggie have been handed me by Cadet Morrison. I have known your son Willy long, and hope that an opportunity will offer for showing my appreciation of his great worth. Accept my thanks for your kindness in advancing funds to Cadet Morrison. Please settle it as you suggest, and keep the bond until you hear from me upon the subject; unless you should meet with an opportunity of handing it to Mrs. Jackson; but do not send it to her. I congratulate you upon Frank's return home. Remember me very kindly to all enquiring friends. Please say to Dr. White that I wish him to pay my stipends last due, from the money I sent him by you. I think he acknowledged the receipt of the funds, but said no thing about the stipends, and I fear that he did not feel authorized to pay himself from the funds placed in his hands?

Very truly your friend,

T. J. Jackson.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 151-2

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: September 11, 1862

My husband has today returned without the dear remains of Willy.  . . . “Slain in battle — Slain in battle” — he continually reiterates.  . . . He could not know certainly which was Willy's grave; had the one he supposed to be, opened; alas! for our poor humanity! when he opened the blanket in which the body was wrapped, he could not distinguish a feature of his boy on the despoiled face — he tore open the shirt, and there where I had written it was W. C. Preston! He thought to bring a lock of his hair, — it crumbled to the touch! It was impossible to have him removed, so he carefully marked the spot, and left the removal to be accomplished another time.

Such pictures of horror as Mr. P. gives! Unnumbered dead Federal soldiers covering the battle field; one hundred in one gully, uncovered, and rotting in the sun ; they were strewn all along the roadside. And dead horses everywhere, by the hundred. Hospitals crowded to excess, and loathsome beyond expression in many instances. How fearful is war! I cannot put down the details he gave me, they are too horrid.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 148-50

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: Monday Night, September 8, 1862

A note today from Mr. P. at Gordonsville, written Thursday evening; not a word had he yet heard of dear Willy's death; he would probably hear nothing, until he reached the place and was shown his grave! We are enduring the painful suspense of waiting for the coming home of his father with the sad remains; it will be a torturing thing. He may come tonight.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 148

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: September 6, 1862

Our grief has sorrowed itself down to calmness; but how sad the household! Dear Willy was the darling of all. His unselfish nature led him to be considerate to a most remarkable degree of every one's comfort. Never have I seen so devoted and thoughtful a son. His love and care for his father had a womanly tenderness in it. I have need to miss him! He was ever gentle and kind to me, and loving to my children. A more faultless character I think I have never known. And then he was so consistent a Christian; that is the crowning blessedness of all. When he was struck down on the battle field, friends gathered around him with expressions of sympathy (we are told), when he said, “Don't distress yourselves about me, I am not afraid to die.” To the surgeon he said, “I am at peace with God and with all the world.” My heart aches for his poor father; he will stagger under the blow. His poor sisters are heart-wrung. Nothing could exceed his brotherly love to them. Alas! what sorrow reigns over the land! there is a universal wail of woe. Dr. White's family is stricken just as this one is. Hugh, their most cherished one, is killed, and today Professor White went with a hearse to try to recover his body. Henry Paine, the Dr.'s son, is killed; Col. Baylor killed; Major Patrick killed. It is like the death of the first born in Egypt. Who thinks of or cares for victory now!

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 147-8

Diary of Margaret Junkin Preston: September 4 1862

The worst has happened — our fearful suspense is over: Willy, the gentle, tender-hearted, brave boy, lies in a soldier's grave on the Plains of Manassas! This has been a day of weeping and of woe to this household. I did not know how I loved the dear boy. My heart is wrung with grief to think that his sweet face, his genial smile, his sympathetic heart are gone. My eyes ache with weeping. But what is the loss to me, compared to the loss to his Father, his sisters, his brothers! Oh! his precious stricken Father! God support him to bear the blow! The carriage has returned, bringing me a note from Mr. P. saying he had heard there was faint hope. Alas! the beloved son has been five days in his grave. My poor husband! Oh! if he were only here, to groan out his anguish on my bosom. I can't write more.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Preston Allan, The Life and Letters of Margaret Junkin Preston, p. 147

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: August 15, 1861

Mrs. Randolph came. With her were the Freelands, Rose and Maria. The men rave over Mrs. Randolph's beauty; called her a magnificent specimen of the finest type of dark-eyed, rich, and glowing Southern woman-kind. Clear brunette she is, with the reddest lips, the whitest teeth, and glorious eyes; there is no other word for them. Having given Mrs. Randolph the prize among Southern beauties, Mr. Clayton said Prentiss was the finest Southern orator. Mr. Marshall and Mr. Barnwell dissented; they preferred William C. Preston. Mr. Chesnut had found Colquitt the best or most effective stump, orator.

Saw Henry Deas Nott. He is just from Paris, via New York. Says New York is ablaze with martial fire. At no time during the Crimean war was there ever in Paris the show of soldiers preparing for the war such as he saw at New York. The face of the earth seemed covered with marching regiments.

Not more than 500 effective men are in Hampton's Legion, but they kept the whole Yankee army at bay until half-past two. Then just as Hampton was wounded and half his colonels shot, Cash and Kershaw (from Mrs. Smith Lee audibly, “How about Kirby Smith?”) dashed in and not only turned the tide, but would have driven the fugitives into Washington, but Beauregard recalled them. Mr. Chesnut finds all this very amusing, as he posted many of the regiments and all the time was carrying orders over the field. The discrepancies in all these private memories amuse him, but he smiles pleasantly and lets every man tell the tale in his own way.

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 105-6