It is settled at last that we shall spend the time of siege
in Vicksburg. Ever since we were deprived of our cave, I had been dreading that
H–– would suggest sending me to the country, where his relatives lived. As he
could not leave his position and go also without being conscripted, and as I
felt certain an army would get between us, it was no part of my plan to be
obedient. A shell from one of the practicing mortars brought the point to an
issue yesterday and settled it. Sitting at work as usual, listening to the
distant sound of bursting shells, apparently aimed at the court-house, there
suddenly came a nearer explosion; the house shook, and a tearing sound was
followed by terrified screams from the kitchen. I rushed thither, but met in
the hall the cook's little girl America, bleeding from a wound in the forehead,
and fairly dancing with fright and pain, while she uttered fearful yells. I
stopped to examine the wound, and her mother bounded in, her black face ashy
from terror. "Oh! Miss V––, my child is killed and the kitchen tore up."
Seeing America was too lively to be a killed subject, I consoled Martha and
hastened to the kitchen. Evidently a shell had exploded just outside, sending
three or four pieces through. When order was restored I endeavored to impress
on Martha's mind the necessity for calmness and the uselessness of such
excitement. Looking round at the close of the lecture, there stood a group of
Confederate soldiers laughing heartily at my sermon and the promising audience
I had. They chimed in with a parting chorus:
“Yes, it's no use hollerin, old lady.”
“Oh! H––,” I exclaimed, as he entered soon after, “America
is wounded.”
“That is no news; she has been wounded by traitors long ago.”
“Oh, this is real, living, little, black America; I am not
talking in symbols. Here are the pieces of shell, the first bolt of the coming
siege.”
“Now you see,” he replied, “that this house will be but
paper to mortar-shells. You must go in the country.”
The argument was long, but when a woman is obstinate and
eloquent, she generally conquers. I came off victorious, and we finished
preparations for the siege to-day. Hiring a man to assist, we descended to the
wine-cellar, where the accumulated bottles told of the “banquet-hall deserted,”
the spirit and glow of the festive hours whose lights and garlands were dead,
and the last guest long since departed. To empty this cellar was the work of
many hours. Then in the safest corner a platform was laid for our bed, and in
another portion one arranged for Martha. The dungeon, as I call it, is lighted
only by a trap-door, and is so damp it will be necessary to remove the bedding
and mosquito-bars every day. The next question was of supplies. I had nothing
left but a sack of rice-flour, and no manner of cooking I had heard or invented
contrived to make it eatable. A column of recipes for making delicious
preparations of it had been going the rounds of Confederate papers. I tried
them all; they resulted only in brick-bats, or sticky paste. H–– sallied out on
a hunt for provisions, and when he returned the disproportionate quantity of
the different articles obtained provoked a smile. There was a hogshead of
sugar, a barrel of sirup, ten pounds of bacon and peas, four pounds of
wheat-flour, and a small sack of com-meal, a little vinegar, and actually some
spice! The wheat-flour he purchased for ten dollars as a special favor from the
sole remaining barrel for sale. We decided that must be kept for sickness. The
sack of meal, he said, was a case of corruption, through a special providence
to us. There is no more for sale at any price, but, said he, “a soldier who was
hauling some of the Government sacks to the hospital offered me this for five
dollars, if I could keep a secret. When the meal is exhausted perhaps we can
keep alive on sugar. Here are some wax candles; hoard them like gold.” He
handed me a parcel containing about two pounds of candles, and left me to
arrange my treasures. It would be hard for me to picture the memories those
candles called up. The long years melted away, and I
“Trod again my
childhood's track
And felt its very
gladness.”
In those childish days, whenever came dreams of household
splendor or festal rooms or gay illuminations, the lights in my vision were
always wax candles burning with a soft radiance that enchanted every scene. * *
* And, lo! here on this spring day of '63, with war raging through the land, I
was in a fine house, and had my wax candles sure enough, but, alas! they were
neither cerulean blue nor rose-tinted, but dirty brown; and when I lighted one,
it spluttered and wasted like any vulgar tallow thing, and lighted only a
desolate scene in the vast handsome room. They were not so good as the waxen
rope we had made in Arkansas. So, with a long sigh for the dreams of youth, I
return to the stern present in this besieged town, my only consolation to
remember the old axiom, “A city besieged is a city taken,” — so if we live
through it we shall be out of the Confederacy. H–– is very tired of having to
carry a pass around in his pocket and go every now and then to have it renewed.
We have been so very free in America, these restrictions are irksome.
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. 769-70
