[i]

[ii]

[iii]

A DIARY FROM
DIXIE, written by

MARY BOYKIN CHESNUT, wife of James Chesnut Jr., United States Senator from South
Carolina, 1859-1861, and later an aide
to Jefferson Davis and a Brigadier General
in the Confederate Army

Edited by
Isabella D. Martin and
Myrta Lockett
Avary

NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND CO. 1906

[iv]

Copyright, 1905, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published March 1905

[v]

[x]

[xi]

[xiii]

In Mrs. Chesnut’s Diary, there are vivid depictions of the social life that continued without pause during the war; of the economic conditions caused by blockaded ports; of how the people's spirits fluctuated with each victory or defeat, and of the significant events that occurred in Charleston, Montgomery, and Richmond. However, the Diary is important for reasons beyond just the interest found in these depictions.

Mrs. Chesnut was nearly forty when the war started, so she had experienced the most dramatic events leading up to it. In this Diary, perhaps like no other work about the war, you’ll find the Southern spirit of that time captured in words that are not just beautifully written but also genuinely human in their naturalness and delightful honesty. Her words are completely unfiltered, avoiding any deliberate, academic, or purely intellectual tone. They feel so authentic that they resonate deeply. Even the most steadfast Northern reader can hardly remain untouched by their heartfelt sincerity, even though they carry that old Southern passion that overwhelmed McDowell's army at Bull Run.

In clarifying the unyielding determination of the South and the harsh conditions under which the war was fought, the Diary holds additional significance. At the beginning, there wasn't a Southern leader, based on Mrs. Chesnut’s accounts of her conversations with them, who believed that the South would ultimately win, assuming the North could tap into its full resources. However, the South managed to instill fear in many hearts and raised serious hopes that two major European powers would acknowledge its independence. The South continued to fight as long as it had any soldiers who could fight, and ultimately “robbed the cradle and the grave.” The only option left was to “wait for another generation to grow up.” The North, regarding its supply of fighting-age men, had barely scratched the surface, while the South was essentially worn out when the war was half over.

Unlike the South, the North never faced such extremes that required the wives of Cabinet officers and commanding generals to meet in Washington hotels and private drawing rooms to knit heavy socks for soldiers who otherwise would have bare feet. Scenes like this were common in Richmond, where Mrs. Chesnut often joined in. Northerner women from well-off backgrounds weren’t forced to wear rough, poorly fitting shoes made by Black cobblers, with the only option being to go without shoes entirely. Gold might rise to 2.80 in the North, but there came a time in the South when you needed a thousand dollars in paper money just to buy a kitchen utensil that could have been bought for less than a dollar in gold before the war. Long before the conflict ended, it was a common saying in the South that “when you go to market, you take your money in your basket and bring your purchases home in your pocket.”

In the North, in contrast to these facts, prices included butter at 50 cents a pound and flour at $12 a barrel. People in the North actually prospered with high prices. Villages and small towns, as well as major cities, had plenty of their “wealthy bondholders,” while farmers everywhere[xv] managed to pay off their mortgages and save money as well. In the South, planters were borrowing money to keep their workers idle at home while they were fighting on the front lines. Old Colonel Chesnut, the author’s father-in-law, estimated in April 1862 that he had already lost half a million in bank stocks and railroad bonds. By the end of the war, he had borrowed large amounts himself and was owed even more by others, so he doubted that either side would ever be able to pay off their debts.

Mrs. Chesnut wrote her Diary daily, depending on her mood or any events happening at the moment. The changing fortunes of war meant she moved around almost as often as the seasons did, but she kept up with her Diary no matter where she was. She started writing in Charleston when the Convention was passing the Ordinance of Secession. From there, she went to Montgomery, Alabama, where the Confederacy was formed and Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as President. She attended receptions where she sat on sofas with Davis, Stephens, Toombs, Cobb, or Hunter, discussing what might happen if war broke out, recording in her Diary what she heard from others and her own thoughts. When she returned to Charleston, she witnessed her husband, in a small boat, delivering the ultimatum from the Governor of South Carolina to Major Anderson, and from a rooftop, she saw the first act of war during the bombardment of Fort Sumter. Over the next four years, Mrs. Chesnut mainly split her time between Columbia and Richmond. She also spent shorter periods at the Fauquier White Sulphur Springs in Virginia, Flat Rock in North Carolina, Portland in Alabama (her mother's home), Camden and Chester in South Carolina, and Lincolnton in North Carolina.

In all these places, Mrs. Chesnut was closely connected with men and women who were leaders in the[xvi] social, military, and political scene of the South. The people featured in her writings indeed create a list of the heroes of the Confederacy—President Jefferson Davis, Vice-President Alexander H. Stephens, General Robert E. Lee, General “Stonewall” Jackson, General Joseph E. Johnston, General Pierre G. T. Beauregard, General Wade Hampton, General Joseph B. Kershaw, General John B. Hood, General John S. Preston, General Robert Toombs, R. M. T. Hunter, Judge Louis T. Wigfall, and many others that you can almost hear their names being called out. This claim is not exaggerated, as can be seen from a look at the index, which has been created to include all the important names mentioned in the text.

As her Diary constantly shows, Mrs. Chesnut was a woman of society in the best sense. She had a love for companionship, sharp wit, a keen mind, knowledge of books, and a deep understanding of people's motivations. She was also a remarkable homemaker, very much into hospitality; and her heart was warm and tender, as those who knew her well can attest.

Mary Boykin Miller, born on March 31, 1823, was the daughter of Stephen Decatur Miller, a notable figure in South Carolina's public affairs. Mr. Miller was elected to Congress in 1817, became Governor in 1828, and was selected as a United States Senator in 1830. He was a strong supporter of the Nullification movement. In 1833, due to health issues, he resigned from the Senate and soon after moved to Mississippi, where he worked in cotton planting until his death in March 1838.

His daughter, Mary, married James Chesnut, Jr. on April 23, 1840, when she was just seventeen. After that, she mostly lived at Mulberry, near Camden, one of several plantations owned by her father-in-law. A charming picture of the domestic life at Mulberry has been passed down to us, preserved in an old scrapbook and written a few years before the war:

James Chesnut, Jr. was the son and heir of Colonel James Chesnut, whose wife was Mary Coxe from Philadelphia. Mary Coxe's sister married the prominent Philadelphia lawyer Horace Binney. James Chesnut, Jr. was born in 1815 and graduated from Princeton. For fourteen years, he served in the South Carolina legislature, and in January 1859, he was appointed to fill a vacancy in the United States Senate. In November 1860, just before South Carolina was set to secede, he resigned from the Senate and became actively involved in the Southern cause, first as an aide to General Beauregard, then as an aide to President Davis, and finally as a brigadier general of reserves in charge of the South Carolina coast.

General Chesnut was involved in public life in South Carolina after the war, as much as the conditions of Reconstruction allowed, and in 1868 he represented the state as a delegate at the national convention that nominated Horatio Seymour for President. He passed away at Sarsfield on February 1, 1885. Someone who knew him well wrote:

The Chesnuts settled in South Carolina at the end of the war with France, but they originally lived on the Virginia frontier. Their home in Virginia was attacked by French forces and Native Americans, and during an expedition to Fort Duquesne, the father was killed. John Chesnut moved from Virginia to South Carolina soon after and served as a captain in the Revolution. His son James, known as the “Old Colonel,” was educated at Princeton, was actively involved in public affairs in South Carolina, and became very successful as a planter. He lived until after the War, reaching his nineties when the conflict ended. In a beautiful sketch of him in one of the final pages of this Diary, there is a passage that reads: “Colonel Chesnut, now ninety-three, blind and deaf, is apparently as strong as ever, and certainly as resolute of will. Partly patriarch, partly grand seigneur, this old man is of a type we will not see again; the last of a lineage of wealthy planters who once ruled this Southern world, but now a magnificent remnant.”

Three miles from Camden, Mulberry still stands. During one of the raids by Sherman's troops early in 1865, the house narrowly escaped destruction, almost by chance. The picture of it in this book comes from a recent photograph. It has changed a lot since the days when the household staff and dependents numbered between sixty and seventy, and its owner was the lord of a thousand slaves. After the war, Mulberry was no longer the author's home; she and General Chesnut built another house that they named Sarsfield. An illustration of Sarsfield is included, and it still stands in the pine lands not far from Mulberry. Bloomsbury, another of old Colonel Chesnut’s plantation houses, survived Sherman’s march and is now the[xxi] home of David R. Williams, Jr. and his wife Ellen Manning, whose children play in its halls as grandchildren of the author’s sister Kate. Other Chesnut plantations included Cool Spring, Knight’s Hill, The Hermitage, and Sandy Hill.

The Diary, as it currently exists in forty-eight slim volumes of small quarto size, is entirely in Mrs. Chesnut’s handwriting. She originally wrote it on what was called "Confederate paper," but later transcribed it. When Richmond was at risk or when Sherman was approaching, she buried it or hid it in some way from the enemy. Sometimes it shared its hiding spot with family silver or a drinking cup that had been given to General Hood by the ladies of Richmond. Mrs. Chesnut enjoyed adding current newspaper reports of campaigns and battles, or lists of the killed and wounded, on blank pages of the Diary. One such item, a newspaper "extra," published in Chester, S.C., announcing Lincoln's assassination, is included in this volume.

Mrs. Chesnut, through oral and written wishes, gave the Diary to her friend whose name appears in the signatures of this Introduction. In the Diary, there are hints of Mrs. Chesnut’s hope that this work would eventually be published, but at the time of her passing, it didn’t seem wise to go ahead with publication for quite a while. The pages, now yellowed with age, have only suffered a little damage over the years—just a few corners are broken and frayed, as shown in one of the pages included here in facsimile.

In the summer of 1904, the woman responsible for preparing the Diary for publication went South to gather material for another project following her book, A Virginia Girl in the Civil War. Her research took her to Columbia, where, while staying with Miss Martin, she discovered the existence of the Diary. Soon after, an agreement was made with her publishers in which the Diary's owner and she decided to condense[xxii] and revise the manuscript for publication. The Diary was deemed too lengthy for full reproduction, with some parts being of personal or local interest rather than universal appeal. Editing the book also required adding a significant number of footnotes so that the individuals named, or events mentioned, could be better understood by today's readers.

Mrs. Chesnut was a notable example of a well-born and refined woman who, with genuine compassion and relentless courage, supported the Southern cause. Growing up during the rise of Nullification and receiving an education that honed her natural literary talents, she discovered in the turmoil of a significant armed conflict the inspiration that brought her unwavering loyalty to life through her writing, reflecting her dedication to a political belief that had become a religion in South Carolina.

Many men have shared stories about the Civil War, and a few women have penned significant accounts of it; but none have provided a record as vibrant as hers, or one as deeply sincere. Every line in this Diary resonates with intense spiritual emotion and reflects the brilliant mind and indomitable spirit of the woman who wrote it.

Isabella D. Martin,
Myrta Lockett Avary.

[1]

Charleston, S. C., November 8, 1860.—Yesterday on the train, just before we got to Fernandina, a woman shouted, “That settles it.” Tanny tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Lincoln won.” “How do you know?” “That guy over there has a telegram.”

The excitement was huge. Everyone was talking at once. One person, a bit more emotional than the rest, stood up and said sadly: “The decision has been made; no more pointless regrets; worrying is pointless; it’s a matter of life or death.” “Can you believe it!” was the common reaction, and someone shouted: “Now that the radical Republicans are in charge, I guess they’ll destroy us all.” No doubt about it.

I’ve always kept a journal in my own way, with dates and a line of poetry or prose, just some quotes that I understood but no one else did. I’ve also saved letters and snippets from newspapers. From today on, I’m going to tell the story my way. I really wish I had a record of the two wonderful and eventful years that just went by. Those good times have passed, and it’s so overwhelming to think about all the events that have piled up since then. Just like the woman’s notes in her journal, we’ve had “earthquakes, as usual”—daily shocks.

[2]

At Fernandina, I saw young guys raising a Palmetto flag and shouting a bit early, “South Carolina has seceded!” I was thrilled to see Florida so supportive, but Tanny told me the young men were Gadsdens, Porchers, and Gourdins,[2] names that are just as uniquely South Carolinian as Moses and Lazarus are Jewish.

From my window, I can hear a powerful flow of eloquence. Bartow and a group from Savannah are having dinner in the dining room below. The sounds of speaking and cheering are pretty tough on a tired traveler. Suddenly, I found myself listening with enjoyment. The voice, tone, mood, sentiment, and language were all spot on. I sent Tanny to find out who was speaking. He returned saying, “Mr. Alfred Huger, the former postmaster.” He might not have been the smartest or funniest person there, but he definitely gave the best after-dinner speech.

December 10th.—We went to the Mulberry Plantation with Colonel Colcock and Judge Magrath, who were sent to Columbia by their fellow citizens in the low country to speed up the sluggish progress of the leaders gathered in the State Capital. Their message was, they said: “Move forward, dissolve the Union, and get it over with, or it will be worse for you. The pressure is on.” And still, people say the politicians are in charge! Everywhere I've been, people have been expressing frustration about the slow and unenthusiastic public leaders.

Judge Magrath is a local celebrity who has been hung in effigy across the street, showing him ripping off his robes. The painting is brightly colored, the canvas is enormous, and the rope is barely noticeable. He's portrayed with a face filled with conflicting emotions—anger, disgust, and contempt. We agreed that the time[3] had finally arrived. We had talked so much before. Let the fire-eaters settle it. Massachusetts and South Carolina are always stepping into the spotlight.

As a woman, I find it easy to be brave while dealing with other people's emotions; so I said: “Fight it out. Bluffton[3] has caused a problem that only drastic measures will fix.” My friends were full of anger and frustration, but I’d bet they were enjoying my distress because, no matter how much I talked, I couldn’t hide it.

At Kingsville, we ran into James Chesnut, just back from Columbia, where he had stepped down from his seat in the United States Senate the day before. Someone spitefully remarked, “Mrs. Chesnut doesn’t look resigned at all.” For once in her life, Mrs. Chesnut kept quiet: she was speechless. In the overly dramatic way that seems to have become trendy lately, she was dedicating her life to the cause.

We’ve taken a short break. The men who are all, like Pickens, "insensible to fear," are very aware when it comes to smallpox. With an outbreak of smallpox in Columbia, they’ve moved to Charleston. In Camden, we were busy and frantic with excitement, drilling, marching, arming, and wearing bright blue cockades. Red sashes, guns, and swords were common sights around the house. We were so wild that I saw a woman at a big home-guard parade, the wife of a man who claims to be a secessionist per se, driving around to watch the drilling of this new company, even though her father was buried the day before.

Edward J. Pringle writes to me from San Francisco on November 30th: “I see that Mr. Chesnut has resigned[4] and that South Carolina is quickly moving towards a Convention, possibly for secession. Mr. Chesnut will probably be the President of the Convention. It seems like all the leaders in the State support secession. But honestly, I hope the Republicans take notice and propose some peace treaty that will allow us to settle this issue once and for all, saving our generation from the collapse of business and the decline of prosperity that will affect both the North and South due to a split in the Union. However, I won’t make any predictions. By the time this reaches you, South Carolina may already be going off on her own—a separate republic.”

December 21st.—Mrs. Charles Lowndes was sitting with us today when Mrs. Kirkland brought in a copy of the Secession Ordinance. I wonder if my face turned as pale as hers. After a moment, she said, “God help us. As our day, so shall our strength be.” We were so grateful for her heartfelt words! They say I should take my last look at this beautiful place, Combahee. It's on the coast, exposed to gunboats.

We are serious this time because of this gathering of the important people, this convention.[5] It includes all our smartest and best. They genuinely have made an effort to bring in the most capable and honorable individuals. South Carolina has never been represented better. Putting patriotism aside, it makes society enjoyable. There's no reason to regret leaving Washington.

December 27th.—Mrs. Gidiere came home quietly from her shopping today, and in her neat, straightforward manner dropped this surprising news: “Major Anderson[6] has moved into[5] Fort Sumter, while Governor Pickens slept peacefully.” The situation is escalating quickly. State after State is taking control of its forts and defenses. They say that if we had been left alone in our isolation, we might have sulked for a bit, but eventually we would have had to return to the fold and simply would have fretted and fumed and argued among ourselves. We needed a little healthy neglect. Anderson has disrupted that plan, but now our sister States have rallied, and we are strong. Here’s the gist of the conversation: “Anderson has united the cotton States. Now let’s go for Virginia!” “Anderson has initiated the conflict.” Those who want a fight are thrilled, while those who fear it are gloomy and contemplative.

A letter from Susan Rutledge: “Captain Humphrey folded the United States Army flag just before dinner. Ours was raised in its place. You know the Arsenal is in sight. What’s the next move? I pray God to guide us. We need wise advice; something more than just courage. The chatter is: ‘Fort Sumter must be taken; and it’s one of the strongest forts.’ How on earth are they planning to manage that? I dread to think of hasty decisions.”

[6]

Montgomery, Ala., February 19, 1861.—The newly formed Confederacy is creating or revising its Constitution. Everyone wants Mr. Davis to be General-in-Chief or President. Keitt, Boyce, and a group preferred Howell Cobb[7] for President. And the extremists per se wanted Barnwell Rhett.

My brother Stephen brought the officers of the “Montgomery Blues” over for dinner. “Very dirty Blues,” they said, apologizing for how rough they looked. Poor guys! They had spent a month in front of Fort Pickens without being allowed to attack. They mentioned that Colonel Chase built it, so they were sure it was unbeatable. Colonel Lomax sent a telegram to Governor Moore[8] asking if he could try to take it, “Chase or no Chase,” and got the response, “No.” “And now,” said the Blues, “we've worked like dogs, and when the fun and fighting start, they send us home and bring in the regulars[7].” They have a massive amount of gunpowder. The wheel of the cart carrying it caught fire. That was a close call! We’re packing a hamper of food for them.

I’m feeling down again. If I believed them before because they initially showed their best side, what about now? We have to face huge challenges with bravery, effort, enthusiasm, energy, and the toughest endurance, along with military instincts. We’ve needed to pick strong leaders who can earn love and trust. Political intrigue is everywhere, just like in Washington.

Cecil’s remark about Sir Walter Raleigh that he could “work incredibly hard” was striking. Above all, the people who are going to save South Carolina need to be young and energetic. While I was thinking about what kind of people we should choose, I came across Clarendon, and it was simple to visualize my ideal from his portraits. What has happened can happen again, so the men don’t have to be purely ideal types.

Mr. Toombs[9] shared a story about General Scott and himself. He said he was having dinner in Washington with Scott, who seasoned every dish and every glass of wine with the constant refrain, “Save the Union; the Union must be preserved.” Toombs noted that he understood why the Union meant so much to the General and illustrated his point with a steamboat story—an explosion, of course. While the passengers were struggling in the water, a woman ran up and down the bank yelling, “Oh, save the red-headed[8] man!” The red-headed man was rescued, and his savior, after bringing him to safety, noticed with surprise how little concern the woman who had made such a heartfelt plea seemed to have. He asked her, “Why did you cry out like that?” She replied, “Oh, he owes me ten thousand dollars.” “Now, General,” said Toombs, “the Union owes you seventeen thousand dollars a year!” I can picture the scorn on old Scott’s face.

February 25th.—I see everyone working very hard here. As I drifted off on the sofa last night, I could hear the scratch, scratch of my husband’s pen as he wrote at the table until midnight.

After church today, Captain Ingraham stopped by. He made me feel really uncomfortable. He had the nerve to say he regretted having to leave the United States Navy. He had been stationed in the Mediterranean, where he enjoyed being, and expected to stay there for two years, taking his beautiful daughters to Florence. Then came Abraham Lincoln, along with a surge of black Republicanism, and now he has to sacrifice his life for South Carolina. Still, he doesn't complain. He says we lack everything we need in naval equipment to retake Fort Sumter. Of course, he only expects the navy to handle that. He feels out of place here. He's one of the best sea captains, so I guess they'll give him a ship soon and send him back to where he belongs.

At dinner, Judge —— was openly critical of Congress. He said, “They’ve disregarded the Constitution. They’ve given President Davis a house.” He was appalled by the ridiculousness of showcasing the President at the inauguration in a carriage pulled by four white horses. Then someone mentioned that Mrs. Fitzpatrick was the only woman who sat with Congress. After the inauguration, she poked Jeff Davis in the back with her parasol so he would turn and talk to her. “I’m sure that was pretty democratic,” said someone.

Governor Moore arrived with the latest news—a telegram[9] from Governor Pickens to the President, saying, “A war ship is off the Charleston bar loaded with reinforcements for Fort Sumter, so what should we do?” The answer: “Use your own judgment!” There’s trust for you, after everything is said and done. People believe there’s still some judgment left in South Carolina that's ready to be used.

Everybody who comes here wants an office, and the many who, of course, are disappointed raise a cry of corruption against the few who succeed. I thought we had left all that behind in Washington. No one is willing to be out of the spotlight, and everyone wants to take a position.

“Constitution” Browne says he’s heading to Washington for twenty-four hours. I plan to send a request with him to Mary Garnett for a bonnet ribbon. If they label him a traitor, he could spark a civil war. War is our biggest fear right now. Mr. Chesnut advised him not to make himself a point of conflict.

Everybody plans to join the army. If Sumter is attacked, Jeff Davis will have serious problems. The Judge says a military dictatorship would be best for us—anything to stop the Yankees from winning. That’s fine, but every man wants to be the only one in charge.

Mr. Chesnut, in great spirits, is having dinner today with the Louisiana delegation. He had breakfast with “Constitution” Browne, who has been appointed Assistant Secretary of State, so he isn’t going to Washington. At the table was the guy who put out an ad to find a wife, and the wife he got from it. She wasn’t attractive. We’re having dinner at Mr. Pollard’s and then going to a ball at Judge Bibb’s afterward. The New York Herald reports that Lincoln stood in front of Washington’s portrait at his inauguration, which people took as a positive sign. We’re always desperate for a good sign. Let’s hope a Caesar or a Napoleon comes our way. That would be our best sign of success. But they still say, “No war.” May it be peace, kind Heaven!

Dr. De Leon called, just back from Washington, and says[10] General Scott is using all his power and influence to stop Southern officers from resigning their commissions, even promising that they won’t be sent against us in case of war. Captain Ingraham, in his usual blunt manner, said: “That won't work. If they take their government’s pay, they have to do its fighting.”

A fantastic dinner at the Pollards'. Mr. Barnwell[10] took me there. Came home and found the Judge and Governor Moore waiting to go with me to the Bibbs'. And they say it's boring in Montgomery! Clayton, just back from Washington, was at the party and told us “there was going to be peace.”

February 28th.—In the living room, a literary woman launched a fierce attack on that troublemaking South Carolina. She claimed to be a successful writer in today’s magazines, but when I heard her use “incredible” instead of “incredulous,” I didn’t say a word in defense of my home state. I just left her “incredible.” Another person came in while she was unloading her personal problems on me and asked if she didn’t know I was from Carolina. At that point, she skillfully changed her tune and started praising us, but I still found her incredible and remained incredulous myself.

Brewster says the war spots are getting bigger. Nobody in the North or Virginia believes we’re serious. They think we’re just sulking and that Jeff Davis and Stephens[11] are putting on a nice little show. The[11] Virginia delegates were insulted at the peace conference; Brewster said they were "kicked out."

The Judge considered Jefferson Davis disrespectful toward him when Davis was Secretary of War. Mr. Chesnut convinced the Judge to set aside his personal grievance for the greater good, and so he voted for him, but now his old resentment has returned with even more intensity. What a shame to carry the grudges of the old Union into this new one! It seems to me that people are already willing to jeopardize our cause if it means they can hurt Jeff Davis in the process.

March 1st.—Had dinner today with Mr. Hill[12] from Georgia and his wife. After he left, she told me he was the famous person who, due to his Christian beliefs, refused to duel with Stephens.[13] She seemed really proud of him for his stance in that situation. Being as clueless as I am, I hadn't heard about it. I'm having all sorts of experiences. Today, I drove with a lady who really wished her husband would go to Pensacola and get shot. I was totally shocked, of course. When I shared this with someone who knew the people involved, they told me, “Don’t you know he beats her?” So I've seen a man “who lifts his hand against a woman in anything but kindness.”

[12]

Brewster says Lincoln went through Baltimore in disguise and at night, which was smart because Baltimore is pretty risky right now. He says he hears from everywhere that the uncouthness of Lincoln, his wife, and his son is hard to believe—something you really have to see to get. Senator Stephen A. Douglas told Mr. Chesnut that “Lincoln is really sharp, and that he found him quite a handful.”

Went to pay my respects to Mrs. Jefferson Davis. She welcomed me with open arms. We didn’t mention anything about our surroundings. We avoided politics and our altered relationships.

March 3rd.—Everyone is in great spirits in my world. They have all spoken in Congress[14] to their complete satisfaction. To my surprise, the Judge took me aside and, after giving a speech about how great he is (but here’s where the surprise comes in), he praised my husband highly and said he was the best person for a foreign mission. Yes; and the farther away they send us from this Congress, the better I’ll like it.

Saw Jere Clemens and Nick Davis, social oddballs. They are Anti-Secession leaders; then there are George Sanders and George Deas. The Georges believe it's foolish to try to take back Fort Sumter from Anderson and the United States; that is, before we’re truly prepared. They saw in Charleston the dedicated group ready for the sacrifice; I mean, prepared to run headfirst into a brick wall. They are daredevils. They have plenty of flair and enough courage, but only strategy could take that fort. They shook their heads.

March 4th.—The Washington Congress has passed peace[13] measures. Thank God (as my Irish Margaret used to start every comment, whether important or trivial).

At last, as he wanted, I was able to introduce Mr. Hill from Georgia to Mr. Mallory,[15] and also Governor Moore and Brewster, who is the only person I know in this democratic, divided republic without some kind of title.

I saw a Black woman sold at an auction block. She towered over the crowd. As I walked, I started to feel faint and nauseous. She resembled my dear little Nancy, a bright mulatto with a cheerful face. She was dressed beautifully in silks and satins. She seemed to be enjoying it all, sometimes flirting with the bidders, sometimes appearing quiet, shy, and modest, but her mouth never lost its wide grin of excitement. I can only imagine the poor woman knew who would buy her. I sat down on a stool in a shop and tried to calm my racing thoughts. I approached it in a Sterne-like way. You know how women sell themselves and are sold in marriage, from queens on down, right? You know what the Bible says about slavery and marriage; poor women! poor slaves! Sterne, with his starling—what did he really understand? He just thought, he didn’t feel.

In Evan Harrington I read: “Like a true English woman, she believed in her own unwavering virtue, but never trusted her husband when he was out of her sight.”

The New York Herald says: “Lincoln's carriage isn't bomb-proof, so he doesn't go out.” Two flags and a bundle of sticks have been sent to him as gentle reminders. The sticks are meant to hit us with. The English are overly upset about our family dispute. How generous of them, since it's their chance.

[14]

March 5th.—We stood on the balcony to watch our Confederate flag rise. There were cannon blasts, etc., etc. Miss Sanders complained (according to Captain Ingraham) about the lack of excitement in the crowd. “It was completely lifeless,” she said; “there was hardly any cheering and no enthusiasm at all.” Captain Ingraham suggested that gentlemen “tend to be quiet,” and that this was “a contemplative crowd; the real mob element with us right now is out hoeing corn.” And yet! It's unsettling that people think we have no joy or pride in this. The band was playing “Massa in the cold, cold ground.” Miss Tyler, the daughter of the former President of the United States, raised the flag.

Captain Ingraham took some verses out of his pocket that a girl from Boston had sent him. They were nicely rhymed and conveyed this: she was ready to hang him, even though she cried when she thought about his heroic rescue of Koszta. Koszta, the rebel! She calls us rebels, too. It all depends on who you’re rebelling against—whether saving someone is considered heroic or not.

I have to read Lincoln’s inaugural. Oh, “does he come in peace, or does he come in war, or to tread just one dance like Young Lochinvar?” Lincoln’s goal is to win over the border States.

The locals, I mean, are shocked that I confidently say, honestly and straightforwardly, that if there were terrible things in Washington's society, I didn’t see or hear about them. You must have been really hard to please if you didn't like the people I met in Washington.

Mr. Chesnut has gone to the President with a list of names—de Treville, Kershaw, Baker, and Robert Rutledge. They are out for a walk, I see. I hope there will be good positions in the army for our list.

March 8th.—Judge Campbell,[16] of the United States[15] Supreme Court, has stepped down. Wow! He must have really hated to do that. Just like other men who are resigning from important roles must really dread it.

Now we can be sure the bridge is broken. And yet in the Alabama Convention, they say there are plenty of Reconstructionists who are hard at work.

Met a distinguished guy I remembered from when he was doing much better financially. I was more than willing to chat with him, but when he spotted me coming over, he quickly ducked around a corner—William, Mrs. de Saussure’s old coachman. I recall him up on his box, driving a beautiful pair of bay horses, dressed elegantly in blue broadcloth and brass buttons; a stout, respectable, good-looking middle-aged mulatto. He acted very high and mighty.

Night after night, we would meet him as the lead fiddler at all our parties. He sat with a serious expression, making faces while he played, and tapping his foot with such force that it shook the floor. We paid him five dollars each night; that was his rate. His girlfriend never said no to him playing for any party. He had plenty of young stablehands. He was well above any physical fear for his well-groomed and well-fed self. How majestically he tapped his foot as a signal that he was warmed up and ready to start!

Now he is truly a pathetic figure. He must have felt the weight of his lost fortune when he ran into me—someone who knew him when he was doing well. This once proud yellow gentleman ran away from his wife and kids, from home and comfort. My Molly asked him, “Why? Miss Liza was good to you, I know.” I wonder who he belongs to now; he looked so miserable.

Governor Moore brought in the President of the Alabama Convention to introduce him to me. It turns out I knew him from before; he had danced with me at a dancing school ball when I was a little girl, wearing a dress with a sash, flounces, and a wreath of roses. He was one of those bright boys from our neighborhood who my father believed had a lot of potential, so he supported him in every way he could—providing books, advice, and encouragement. I was really enjoying our conversation because he was praising my father without holding back when the Judge walked in, clearly furious. Congress has made him very unhappy. We’re criticizing each other as passionately as we used to criticize Yankees. It’s really discouraging.

March 10th.—Mrs. Childs came by tonight (Mary Anderson, from Statesburg), along with several kids. She’s beautiful. Her hair is styled in a unique way on top of her head. Fashion trends from France still make their way into Texas through Mexico. Mrs. Childs has just arrived from Texas. Her husband is or was an artillery officer. They’ll be happy to promote him here. Mrs. Childs has the sweetest Southern voice; it’s pure music. But she also has the lively spirit of those sweet-voiced Carolina women.

Then Mr. Browne came in with his charming English accent, so pleasant to listen to. He tells us that the social scene in Washington isn't on board with the Yankee regime. Mrs. Lincoln plans to cut costs. She immediately told the head servant that they were short on money and aimed to save twelve thousand dollars each year from their twenty-thousand-dollar salary. Mr. Browne mentioned that Mr. Buchanan's farewell was much more impressive than Lincoln's inauguration.

The people were so entertaining, so full of Western stories.[17] Dr. Boykin was acting weird. All day, he had been happily driving around with us, and no one seemed happier than he was. Tonight, in this lively company, he sat completely still as if he was in a daze. At one point, he came to a little—when a high-ranking official entered with a gift for me, a miniature gondola. “A perfect Venetian specimen,” he kept assuring me. In a quiet voice, Dr. Boykin muttered, “That guy has been drinking.” “Why do you think that?” “Because he's repeated the same thing four times.” Amazing! Some of these big politicians always tell me the same thing—and have been doing so since we arrived here.

A man walked in, and someone said quietly, "The age of chivalry isn’t over, you Americans!" "What do you mean?" "That guy was once nominated by President Buchanan for a foreign mission, but a Senator stood up and read a document written by this man that was disrespectful to a woman, and it had his full name on it. After that, the Senate refused to support him; his opportunity was lost for good."

March 11th.—Tonight, in a full gathering, the drawing-room was packed with judges, governors, senators, generals, and congressmen. They were praising John C. Calhoun’s hospitality. He welcomed anyone who wanted to stay overnight at his home. On one occasion, a rude guest refused to join the family for prayers. Mr. Calhoun told the servant, “Saddle that guy’s horse and let him leave.” He wouldn't accept any excuses from the traveler for the “Deity offended.” I believe in Mr. Calhoun’s hospitality, but not in his family prayers. By all accounts, Mr. Calhoun’s piety was of the most philosophical kind.[18]

The latest news is considered good news; the last person who left Washington tells us that Seward is on the rise. He is seen as a friend of peace.[18] The person did mention, though, that “that snake Seward is on the rise right now.”

Harriet Lane has eleven suitors. One is thought to be a strong contender, or he would be, except that he has too much baggage. He’s been married before and comes with children and two ex-wives. There are boundaries to consider! Two mothers-in-law!

Mr. Ledyard talked to Mrs. Lincoln about a doorkeeper who felt he had a right to the position since he had been there since Jackson’s era; but he received the same response—she had brought her own girl and needed to save money. Mr. Ledyard believed that the twenty thousand (which is hardly enough) was given to the President of the United States to support a proper lifestyle and to maintain an establishment that reflects the dignity of the leader of a great nation. It's disgraceful to skimp on public funds and line one's own pockets. Mrs. Browne was walking with me as we expressed our outrage towards Mrs. Lincoln and her stingy ways. The Herald says only three of the élite Washington families attended the Inauguration Ball.

The Judge just walked in and said, “Last night, after Dr. Boykin took off on the train, we got a telegram that his little daughter, Amanda, died suddenly.” He must have sensed it somehow ahead of time. He changed so drastically yesterday and looked really stressed and upset. He believes in clairvoyance, magnetism, and all that stuff. It definitely seems like he had an awful feeling about this.

Tuesday.—So they say for sure: “Fort Sumter is going to be freed and we’re not having a war.” Honestly, that sounds too good to be true. Mr. Browne told us that, during one of the peace breaks (I mean breaks for the sake of peace), Lincoln rushed through Baltimore, locked up in an express car. He was wearing a Scottish cap.

We attended Congress. Governor Cobb, who leads that esteemed body, appointed James Chesnut as chair and came to speak with us. He explained why Congress members' salaries are determined in a private session and why the specific amount is never disclosed—to stop hotels and lodges from increasing their prices to match it. “The bill would definitely reflect the salary,” he said.

In the hotel lounge, we had quite a scene. Mrs. Scott was describing Lincoln, who is the quintessential clever New England type. She said, “Really ugly, almost grotesque in appearance, the kind you always see at the corner stores, sitting on crates, whittling sticks, and telling stories that are as funny as they are crude.” I chimed in, “But Stephen A. Douglas once told Mr. Chesnut, ‘Lincoln is the toughest guy to deal with I’ve ever met.’” Mr. Scott, who is from California, said Lincoln is “a true American example, rough, tough, and strong; a good-natured, kind person; as easy-going as he is smart, and if this country can be laughed out of its rights, he’s the kind-hearted guy to do it. Now, if there’s a war and it hits the Yankee wallet instead of filling it—”

Here, a piercing voice came from the next room (which was connected to the one we were in by wide-open folding doors) and said: “Yankees are no more cheap and selfish than you are. People in the North are just as good as people in the South.” The speaker marched towards us in a fury.

Mrs. Scott apologized and made a smooth, polite comment, though she seemed quite embarrassed. But the sour-faced woman with the curly hair wouldn’t accept it and said, “That doesn’t come off well after what you said,” and she lectured us loudly for several minutes. Someone in the other room burst out laughing, but we stayed silent. Nobody wanted to hurt her feelings. It was one against so many. If I were in the [20] North, I would expect them to attack us and would keep quiet. We separated North from South because of our different temperaments. We are divorced because we’ve loathed each other so much. If we could just separate, a “separation à l’agréable,” as the French say, and avoid a nasty divorce fight.

The poor exile had already been insulted, she said. She was playing “Yankee Doodle” on the piano before breakfast to soothe her hurt feelings, when the Judge walked in and calmly asked her to “leave out the Yankee while she played the Doodle.” The Yankee part didn’t fit our vibe, he said; it was completely out of place and had gotten out of its zone.

A man said loudly, “This talk about war is meaningless. It’ll pass soon enough. It’s just a stir created by that group in Charleston.” Mr. Toombs asked him to show his identification, because someone who says things like that is a questionable person.

[21]

Charleston, S. C., March 26, 1861.—I just got back from Mulberry, where the snow was a foot deep—winter finally arrived after months of what felt like May or June weather. Even the climate, like everything else, is turned upside down. But after that filthy and terrifying place, Montgomery Hall, how nice the white sheets looked, luxurious bed linens once again, and fresh cream with my coffee! I had breakfast in bed.

Dueling was common in Camden. William M. Shannon challenged Leitner. Rochelle Blair was Shannon’s second, and Artemus Goodwyn was Leitner’s. My husband was riding hard all day to stop the foolishness. Mr. Chesnut eventually resolved the issue. There was a court of honor, and no duel took place. Mr. Leitner had hit Mr. Shannon during a trial involving a Black person. That’s how the fight started. Everyone knows about it. We suggested that Judge Withers should arrest the fighters. Dr. Boykin and Joe Kershaw[19] helped Mr. Chesnut put an end to the unnecessary risk of life.

John Chesnut is quite a soft-hearted slave owner. He had two Black men arrested for selling whiskey to his people on his plantation and buying stolen corn from them. The guys in jail called for him. He found them (this snowy[22] weather) lying cold on a bare floor, and he thought that was punishment enough; they had already spent weeks like that. But they weren’t happy to evade justice and slip away. They begged him for (and got) five dollars to buy shoes to run away in. I said, “Well, this is just flat-out compounding a felony.” And Johnny put his hands in the armholes of his waistcoat and strutted majestically in front of me, saying, “Woman, what do you know about the law?”

Mrs. Reynolds stopped the carriage one day to tell me that Kitty Boykin was getting married to Savage Heyward. He already has ten children. These folks take pride in having a lot of kids, like the old Hebrews. This embodies the true spirit of colonization. There's no risk of overcrowding here, and more people are welcome. Old Colonel Chesnut[20] said one day, “Wife, you must feel that you haven’t been useless in your time. You now have twenty-seven great-grandchildren.”

Wednesday.—I've been overwhelmed by my own household staff. Some of them are at the plantation, some are working at the Camden hotel, and some are at Mulberry. They all agreed to come together and ask me to stay home to manage my own house again, “since I really shouldn’t have them scattered all over the place.” I hadn’t been in Camden for a month since 1858. So a house there would only benefit them, not me. I asked my cook if she needed anything from the plantation at the Hermitage. “Need anything?” she said, “I need everything. What do cornmeal, bacon, milk, and molasses mean? Would that be[23] all you wanted? Haven’t I been living and eating just like you all these years? When I cook for you, didn’t I get some of everything? See, now!” Then she doubled over laughing. They all shouted, “Missis, we’re eager for you to stay home.”

Armsted, my butler, said he hated the hotel. Besides, he heard a guy there talking badly about Marster, but Mr. Clyburne intervened and shut him down. Armsted wanted Marster to know that Mr. Clyburne was his friend and wouldn’t let anyone say anything behind his back about him, etc., etc. Stay in Camden? Not if I can help it. “Festers in provincial sloth”—that’s Tennyson’s way of putting it.

“We” came down here by train, as the English say. There was such a crowd of Convention men on board. John Manning[21] rushed in to ask me to save a seat for a young lady he was responsible for. “Place aux dames,” my husband said politely, and went off to find a seat elsewhere. As soon as we were on our way, Governor Manning returned and cheerfully sat down in the empty seat. After adjusting his umbrella and overcoat to his liking, he casually said, “I am the young lady.” He’s always been the most handsome man around (now that poor William Taber has been killed in a duel), and he can be quite charming; that is, when he wants to be. He doesn’t always want to be. It seemed like his little maneuver was mainly to warn me about potential trouble for my husband’s political career. “Every election now will be a surprise. New cliques aren’t formed yet. The old ones are mainly focused on replacing each other.” “But the Yankees—those dreadful Yankees!” “Oh,[24] don’t worry, we’re going to take care of the locals first! How would you feel about relaxing?—going back and minding your own business?” “If I only knew what that was—what my own business was.”

Our round table includes the Judge, Langdon Cheves,[22] Trescott,[23] and us. Here are four of the smartest guys we have, but they're very different from each other, as opposite in every way as the four points of the compass. Langdon Cheves and my husband share feelings and ideas. Mr. Petigru[24] called the brilliant Trescott: “He is a man without indignation.” Trescott and I find everything funny.

The Judge, from his time as a lawyer and then on the bench, has learned to expect the worst motives behind every action. His judgments about people and things are always so severe that they shock and repel even his closest friends. Today he said, “Your conversation reminds me of a flashy, second-rate novel.” “How?” “Because of the amount of French you throw in. Are you trying to keep us from understanding you?” “No,” said Trescott, “we’re using French against Africa. We know the black waiters are all ears right now, and we want to keep what we’re saying under wraps. We can’t afford to let them in on our thoughts, you know.”[25]

This explanation Trescott gave quickly and with many gestures toward the men standing behind us. Still speaking French, his apology was frustrating, so the Judge glared at him and, still furious, turned to talk with Mr. Cheves, who struggled to maintain a calm face.

On the Battery with the Rutledges, Captain Hartstein was introduced to me. He has done some heroic things—brought home some ships and is a notable figure. Later, he sent me a beautiful bouquet, which wasn’t nearly as stunning as Mr. Robert Gourdin’s bouquet, already taking pride of place on my center table. What a lovely, charming place Charleston is!

A woman (who will remain anonymous because of her story) came to see me today. Her husband has been on the Island with the troops for months. She just visited him. She intended to only stop by, but he convinced her to stay for two days. She brought him some clothes made from his old measurements. Now they are a mile too big. “So much for a hard life!” I said.

“No, no,” she said, “they’re all having a great time down there. He’s really gotten into it; he says it’s good for him, and he enjoys the lifestyle.” Then she opened up, even though it was her first time visiting me, a complete stranger. She hadn’t brought any clothes with her—forced into that situation like she was. But she made do; she tied her petticoat around her neck to use as a nightgown.

April 2nd.—Governor Manning joined us for breakfast. The others had already eaten hours ago. I stared at him in surprise, as he was dressed to the nines, all set for a ball, tailcoat and everything, at this hour. “What's going on with you?” “Nothing, I'm not crazy, most esteemed madam. I'm just on my way to the photographer. My wife wants me to have my picture taken like this.” He insisted that I come along, too,[26] and we ended up grabbing Mr. Chesnut and Governor Means.[25] Governor Means gave me a photo book, where I’m supposed to feature all the celebrities.

Doctor Gibbes says the Convention is all tangled up. It was called as a Secession Convention. A secession of places seems to be what it needs first of all. It hasn’t looked outward at the Yankees yet; its focus is still turned inward; self-reflection is what it's preoccupied with right now.

Last night, as I turned down the gas, I thought to myself: “This has definitely been one of the best days of my life.” I can only summarize it—so many enjoyable people, so much great conversation, because ultimately, it was all about talk, talk, talk à la Caroline du Sud. Yet, the day started off pretty gloomy. Mrs. Capers and Mrs. Tom Middleton picked me up, and we drove to Magnolia Cemetery. I saw William Taber’s broken column. It was tough to shake off the sadness after that cemetery visit.

The others were off at a dinner party. I had dinner tête-à-tête with Langdon Cheves, who was so quiet, so intelligent, and so sensible overall. There was never a nicer person or a better man than him. While we were at the table, Judge Whitner, Tom Frost, and Isaac Hayne arrived. They interrupted our fascinating conversation, as I was hearing about the fears of an honest and brave man for his country. Then the Rutledges came and took me away to drive on the Battery. On the staircase, I ran into Mrs. Izard, who had come for the same reason. On the Battery, Governor Adams[26] stopped us. He had heard me say he looked like Marshal Pelissier, and he came to tell me that finally I had made a personal comment that pleased him, for once in my life. When we got home, Mrs. Isaac Hayne and Chancellor Carroll stopped by to invite us to join their trip to the Island Forts tomorrow. With them was William Haskell. Last summer at the White Sulphur he was a pale, slim student from the university. Today he is a strong and robust soldier. A few months in camp, living outdoors, has worked this miracle. Camping out really does prove to be a healthy lifestyle after all. Then came those lovely, fresh, pure-looking Pringle girls. We had a delightful conversation topic—their clever brother Edward.

A letter from Eliza B., who is in Montgomery: “Mrs. Mallory received a letter from a woman in Washington a few days ago, saying that there had been several recent attempts at festivities in Washington, but they turned out to be complete failures. The Black Republicans were invited and attended, looking at their hosts and new Republican friends, appearing unhappy while claiming they were delighted, and not showing any irritation despite the barely contained complaints and grumbling from our friends, who found themselves stuck having to face their hated rivals.”

I got a letter from the Gwinns today. They say Washington is a perfect example of Goldsmith’s Deserted Village.

Celebrated my 38th birthday, but I'm too old now to focus on that unimportant anniversary. A long, dusty day ahead on those windy islands; never for me, so I got up early to write a note of apology to Chancellor Carroll. My husband went. I hope Anderson won’t give them the courtesy of a salute with loaded guns as they pass Fort Sumter, which they must do.

Here I am interrupted by a beautiful bouquet from the Rutledges. Are there roses like these anywhere else in the world? Now there’s a loud banging at my door. I get up in a huff and swing it wide open. “Oh!” said John Manning,[28] standing there, smiling brightly; “sorry about the noise I made. I got the number wrong; I thought this was Rice’s room; that’s my excuse. Now that I’m here, come on, go with us to Quinby’s. Everyone who isn’t at the Island will be there. Getting photographed is all the rage right now.”

We had a nice open carriage, and we stopped by to visit several people: Mrs. Izard, the Pringles, and the Rutledges on Tradd Street, with the charming former Governor hosting us gallantly. He had arranged dinner for six, and we had a private meal. If he can manage his strategy as well as he manages dinner, it will be just as beneficial for the country as it was for me today.

Fortunately for the men, the lovely Mrs. Joe Heyward sits at the next table, so they take her beauty as one of the blessings the gods offer. It makes life enjoyable with English grouse and venison from the West. Not to mention the salmon from the lakes that started the feast. They have me as an attentive listener, and Mrs. Joe Heyward to admire.

Beauregard[27] called. He’s the hero of the moment. At least, people think he has the potential to do amazing things. A fan was left speechless when I mentioned, “So far, he’s just been a captain of artillery, or engineers, or something like that.” I didn’t get to see him. Mrs. Wigfall did and criticized me for not going out.

Last Sunday at church, I saw one of the unique local sights: old Black women in their white turbans, going up to receive communion and kneeling reverently around the chancel rail.

[29]

The morning papers say Mr. Chesnut made the best shot on the Island during target practice. There's no war yet, thank God. They also tell me Mr. Chesnut gave an excellent speech at the Convention.

Not a word about what’s happening right now. “From the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks,” says the Psalmist. Not here. Our hearts are feeling really down, but we’re as cheerful and wildly happy as sailors who break into the strongroom when the ship is sinking. At first, in our deep pain, we were all alone. We wished some of our older brothers would come out and help us. Well, they’re out too, and now it’s Fort Sumter and that poorly advised Anderson. There stands Fort Sumter, en evidence, and that’s what determines peace or war.

Wigfall[28] says before he left Washington, Pickens, our Governor, and Trescott were clearly against secession; Trescott doesn’t pretend to like it now. He complains all the time, but Governor Pickens is a fire-eater through and through. “At the White House, Mrs. Davis wore a badge. Jeff Davis is no seceder,” says Mrs. Wigfall.

Captain Ingraham quickly expresses his thoughts, words spilling out in a rush: “Charlotte Wigfall made that comment as a jab at those people. I have a higher opinion of men who take a moment to reflect; it’s too reckless to charge ahead like some do.” “Exactly,” Mrs. Wigfall replies, “the last-minute people get the benefits; the indecisive are traitors in this situation.”

April 3rd.—I met the beautiful Lucy Holcombe, now Mrs. Governor Pickens, last night at Isaac Hayne’s. I saw Miles silently begging for three violets she had in her[30] breastpin. She is an incredible actress, and he's really good at playing the male flirt. So it was well done.

“And you, who are laughing to yourself at the scene, where did you get that big bunch?” “Oh, there’s no emotion when there’s a heap like that of anything!” “Oh, oh!”

Toady at the breakfast table, there was a sad offering of comfort to the familiar questioner who again states in a serious tone: “Who’s the flirt now?” And so we continue to play along into the dark cloud in front of us. And after comfort comes regret.

April 4th.—Mr. Hayne mentioned that his wife complained about the uncomfortable seats for chaperones at St. Andrew’s Hall during a Cecilia Ball.[29] She was stuck on one for hours. “And the walls are even harder, my dear. How do you think those poor old guys feel leaning against them, while their beautiful young wives dance like they could go on forever, waltzing with every man in the room? Just look at their worn-out, tired faces, those old guys. At church, I had to switch my pew because the lovely Laura was too distracting for my boys. They were all staring at her, nudging each other, and arguing because she returned their looks. No matter how much they winked, blinked, and snickered, she enjoyed it. I tell you, my dear, it’s not exactly easy for the older husbands; their wives are dancing with younger men while they’re stuck hugging the wall.”

While we were having dinner at the Haynes's, Wigfall was called to speak to a crowd in front of the Mills House. Like James Fitz James returning to Glen Alpin, he was ready to take the lead, so Washington should be cautious. We were disappointed that we couldn't hear the speech. But the[31] dinner was a nice distraction—foie gras salad, frozen biscuits, and chilled champagne.

A ship was shot at yesterday and returned to the sea. Is that the first shot? How can anyone focus on anything when your heart is racing all the time? At any moment, the cannons could fire at us, and the fleet could arrive.

April 6th.—The situation is getting intense, and the air is buzzing with rumors; the challenge is to figure out where these completely unfounded stories are coming from. Despite everything, Tom Huger came for us, and we boarded the Planter to check out Morris Island and its current residents—Mrs. Wigfall and the Cheves girls, Maxcy Gregg and Colonel Whiting, as well as John Rutledge from the Navy, Dan Hamilton, and William Haskell. John Rutledge was someone to admire. He didn’t speak to us, but he stood there draped in a Scottish shawl, looking as handsome and dignified as anyone Queen Elizabeth would have been proud to gaze upon.

There was such a strong wind that we couldn't land. I wasn't too upset about it, even though it was really blowing (I never get seasick). Colonel Whiting explained everything about the forts, what they were missing, etc., in a really interesting way, and Maxcy Gregg added to his report by detailing all the land deficiencies and shortcomings.

Beauregard is seen as a demigod by most of the locals, but there are always seers who perceive and speak the truth. They make it clear that Whiting is the one using all the brains for our defense. He does the actual work while Beauregard gets the credit. It feels like we’re approaching a crisis. And one must reflect. Colonel Whiting is smart enough for anything, so today, Maxcy Gregg and I decided to take a stand as judges. Mr. Gregg informed me that my husband is in the minority at the Convention; so much for clear thinking when the atmosphere is electric. Mrs. Wigfall says we are incompatible. She should be paired with my composed, calm, self-assured Colonel. Her fiery personality is just a male version of me.

[32]

April 8th.—Yesterday, Mrs. Wigfall and I visited a few places. At the first house, they wanted Mrs. Wigfall to help resolve a disagreement. “Was she really fifty-five?” Just imagine her reaction, having more than ten years added to her age so casually. Then Mrs. Gibbes asked me if I had ever been to Charleston before. Charlotte Wigfall, trying to get back at me for my laugh when that false age was thrown at her, said, “and she thinks this is her home and her name is McGregor.” She claimed it all happened because we broke the Sabbath, which it was, indeed, on a Sunday.

Allen Green approached me during dinner, dressed in his full soldier's uniform. It sent a chill down my spine. I tried to read Margaret Fuller Ossoli, but I couldn't focus. The atmosphere is just too filled with war news, and we all feel so unsettled.

I went to see Miss Pinckney, one of the last of the old-school Pinckneys. She asked specifically about a portrait of her father, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney,[30] which she said had been sent by him to my husband’s grandfather. I gave a thorough account of it. It's displayed in the prime spot in the drawing-room at Mulberry. She wanted to meet my husband because “his grandfather, my father's friend, was one of the handsomest men of his time.” We returned home, and soon Mr. Robert Gourdin and Mr. Miles came by. Governor Manning walked in, bowed solemnly, and took a seat next to me. He bowed deeply in a mock heroic way and with a grand gesture, stated: “Madame, your country is under attack.” Once I had the breath to respond, I asked, “What does he mean?” What he meant was this: there[33] are six warships outside the harbor. Talbot and Chew have come to announce that hostilities are going to start. Governor Pickens and Beauregard are in a war council. Mr. Chesnut then walked in and confirmed the news. Wigfall then entered in high spirits and said: “There was a sound of revelry by night.” Whenever there’s any commotion or chaos, my heart tends to pound painfully. Now the tension was so overwhelming that I could barely see or hear. The men left almost immediately, and I quietly went to my room, where I sat down for a good cry.

Mrs. Wigfall came in and we discussed the subject of civil war. We comforted ourselves by talking about all its known horrors, and then we added what we could expect with Yankees in front and blacks in the rear. “The slave owners should obviously expect a slave uprising,” said Mrs. Wigfall, to ensure that we were unhappy enough.

Suddenly, loud shouting broke out. We ran outside. One cannon after another boomed. We ran into Mrs. Allen Green in the hallway, her face pale and tears streaming down her cheeks. Governor Means rushed out of his room in his robe and urged us to stay calm. “Governor Pickens,” he said, “has ordered, in his great wisdom, to fire seven cannons as a signal to the Seventh Regiment. Anderson will hear it too, just like the Seventh Regiment. Now you all go back and keep quiet; the fighting in the streets hasn’t started yet.”

So we retired. Dr. Gibbes calls Mrs. Allen Green Dame Placid. There was no calm today, with cannons exploding and Allen on the Island. No one got any sleep last night. The streets were buzzing with soldiers, men shouting, marching, singing. Wigfall, the “stormy petrel,” is in his element, the only truly happy person I see. Today, things seem to have calmed down a bit. One can only hope. Lincoln or Seward has made such ridiculous advances and then even sillier retreats. There may be a [34] chance for peace after all. Things are happening so quickly. My husband has been appointed an aide-de-camp to General Beauregard.

Three hours ago, we were hurriedly packing to head home. The Convention has ended. Now he tells me that the attack on Fort Sumter might start tonight, depending on Anderson and the fleet outside. The Herald says this display of military action outside the bar is meant for Texas. John Manning came in wearing his sword and red sash, happy as a kid to be on Beauregard’s staff while the chaos continues. He has gone with Wigfall to Captain Hartstein with instructions. Mr. Chesnut is wrapping up a report he needed to present to the Convention.

Mrs. Hayne called. She said she had just one feeling: pity for those who aren't here. Jack Preston, Willie Alston, the "take-life-easys," as they’re called, along with John Green, the "big brave," have gone down to the islands—volunteered as privates. Seven hundred men were sent over. Ammunition trucks were rumbling through the streets all night. Anderson is burning blue lights, signs, and signals for the fleet outside, I assume.

Today at dinner, there was no mention of the situation in Charleston Harbor. There was a strong undercurrent of excitement. The atmosphere was nothing short of brilliant. Along with our usual group (Judge Withers, Langdon Cheves, and Trescott), we were joined by our two former Governors, Means and Manning. All these men spoke so delightfully. For once in my life, I really listened. Once that was over, business began in earnest. Governor Means had found a sword and red sash from somewhere and brought it for Colonel Chesnut, who had gone to request the surrender of Fort Sumter. And now we must be patient—we have to wait.

Why did that green goose Anderson go into Fort Sumter? Then everything started to go downhill. Now they’ve intercepted a letter from him urging them to let him surrender.[35] He describes the horrors that could happen if they don’t. He should have considered all that before he stuck his head in the hole.

April 12th.—Anderson won’t give in. Yesterday was the most fun and wild dinner we’ve had yet. The guys were boldly clever and funny. We had a silent feeling that this might be our last enjoyable gathering. Mr. Miles had dinner with us today. Mrs. Henry King burst in saying, “I’m here for the latest news! All the men from the King family are on the Island,” clearly proud of the fact.

While she was here, our peace negotiator, or envoy, came in—that is, Mr. Chesnut returned. His meeting with Colonel Anderson had been very interesting, but Mr. Chesnut wasn’t in the mood to talk. He wanted his dinner. He sympathized with Anderson and had telegraphed President Davis for guidance—what response to give Anderson, etc. He has now gone back to Fort Sumter with further instructions. As they were about to leave the dock, A. H. Boykin jumped into the boat in a state of great excitement. He felt wronged, fearing there might be a fight and he would be left behind!

I’m not pretending to go to sleep. How could I? If Anderson doesn't agree to the terms by four, the orders are that he will be shot at. I count to four as St. Michael’s bells chime, and I start to feel hopeful. At half-past four, I hear the heavy boom of a cannon. I jumped out of bed and fell to my knees, praying like I’ve never prayed before.

There was a noise all over the house, footsteps hurrying down the corridors. Everyone seemed to be rushing in one direction. I put on my robe and a shawl and followed them. We were heading to the rooftop. The shells were exploding. In the darkness, I heard a man say, “What a waste of ammunition.” I knew my husband was out somewhere in that dark bay, rowing in a boat, while the shells rained down around it, exploding toward the fort. If Anderson was being stubborn, Colonel[36] Chesnut was going to order one side of the fort to open fire. Fire had definitely started. I could hear the continuous roar of the cannons. And who could say what each volley caused in terms of death and destruction?

The women were going wild up there on the roof. Prayers were coming from the women and curses from the men. Then a shell would light up the scene. Tonight they say the forces are going to try to land. We watched up there, and everyone wondered why Fort Sumter didn't fire a shot.

To­day Miles and Manning, now colonels and aides to Beauregard, had dinner with us. The latter hoped I would help maintain the peace. I offered him only kind words, as he would be under fire all day and night, down in the bay delivering orders, etc.

Last night, or technically this morning, up on the roof, I was so weak and tired that I sat down on something that looked like a black stool. “Get up, you silly woman. Your dress is on fire,” a man shouted. And he put it out. I was on a chimney and the sparks had caught my clothes. Susan Preston and Mr. Venable then came up. But my fire had been put out before it turned into a full blaze.

Do you know, after all that noise and our tears and prayers, nobody has been hurt; all that sound and fury means nothing—a trick and a trap.

Louisa Hamilton is here now. This is a kind of news hub. Jack Hamilton, her handsome young husband, has all the credit for a famous cannon made from railroad iron. Mr. Petigru calls it the boomerang because it sends the shells back the way they came, so Lou Hamilton tells us. During her first marriage, she didn’t have any kids; that’s why the value of this new baby is so high. To distract Louisa from the glories of “the Battery,” which she raves about, we asked if the baby can talk yet. “No, not really, but he copies the big gun when he hears it,” she says. “He claps his hands and shouts ‘Boom, boom.’” Her mind is clearly focused on three things: Lieutenant Hamilton, whom she calls “Randolph,” the baby, and the big gun, and it’s not open to anything else.

Pryor, from Virginia, spoke from the balcony of the Charleston hotel. I asked what he said. A cheeky woman responded, “Oh, they all say the same thing, but he really showed off that long hair of his, which he keeps tossing around!”

Somebody just came in and said that Colonel Chesnut is asleep on the sofa in General Beauregard’s room. After two nights like that, he must be so exhausted that he can sleep anywhere.

Just said goodbye to Langdon Cheves. He has to go home and leave this fascinating place. He says he feels like the guy who wasn’t killed at Thermopylae. I think he mentioned that unfortunate guy had to hang himself when he got home out of pure shame. Maybe he fell on his sword, which was the classic way to end things.

I don't really understand Louisa Hamilton's baby; we hear nothing, can’t hear anything; boom, boom goes the cannon all the time. The tension is unbearable, being alone in this dark room. "Richmond and Washington are on fire," say the newspapers—ignited with excitement. Why not? To us, the events of the past few days seem incredibly significant. We were all women on that iron balcony. Men are only seen from a distance now. Stark Means, marching under the porch at the front of his regiment, held his cap in his hand the whole time he was visible. Mrs. Means was leaning over and looking with tearful eyes when an unknown person asked, "Why did he take his hat off?" Mrs. Means stood up straight and said: "He did that in honor of his mother; he saw me." She is a proud mother, and at the same time, very unhappy. Her beautiful daughter Emma is dying in there, right in front of her, from tuberculosis. At that moment, I’m sure Mrs. Means felt a sharp pain in her heart; at least, [38] she looked the way I sometimes feel. She took my arm and we went inside.

April 13th.—Nobody got hurt after all. We had such a good time last night. It’s a relief after the fear of all the destruction we thought those awful cannon were causing. Not even a single battery is worse for wear. Fort Sumter has been on fire. Anderson hasn’t silenced any of our guns yet. That’s what the aides, still dressed in swords and red sashes, are telling us. But the noise from those guns makes regular meals impossible. None of us sit down to eat. Tea trays are everywhere in the halls. Some anxious people are lying in bed, moaning in their loneliness. Mrs. Wigfall and I are comforting ourselves with tea in my room. These women have a strong faith. “God is on our side,” they say. When we’re alone, Mrs. Wigfall and I ask, “Why?” “Of course, He hates the Yankees,” we’re told. “You’ll think well of Him.”

Not by a single word or glance can we see any change in the behavior of these Black servants. Lawrence sits at our door, tired and respectful, and completely indifferent. So do all of them, but they take it too far. You wouldn't even know they heard the terrible roar coming from the bay, even though it's been blaring in their ears day and night. People talk in front of them as if they were furniture. They show no response. Are they dull and stupid? Or are they smarter than we are, quiet and strong, waiting for their moment?

So tea and toast arrived; and Colonel Manning, wearing his red sash and sword, came in to announce that he had been under fire and wasn’t fazed by it. He cheerfully said, “It’s one of those things you never know how you’ll handle until you’re put to the test. Now I realize I’m a true descendant of my Irish hero ancestor, who used a British officer as a shield during the Revolution and managed to retreat from danger with style.” We talked about St. Valentine’s Eve, or the maid of Perth, and the drop of the white doe’s blood that sometimes ruined everything.

[39]

The warships are still out there, beyond the sandbar. And there are people who believe the Charleston bar is “no good” for Charleston. The bar is the silent partner, or sleeping partner, and in this conflict, it’s doing us a great service.

April 15th.—I had no idea that days filled with such excitement were possible. Someone yelled, “Come out! There’s a crowd coming.” It was definitely a mob, but it was led by Colonels Chesnut and Manning. The crowd was cheering and presenting these two as bearers of good news. They were taken to Beauregard’s headquarters. Fort Sumter had surrendered! Those on the rooftops were shouting to us, “The fort is on fire.” That had been the story a couple of times before.

Once we had settled down, Colonel Chesnut, who seemed even calmer than usual, explained how the surrender went down. Wigfall was on Morris Island with the others when they noticed the fire in the fort; he jumped into a small boat and rowed over, using his handkerchief as a white flag. Wigfall entered through a porthole. When Colonel Chesnut arrived shortly after and was greeted at the main entrance, Colonel Anderson warned him to watch his step because the area was rigged with explosives. From what I can gather, the fort surrendered to Wigfall. But everything is a bit chaotic. Our flag is flying there. Fire trucks have been called to extinguish the fire. Everyone only gives you part of the story and then rushes off to share another piece of news or catch up on the latest gossip.

In the afternoon, Mrs. Preston,[31] Mrs. Joe Heyward, and I drove around the Battery. We were in an open carriage.[40] What a changed scene—the most lively crowd I think I’ve ever seen, everyone talking at once. All eyes were still focused on the grim old fort.

Russell,[32] the correspondent for the London Times, was there. They took him everywhere. One man brought Thackeray to talk with him as if they were on the same level. Poor Russell was really bored, apparently. He just wanted to check out the fort and get news that he could turn into a captivating article. Thackeray had become worn out from his travels.

Mrs. Frank Hampton[33] and I went to check out the camp of the Richland troops. South Carolina College had volunteered a student. Professor Venable (the math professor) plans to form a permanent company from among them for the war. This is no longer just a fun outing for the students. Even the serious-looking Clingman is here. He says Virginia and North Carolina are gearing up to come to our aid because the North is going to swoop down on us. We can be sure of that. We’ve burned our bridges. We have to keep moving forward now. He calls us a poor, little, hot-blooded, impulsive, and troublesome sister state. General McQueen is furious because we are sending troops to Virginia.

Preston Hampton is at the peak of his youth and looks, standing six feet tall, and still just a teenager; he was dressed in nice clothes and lemon-colored gloves to impress everyone. The group, in a playful moment, tackled him and rolled him in the mud. He fought back bravely but took it all in stride as a good laugh.

[41]

Mrs. Frank Hampton already knows what civil war means. Her brother was in the New York Seventh Regiment, which was treated roughly in Baltimore. Frank will be on the other side.

Good stories are available for Russell, the guy from the London Times, who has come here to discover our weaknesses and strengths and inform the rest of the world about us.

[42]

Camden, S. C., April 20, 1861.—Back home at Mulberry. During those final days of my time in Charleston, I didn't have a chance to write anything.

And so we took Fort Sumter, nous autres; we—Mrs. Frank Hampton and others—in the hallway of the Mills House between the reception room and the drawing room, where we held a sofa against everyone. All the friendly people from the South seemed to have gathered in Charleston at the first gunshot. That was after we realized that the bombardment didn’t kill anyone. Before that, we cried, prayed, and had tea in small groups in our rooms, away from the company of men.

Captain Ingraham and his crew also captured Fort Sumter—from the Battery with binoculars and diagrams they made in the sand to illustrate what needed to be done.

Wigfall, Chesnut, Miles, and Manning rowed around the harbor in small boats from fort to fort, passing under the enemy’s guns with bombs bursting in the air.

And then the boys and men who operated those guns so reliably at the forts—they took it, too, in their own way.

Old Colonel Beaufort Watts told me this story and many more about the jeunesse dorée in combat. They handled the fire without much concern, just like they do with most things. They had cotton bag bomb shelters at Fort Moultrie, and when Anderson's shot rattled them, someone called out, "Cotton is falling." Then the kitchen chimney came crashing down, loaves of[43] bread flew out, and they cheered happily, shouting, "Bread prices are going up."

Willie Preston fired the shot that broke Anderson’s flagpole. Mrs. Hampton from Columbia sent him a telegram saying, “Great job, Willie!” She is his grandmother, the wife, or widow, of General Hampton from the Revolution, and the kindest, sweetest, gentlest old lady. This shows how the spirit of war is waking us all up.

Colonel Miles (who earned his reputation on a boat, according to William Gilmore Simms[34] said) shared this telling story with us. They encountered a black man out in the bay rowing toward the city with some supplies from the plantation. “Aren’t you afraid of Colonel Anderson’s cannons?” he was asked. “No, sir, Mars Anderson wouldn't dare hit me; he knows Master wouldn’t allow it.”

I have been sitting here today, gazing out at this beautiful lawn, wondering if this can really be the same world I was in just a few days ago. After the smoke and chaos of the battle, there’s a calm.

April 22.—Organizing my photo album. On the first page, Colonel Watts. Here’s a summary of his life; certainly romantic: Beaufort Watts; blue blood; a true gentleman; the embodiment of chivalry. He was trusted with a large sum of money in banknotes. The money belonged to the State, and he was supposed to deposit it in the bank. On the way, he had to stay overnight. He placed the roll on a table next to his bed, locked the door, and slept peacefully. However, when he woke up the next day, the money was gone. Well! Everyone who knew him believed he was innocent, of course. He searched, and they searched, everywhere, but it was in vain. The money had disappeared. It was a damaging story,[44] despite his good reputation, and a shadow fell over him.

Years later, the house where he had that disastrous sleep was torn down. Behind the paneling, they found his stash of money. It was hard to believe how the rats managed to get it through such a tiny crack. Like the hole referenced by Mercutio, it wasn't as deep as a well or as wide as a church door, but it worked for Beaufort Watts until the money was discovered. Imagine if that house had burned down, or if the rats had chewed up the bills beyond recognition?

People in power recognized how this proud man suffered in silence for so many years. Many men looked at him with suspicion. The country tried to fix the damage done to his reputation. He was appointed Secretary of Legation to Russia, and later became our Consul in Santa Fé de Bogotá. When he was too old to travel far, they made him Secretary to all the Governors of South Carolina in regular order.

I knew him over twenty years ago as the Secretary to the Governor. He was a flashy old dandy, but a man of honor. Everyone accepted his quirks. Life’s hardships had made him respected. He stood there, hat in hand, in front of ladies and bowed like I imagine Sir Charles Grandison would have. It was hard not to chuckle at the purple and green highlights in his overly black hair. At one point, he came to show me the sword given to Colonel Shelton for taking down the only Indian killed in the Seminole War. We captured Osceola and Micanopy under a flag of truce—that is, they were caught, not shot on the move.

To go back to my knight-errant: he knelt, handed me the sword, and then kissed my hand. I was barely sixteen and didn’t know how to act in that situation. He said, leaning on the sword, “My dear child, know that it's much more respectful to shake hands with a lady than to kiss her hand. I’ve kissed the Empress of Russia’s hand[45] and she didn’t react poorly.” He looks exactly the same now as he did then. He’s in uniform, covered with epaulettes, aigulettes, etc., shining in the sun, and with his plumed hat he reins in his war horse and bows low as ever.

Now I’m going to say goodbye for a bit like Othello did to all the “pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war,” and focus on my home struggles and issues. I have a sort of volunteer maid, the daughter of my husband’s nurse, dear old Betsy. She helps me out because she wants to, and I also pay her. She belongs to my father-in-law, who has too many slaves to really care about their way of life. So, Maria Whitaker came in, all in tears. She brushes hair wonderfully, and as she stood behind me, I could see her face in the mirror. “Maria, are you crying because all this talk about war scares you?” I asked. “No, ma’am.” “What’s bothering you?” “Nothing more than usual.” “Now listen. Whether the war ends one way or another, you will be free. We’ll have to set you free before we get out of this mess. Won’t you be happy?” “Everybody knows Mars Jeems wants us free, but it’s just old Marster who’s holding out. He’s not going to free anyone no matter what, you see.”

And then came the story of her troubles. “Now, Miss Mary, you see me married to Jeems Whitaker yourself. I was a good and loyal wife to him, and we were doing well—good house, everything. He had no reason to complain, but he has left me.” “For heaven’s sake! Why?” “Because I had twins. He says they're not his since nobody named Whitaker ever had twins.”

Maria has a proud spirit, and her bad husband's behavior has almost overwhelmed her. She’s had three kids in two years. It’s no surprise the guy was scared. But Maria doesn’t rely on him for anything. She was heartbroken, and all I could think to say was, “Come on, Maria! Don’t worry, your old Missis and Marster are really good to you. Now let’s[46] find something for the twins.” The twins are named “John and Jeems,” with Jeems being named after her no-good husband. Maria is one of the good women in the community. She deserves better for her honest attempt at marriage. However, they say she has a tough temperament. Jeems was tested, and he couldn’t handle it.

April 23rd.—Notice the glaring inconsistencies of life. Our hostess locked away Eugene Sue's works and even returned Washington Allston's novel with thanks, clearly suggesting it should be burned; at the very least, it shouldn't stay in her home. Bad books aren't allowed in the house except in the library, locked up with the key in the Master's pocket; but bad women, as long as they aren’t white or in servant roles, can fill the house without any issues. Pretending they don't exist is considered a Christian act. These women are seen as no more dangerous than canary birds would be.

If you happen to mention that you notice a certain creature, more shameless than the others, who has tons of kids and no husband, people will look down on you; you're bringing up inappropriate topics. There are some subjects that decent women don’t talk about, even in their minds. It’s not right to be so harsh and unkind. It’s better to just leave the sinners be, poor things. If they are good workers in other respects, don’t let them go; everything will fall into place as they get older, and it always does! They all desperately want to be part of the church. The Methodist Church isn’t so naive as to ignore this; it accepts them but also gives them the boot with a firm hand if they’re found breaking any of the ten commandments.

[47]

Montgomery, Ala., April 27, 1861.—Here we are again. Hon. Robert Barnwell joined us. His kind glasses give him a very Pickwickian look. We Carolinians admire his kindness above everything else. Everywhere we stopped, people requested a speech, and we had a continuous flow of passionate oratory. We traveled with a man whose wife lived in Washington. He was taking her to Georgia as the safest place.

The Alabama crowd isn’t as confident about capturing Fort Pickens as we were about taking Fort Sumter.

Baltimore is on fire. They say Colonel Ben Huger is in charge there—he's the son of “Olmutz” Huger. General Robert E. Lee, son of Light Horse Harry Lee, has been appointed General-in-Chief of Virginia. With such leaders at the front, we have hope. The New York Herald says, “Slavery must be eradicated, even if it takes bloodshed.” It believes we’re scared stiff at their massive meetings. We’re as cheerful as ever, though.

Mr. Chesnut has gone with Wade Hampton[35] to see President Davis about the legion Wade wants to start.[48] The President came over to talk to me at church today. He was very friendly, and I appreciated the honor.

Wigfall is furious about Colonel Anderson’s story of the fall of Sumter. Wigfall did act generously, but Anderson doesn’t seem to see it that way. “You won’t catch me risking my life to save him again,” says Wigfall. “He could have been brave enough to tell the truth to those New Yorkers, no matter how unpleasant a kind word for us might have been. We treated him well. The only men of his who died were either killed by him or they killed themselves firing a salute to their old flag.”

Mr. Chesnut was really pleased with how Anderson talked to him when he went to ask for the surrender. They said goodbye in a very warm way. Anderson said, “If we don’t see each other again on earth, I hope we can meet in Heaven.” Wigfall laughed at Anderson “giving Chesnut a greeting in the other world!”

What a warm welcome the old men gave me! One, more friendly and down-to-earth than the others, gave me a hearty slap on the back. I received several bouquets, which I put in water around my plate. Then General Owens handed me some violets, which I pinned to my lapel.

“Oh,” said my “Gutta Percha” Hemphill,[36] “if I had known how special those bouquets were going to be, I would have been up at sunrise looking for the best flowers!” Governor Moore walked in, and of course, they offered him seats. “This is a really comfortable chair,” exclaimed one overly polite person. “The most comfortable chair is next to Mrs. Chesnut,” said the Governor, bravely facing the situation as he settled into it with style. Well done, old-timers!

[49]

Browne said: “These Southern men have a really charming way with women.” “Oh, many of them are descendants of Irishmen, so the charm is still there, even with their gray hair!” It was a group of silver-gray flatterers. Yes, charm as well as bravery came along with the Irish.

At Mrs. Davis’s reception, the mood was really down as civil war seems inevitable. At Mrs. Toombs’s reception, Mr. Stephens approached me. We've had two previous discussions about this Confederacy—once on a train coming from Georgia and once at a dinner where he sat next to me. Today, he wasn’t optimistic. I called him a bit timid and accused him of being fixated on the past. One by one, people interrupted our conversation with some small talk, but we kept going. He was really engaging, and he shared some new insights about our precarious situation. Instead of celebrating our victories, his talks were filled with worries about the future.

Dined at the President’s and never had a more enjoyable day. He is as witty as he is wise. He was very pleasant; he brought me in for dinner. The conversation was about Washington; nothing about our current challenges.

A General Anderson from Alexandria, D.C., was feeling down. He says the North is much better prepared than we are. They are organized, or will be, by General Scott. We're in complete chaos. Their army is the best in the world. We are poorly armed, and so on. They have ships and weapons that used to belong to us and some that are theirs.

Mrs. Walker, dressed to the nines, one of those stunning people who really shine in the sunlight, told me she confused the inevitable Morrow for Mr. Chesnut, and added, “Ignore the slight to my judgment.” I told her it was “an insult to the Palmetto flag.” Can you imagine a South Carolina Senator like that!

Men rush in from Washington with pale faces, yelling, “Danger, danger!” It’s quite exhausting to hear these people constantly going on about: “The enemy’s troops are the best soldiers we’ve ever seen.” I feel inclined to ask, “Why didn’t you try to befriend them?” We should be preparing for war, but it seems like we’re letting this golden opportunity slip away. There’s just a lot of talk in Congress—lazy lawmakers, and impulsive, reckless, carefree, proud, passionate, unruly, raw recruits. They say we have a regiment of spies among us, men and women, sent here by the cunning Seward. Why? Our newspapers report every detail there is to know, whether it’s from friends or foes.

A two-hour call from Hon. Robert Barnwell. His theory is that everything would have been fine if we had taken Fort Sumter six months ago. He made this very clear to me. He’s smart, though a bit unpredictable. I can’t remember why it should have been attacked earlier. At another gathering, Mrs. Davis was in great spirits. Captain Dacier was here. He came over in his own yacht. Russell from The London Times wondered how we could enjoy life so much when all the Northern newspapers said we were going to be wiped out soon.

May 9th.—Virginia Commissioners are here. Mr. Staples and Mr. Edmonston came to see me. They say Virginia “has no complaint; she acts on a point of honor; could she just watch as her sovereign sister States are invaded?”

Sumter Anderson has been offered a Kentucky regiment. Can they raise a regiment in Kentucky against us? In Kentucky, our sister state?

Suddenly, General Beauregard and his aide, John Manning (the last of the group who had surrounded him in Charleston), have disappeared—who knows where, but they’re definitely on a war path. Governor Manning referred to himself as “the last rose of summer blooming alone” from that fancy staff. A new battle will bring them all back together again.

Ben McCulloch, the Texas Ranger, is here, and Mr.[51] Ward,[37] my “Gutta Percha” friend’s colleague from Texas. Senator Ward looks nothing like Senator Hemphill. The latter has the face of an old man but the hair of a twenty-year-old. Mr. Ward, on the other hand, is fresh and fair, with blue eyes and a youthful face, but his hair is as white as snow. I don’t know if it turned white overnight or over time, but it seems oddly mismatched with his bright young eyes. He is thin and has a strange, stooped posture.

This story he told me about his own experience. On a Western steamer, there was a huge crowd and no free berth, or sleeping spot of any kind in the men’s cabin—saloon, I believe they called it. He had booked a stateroom, 110, but he couldn’t kick out the people who had already claimed it and were asleep there. Neither could the Captain. It would have been a situation involving a revolver or “’leven-inch Bowie knife.”

Near the ladies’ lounge, the steward felt sorry for him. “This man,” he said, “is 110 years old, and I can’t find a place for him, poor guy.” There was a glimpse of bright eyes: “Hey, steward, do you have a 110-year-old man out there? Let us see him. He must be a real oddity.” “We’re overcrowded,” came the response, “and we can’t find a spot for him to sleep.” “Poor old soul; bring him in here. We’ll take care of him.”

“Stumble and wobble,” laughed the steward to No. 110, “and head inside.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Ward, “how those beautiful women patted and felt sorry for me and pushed me around and gave me the best spot! I tried not to look; I knew it was wrong, but I looked. I saw them taking down their hair and was amazed at the sight when the huge hoop skirts fell off, ignored on the cabin floor.”[52]

One attractive woman hanging out near his curtain suddenly caught his attention. She bent down to pick up her things and said, “Hey, stewardess, your old hundred and ten is a joke. His eyes are way too blue,” and then she ran off as he shut himself in, nearly scared out of his wits. I can't remember how it ended. There was so much laughter at his story that I didn’t catch all of it. So much for gray hair and its supposedly awe-inspiring power!

Russell, the roaming English newspaper correspondent, was describing how strange some of our plantation habits were. He was staying at the home of a former Cabinet Minister, and Madame would stand on the back porch and call for a servant, her voice carrying three fields away. Now, that’s not just a Southern thing. Our women are gentle, sweet, soft-spoken, laid-back, graceful, and calm. I’m sure there are loud, obnoxious, rude people everywhere.

May 13th.—We took a boat from Montgomery to that awful place, Portland, Ala. Everyone there was drunk—that is, the three men who were present. Eventually, we managed to get a carriage to take us to my brother-in-law’s house. Mr. Chesnut had to drive seven miles, in pitch darkness, along an unfamiliar road. I was so nervous that I didn't say a word.

Next day, a patriotic person told us that the war fever was so intense that only six men could be found in Dallas County. I whispered to Mr. Chesnut, “We found three of the lone ones hors de combat at Portland.” So much for the reserve corps—drunk patriots.

Saw for the first time the demoralization caused by hopes of freedom. My mother’s butler (whom I taught to read while sitting on his knife-board) managed to avoid speaking to us. He was as efficient as ever in his usual role, but he didn’t come backstage as he normally did to have a friendly chat. He kept himself distant, so grand and[53] stately that we had to send him a “tip” through his wife Hetty, my mother’s maid, who, however, showed no signs of resentment. She came to my bedside the next morning with everything nice for breakfast. She let me sleep until midday, and kept hugging me over and over again. I remarked, “What a great cook they have here!” She curtsied to the ground, saying, “I cooked every bite on that tray—as if I didn’t know what you liked to eat since you were a baby.”

May 19th.—Mrs. Fitzpatrick says Mr. Davis is too negative for her. He believes we need to get ready for a long war and tough setbacks initially, because they are more prepared for battle and much stronger in numbers. Men and money are crucial in war. “Just like in everything else,” I said, questioning her accurate representation of Mr. Davis’s words, even though she tried to convey them faithfully. We need patience and determination. We have plenty of courage and energy among us, the kind that’s all about taking action and risks.

I drove out with Mrs. Davis. She thinks being the unofficial leader of this small group is slow and tedious, especially after spending time with friends like Mrs. Emory and Mrs. Joe Johnston in Washington. I can't blame her. The change has been tough for all of us, but we don’t want to become stuck in the past.

Mr. Mallory came to take us to Mrs. Toombs’s reception. Mr. Chesnut didn’t want to go, so I decided to stay with him. That turned out to be a smart choice. First, Mr. Hunter[39][54] arrived. In college, they nicknamed him from his initials, R. M. T., “Run Mad Tom” Hunter. Right now, I think he’s the most reasonable, if not the wisest, person in our newly formed Confederacy. I remember the first time I met him. He sat next to me at a state dinner in Washington. Mr. Clay had seated me for dinner but seemed quite happy to let my “other side” take me off his hands.

Mr. Hunter didn’t know me, and I didn’t know him. I guess he asked about me or looked at my card on the table while I did the same with his. Either way, we started a conversation that continued steadily from soup to dessert. Even though Mr. Hunter was in formal attire, he looked a bit disheveled. His waistcoat needed adjusting, and his hair needed combing. That day, he unintentionally gave a lecture on English literature that, if published, I still believe would be a valuable contribution to the field. Since then, I’ve always looked forward to chatting with the Senator from Virginia with genuine excitement. Next came Mr. Miles and Mr. Jameson from South Carolina. The latter was the President of our Secession Convention and has also written a decent biography of Du Guesclin. My unexpected reception was absolutely delightful. Judge Frost arrived a bit later. They all stayed until the crowd returned from Mrs. Toombs's.

These guys aren’t exactly optimistic—I can’t say they’re without hope, either. They all agree on one thing: it’s worth trying for a bit, just to escape New England. Captain Ingraham was here too. He’s all South Carolina through and through, but he’s got it ingrained in him—it’s part of who he is—to believe that the United States Navy can conquer anything in the world. All these little contradictions and quirks make the times really exciting. One[55] never knows what direction any of them will choose to take with the next word.

May 20th.—Had lunch at Mrs. Davis’s; everything was delicious, and I was starving. For the past two weeks, I haven’t even sat at the dinner table. Yesterday, I had to settle for cold asparagus and blackberries because the other food they offered looked so disgusting. Mrs. Davis was just as lovely as the lunch. When she’s in a good mood, I don’t know anyone more enjoyable to be around. She’s incredibly smart, always.

We talked about this move from Montgomery. Mr. Chesnut is strongly against it because this location is crucial for our government. He wants our troops sent into Maryland to engage in our fight on the border and surround Washington. I can tell that the uncomfortable hotels here will finally push Congress into action. Our politicians love their comfort, and it’s going to be hot here in the summer. “I really hope they decide to leave,” Mrs. Davis said. “The Yankees will make things difficult for us, no matter where we go, especially if war breaks out.” “And it has started,” I replied. “Yes, I think these fancy folks might come to regret missing out on the comforts of the Montgomery hotels.” “Never.”

Mr. Chesnut has three different obsessions. The Maryland plan is one of them, and he quickly goes to Jeff Davis, who, I bet, has fifty people come to him every day with foolproof plans to save the country. If only he can stay calm. Mrs. Davis says he responds to all advisers in gently toned, sweet voices.

What a chaotic group we have here. And if good people come to see you, suddenly an angry Judge walks in, dominating the conversation and insults everyone in the room; that is, he insults everybody and predicts every possible disaster for the country, especially if he thinks that criticizing your friends isn’t enough to bring you down. Everyone has their own obsessions—up North, too, according to the news.

But of Mr. Chesnut’s three ideas: Maryland should become the center of the war, old Morrow’s suggestion to purchase steamers overseas for our coastal defenses should be implemented, and last but certainly not least, we need to produce a lot of cotton and send it to England as a resource to rely on. The cotton we currently have, if sent over there, would be incredibly valuable to us.

[57]

Charleston, S.C., May 25, 1861.—We have returned to South Carolina from the Montgomery Congress, stopping over at Mulberry. We traveled with R. M. T. Hunter and Mr. Barnwell. Mr. Barnwell has solid reasons for keeping cotton at home, though I can't recall what they are. Generally, people view his words and Mr. Hunter’s insights as indisputable. Not so for Mr. Chesnut, who grumbles about both, even though he likes them. We also had Tom Lang and his wife, along with Doctor Boykin. Really, there has never been a more harmonious group. The younger men had attended South Carolina College while Mr. Barnwell was President. Their admiration and respect for him were immense, and he graciously accepted it, smiling behind those glasses.

Met John Darby in Atlanta and told him he was the Surgeon of the Hampton Legion, which made him really happy. He had some adventures. With only a few moments on the platform to share secrets, he mentioned that he had stayed a bit too long at the Medical College in Philadelphia, where he was some sort of professor, and they had almost hanged him as a Southern spy. “The rope was ready,” he chuckled. In Atlanta, when he jokingly said he was fresh from Philadelphia, he barely escaped being lynched, as people thought he was a Northern spy. “I'm having a wild life among you, on both sides,” he said, rushing away. And I lamented, “Here was John Darby like[58] to have been killed by both sides, with no time to tell me about the strange coincidences.” What amazing experiences a little war starts to create.

May 27th.—They’re looking for a fight in Norfolk. Beauregard is there. I think if I were a man, I’d be there too. Harper’s Ferry is also set to be attacked. A man named Ellsworth, who was in charge of the Zouaves, has cut down the Confederate flag in Alexandria,[40] and Jackson is the guy who shot Ellsworth while he was doing it. Sherman’s brigade has captured sixty of our cavalry. We’re digging ourselves in deeper and deeper.

Thirty members of Tom Boykin's company have returned from Richmond. They went as a rifle company, armed with muskets. They were just ordinary guys—not really eager to fight or get involved in any way, I’d guess. Richmond ladies had come to greet them in carriages, celebrated them, waved handkerchiefs, and brought them treats with their own hands, believing that every Carolinian was a gentleman, and that every man south of the Mason-Dixon line was a hero. But these aren’t exactly the descendants of the Scottish Hay who fought the Danes with his plowshare or an ox’s yoke, or anything that could hit hard and was readily available.

Johnny has enlisted as a private in Gregg’s regiment. He couldn't take it at home anymore. Mr. Chesnut was okay with him going because those guys from the sandhills said “this is a rich man’s war,” and the wealthy would be the officers having an easy time while the poor would[59] serve as privates. So he said: “Let the gentlemen lead by example; let them join the ranks.” So John Chesnut is a gentleman private. He brought his servant with him anyway.

Johnny called me out for saying, “If I were a man, I wouldn’t just sit here and mope around, drink, and babble on while forgetting about the fight in Virginia.” He said it was my responsibility not to speak so carelessly and make enemies. He “had the money in his pocket to start a company last fall, but it slipped away from him, and now he’s just a regular soldier.” “You wasted it or spent it unwisely,” I said. “I don’t know where it went,” he replied. “There was too much discussion about me, too much good advice was given, and everyone had different opinions.” “Don’t you ever know what you want?” “We’ll do just fine in the ranks; everyone, men and officers, are all the same; we know everyone.”

So I repeated Mrs. Lowndes’s serious words when she heard that South Carolina had seceded on its own: “As your days are, so shall your strength be.” I’m not sure what I really meant, but I thought I had to sound impactful as he was leaving. I saw him off at the train. I forgot to say anything then, but I cried my eyes out.

Sent Mrs. Wigfall a telegram—“Where does the wild sea-gull scream?” She replied: “Sea-gull at the Spotswood Hotel. Will scream soon. I will stay here.”

June 6th.—Davin! I talked about him today with two very different people.

Mrs. Chesnut, my mother-in-law, compliments everyone, both the good and the bad. “Don’t judge,” she says. She thinks deeply; she wouldn’t waste her time finding faults. The Judge criticizes everyone, and he does it expertly—his remarks are brief, sharp, and to the point, and he takes pleasure in condemning the world as a whole, as the French say. So, no one benefits from her praise or suffers from his criticism.

[60]

In Camden, I found myself in a crowd of women. “Traitors,” they shouted. “Spies; they should be hanged; Davin has been caught, and Dean and Davis are his accomplices.” “What did Davin do?” “He’ll be hanged, don’t worry about that.” “For what?” “They caught him walking on the trestle work in the swamp, up to no good, you can bet on it.” “They won’t hang him for that!” “Hanging is too good for him!” “Just wait until Colonel Chesnut arrives.” “He’s a lawyer,” I said, seriously. “Ladies, he’ll let you down. There won’t be any lynching if he goes to that meeting today. He won’t take any action except through habeas corpus and a jury trial, along with plenty of legal talk.”

Mr. Chesnut did come and provided a clearer picture of poor Davin’s risky situation. They had intercepted treasonous letters of his at the Post Office. I guess it wasn’t really that serious of a treason after all. Anyway, Mr. Chesnut strongly advocated for him at the meeting. The meeting was made up of smart men with calm heads. And they decided to send Davin to Fort Sumter. The poor Music Master can’t do much damage in the casemates there. He should be grateful that Mr. Chesnut offered him a helping hand. Given the heated state of our public opinion right now, there won’t be much mercy for spies. Judge Withers said that Mr. Chesnut had never given a more impactful speech in his life than the one to save this poor Frenchman, who was almost in Judge Lynch’s sights. I had never heard of Davin until I learned he was about to be hanged.

Judge Stephen A. Douglas, the "little giant," is dead; one of those who lost their lives due to the war, undoubtedly; troubled in mind.

Charleston folks are sensitive. They shrink away from Russell’s comments. I find his criticisms pretty mild. He has a light hand. I expected much worse. Someone says that those Englishmen come with three P’s—pen, paper, and prejudices. I dread some of those after-dinner stories. As for [61] that day in the harbor, he went easy on us. He says our men look really good. Who would argue that? Not one of us. He also mentions the silly idea that men can’t work in this climate. We live outdoors and work hard at all kinds of sports, riding, hunting, and pretending to be soldiers. These good-looking, strong guys usually leave the coast when it gets too hot, and they’re also known to challenge each other to a duel or two when it gets too steamy under a Charleston sun. Those handsome young men he admired while hanging around the Mills House wouldn’t want to work in the fields from May to December. Black men handle the tropical or semitropical noon sun better than white men. But when it comes to fighting, it’s a different story. Men don’t mind the sun, rain, or wind then.

Major Emory,[41] when he was ordered West, handed his resignation to his Maryland brothers. After the incident in Baltimore, the brothers submitted it, but Maryland chose not to secede. Mrs. Emory, who is at least two-thirds of that partnership, being old Franklin’s granddaughter, and true to her heritage, tried to get it back. The President flat out refused, even though she begged. I don’t believe that. The Franklin family is known for being stubborn and tough; they’re not the type to kneel to anyone, God or man, by all accounts.

If Major Emory comes to us, won't he have a great time? Mrs. Davis adores Mrs. Emory. No wonder I fell in love with her myself. I heard about her before I saw her in [62] this way. Little Banks told me the story. She was dancing at a ball when some reckless reporter from the Evening News rushed over and informed her that Major Emory had been killed by ten Indians somewhere out West. She calmly replied that she had more recent news; it wasn’t true. Ignoring him, she continued dancing. The next night, the same annoying guy approached her with this news: “Oh, Mrs. Emory, it was all a hoax! The Major is alive.” She exclaimed: “You’re always spreading your bad news,” and turned her back on him; or, I think she said, “You enjoy sharing spiteful stories,” or, “You’re a bringer of bad luck.” Banks is a newspaper guy and knows how to craft a story for effect.

June 12th.—I’ve been watching Mrs. O’Dowd as she polished the “Meejor’s arrms” before the battle of Waterloo. I’ve been keeping myself busy as well. My husband has gone to join Beauregard, somewhere outside Richmond. I feel really down and sad. But I hope to be in Richmond myself soon. That’s some comfort.

The war is making all of us a bit sentimental. There haven’t been any casualties yet, no real mourning, and no one’s been hurt. So it’s just a show, with music and fancy outfits. We’re putting on a front, all dressed up. There’s no creativity here to prevent sadness, and the only thing we’re experiencing is the thrill and rush of breaking free from our stagnant daily lives—at least when we’re not around the few sensible people who are still left in the world.

When Beauregard's report about the capture of Fort Sumter was published, Willie Ancrum said, “What's going on? Tom Ancrum and Ham Boykin's names aren't listed here. We thought, based on what they told us, that they did most of the fighting.”

Colonel Magruder[42] has accomplished something remarkable on the[63] peninsula. The battle is called Bethel. They say three hundred of the enemy were killed.

Our people, Southerners, I mean, keep arriving from the outside world. And those who left a few days earlier look down on those who just got here! A local man from Camden, named Jim Velipigue, said in the street today: “Deep down, Robert E. Lee is against us; I know that.” What won’t people say during wartime! He also mentioned that Colonel Kershaw wanted General Beauregard to rename the creek near Manassas Station. Bull's Run sounds so crude. Beauregard replied: “Let’s try to make it as great a name as your South Carolina Cowpens.”[43]

Mrs. Chesnut, who was born in Philadelphia, can’t understand why we have the right to take Mount Vernon from our Northern sisters. She believes it should belong to both sides. We think they’ll get their fair share of this world’s goods, no matter what we do, and we’ll hold on to Mount Vernon if we can. There’s no comfort in Mr. Chesnut’s letter from Richmond. There’s a lot of confusion and already some discord.

In Charleston, a butcher has secretly been supplying the Yankee fleet outside the harbor with beef. People say he provided the information that led to the capture of the Savannah. They’re going to hang him.

Mr. Petigru is the only one in South Carolina who hasn't seceded. When people pray for our President, he stands up from his knees. He might take a moment to pray for Mr. Davis, but I doubt it would actually help him. Mr. Petigru is too smart to consider himself one of the righteous whose prayers carry so much weight. Mr. Petigru’s follower, Mr. Bryan, followed his lead. With his sharp sense of the absurd, Mr. Petigru must be chuckling to himself at the fuss this unexpected act of independence has caused.

Looking out for a fight at Manassas Station. I’m always feeling unwell. The name of my sickness is a desire to escape from here and head to Richmond.

June 19th.—In England, Mr. Gregory and Mr. Lyndsey stand up to speak positively about us. May heaven reward them; may it shower its best blessings on their dedicated heads, as the fiction writers say.

Barnwell Heyward texted me to meet him in Kingsville, but I was at Cool Spring, Johnny’s plantation, and all my clothes were at Sandy Hill, our home in the Sand Hills. So, I missed out on a great chance for the best ride to Richmond. I tried to push through the struggles of daily life. Read Emerson; felt too restless—Manassas was on my mind.

Russell’s letters are full of nonsense about how we want an English prince to rule us. He even suggests that all the noise from the North—like the marching, drumming, and shouting—frightens us. Sure, just like how the Chinese making faces and doing somersaults frightened the English.

Mr. Binney[44] has written a letter. It's in the Intelligencer of Philadelphia. He offers Lincoln his life and fortune; everything he has is at Lincoln's disposal to defeat us. It's strange; we just want to separate from them, yet they place such an exaggerated value on us. They're willing to risk everything, their lives and all their money, to keep us; they love us that much.

Mr. Chesnut is accused of firing the first shot, and his cousin, a former West Point graduate, writes in a military rage. They confused the best shot made on the Island on the day of the picnic with the first shot at Fort Sumter. This last shot is attributed to Captain James. Others claim it was one of the Gibbeses who fired first. But it was Anderson who set off the explosion that blew up the Union. He snuck into Fort Sumter that night, when we thought we would discuss everything. A letter from my husband dated, “Headquarters, Manassas Junction, June 16, 1861”:

Mary Hammy and I are heading to Richmond. Reverend Mr. Meynardie, of the Methodist faith, is coming with us. We'll be under his supervision. The threat of war looms.

Isaac Hayne, the guy who had a duel with Ben Alston over the dinner table and is still alive, is the bravest of them all. He calls out Russell in the Mercury—publicly—for claiming that we wanted an English prince in charge. Not us! Everyone wants to be in control themselves. If they can't be the king, then obviously a republic. It wasn't really necessary to do more than laugh at Russell’s ridiculous idea. There was a lot of wild talk at the Mills House. Russell writes pretty openly about the British in India. We can’t really expect him to hold back what makes us look bad.

June 24th.—Last night I was jolted awake by loud talking and flickering candles, heavy footsteps, and distant growls fading away, with loud shouts echoing in the yard. I jumped out of bed with my heart racing. Something terrible had happened—a fight, a death, a horrific accident. Someone was screaming from the top of the stairs, their voice harsh like a boatswain in a storm. Old Colonel Chesnut was yelling at the drowsy Black workers searching for fire with lit candles, going through closets and everywhere else. I got dressed and headed into the chaos.

“What’s going on? Any updates?” “No, no, just Mom thinks she smells something; she suspects something might be on fire.” The whole yard was buzzing with activity, literally packed with people. There are about sixty or seventy staff here to serve this household, two-thirds of them either too old or too young to be helpful, but families stick together. The old Colonel has an impressive voice. I'm sure it can be heard for miles. He was literally shouting from the porch, giving[67] orders to the bustling crowd searching for the smell of smoke.

Old Mrs. Chesnut is deaf, so she didn’t realize the chaos she was causing. She’s very sensitive to bad smells. Candles have to be taken out of the room to be blown out. Lamps are only put out in the porches or farther away. She finds violets overwhelming and can only handle one type of sweet rose. She refuses to have a tea rose in her room. She was completely unaware of the uproar she had started, and in a gentle, sweet voice, she was suggesting places to search. I was weak enough to laugh uncontrollably. The bombardment of Fort Sumter was nothing compared to this.

After this loud noise, enough to wake the dead, the smell was discovered. A family had been boiling soap. Around the soap pot, they had gathered some wool rags. They used the ashes to rake up the fire to make everything safe before going to bed, and its faint smoldering smell polluted the air, at least to Mrs. Chesnut's nose, two hundred yards or more away.

Yesterday, some of the Black men on the plantation were found with pistols. I have never seen anything about any Black person to indicate that they knew we were in a war that they had any stake in.

Mrs. John de Saussure said goodbye and God bless you. I was moved. People in Camden rarely show any more emotion or sympathy than Native Americans, except at funerals. During those times, everyone is expected to mourn loudly, and if you don’t "show feeling," you can expect to face anger from others.

[68]

Richmond, Va., June 27, 1861.—Mr. Meynardie was excellent as a travel companion. He had his own pleasures as well. Even the most pious and eloquent ministers are human, and he appreciated the conversations with the “notable figures” who appeared everywhere and shared their opinions on all political matters.

Mr. Lawrence Keitt joined us on the way. He brought his wife and baby with him. We don’t see eye to eye, but Mr. Keitt is always original and entertaining. He already calls Jeff Davis a failure and his Cabinet a joke. “That’s prophetic,” I remarked, as he shared his opinion before the administration had really even started. He was harshly critical of Mr. Chesnut’s vote for Jeff Davis. He claims Mr. Chesnut convinced the Judge too much, and those two swayed things, at least with the South Carolina delegation. We argued, as we always do. He insists that Howell Cobb’s common sense could have saved us.

Two quiet, unassuming Yankee teachers were on the train. I had talked to them, and they shared all about themselves. So I wrote on a piece of paper, “Don’t disrespect our home and place in front of these Yankee strangers heading North. Those women are teachers returning from where they came.”

Soldiers are everywhere. They seem to be in the air and certainly fill every space. Keitt quoted a funny guy from Georgia who says we test our soldiers to see if they are hot enough before we enlist them. If, when water is thrown on them, they don’t sizzle, they won’t do; their patriotism is too lukewarm.

To show they were fully awake and cheering enthusiastically, every woman at every window of every house we passed waved a handkerchief, if she had one. This flurry of white flags from all around never stopped from Camden to Richmond. Another new trend—groups of girls showed up at every station just to watch the troops go by. They always stood (the girls, I mean) in a solid line, and since the sun was usually in their eyes, they made funny faces. Mary Hammy never got tired of laughing at this quirk of her fellow patriots.

At the Richmond depot, Mr. Mallory, along with Wigfall and Garnett, welcomed us. We had no reason to complain about the warm welcome. They arranged a carriage for us, and our rooms were booked at the Spotswood. However, the guests in our reserved rooms hadn't left by the time they promised to. They were enjoying the charms of Richmond, and we knew of no rule that could make them stick to their word and leave. Mrs. Preston had gone to Manassas for a few days, so we took her room. Mrs. Davis was as kind as ever. We bumped into her in one of the hallways, and she invited us to join her group and dine at her table. Mr. Preston arrived, and we moved into a small room that only had space for a bed, a washstand, and a mirror above it. I hung my things out of the way on nails behind the door.

As soon as my husband heard we had arrived, he came, too. After dinner, he sat smoking, the only chair in the apartment propped up against the door while he smoked, and my poor dresses were getting ruined. I weakly protested. “It’s a wartime thing,” he said; “nobody’s picky now. When I go back to Manassas tomorrow, you’ll really regret snubbing me about those silly things.” So he smoked the peace pipe, because I knew his remarks were painfully true. Once he was back under fire, I would be filled with regret.

Captain Ingraham arrived with Colonel Lamar.[45] The Colonel mentioned he could only stay for five minutes because he needed to return to his camp immediately. That was just before eight. However, at twelve, he was still chatting with us on that sofa. We teased him about his impressive words to the F. F. V. crowd before the Spotswood: “Virginia has no grievances. She raises her strong arm to catch the blow aimed at her weaker sisters.” He was pleased that we had memorized his speech.

This Spotswood is a small world. The topic of war isn't really avoided; it’s just that everyone has their own personal dignity to uphold, while everyone else is indifferent to it. I mean the “personal dignity of” autrui. In this chaotic mess, you hear all sorts of things, both likely and unlikely, and then everything gets flatly contradicted. In any case, it’s best not to discuss the war.

Trescott was telling us how they laughed at little South Carolina in Washington. People said it was almost as big as Long Island, which is barely more than a feather off New York. There's always a kid who sulks and doesn't want to play; that was our role. And we were pretending to be like San Marino and all those small, model-minded republics do.

[71]

He tells us that Lincoln has a sense of humor. Lincoln finds the funny side of things; he believes that if they had just left us alone for a bit, sulking in a corner with our thumbs in our mouths, he would have figured out a way to bring us back, but Anderson messed everything up.

In Mrs. Davis’s living room last night, the President sat down next to me on the sofa. He talked for nearly an hour. He laughed at our belief in our own abilities. We are like the British; we think every Southerner is at least equal to three Yankees. We will need to be like a dozen now. After seeing the fighting spirit of Southerners in Mexico, he believes we will do everything possible with courage, strength, resilience, determination, and intense patriotism. Yet, his tone wasn’t optimistic. There was a sad undercurrent to it all. For one thing, he thinks it will be a long war, no matter which way it goes. That hit me hard. It has already been too long for me. Then he said that before it’s over, we’ll face many tough experiences. He mentioned that only fools doubt the Yankees’ courage or their willingness to fight when they choose to. And now that we’ve hurt their pride, we’ve awakened them to fight fiercely.

Mrs. Bradley Johnson is here, a true heroine. She outsmarted the Governor of North Carolina somehow and secured arms, clothing, and ammunition for her husband's regiment.[46] There was a bit of a joke about it. The regimental trousers were all messed up, but a tailor fixed that—something about the back being in the front, or something unusual.

Captain Hartstein visited today with Mrs. Bartow. Colonel Bartow is the Colonel of a Georgia regiment currently in[72] Virginia. He was the Mayor of Savannah who helped stir up patriotic spirit all night under my restless head into the early hours in Charleston last November. His wife is a delightful person, both witty and wise, and the daughter of Judge Berrien. She wore a white muslin apron with pink bows on the pockets, which gave her a cheerful and youthful look, even though she must be as old as I am.

Mr. Lamar, who, like Sumner and me, doesn’t support slavery, laughs at the praise New England gives us. We want to break away from them, to be free of the Yankees for good, no matter the cost. They despise us so much, yet they would cling to us, as Polonius says, “with hooks of steel.” We are an unwilling bride. I believe our incompatibility started when it became clear that we bore all the shame of slavery while they took all the profits with their tariffs.

Mr. Lamar says that the young men are carefree because there’s a fight coming, but those few who think ahead, the clear thinkers, see all the risks: the loss of land, limbs, lives, homes, wives, and children. Like in “the brave days of old,” they take action for the sake of their country. They are ready and willing, no matter what happens. But they aren’t as carefree as the jeunesse dorée.

June 29th.—Mrs. Preston, Mrs. Wigfall, Mary Hammy, and I took a lovely open carriage ride to see the Champ de Mars. It was an impressive sight out there. Mr. Davis was on a stunning gray horse, an Arab that Edwin de Leon brought him from Egypt. Even his worst enemy would admit that he's an exceptional rider, graceful and comfortable in the saddle, and Mr. Chesnut, who has talked about horses with his father since he was born, agrees that Mr. Davis knows more about horses than anyone else he’s met so far. General Lee was there with him, along with Joe Davis and Wigfall acting as his aides.

Poor Mr. Lamar has been brought in from his camp—he's dealing with paralysis or some kind of shock. Every woman in the house is ready to jump into action like Florence Nightingale. I think I’ll wait for a wounded man to make my first effort as a Sister of Charity. Mr. Lamar sent for me. As everyone left, with Mr. Davis leading the way, I went too. Lamar isn't going to die this time. Do men really flatter and gaze at the angels of mercy until their eyes close in death? He was the same old Lamar from the drawing-room.

It’s nice at the President’s table. I’m sitting next to Joe Davis, with Mr. Browne on the other side and Mr. Mallory across from me. However, there’s a lot of tension. As soon as I arrived, I repeated what the guy from North Carolina said on the train, that North Carolina had 20,000 men ready but they were being held back by Mr. Walker, etc. The President caught part of what I was saying and asked me to repeat it, which I did, even though I was incredibly nervous. “Madame, when you see that person, tell him his statement is false. We’re too eager for troops here to turn away a man who offers himself, not to mention 20,000 men.” Then there was silence—an extremely deep silence.

Uncle H. gave me three hundred dollars for his daughter Mary’s expenses, making it four hundred in total that I have for her. He said he would pay me one hundred, which he claimed he owed my husband for a horse. I suspected it was just an excuse to lend me money. I told him I had more than enough for all my needs until my Colonel came back from the war.

Ben Allston, the Governor’s son, is here—he came to see me; he doesn’t have much of the wit of the Petigrus, but he’s a pleasant person. Mr. Brewster and Wigfall arrived at the same time. Brewster, annoyed by Wigfall’s unusual position here, offered him intense advice. Mr. Wigfall stayed calm and practical. He’s a brave man, and without thinking he needed to show his temper, he said: “Brewster, right now, before the country is strong and settled in its new path, it would be disastrous for us, the leaders, to get into a fight among ourselves.”

As I waved away flies and fanned the downed Lamar, I recounted Mr. Davis’s conversation from the previous night[74]. “He’s all right,” said Mr. Lamar, “the fight was inevitable. We're men, not women. The argument had gone on long enough. We hate each other so much that a fight was bound to happen. Even the heroes in Homer’s stories, after they’ve argued enough, ended up fighting bravely and for a long time. If the athlete, Sumner, had stood his ground and fought back when Preston Brooks attacked him, Brooks’s blow wouldn’t have marked the start of war. Sumner’s country stepped into the battle because he didn’t. Sumner picked his own battlefield, and it was worse for us. What a terrible mistake that Preston Brooks incident was!” Lamar said Yankees didn’t fight for enjoyment; they always aimed for something to gain or left it alone.

Met Mr. Lyon with some news—there’s a guy right here among us who had Lincoln's passports and stuff in his pocket—a clear spy. Mr. Lyon said he would probably be hanged.

A letter from my husband written at Camp Pickens says: “If you and Mrs. Preston can decide to leave Richmond and come to a nice little house near Orange Court House, we could visit you often while the army is stationed here. It would be a safe place for now, close to the action, and right in the line of news from all sides.” So we go to Orange Court House.

Read the story of Soulouque,[47] the Haitian man: he’s really fascinating right now. Slavery has to end, of course, and happiness should follow it. These Yankees might kill us and destroy our land for a bit, but they will never conquer us!

July 4th.—Russell criticizes us in his letters. People here really value what Russell says because he represents the London Times, and the Times reflects the feelings of the English people. We really hold on to the idea of an alliance with England or France! Without France, even Washington couldn't have pulled it off.

We drove to the camp to watch the President present a flag to a Maryland regiment. Having lived on the battlefield (Kirkwood), near Camden,[48] we have a deep respect for the Maryland line. When our militia fled during that fight, Colonel Howard and the Marylanders stood their ground against Rawdon, Cornwallis, and their forces, and there are places nearby named after brave captains who were killed defending us—Kirkwood, De Kalb, etc. The last one, though, was a Prussian count. A letter from my husband, written June 22nd, just arrived. He says:

“We are very well positioned, entrenched, and now have around 15,000 of the best troops in the world at our command. In addition, we have two artillery batteries, a cavalry regiment, and we expect a battalion of field artillery from Richmond any day now. We’ve sent forward seven infantry and rifle regiments toward Alexandria. Our outposts have engaged with the enemy several times, and in every instance, the enemy has pulled back. General Johnston has had several encounters with the advancing columns of the two armies, and even though the enemy always has the advantage in numbers, they are consistently driven back.”

“There is a significant shortage of ammunition. General Johnston’s troops, despite facing overwhelming numbers, have only thirty rounds each. If they had been properly supplied, they could have easily defeated Cadwallader and Paterson. I notice that there is a widespread belief in the army that[76] the War Department is guilty of serious incompetence and neglect.”

“Unless the Republicans pull back, we need to unite on both fronts soon and have a clear confrontation. However, there’s a belief here that Lincoln’s army won’t engage us if they can help it. They already retreated after facing just a minor setback from 400 of Johnston’s troops. They had 700 and were severely defeated. You can’t imagine how unpleasant and exhausting camp life is. You would barely recognize your closest friend in their camp attire.”

Noise of drums, the sound of marching troops all day long; the clatter of artillery wagons, music bands, friends arriving from everywhere. We should be miserable and anxious, but these days feel nice. Maybe we're just unnaturally fired up and excited.

Heard some people in the living room say: “Mrs. Davis’s ladies aren’t young, aren’t pretty,” and I’m one of them. The truth of the comment didn’t make it any less bitter. We have to put Maggie Howell and Mary Hammy in the spotlight since youth and beauty are what everyone wants. At least they’re young—bright spots in a gloomy picture. The President doesn’t prevent us from going, but he really doesn’t want us to. So, we’re scared by our own boldness, but we’re determined women, and so we go.

[77]

Fauquier White Sulphur Springs, Va., July 6, 1861.—Mr. Brewster joined us on our trip. The train was packed with soldiers. They were very polite and thoughtful, making our journey pleasant despite the heat, dust, and crowd. Rev. Robert Barnwell was with us. He plans to set up a hospital for the sick and injured. There wasn't even a bit of standing room; it was so dusty and cramped, but everyone was in great spirits.

Mr. Preston and Mr. Chesnut met us in Warrenton. We saw some of Judge Campbell’s family across the lawn but didn’t talk to them. They linger there, sadly, just outside the gates of their Paradise: a Judge of the Supreme Court of the United States who has stepped down; he resigned, and for a reason he’s hardly more than half in agreement with. Judge Campbell’s situation is one of the toughest.

July 7th.—This water is making us feel young again. These guys really love the baths. They say Beauregard can block the way with sixty thousand; that many are on their way.

An old woman, with every curl and frizz in place, said to be a Yankee spy, sits across from us. Brewster seriously wondered, “With eternity and judgment day so close, how can she waste her last minutes curling her hair?” He told me to be very polite because she would ask me questions. As we walked away[78] from the table, I asked for his approval of my self-control in such challenging circumstances. It turns out I wasn’t as calm and patient as I thought. Brewster replied firmly, “Do you always carry around bricks like that in your pocket, ready to throw at the first person who offends you? You can’t do that when you’re around spies from the other side.” I’m not worried at all about spies hearing anything from me because I don’t know anything.

But our guys couldn't stay with us in these cool shades and comfy quarters, with unlimited water, great food, and all that. They've returned to Manassas, and the loyal Brewster went along to bring us the latest news. They left us in really good spirits, which we held onto until they were out of sight. We went with them to Warrenton, and then we heard that General Johnston was in full retreat and that a column was moving toward Beauregard. So we came back, feeling pretty down. If our husbands are captured, what will they do with them? Are they soldiers or traitors?

Mrs. Ould read us a letter from Richmond. They're really upset there about Joe Johnston's retreat. The critics of the War Department are blaming Walker for not sending General Johnston enough ammunition; they claim that's the real reason for his retreat. Won't that drive the Secretary of War, that slowpoke, crazy?

Mrs. Preston’s maid Maria rushes in—“Can’t you hear the cannon?” We run to the windows, lean out as far as we can, pull all our hair back from our ears, but we can’t hear anything. Lincoln wants four hundred million in money and men in proportion. Can he get them? He’ll find us to be quite a challenge. Midnight. I hear Maria’s guns.

We always end up noticing something good in the rough sayings of the people from Illinois. Lincoln criticizes someone by saying, “Oh, he is too interruptious”; that’s a terrible type of person, the ones who interrupt. I understood the concept but didn’t have a term for it before.

July 9th.—Our battle summer. Hopefully, it will be our first and last of its kind. After all, we haven't experienced any of the horrors of war. Could there have been a happier or more enjoyable life than the one we had in Charleston? And Montgomery, it was all so thrilling there! So many smart men and women gathered from every part of the South. The mosquitoes, the lack of cleanliness, and the shortage of good food drove us away. In Richmond, the girls say it's absolutely delightful. We thought so, too, but the arguing and fighting have started there.

At the table today, we heard about Mrs. Davis's ladies. They were said to wear red dresses and flats on their heads. We sat silently. One woman mentioned that the drawing room at the Spotswood was warm, stuffy, and hard to breathe in. “Poor thing,” murmured the ever-present Brewster, “and no man came to take her out for a moonlit stroll, you know. Why didn’t someone invite her out to the porch to see the comet?” Goodness, the amount of flirting that happened in the name of the comet! When you stumbled upon a couple on the porch, they looked up, and “comet” was the only word you heard. Brewster returned with a newspaper from Washington, filled with serious threats about what they plan to do to us. Threatened men live long.

There was a gentle, sweet young lady sitting across from us. She appeared so delicate and polished, and so unsure about everything. Mr. Brewster referred to her as Miss Albina McClush, who would always ask her maid when a new book was mentioned, “Seraphina, have I read that book?”

Mary Hammy, with a fiancé at war, sometimes feels sad and emotional. Mrs. Preston reminded her of what her Black nurse used to say: “Never take on more worry than you can shake off at the end of your toes.”

July 11th.—We heard cannon fire today. The woman who insulted Mrs. Davis’s republican court, of which we[80] are proud members, by saying we—well, weren’t young; that we wore bright colors and dressed poorly—I took stock of her looks today. She is darkly, deeply, and beautifully freckled; she wears a wig held in place by a tiara of fake jewels; she has the chubbiest arms and wears black bead bracelets.

The person who's under a cloud, seen as a Yankee spy, has confirmed our worst fears. She showed almost cruel happiness when she reported seven hundred sick soldiers in the hospital at Culpeper, and that Beauregard had sent a flag of truce to Washington.

What a night we had! Maria had noticed some suspicious people hanging around all day, and Mrs. Preston saw a ladder that could easily be positioned to reach our rooms. Mary Hammy noticed lights flickering among the trees, and we all heard gunfire. So, we stayed up. As a result, I'm writing this in bed today. I received a letter from my husband which said, in particular: “Our orders are to move on,” dated July 10th. “We're still here with no more chance of moving now than when I last wrote to you. However, it’s true that the enemy is slowly advancing in front of us, and we are getting ready to confront him. He’s coming in great force, being more than three times our number.”

The so-called spy gave us a parting shot: she said Beauregard had arrested her brother to take the nice horse he was riding. Why? Beauregard could grab any horse in South Carolina or Louisiana in a heartbeat. This guy was arrested and sent to Richmond, and "he'll be acquitted like they always are," Brewster said. "They send them to Richmond first to see and hear everything there; then they clear them and send them out of the country through Norfolk to see everything there. But honestly, what does it matter? They don’t need spies: our newspapers don’t keep any secrets. The thoughts in our hearts are all laid bare. Everything here is open and straightforward."

[81]

“At Bethel, the Yankees aimed too high. Every daily paper is still making fun of them for it. They’ll aim lower next time, but sadly, there won’t be any journalists there to cover their improved practice!”

[82]

Richmond, VA, July 13, 1861.—Now we feel secure and at ease. We can’t be outmaneuvered. Mr. Preston met us in Warrenton. Mr. Chesnut probably had too many informants to get updates from Washington, racing in with the precise enemy numbers hidden in their hair.

Wade Hampton is here; Doctor Nott is also here—Nott and Glyddon are famous. Everyone is here, en route for the army, or staying for the meeting of Congress.

Lamar is on crutches. His father-in-law, formerly known as the humorist Longstreet,[49] author of Georgia Scenes, is now a serious Methodist who has matured beyond the foolishness of his younger days, took him away today. They say Judge Longstreet has lost the sharp sense of humor that lit up his life in the past. Mrs. Lamar and her daughter were here.

The President greeted us warmly, but he laughed at our sudden retreat, with our bags lost and everything. He tried to convince us to stay, saying it was a risky move. I bet he knows more about the situation than he's letting on.

To day in the living room, I saw a vivandière in the[83] flesh. She was in her regiment's uniform but wore Turkish pants. She danced around in her hat and feathers; didn’t take her hat off like a man would have; played the piano; and sang war songs. She didn’t have a drum, but she gave us a rataplan. She was followed everywhere by a crowd of admiring soldiers and kids.

Yesterday, as we got out of the cars, we caught a glimpse of war. It was the saddest sight: the memory of it is hard to shake off—sick soldiers, not just wounded ones. There were about two hundred (or so they said) lying around as best they could on the platform. Robert Barnwell[50] was there doing everything he could. Their pale, haunting faces! This is one of the horrors of war we hadn’t anticipated. There were many good men and women with Robert Barnwell, doing everything possible under the circumstances.

Just now, I happened to look up and saw Mr. Chesnut smiling at me from the hallway. I dashed across the room, and halfway there, I saw Mrs. Davis touch him on the shoulder. She said he needed to go immediately to Mr. Davis’s room, where General Lee and General Cooper were. After he left us, Mrs. Davis told me that General Beauregard had sent Mr. Chesnut here on some army business.

July 14th.—Mr. Chesnut spent the afternoon alone with the President and General Lee. The news doesn’t seem good. At least, he’s not sharing any of it with me. He just went on about how sensible and soldierly this handsome General Lee is. General Lee’s military wisdom was also a topic he covered. Naturally, the President was the main focus of the group, both because of his intelligence and his position. I didn’t care at all for a rundown of the war council. I wanted to know what’s happening now?

[84]

July 16th.—Had dinner today at the President’s table. Joe Davis, the nephew, asked me if I liked white port wine. I said I didn't know; “all I had ever tried was dark red.” So he poured me a glass. I drank it, and it nearly burned my mouth and throat. It was terrible, but I didn’t let him see how much it bothered me. I pretended to be happy that someone thought I was still young enough to pull a practical joke on me. It had been thirty years since I thought about such a thing.

Met Colonel Baldwin in the living room. He pointed meaningfully to his Confederate colonel’s buttons and gray coat. Last summer at the White Sulphur, he was a “Union man” through and through. “How much have you changed besides your coat?” “I was always loyal to our country,” he said. “She leaves me no choice now.”

As far as I can tell, Beauregard sent Mr. Chesnut to the President to get approval for Joe Johnston's and Beauregard's forces to come together and, united, push the enemy, if possible, across the Potomac. Every day, we’re getting weaker while they’re getting stronger; so we should strike a decisive blow right away. We’re already calling for more ammunition, and the blockade is starting to cut it all off.

A young Emory is here. His mother tells him to go back. Her Franklin blood definitely urges him to the North, while his homeland is confused and divided by factions. Mrs. Wigfall says he's somewhat inclined to go. She was surprised he hasn’t. With a father in the enemy’s army, he will always be considered “suspicious” here, no matter what the President and Mrs. Davis do for him.

I didn’t realize there was still such a “bitter cry” in me, but I cried my heart out today when my husband left. Everything feels so dark. When he comes up here, he rarely brings his servant, a Black man. Lawrence is in charge of all Mr. Chesnut’s belongings—his watch, clothes, and a couple of hundred gold pieces that sit in the tray of his trunk. He tells Lawrence to bring these things, along with papers, to me if anything happens to him. But I said, “Maybe he’ll run off to the Yankees and freedom with all that.” “Nonsense! He’s not going to leave me for anyone else. After all, what could he ever be that’s better than he is now—a gentleman’s gentleman?” “He’s within earshot of the enemy’s guns, and once he gets to the other army, he’s free.” Maria commented about Mr. Preston’s man: “What does he want with anything more if he’s free? Doesn’t he live just as well as Mars John does now?”

Mrs. McLane, Mrs. Joe Johnston, and Mrs. Wigfall all showed up. I’m sure that many smart women could entertain anyone, even in the toughest situations. The Hampton Legion is all worked up—though I can't remember why; I guess they're just trying to maintain their dignity. I've come to really dislike a guy who says, “My own personal dignity and self-respect require.” I want to shout, “You don't need to respect yourself until you can make other people do it.”

July 19th.—Beauregard sent a telegram yesterday (apparently to General Johnston), saying, “Come down and help us, or we’re going to be overwhelmed by the enemy's numbers.” The President also messaged General Johnston to head down and support Beauregard. At Bull Run, Bonham’s Brigade, along with Ewell’s and Longstreet’s, faced the enemy and pushed them back. Six hundred prisoners have been brought here.

I got up, just like the Scriptures describe, washed my face, put some oil in my hair, and went downstairs. At the bottom, General Cooper stood there, beaming, nervously fiddling with his shirt collar or adjusting his neck to it in his usual way. He shouted, “Your guy from South Carolina, Bonham, did an amazing job at Bull Run—he pushed back the enemy, if not defeated them; with killed and prisoners,” and so on. Clingman came by to share the details, and Colonel Smith (one of the trio with Garnett and McClellan who were sent to Europe to evaluate military matters). Poor Garnett is dead. There was cowardice[86] or betrayal by locals up there, or maybe some of Governor Letcher’s military appointees. I hear all these things being said. I don’t get it, but it was a disastrous situation.

Mrs. McLane says she finds that we don't believe a word of any news unless it comes in this form: “A great battle fought. Not one Confederate killed. The enemy’s loss in killed, wounded, and prisoners taken by us is huge.” I was hoping there would be no battle until Mr. Chesnut was forced to give up his amateur role to come and handle his regular duties in Congress.

Keitt has arrived. He says that Bonham’s battle was just a minor clash. Joe Davis Jr. said: “If only Heaven would send us a Napoleon!” But that wouldn't help at all. If Heaven did send one, Walker wouldn’t give him a commission anyway. Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Joe Johnston, “her dear Lydia,” were in great spirits. The effect on nous autres was clear; we visibly perked up. South Carolina troops pass by every day. They march with a lively step. Tom Taylor and John Rhett waved to us from their horses as we leaned out of the windows. There was so much waving of handkerchiefs. We’re always at the windows.

It wasn't just a small fight. We took three rifled cannons and six hundred weapons. Mr. Davis has gone to Manassas. He didn’t inform Wigfall about his departure. That ends Wigfall’s hope of being an aide. No mistakes today. I was too sick to get out of bed, so they all gathered in my room.

July 22.—Mrs. Davis came in so quietly that I didn’t realize she was there until she leaned over me and said, “A great battle has been fought.[51] Joe Johnston led the right[87] wing, and Beauregard led the left wing of the army. Your husband is fine. Wade Hampton is injured. Colonel Johnston of the Legion is dead, as are Colonel Bee and Colonel Bartow. Kirby Smith[52] is injured or dead.”

I couldn't catch my breath to say anything; she continued in that desperate, calm manner people adopt during intense excitement: “Bartow, rallying his men, leading them into the fiercest part of the battle, died heroically at the front of his regiment. The President just messaged me that ‘it’s a great victory.’ General Cooper has all the other messages.”

Still I said nothing; I was in shock; then I felt so grateful. Those closest to me were still safe. She then began, in the same focused voice, to read from a paper she held in her hand: “Dead and dying cover the field. Sherman’s battery taken. Lynchburg regiment cut to pieces. Three hundred of the Legion wounded.”

That got me up. Things were too crazy with excitement to stay in bed. We went into Mrs. Preston’s room, and she made me lie down on her bed. Men, women, and children flooded in. Everyone had a story to share. “Total victory,” you heard everywhere. We had been so anxious. The overwhelming relief was almost too much to handle.

Today I ran into my friend, Mr. Hunter. I was heading to Mrs. Bartow’s room and asked him to come by another time. I was feeling too emotional for a morning visit from even the most understanding person.

A woman from Mrs. Bartow’s hometown was furious because they stopped her while she rushed to be the first to inform Mrs. Bartow that her husband had been killed, as it was decided that Mrs. Davis should be the one to tell her. Poor thing! She was found lying on her bed when Mrs. Davis knocked. “Come in,” she said. When she saw it was Mrs. Davis, she sat up, ready to jump to her feet, but then noticed something in Mrs. Davis’s pale face that drained the energy out of her. She stared at Mrs. Davis, then sank back and covered her face as she asked, “Is it bad news for me?” Mrs. Davis didn’t answer. “Is he killed?” Later, Mrs. Bartow said to me, “As soon as I saw Mrs. Davis’s face, I couldn’t say a word. I knew it all in an instant. I knew it before I wrapped the shawl around my head.”

Maria, Mrs. Preston’s maid, filled with fierce patriotism, walked into my room. “These people of color are saying that the local papers claim the folks from Virginia are responsible for everything. Now, Mars Wade had so many of his men killed and wounded; it’s obvious that South Carolina wasn’t lagging behind at all. If there’s anything that’s clear, it’s that.”

Tuesday.—I saw a military funeral for the first time. When that march started, they say Mrs. Bartow fainted. The empty saddle and the led war-horse—we witnessed and heard everything; and now it feels like we’re always hearing the Dead March in Saul. It keeps coming and coming, and I feel like I might just close my ears and scream.

Yesterday, Mrs. Singleton and we sat by a bedside and shared our tears for those brave souls—John Darby, Theodore Barker, and James Lowndes. Today, we realize we wasted our sorrow; they aren't even injured. I have no doubt that everything else about them is true—in the heat of battle, with flags in their hands, leading their troops. “But Dr. Darby is a surgeon.” He’s just as likely to forget that as I am. He’s the grandson of Colonel Thomson from the Revolution, affectionately referred to by his soldiers as “Old Danger.” Thank goodness they’re all perfectly fine. And we won’t cry next time until we receive official notice.

July 24th.—Today, Mr. Chesnut opened my door and[89] walked in. Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. I didn’t need to ask any questions. He told me about the battle as he experienced it (walking around my room, occasionally sitting on the window sill, but too restless to stay still for long); and he mentioned which regiments he was sent to bring up. He delivered the orders to Colonel Jackson, whose regiment stood so immobile under fire that they were nicknamed a “stone wall.” They also refer to Beauregard, Eugene, and Johnston as Marlboro. Mr. Chesnut rode with Lay’s cavalry after the retreating enemy during the pursuit, following them until midnight. Then there was such a downpour of rain—rain like only seen in semitropical regions.

In the living room, Colonel Chesnut was the center of attention; everyone was eager to hear news from him. He was the first person they could talk to from the front lines. However, the women had to step back for the local dignitaries, who were just as curious as they were—Mr. Barnwell, Mr. Hunter, Mr. Cobb, Captain Ingraham, and so on.

Wilmot de Saussure mentions Wilson from Massachusetts, a U.S. Senator,[53] who arrived in Manassas, on the way to Richmond, with his dancing shoes ready for a celebration that was meant to mark a victory. The New York Tribune stated: “In a few days, we will have Richmond, Memphis, and New Orleans. They must be captured immediately.” However, for “a few days,” they might now modestly replace that with “in a few years.”

They brought me a Yankee soldier’s portfolio from the battlefield. The letters had been sent by Senator[90] Harlan.[54] Some of the letters might bring you to tears. Women, wives, and mothers are the same everywhere. What a relief the spelling was! We had been willing to admit that their universal free-school education had given them a literary edge over us, but these letters don’t support that idea. The spelling is comically bad.

July 27th. — Mrs. Davis’s drawing room was lively last night, and she was at her best. Outside, a crowd was calling for the President. He did make an appearance—an old war veteran who can sense the call to action from a distance. His enthusiasm was contagious. They also asked for Colonel Chesnut, and he delivered a great speech as well. As public speakers sometimes say, “It was the proudest moment of my life.” I didn’t catch much of it since whenever something significant happens, my heart races in my ears, but the distinguished Carolinians who gathered around me told me how impressive his speech was. I felt overwhelmed. There's the Dead March for some unfortunate soul.

Today, the President told us at dinner that Mr. Chesnut’s eulogy of Bartow in Congress received a lot of praise. People liked it. Two really good speeches in twenty-four hours is quite an achievement. And now I could be happy, but our Cabinet is in such fierce conflicts with each other—everyone is criticizing everyone.

Last night, while those amazing descriptions of the battle were being shared with the crowd below from our windows, I said, “So, why don’t we just head to Washington?” “You mean why didn’t they; that chance is gone.” Mr. Barnwell told me, “Quiet, we want to hear the speaker,” and Mr. Hunter smiled sympathetically, “Don’t ask uncomfortable questions.”

Kirby Smith arrived on the turnpike just in time. However, the heroes who fought all day and [91] held the Yankees back deserve more recognition than words can express, or everything would have ended before Joe Johnston's group arrived. It's another instance of last-minute saviors claiming all the glory, while those who endured the heat, struggle, and pressure of the day feel overlooked.

Everybody initially said, “No way! There’s not going to be a war.” Those who predicted trouble were labeled as pessimists or harbingers of doom. Now, the same overly optimistic people are all shouting, “The war is over”—the same ones who were preparing to leave Richmond just a few days ago. Many were ready to move at a moment’s notice when the good news arrived. There are such naysayers everywhere.

But, getting back to the other type, the wise and careful ones, who don’t say much, but what they do say shows they believe the war has just started. Mr. Rives and Mr. Seddon just dropped by. Arnoldus Van der Horst came to see me around the same time. He mentioned that there wasn’t much sign of victory on our side until two o’clock, but once we started to win, it happened really fast. I’m referring to the battle last Sunday.

Arnold Harris told Mr. Wigfall the news from Washington last Sunday. For hours, the telegrams came in quickly, saying, “Great victory,” “Beating them at every turn.” The couriers started arriving on horseback, and finally, after two or three o’clock, there was a sudden stop to all news. About nine messengers, with updates, arrived on foot or horseback—injured, exhausted, disheveled, sore-footed, and panicked—spreading fear and shock wherever they went. That was our chance. Wigfall sees nothing that could have held us back, and when they explain why we didn’t head to Washington, I understand it even less. Yet here we’ll drag our feet, while Congress bickers and generals show off, until they in the North build an army three times the size of McDowell’s, which we just defeated.

[92]

Trescott says this victory will be our downfall. It lulls us into a false sense of security, making us think we're more courageous than we really are, and the embarrassing spectacle of their retreat will stir their pride. It was just the push they needed. There are some calmer folks here who really understand the Yankees. They say that if this starts generating profit—government contracts and all that—we'll never hear the end of it, at least until they figure out how to get their money from us. They won’t lose money on us, that’s for sure. You can always count on Yankee cleverness and drive for that.

There seems to be a battle going on at Bethel, but nobody here can think about anything except Manassas. Mrs. McLean says she doesn’t see it as such a big victory, and if it’s that significant, how can a defeat hurt a nation like the North?

John Waties fought the whole battle over for me. Now I get it. Before this, nobody took the time to explain it in a clear, logical way. Mr. Venable said he had never seen anything braver than the calm actions of a Black man from Columbia. He brought his master a bucket of ham and rice that he had cooked for him and said, “You must be so tired and hungry, sir; hurry up and eat.” This was right in the middle of the fight, under the heaviest enemy fire.

The Federal Congress members had been treating it like a picnic: their bags were all tagged for Richmond. Cameron has announced something. They’re preparing to come after us in a big way. They finally recognize us as worthy opponents. God help us, since England and France either won’t or don’t. If only we could find a friend from outside and open a port.

One of these guys told me he met a Union prisoner who asked him, “What’s Richmond like for business?” He was done with his old situation and wanted to take the oath and settle down here. They brought us handcuffs that were found in the débacle of the Union army. Who were they for? Jeff Davis, for sure, and the main guys in charge. “Tell that to the marines.” We’ve moved past the handcuff thing on this side of the ocean.

Dr. Gibbes says he was at a country house near Manassas when a Federal soldier, who had lost his way, came in exhausted. He asked for brandy, which the lady of the house gave him. After a moment, he changed his mind and declined it. She brought it to him so quickly that he thought it might be poisoned; his suspicion made her furious, and she said: “Sir, I am a Virginia woman. Do you think I could be that low? Here, Bill, Tom, disarm this man. He is our prisoner.” The Black servants came running, and the man surrendered without hesitation.

Another Federal was drinking at the well. A Black girl said, “You go in and see Missis.” The man went in, and she followed, shouting triumphantly, “Look here, Missis, I caught a prisoner, too!” This lady sent in her two prisoners, and Beauregard praised her for her courage, patriotism, and quick thinking. These Black individuals were rewarded by their owners.

Now, if slavery is as unpleasant for Black people as we believe it is, why don't they all just cross the border where they'd be welcomed? It really surprises me. I’m always trying to understand these individuals. They seem mysterious to me and impossible to fully grasp. Our Black people weren’t ready for John Brown.

This is how I saw Robert E. Lee for the first time: although his family, then living at Arlington, visited me while I was in Washington (I figured it was because of old Colonel Chesnut’s close relationship with Nellie Custis back in the old Philadelphia days, since Mrs. Lee was Nelly Custis’s niece), I hadn’t met the head of the Lee family. He was with the army at that time.

Last summer at the White Sulphur, Roony Lee and his wife, that sweet little Charlotte Wickam, were there, and I spoke highly of Roony. Mrs. Izard said, “Don’t waste your admiration on him; wait until you see his father. He’s the closest thing to a perfect man I’ve ever seen.” “How so?” “In every way—handsome, smart, charming, refined.”

Now, Mrs. Stanard came to pick up Mrs. Preston and me to take us to the camp in an open carriage. A man on a beautiful horse joined us. He wore a hat that looked somewhat military, sat elegantly on his horse, and was so distinguished in every way that I really regretted not catching his name when Mrs. Stanard mentioned it. However, he heard our names and bowed as gracefully as he rode, and the few comments he made to each of us showed he was well-informed about us.

But Mrs. Stanard was in a state of absolute excitement. I felt that she had landed a big catch, especially since they were everywhere in Richmond at that time. Mrs. Stanard called him ambitious, among other things. He protested and insisted that his tastes were “very simple.” He just wanted “a Virginia farm, plenty of cream and fresh butter and fried chicken—not one fried chicken, or two, but all the fried chicken he could want.”

To all this light conversation, we were genuinely interested because the man and his horse and everything about them looked so impressive; in fact, they were perfect; you couldn't find any flaws even if you searched for them. As he walked away, I asked eagerly, “Who is he?” “You didn't know? That was Robert E. Lee, son of Light Horse Harry Lee, the most prominent man in Virginia,” she said, raising her voice as she listed his achievements. Still, I prefer Smith Lee, and I think he looks better too. I know Smith Lee well. Can anyone say they know his brother? I doubt it. He looks so cold, composed, and majestic.

Kirby Smith is our Blücher; he arrived just in time, like Blücher at Waterloo, and now we are like the British, who don't acknowledge Blücher. It's all about Wellington. So every single man I see fought and won the battle. From Kershaw and everyone else, all the last-minute troops won the battle; they changed the outcome. The Marylanders—Elzey[95]& Co.—are hardly ever mentioned—just like one hardly hears about Blücher in the English accounts of Waterloo.

Mr. Venable was praising Hugh Garden and Kershaw’s regiment overall. This was wonderful. They are my friends and neighbors back home. I showed him Mary Stark’s letter, and we both agreed with her. Deep down, we believe every Confederate soldier is a hero, sans peur et sans reproche.

Hope for the best today. Things must be going better all around the world. I ran into the President in the hallway. He took both my hands. "Have you had breakfast?" he asked. "Come in and have breakfast with me?" Unfortunately, I had already eaten.

At the public dining room, where I had breakfast with Mr. Chesnut, Mrs. Davis approached him while we were at the table. She said she had been to our rooms and wanted to find Wigfall. Mr. Davis thought Chesnut might know where he was. I rushed to Mrs. Wigfall’s room, and she told me she was sure he could be found with his regiment in camp, but Mr. Chesnut didn’t need to go to the camp since Wigfall came to his wife’s room while I was there. Mr. Davis and Wigfall would be friends, if—if——

The Northern newspapers claim that we hanged and quartered a Zouave, cutting him into four pieces, and that we tie prisoners to a tree and stab them with bayonets. In other words, they’re calling us savages. This should remind us not to believe what our papers say about them. It’s such a ridiculous idea of evil. We are treating their prisoners just as well as we treat our own men; we’ve even been criticized for it here. I’m heading to the hospitals to check on the enemy’s sick and wounded so I can see it for myself.

Why didn’t we chase the enemy across the Potomac? That’s the question on everyone’s mind in the living room among those of us who aren’t arguing over “who took Rickett’s Battery?” Allen Green, for one, did. Allen told us that after he found a suitcase filled with nice clean[96] shirts, he was so hot and dusty that he stepped behind a tree, put on a clean Yankee shirt, and felt much more comfortable.

The New York Tribune comforts the Yankee ego, which took a hit, by claiming we had 100,000 troops on the field at Manassas; in reality, we had about 15,000 effective men total. Then, the Tribune tries to stir them up against us by spreading lies about how we treat prisoners. They say that when they come against us next time, it will be with overwhelming force. I can't wait to read Russell’s letter to the London Times about Bull Run and Manassas. It will be something special. In Washington, there’s a lot of blame being tossed around. Well, let them insult each other to their heart's content.

August 1st.—Mrs. Wigfall, with the "Lone Star" flag in her carriage, picked me up. We drove to the fairgrounds. Mrs. Davis's fancy carriage, pulled by her impressive bays, rolled ahead of us. The fairgrounds are as packed with tents, soldiers, and more as always. As one regiment heads off to the army, a new one from home arrives to be mustered in and take its place.

The President, along with his aides, rushed by. My husband was riding with him. The President presented the flag to the Texans. Mr. Chesnut came to us for the flag and held it up high for the President. It felt like we were sharing in some of the glory. We were too far away to hear the speech, but Jeff Davis is really good at that sort of thing, and we were sure it went well.

Heavens! How that formidable Wigfall was pushing those poor Texans around! He directed and marched them until I felt exhausted just watching. Poor guys; it was a hot afternoon in August, and the temperature was in the nineties. Mr. Davis took off his hat to speak. Wigfall responded with his hat on. Is that how military protocol works?

At the fairgrounds today, there was music, marching, cheering, flags waving, and guns firing—everything you’d expect. It was a festive day, filled with a strong sense of Fourth of July spirit. In the middle of all this, a messenger arrived to inform Mrs. Wigfall that a telegram had come in, stating that her children were safe across the lines in Gordonsville. That was definitely something to be thankful for.

These two little girls came from somewhere in Connecticut, with Mrs. Wigfall’s sister—the one who gave me my Bogotsky, the only person in the world, except Susan Rutledge who ever seemed to think I had a soul to save. Now, what if Seward had held Louisa and Fanny as hostages for Louis Wigfall’s good behavior; huh?

Excitement number two: that daring brigadier, General Toombs of Georgia, was charging around too recklessly and ended up getting thrown. His horse dragged him right up to the wheels of our carriage. For a moment, it was terrifying. Down there, among the horses’ hooves, was a face looking up at us, flushed with anger. His foot was still in the stirrup, and he hadn’t let go of the bridle. The horse was prancing over him, tearing and bucking; everyone was trying to help, but they seemed so slow and clumsy about it. It felt like an eternity as we looked down at him, expecting him to be killed right before our eyes. However, he quickly got it together, and although he was a complete mess—dusty, rumpled, and with a redder face and wilder hair than ever—he rode off gallantly, impressively managing to remount the stubborn horse.

Now, if I had to choose the most unfairly criticized person, who seems to get blamed by everyone, I'd say Mr. Commissary-General Northrop is the most cursed and hated man in the Confederacy. He's blamed for everything that goes wrong in the army. He might not be very effective, but because he was a classmate and buddy of Jeff Davis at West Point, it adds weight to the story. I hear that's often brought up as one of his many faults. They say Beauregard claims his army is on the brink of starvation. Here, everyone—men, women, and children—is ready to hang the first person they see who gets blamed by that army. Every soldier from Manassas is a hero in our patriotic hearts. We could never overlook any neglect of the heroes from July 21st—never!

And now they say we didn’t move right after the enemy because we had no supplies, no wagons, no ammunition, etc. Rain, mud, and Northrop. Where were the enemy’s supplies that we boasted about capturing? Echo answers, where? Where there’s a will, there’s a way. We stopped to loot that rich convoy, and somehow, for a day or so, everyone thought the war was over and paused to celebrate: that’s how it seemed here. All this was our dinner-table conversation today. Mr. Mason had dinner with us, and Mr. Barnwell always sits by me. The latter scolded me sharply, but Mr. Mason laughed at “this reckless, unreasonable woman’s speech and her female tactics and ways of war.” A flood in the autumn doesn’t make up for a drought in the spring. Time and tide wait for no one, and there was a tide in our affairs that could have led us to Washington, but we didn’t seize it and lost our chance this time. Those were things nobody could deny.

McClellan pretty much takes the place of the giant Scott. Physically, General Scott is the biggest guy I've ever seen. Mrs. Scott said, “Nobody but his wife could really understand how little he was.” Still, they say old Winfield Scott could have put together an army for them if they’d just been patient. They didn’t give him the time.

August 2nd.—Prince Jerome[55] has gone to Washington. So far, the Yankees are just as inexperienced as we are; they’re still raw troops. Imagine if France decides to take the other side[99] and we have to face trained and armed soldiers who know how to fight—Frenchmen, with all the enthusiasm we brag about.

Ransom Calhoun, Willie Preston, and Doctor Nott’s boys are here. These foolish, reckless, impulsive Southern guys have almost gotten into a fight with a Maryland crew over their camping grounds. It's really too much for them to be so quick to pick a fight with anyone, friend or enemy. The men are buzzing with intense enthusiasm. The heated Southern spirit is in the air. However, these young men were all educated abroad. They’re filled with French and German ideas. The Marylanders were just as reckless as the others, ready to get into a scuffle at the slightest provocation, just like at Donnybrook Fair. One would think there were more than enough Yankees around for any killing that needed to be done. It all started over the issue of securing their horses. Yet, these combative young soldiers have great manners. They are really charming when we see them here at Arlington.

August 5th.—A really heavy heart. Another letter from Jordan, complaining and critical; everything is wrong—Beauregard’s Jordan has been crossed, not the stream “in Canaan’s fair and happy land, where our possessions lie.” They seem to believe that the war is over here, except for the President and Mr. Barnwell; especially that anxious friend of mine, Captain Ingraham. He thinks it has barely begun.

Another outburst from Jordan. Beauregard is not supported properly. Hélas! To think that any general (even if he jumped from captain of artillery to general in just a month) could be so full of himself, so blinded by a false sense of his own importance, as to suggest that someone would sacrifice their country, harm themselves, and ruin their families just to get back at him! Conceit and self-importance can’t get any more ridiculous than that. And yet, they imply that Mr. Davis doesn’t like Beauregard. In fact, they believe he’s jealous of him, and rather than allow Beauregard to shine, the President (who would face severe consequences if things go wrong) would weaken the army just to spite him. Mr. Mallory says, “It’s laughable, but it really isn’t funny to have our fate in the hands of such self-righteous, vain military fools.” So the trivialities of life are spreading.

In the meantime, we seem to be sitting idle, arguing in Congress, while the motivated Yankees are casually expanding their army. Every day, some of our regiments are leaving here. The town is packed with soldiers. These new arrivals are rushing in, worried that the war will end before they get a chance to see the action. Every guy from every small area wants to be part of the excitement.

Tuesday.—The North needs 600,000 men to invade us. We really are a powerful force! The Herald claims that moving with any fewer men would be pointless. England has made peace with them, or rather, she’s not willing to sever ties. Jerome Napoleon is in Washington and not on our side.

Doctor Gibbes is a bad sign. Today, he tells me eight of our men have died at the Charlottesville Hospital. It seems that illness is more fearsome in an army than the enemy’s guns. There are 1,100 there hors de combat, and they’re dealing with typhoid fever. They need money, clothes, and nurses. So, as I write, letters are going out left and right, asking for help from the sister societies back home. Good and patriotic women at home are quick to get to work.

Mary Hammy has many talents—a fiancé in the army and Doctor Berrien in town. Today she went out with Major Smith and Colonel Hood. Yesterday, Custis Lee was here. She’s a clever girl and doesn’t need any advice, even if I were the type to give it.

Lawrence does all our shopping. He’s had all his master’s money until now. I thought it was unwise[101] to leave gold lying loose in a trunk when it’s so valuable. So, I’ve sewn it into a belt that I can wear in case of an emergency. The fabric is padded, and my diamonds are there too. It has strong strings and can be tied under my skirts around my waist if things get really bad, as they say. Lawrence still wears that same bronze mask. No sign of what he feels or thinks about my latest idea. All I know is that he now asks for twice as much money when he goes shopping.

August 8th.—Today I saw a sword that was captured at Manassas. The guy who brought the sword was taken prisoner by the Yankees early in the battle. They stripped him, took his sleeve buttons, and were about to take his boots when the tide turned and everything changed.

From a small stream in the mountains has emerged the powerful flow that has ultimately made Louis Wigfall the President's biggest enemy in Congress, complicating our situation quite a bit. Mr. Davis needs to feel supported; he should be backed. We all agree that a divided house must fall.

Mrs. Sam Jones, known as Becky by her friends and acquaintances, both male and female, mentioned that Mrs. Pickens had told Mrs. Jones (née Taylor, connected to the President Taylor family and cousin of Mr. Davis's first wife) that Mrs. Wigfall had described Mrs. Davis to Mrs. Pickens as a “rough Western woman.” Now, Lucy Holcombe and Mrs. Wigfall had their own feud in Texas, and although they made up, there was still some lingering resentment. Initially, Mrs. Joe Johnston referred to Mrs. Davis as “a Western belle,”[56] but when the conflict between General[102] Johnston and the President erupted, Mrs. Johnston changed her description from “belle” to “woman” in her account relayed by Mrs. Jones.

Commodore Barron[57] arrived with good news. We had captured three ships at sea and brought them in safely, one loaded with molasses. General Toombs told us that the President praised Mr. Chesnut when he described the battle scene to his Cabinet, etc. General Toombs is sure that Colonel Chesnut will be among the new brigadiers. Then Mr. Clayton came, who calmly told us that Jeff Davis wouldn’t get the vote of this Congress for President, so we could count him out.

Mr. Meynardie first told us how devout a Christian soldier Kershaw was, how he prayed, got up, brushed off his knees, and led his men to victory with a flair and bravery equal to any mighty warrior from the Old Testament.

Governor Manning’s description of Prince Jerome Napoleon: “He is stocky and not attractive. He’s not young either, and while he inspected our troops, he was extremely hot.” He heard him say “en avant,” which he can confirm from personal experience, and he was informed that he had been heard to say with sincerity “Allons” more than once. The view of the battlefield had made the Prince feel queasy, and he gratefully accepted a drink of strong whisky.

Arrago seemed really interested in Confederate statistics and praised our brave actions. Our guests only got basic soldier food, even though we tried our best. Sleeping was tough and eating was even worse in camp. Beauregard is half French and speaks French fluently. So one awkward situation was avoided, and it was nice to see Beauregard speak without the stress of searching for words in the foreign language and putting them together into sentences, all while sweating. Others who spoke “a little French” didn’t have the same luck.

General and Mrs. Cooper came to visit us. She is Mrs. Smith Lee’s sister. They were discussing old George Mason — a name that carries weight in Virginia. George Mason strongly opposed the spread of slavery. He was a true aristocrat and argued that he wouldn’t allow the new states in the Southwest and Northwest to have slaves because he believed that the common, new people didn’t deserve such a sacred right. Slavery wasn’t meant for people like them. Mrs. Lee said, “After all, what good does it do my sons that they are grandsons of Light Horse Harry Lee and George Mason? I don’t see that it helps them at all.”

A friend in Washington tells me that we could have walked into the city any day for a week after Manassas, given the chaos and confusion there. But the god Pan was still playing his horn in the woods. Now she says Northern troops are literally flooding in from all directions. The horses cover so much ground. And she believes we've lost our chance forever.

A man named Grey (the same guy who surprised Secretary of War Walker by asking him, “Well, sir, what brings you here?”) described the battle on the 21st as a series of mistakes, saved only by the unbreakable courage of the two-thirds on our side who didn’t flee. Doctor Mason mentioned that a runaway from the other side told him that “a million men with the devil behind them couldn't have beaten the rebels at Bull Run.” That’s nice.

There has to be opposition in a free country. But it’s really uncomfortable. “United we stand, divided we fall.” Mrs. Davis showed us in The New York Tribune an excerpt from a paper in Augusta (Georgia) saying, “Cobb is our guy. Davis is, at heart, a reconstructionist.” We might be[104]small players in the grand scheme, and we know we’re insignificant; but Mrs. Preston and I have made an agreement; our oath is recorded up above. We intend to support our President and to put a stop to all criticism of those in power if we can, whether they’re generals or Cabinet Ministers.

August 13th.—Hon. Robert Barnwell says, “The Mercury’s influence sparked this opposition to Jeff Davis before he had a chance to go wrong. They weren’t so much upset with him as they were with the person who replaced what they thought was Barnwell Rhett’s rightful position. Rhett had been shouting about nullification and secession for so long that when he saw his ideas embraced by all of the Confederate world, he felt entitled to take the lead.”

Jordan, Beauregard’s assistant, still writes to Mr. Chesnut that the death rate among the new troops in that camp is alarming. Everyone seems to be doing everything they can. Think of the British soldiers who are sick and injured way over in the Crimea. Our troops are only half a day’s train ride from Richmond. With a grateful heart, I note the fact of reconciliation with the Wigfalls. They had dinner at the President’s yesterday, and the little Wigfall girls stayed overnight.

Seward is celebrating the outsiders, the Emperor’s cousin, Napoleon III, and Russell from the all-powerful London Times.

August 14th.—Last night, a group of men came to see us, and they were really critical. I tried to jot down what they said, but I got overwhelmed by sleep and the heat. Today, I can’t remember anything. One of Mr. Mason’s stories is about where we get our reliable information. A well-dressed man standing on the platform at the depot announced, “I just came from the front lines.” The reporters immediately pulled out their pencils and paper. “Is Fairfax Court House burned?” they asked. “Yes, it burned yesterday.” “But I just came from there,” said another; “it was still standing an hour or so ago.” “Oh! But I have to give them credit; they only burned the tavern because they didn’t want to destroy or burn anything else after the railroad.” “There’s no railroad at Fairfax Court House,” countered the man just back from Fairfax. “Oh! Really?” said the front-lines guy, “I didn’t know that; is that true?” And he casually sat down and started talking about something else.

Our people are getting really angry at the prisoners. Only a mob would act like this in any country. But I’m being told to stay quiet. Decency and proper behavior won’t be overlooked, and the prisoners will be treated the way prisoners of war should be treated in a civilized country.

August 15th.—Mrs. Randolph arrived. Along with her were the Freelands, Rose and Maria. The men raved about Mrs. Randolph’s beauty, calling her a stunning example of the best kind of dark-eyed, vibrant Southern woman. She has clear brunette skin, the reddest lips, the whitest teeth, and incredible eyes; there’s no other way to describe them. After declaring Mrs. Randolph the winner among Southern beauties, Mr. Clayton said Prentiss was the best Southern orator. Mr. Marshall and Mr. Barnwell disagreed; they preferred William C. Preston. Mr. Chesnut found Colquitt to be the best and most effective stump orator.

Saw Henry Deas Nott. He just got back from Paris, through New York. He says New York is buzzing with military energy. At no time during the Crimean War was there ever a display of soldiers getting ready for war in Paris like what he saw in New York. It felt like the entire place was filled with marching regiments.

Not more than 500 effective soldiers are in Hampton’s Legion, but they held off the entire Union army until 2:30. Then, just as Hampton got wounded and half of his colonels were shot, Cash and Kershaw (as Mrs. Smith Lee clearly questioned, “What about Kirby Smith?”) charged in and[106] not only changed the situation but would have pushed the fleeing soldiers into Washington if Beauregard hadn't called them back. Mr. Chesnut finds all of this quite amusing, as he was the one who posted many of the regiments and spent the whole time running orders across the battlefield. He finds the differences in these personal accounts entertaining, but he smiles kindly and lets everyone tell their story their own way.

August 16th.—Mr. Barnwell says that fame is usually something you create yourself; you have to write your own good reviews or manage how they're made. You also need to make sure that the newspapers publish your military reports. No one else will give you as much credit as you take for yourself. No one will care for your good reputation in the world with the same passion and belief as you do.

August 17th.—Captain Shannon, of the Kirkwood Rangers, came by and stayed for three hours. He hasn't seen combat yet, but he's eager to see or hear the guns firing. He's proud of himself, proud of his company, but most of all proud that he has lots of the finest troops from the low country in his unit. He seemed to find it amusing that I’m knitting a pair of socks a day for the soldiers, even though the yarn is rough. He’s been away from home for such a short time that he doesn’t realize how much the soldiers need them. He was so excessively complimentary to my husband that I found him really enjoyable to be around.

August 18th.—I found it pretty thrilling to have a spy drinking tea with us—maybe because I knew what he did for a living. I didn't like his face. People say he has a plan to make Washington fall into our hands like an overripe peach.

Mr. Barnwell encourages Mr. Chesnut to stay in the Senate. There are plenty of generals, or those eager to become one. He believes Mr. Chesnut can do the most for his country by providing wise advice where it’s truly needed. I won’t argue against that; I can’t risk my support going to the military side, just in case something were to happen!

[107]

Mr. Miles told us last night that he received another letter from General Beauregard. The General wants to know if Mr. Miles has passed on his message to Colonel Kershaw. Mr. Miles says he hasn't done that and doesn't plan to. They need to resolve these issues of truthfulness according to their own military protocols. He is a civilian again. It's a pointless argument. Colonel Kershaw should have reported to his commander-in-chief instead of making an independent report and sharing it publicly. He didn't mean any harm. He's just not used to the complexities of war yet.

The New York Tribune is so biased. It started by screaming to get rid of us because we were so terrible. Now that we're ready to leave them to their self-righteousness, they're yelling: “Crush our enemy, or they will take control of us.” The notion that we want to invade or control anyone; we would be more than happy to be left alone. We ask nothing more from gods or people.

Went to the hospital with a cart full of peaches and grapes. Made some people really happy with that. When I ran out of supplies, those who had none looked so longingly at me as I walked out that I decided to make another trip to the market. Those deep-set eyes watching me from bed to bed still haunt me.

Wilmot de Saussure troubled my soul with a story about a recent drowning at the beach on Sullivan’s Island. Mr. Porcher, who was trying to save his sister's life, ended up losing both his own life and his child’s. It seems that people die just as much outside the army as they do inside it.

Mrs. Randolph confidently led a charity event, looking regal and composed. The women were older and all wanted things done their way. They were stubborn and contradictory, and frustration flushed Mrs. Randolph’s cheeks, but she maintained her dignity and grace. One source of tension was Mrs. Randolph's suggestion to share all contributions equally with the wounded and sick Yankee prisoners. Some were passionate about it from a Christian perspective; others were furious at the thought of equating our brave soldiers with Yankees, whether they were alive, dying, or dead. Some of these women were fierce, dignified matriarchs who clearly weren’t used to hearing opposing views from anyone, and they were just old enough to find their greatest satisfaction in holding power—getting to assert their influence.

August 23rd.—A brother of Doctor Garnett has just arrived from Cambridge, Mass., and he says (or it’s reported that he said, which makes a difference), that “recruiting up there is dead.” He traveled through Cincinnati and Pittsburgh and mentioned that the entire journey felt so sad, gloomy, and quiet that it resembled a Sunday.

I asked Mr. Brewster if it was true that Senator Toombs had become a brigadier. “Yes, military service is on everyone’s mind. Everyone's going to get a taste of it. Toombs couldn’t stay in the Cabinet.” “Why not?” “Incompatibility of temperament. He has too inflated an ego for someone as authoritarian as Jeff Davis. I’ve tried to figure out the issue, but I can’t. Mr. Toombs has been at odds with everyone for months.” Conflict is bound to erupt. It always does, but it just takes a little time. There’s a complete store of discord and dissatisfaction in that Cabinet; it just needs someone to ignite it, and it’ll all blow up. Toombs says old Memminger is just as stubborn as anyone.

Oh, what a day! Since I wrote this morning, I've been with Mrs. Randolph to all the hospitals. I can never again ignore the sights I saw there of human suffering. I sit here thinking, close my eyes, and see it all; yes, and there's plenty to think about now, God knows. Gilland’s was the worst, with long rows of sick men on cots, suffering from typhoid fever and every other ailment; at the dining tables for eating and drinking, wounds being treated; all the horrors to take in at once.

Then we went to St. Charles. Horrors upon horrors again; lack of organization, long lines of dead and dying; terrible sights. A boy from home had sent for me. He was dying in a cot, suffering from fever. Next to him, a man died in convulsions while we stood there. I was making arrangements with a nurse, hiring him to take care of this kid; but I don't remember anything else because I fainted. The next thing I knew, the doctor and Mrs. Randolph were putting me, a limp rag, into a carriage at the hospital door. Fresh air, I suppose, brought me back. As we drove home, the doctor came with us because I was so upset. He said, “Look at that Georgia regiment marching there; look at their servants on the sidewalk. I’ve been counting them, making an estimate. There’s $16,000—sixteen thousand dollars’ worth of slave property that can walk off to the Yankees whenever it wants.”

August 24th.—Daniel, from The Examiner, was at the President’s. Wilmot de Saussure questioned whether someone wouldn't feel a bit strange visiting in person the home of a man he criticized every day in his newspaper.

A disaster: an assistant was involved with two young women in the same house. The women had been fighting, but they unexpectedly became friends when his betrayal, along with many other secrets, was exposed under that impressive roof. Just imagine the chaos when everything was revealed.

Mr. Lowndes said we've already seen one positive outcome from the war. The speakers, the loudmouths, the passionate patriots who could hardly be contained and were so verbally eager to fight or die for their country—they were a constant annoyance in our lives. Now they've either avoided the battlefield entirely or have left as soon as it was convenient for them: out of sheer embarrassment, we’re free of them for a bit. I doubt it. Bright’s speech[58] is totally against us. Reading this doesn't lift anyone's spirits.

[110]

August 25th.—Mr. Barnwell argues that democracies lead to dishonesty. Constantly campaigning means constantly being untruthful; therefore, both we and the Yankees are unreliable when it comes to our own achievements. “What about empires? Were there ever more outrageous lies than those of Emperor Napoleon?” Mr. Barnwell continued: “People can’t speak the truth during a campaign; they have to win over their voters. Now, everyone in a democracy seems to want a position; at least everyone in Richmond seems to want one right now.” Ignoring interruptions, he went on: “As a nation, the English are the most truthful in the world.” “And our country gentlemen are too: they have power over their voters—at least in some parishes where there are few white people; just vast estates filled with black residents.” Thackeray mentions the lies told on both sides during the British wars with France; England was just as skilled in that art as her rival. England lied back then as smoothly as Russell lies about us now.

Went to visit Agnes De Leon, my friend from Columbia. She just got back from Egypt, and I wanted to hear about the Nile, the crocodiles, the mummies, the Sphinx, and the Pyramids. But she was focused on life in Washington, as we knew it, and her mind was here. The only topic we could discuss was the latest war news.

Mr. Clayton, Assistant Secretary of State, says we're spending two million a week. Where is all that money supposed to come from? They don’t want us to grow cotton, but to make provisions. Now, cotton always means money, or at least it used to when there was a market for it and someone to buy it. Where is the money going to come from now?

Mr. Barnwell’s new joke is a classic, but he laughed so hard while telling it that he ended up in tears. A guy got fined for disrespecting the court, and when his case came up, the Judge was so out of touch and biased against him that the “fined one” walked up and handed the esteemed Judge a five-dollar[111] bill. “Why? What’s this for?” asked the Judge. “Oh, I can feel my contempt for this court starting to kick in again!”

I came up completely exhausted; took down my hair; let it hang over me in a wild style; and sat still, hands over my head (half undressed, but too lazy and sleepy to move). I was sitting in a rocking chair by an open window, enjoying the cool night air, when suddenly the door opened and Captain —— walked in. He was halfway across the room before he realized his mistake; he stared and froze, just like they do in the novels. I imagine I looked like a monstrous Gorgon. Then, with a more frantic look, he turned and fled without saying a word. I got up and locked the door after him, then looked in the mirror and laughed myself into hysterics. I will never forget to lock the door again. But in this case, it doesn't really matter. I looked nothing like the person with my name, who, dressed in lace cap, etc., hangs out in the drawing room. I doubt he would even recognize me again.

August 26th.—The Terror is in full swing up North now. All the newspapers that support us have been shut down. How long would our crowd tolerate a Yankee newspaper here? But newspapers that criticize our government, like the Examiner and the Mercury, are thriving. A finance guy, really deep into the numbers, said today: “Clayton’s story is complete nonsense. They might pay out two million a week sometimes; they paid the

“Why do you even write in your diary,” someone said to me, “if, as you say, you have to contradict what you wrote yesterday every day?” “Because I share the story exactly as it comes to me. I write what I hear. I don't guarantee anything.”

We went to Pizzini’s, the best Italian sweet shop around. From there, we headed to Miss Sally Tompkins’s hospital, bringing supplies for the wounded. The[112] men under Miss Sally’s care looked clean and comfortable—cheerful, even. They were pleasant and nice to see. One, however, had a gloomy demeanor and kept repeating in a dull tone, “What a hard time we’ve had since we left home.” But nobody seemed to pay attention to his lament, and it didn’t affect his appetite.

At Mrs. Toombs’s, who was furious; so anti-Davis she won't even acknowledge that the President is sick. “Total nonsense.” “But what would pretending to be sick achieve for him?” “That reception, wasn't that a total sham? Such a disaster. Mrs. Reagan could have done better than that.”

Mrs. Walker is a stunning beauty from Montgomery, wearing the most amazing dresses. She was an heiress and feels unhappy in Richmond, used to being the center of attention in a different setting. Since she’s still as beautiful and stylish as ever, it must be the men who are at fault.

“Did you give Lawrence that fifty-dollar bill to change?” I was asked. “What if he takes off to the Yankees? We wouldn’t have many fifty-dollar bills left.” But he’s not going anywhere. I think he’s happy with his situation. That wadded belt of mine with the gold coins stitched in has embarrassed me more than once. I leave it under my pillow, and my maid finds it and hangs it over the back of a chair for everyone to see when I come back into the room after breakfast. When I forget and leave my trunk open, Lawrence brings me the keys and tells me, “You shouldn’t do that, Miss Mary.” Mr. Chesnut keeps all his little money in his pockets, and Lawrence says that’s why he can’t let anyone but himself brush Mars Jeems’s clothes.

August 27th.—Theodore Barker and James Lowndes came; the latter has been poorly treated. A man said, “All I want in the world is to have peace and be on my own plantation,” to which Mr. Lowndes replied calmly, “I[113] wish I had a plantation to be on, but right now I can’t see how anyone would feel justified in leaving the army.” Mr. Barker was frustrated by the bragging attitude that was so common among us. The gentleman who had been completely rebuffed by James Lowndes said spitefully, “Those women who are so desperate for their husbands to join the army probably want them dead, no doubt.”

Things were getting pretty uncomfortable, but then something interrupted us—a card. An old classmate of Mr. Chesnut's, Captain Archer, who had just come back from California, followed the card so quickly that Mr. Chesnut barely had time to tell us that they called him “Sally” Archer at Princeton College because he was so pretty—when he walked in. He’s still good-looking, but his time in the service and a rough life have taken away all his softness and feminine charm. He’ll never be that pretty again.

The North is united; they act as one unit, with no separate states, just an army organized by the central authority. Russell in the Northern camp is scorned by Northerners for that Bull Run letter. As an Englishman, Russell looks down on both sides. He divides us evenly into North and South. He prefers to credit our victory at Bull Run to Northern cowardice rather than Southern bravery. He doesn’t give credit to either side; in terms of good qualities, we are just Americans! Everything not “national” is halted. This seems to be Seward's doing.

I don’t remember the last time I saw a woman without knitting in her hands. The call is for socks for the soldiers. One poor guy said he had dozens of socks but only one shirt. He’d rather have more shirts and fewer socks. We look pretty strange with the clinking of needles and the never-ending sock hanging down.

They have arrested Wm. B. Reed and Miss Winder, who is openly declaring herself a secessionist. Why does she want to be a martyr? Writers often crave attention. It's so nice to be important enough to get arrested.[114] I have often wondered if the same kind of flattery was ever given to Napoleon’s supposed persecution and alleged jealousy of Madame de Staël.

Russell once again, who views London, Paris, and India as everyday sights, both day and night, streets and all. How ridiculous for him to remain indignant just because there have been women on black plantations who weren’t pure. Black women get married and after marriage act just like everyone else. Marriage is the highlight of their lives. They take life in stride; so do their peers everywhere. Bad men are disliked here just like anywhere else.

“I hate slavery. I can’t stand a man who—You argue that there are just as many fallen women on a plantation as there are in London, relative to the population. But what do you say about a wealthy man who runs a terrible black harem, with all its implications, right under the same roof as his lovely white wife and his beautiful, accomplished daughters? He flaunts his status and acts like the epitome of virtue to these poor women whom God and the laws have placed under him. From his position of terrible authority, he berates and criticizes them as if he’s never done anything wrong in his life. Imagine such a man discovering his daughter reading Don Juan. ‘You, with that immoral book!’ he would shout, and then he would banish her from his sight. You see, Mrs. Stowe didn’t touch on the most painful truth. She portrays Legree as a bachelor.” “Think of George II. and his kind.”

“Oh, I've met half of Legree—a guy who's said to be just as cruel as Legree, but the other half of him didn’t match that description. He was a man with refined manners, and the best husband, father, and church member you could find.” “Is that really possible?”

“Yes, I know that. It's always an exceptional case, right? And I was familiar with the wild side of Legree. He[115] was powerful and proud, but he was actually the kindest person to his slaves. The unfortunate consequences of his bad actions weren’t hidden; they didn’t have to navigate through hardships alone. They were always in plain sight and well cared for in his will.”

“The wife and daughters, in all their purity and innocence, are expected never to imagine what is as obvious to them as the sunlight, and they play their roles as unsuspecting angels perfectly. They claim to admire the father as the epitome of all saintly goodness.” “Well, yes; if he’s wealthy, he’s the source from which all blessings come.”

“The one I’m talking about—my share of Legree, the reckless side—was so angry all the time and yelled at the poor women so much that they were just happy to let him do whatever he wanted if it meant they could avoid his constant criticism and loud complaints, which made everyone feel really uncomfortable. “Now—do you know any woman today who would put up with that kind of behavior? No, never, not for a second. The pretend angels were from the last century. We know better now, and we won’t accept it.”

“The situation for women is getting better, it seems.” “Women are raised not to criticize their fathers or their husbands. They accept them as life gives them and are grateful.”

“If they don’t get to heaven after all, just think about the lives most women live.” “No heaven, no purgatory, no—the other thing? Never. I believe in future rewards and punishments.”

“How about the wives of alcoholics! I once heard a woman say to her husband’s friend, bluntly and without any bitterness or commentary, ‘Oh, you haven’t seen him! He has changed. He hasn’t gone to bed sober in thirty years.’ She has endured her own hell, if not something worse, in this world. We all know what a drunk man is like. To think, for no crime, someone may be forced to live with one for thirty years.” “You’re straying from the question I asked. Are Southern men worse because of the system of slavery and easy access to black women?” “Not at all. They see too much of them. The people in bars don’t drink; the candy people can’t stand candy. They’re sick of the sight of it.”

“Do you really think a kind guy from the South is the best thing ever?” “Absolutely. Just compare him to any other guy and you’ll see!”

Have seen letters from Yankees captured at Manassas. The spelling is often terrible, and we thought they had all gone through a course of blue-covered Noah Webster spelling books. Our soldiers really do spell strangely. There's Horace Greeley; they say he can’t read his own handwriting. But he is honest enough and ignores all the political nonsense. He says in his paper that the North has a tough challenge with our army, and that the average soldier in our army is better educated and more knowledgeable than theirs.

My wildest imagination can't see Mr. Mason[59] as a diplomat. He says "chaw" instead of "chew," calls himself "Jeems," and wears a dress coat to breakfast. Here, whatever a Mason does is fine in his eyes. He's above the law. Someone asked him how he pronounced his wife's maiden name: she was a Miss Chew from Philadelphia.

[117]

They say the English will like Mr. Mason; he is so manly, so straightforward, so honest and courageous. “A fine old English gentleman,” Russell said to me, “except for the tobacco.” “I like Mr. Mason and Mr. Hunter better than anyone else.” “And yet they are really different.” “Now just listen to me,” I said. “Is Mrs. Davis around—no? Well, sending Mr. Mason to London is the craziest idea yet. Even worse in some ways than Yancey, and that was a disaster.”

August 29th.—No more female gossip, but the official critic, the powerful Russell, from the Times. He claims the battle on the 21st was fought from a distance: the combatants were 500 yards apart. The Confederates were steadily retreating when some disturbance in the wagon train startled the “Yanks,” and they took off. In plain language, they ran away quickly. And on our side, we were too scared to chase them—in more dramatic terms, to pursue the fleeing enemy.

In spite of all this, there are occasional glimpses of the truth, and the story reflects on our reputation amidst all the mockery and insults. When he talks about the Yankees’ cowardice, deceit, dishonesty, and boasting, the strongest words come from him. He repeats the already debunked narrative that we treated wounded prisoners harshly. Dr. Gibson told me that their surgeon-general has written to thank our surgeons: Yankee officers express things very differently from Russell. I know that in that hospital with the Sisters of Charity, they had it better than our men did in the other hospitals; I witnessed that with my own eyes. These unfortunate souls are carefully protected day and night. It's a shocking story—their accounts of their sufferings.

Women who step into the public eye are in a tough spot now. Wigs are taken off and searched for hidden papers. Bustles are “suspicious.” They say all sorts of things are smuggled across the border under the large hoops that are currently in fashion, so they’re ripped off without mercy. Instead of looking for legs, they check for arms under the hoops, and sadly, they’re often found. Now women are used as spies and searchers to make sure no men are sneaking in disguised in petticoats. So, these poor women who are trying to come this way are deeply humiliated. For men, there’s glory, honor, praise, and power if they’re patriots. For women, the daughters of Eve, punishment still comes in some form, no matter what they do.

Mary Hammy's eyes were wide with shock as a tall, handsome guy from South Carolina talked quickly. "What happened?" I asked after he left. "Oh, what a difference a year can make—just one year! Last summer, remember how he swore he was in love with me? He told you, he told me, he told everyone, and I really believed him when I refused to marry him. Now he says he has met, fallen in love with, dated, and married someone else, and he can't stop raving about how beautiful his baby daughter is. And they say time moves slowly," Mary Hammy said with a sigh of amazement at his incredible transformation.

“Time works wonders,” said the explainer-general. “What conclusion did you reach about Southern men at the big gathering, you know?” “They are nicer than the nicest—the gentlemen, you know. There aren’t too many of that kind anywhere. Ours are generous, honest, brave, and—and—devoted to us, you know. A Southern husband is not a bad thing to have around the house.”

Mrs. Frank Hampton said: “For one thing, you can't flirt with these South Carolinians. They don’t stay at the casual level of flirting. They get so seriously intense before you even realize it.” “Do you think two married people have ever lived together without really figuring each other out? I mean, truly knowing how good or how awful, how weak or how strong, but above all, how selfish each one is?” “Yes; unless they're complete fools, they know down to the tiniest detail; but if they have any common sense, they pretend and get along, sort of.” Like the Marchioness’s orange-peel wine in Old Curiosity Shop.

[119]

A violent attack on the North today in the Albion. They plan to let freedom slide for a while until they control us. The Albion says they use lettres de cachet, passports, and all the oppressive tools of royal governments. Russell hears the footsteps of the man who’s coming—the king and kaiser tyrant who will rule them. Is it McClellan?—“Little Mac”? We might tremble when he arrives. Down here, we have only “the many-headed monster thing,” armed democracy. Our leaders argue among themselves.

McClellan has a forgiving nature. He doesn’t hold a grudge against Russell’s insults towards Yankees, and wisely keeps Russell close as a guest.

The attractive aide insists, as someone who knows, that “Sumter” Anderson is on our side and won’t fight against the South. However, that just sounds like nonsense. “Sumter” Anderson’s wife was the daughter of Governor Clinch from Georgia. Does that explain it? He also shared something about Garnett (who was killed at Rich Mountain).[60] He had been unlucky throughout his life. Before the war, the aide found him to be proud, reserved, and gloomy, as cold as ice to everyone. But when it came to his wife and child, he was a completely different person. He adored them and cared about nothing else.

One day, he set out on an expedition and was gone for six weeks. He traveled to the Northwest, where tensions with the Native Americans were high. When he returned, his wife and child had passed away. He didn’t say a word, but they noticed he appeared even more cold, grim, and withdrawn than before; that was all. The night before he left Richmond, he quietly said, “They haven't given me enough troops. I can’t do anything. They’ve sent me to my death.” It’s acknowledged[120] that he wasted his life—“a sorrowful man,” said the aide, “and the unluckiest.”

On the front steps every evening, we take our seats and chat as we please. A nicer or more agreeable group of people has never been gathered than our current Arlington crowd. Tonight, it was Yancey[61] who was the topic of our conversation. Can you believe someone would send a man to England who had killed his father-in-law in a street fight? That clearly shows a lack of understanding about England and English people. Who cares about eloquence? We want someone who knows when to keep quiet. People steer clear of great talkers, orators, and those who love to go on and on, just like they would avoid fire, famine, or disease. Yancey won't have any crowds to give speeches to. While his speeches are impressive in their way, a little quiet conversation works best with down-to-earth, sensible folks who become suspicious at the first sound of grand talk. If Yancey starts using his fancy words, who would actually care over there?

Commodore Barron, when he was a young midshipman, went with Phil Augustus Stockton to claim his bride. Stockton had secretly married a beautiful heiress named Sally Cantey. She was married by a magistrate and sent back to Mrs. Grillaud’s boarding school until it was time to go home—that is, to Camden.

Lieutenant Stockton (a descendant of the Signer) was the most handsome guy in the navy and completely charming. The bride was just sixteen. When he was set to go down South to claim her from those fiery folks, Commodore Barron, who was a close friend, accompanied him as support. They planned to announce the marriage and challenge the guardians. Commodore Barron mentioned he expected it to be a tough task, but they were ready for any challenges. “You thought we’d be a bunch of savages, right?” I said. “We figured we’d have to deal with at least half a dozen duels.” They were prepared for insults from every direction, but instead, they encountered a cultured and sophisticated community that lived en prince, to say the least. They were greeted with a cool, formal, and impeccably polite demeanor, making them feel like they had committed a crime.

The young woman had told her guardians, and they were all about making the best of the situation; most importantly, they wanted to protect her name from any gossip or publicity. Colonel John Boykin, one of her guardians, invited Young Lochinvar to stay with him. His friend, Barron, was also there as a guest. Colonel Deas called in a pastor and made sure everything was secure by marrying them again. Their goal was to keep things low-key and prevent the young woman from becoming the topic of sensationalism.

Then came endless balls, parties, and celebrations. He was captivated by the laid-back lifestyle of these people, with the finest dinners in the world, deer hunting, fox hunting, dancing, and beautiful girls—everything his heart could desire. But then, Commodore Barron said, “The better it was, and the kinder the treatment, the more ashamed I felt about my job down there. After all, it was like stealing an heiress, you know.”

I told him how the same fate still affected that estate in Camden. Mr. Stockton sold it to a man, who later sold it to an old man who got married when he was nearly eighty, and who left it to the daughter from that marriage. This lovely child of his old age became an orphan at a young age. At fifteen, she ran away and married a seventeen-year-old, a clever Scotsman. The young couple grew up together, and it turned out to be a happy marriage after all. This last heiress had six kids, so the estate will now be divided and no longer attract fortune-seekers.

The Commodore said: “Can you believe that we two kids[122] in our blue uniforms went down there to pick on those people?” He spent a lot of time at Colonel Chesnut’s. Since Mrs. Chesnut was from Philadelphia, he felt pretty comfortable with them. It was the best-equipped place he had ever visited at that time.

Went to a meeting with our gorgeous friend. No gossip today, no fighting, all was peaceful, everyone was knitting. I bet that calming activity helped to settle our restless minds. Mrs. C—— is beautiful, truly stunning. Brewster said, “In Circassia, think of how much they would pay for her, because beauty sells by the pound there!”

Coming home, the conversation went like this: “So Mrs. Blank thinks purgatory will stick around—never be done away with as long as women and children have to deal with drunk fathers and brothers.” “She knows.” “She’s too bitter. She says even worse than that. She says we have an institution worse than the Spanish Inquisition, worse than Torquemada, and all that.” “What does she mean?” “You should ask her. Her words are sharp as arrows. I’m not very clever, and I’d just mess it up by trying to repeat what she says.”

“It’s your own family that she calls the enforcers of the Inquisition. She says they pounce on you, criticize you, and follow you around from morning to night. They believe they have every right to your life, day and night, for generations. They drop by at breakfast and say, ‘Aren’t you being a bit reckless with that?’ ‘Be careful, don’t overdo it.’ ‘I think you’re eating too much so early in the day.’ And they take the only thing you actually enjoy from the table. They trash your friends and tell you it’s your duty to support your enemies. They candidly list all your faults because they care about you; that gives them the right to talk. What family concern[123] they show for you. You should do this; you should do that, then there’s the constant ‘you should have done,’ which nearly drives you to madness, at least emotionally. ‘Blood is thicker than water,’ they say, and that’s where the urge to lash out comes in. No locks or bolts or barriers can keep them away. Aren’t they your closest family? They join you for dinner, arriving after you’ve already started eating. They come after you’ve gone to bed, once all the servants have left, and the man of the house, in his nightshirt, standing stiffly at the door with a giant wooden bar in his hand, nearly frightens them to death, and you’re glad about it.”

“Private life, indeed!” She says her husband got involved in public life and they moved to a distant city. For the first time in her life, she experienced privacy. She will never forget how she jumped for joy as she instructed her servant not to let anyone in until after two o’clock in the afternoon. After that, she designated a fixed day to stay home. Then she was truly free. She could read and write, stay at home, go out whenever she pleased, no longer sitting for hours with her fingers stuck in an incredibly interesting book while her relatives droned on and on—waiting, waiting, yawning. Would they ever leave? Then for hurting you, who is more like family? They do it out of a sense of duty. For stinging you, for cutting you to the quick, who can do it better than someone in your own household? In truth, they are the only ones who can. They know your weaknesses and how to hit them every time. You are in their control. She asks, have you ever seen a truly respectable, responsible, respected, and beloved head of a family who ever spoke at home except to criticize? He genuinely believes that is his purpose in life and that all enjoyment is sinful. He is there to stop the women from engaging in such frivolous things as pleasure, etc., etc.

I sat calmly rocking in my chair by the window, trying to believe that everything would turn out okay. Mary Hammy rushed in[124], completely overwhelmed with tears. I’ve never seen a face so soaked in my life. My heart stopped. “Commodore Barron has been captured,” she said. “The Yankees have taken him and all his lieutenants. Poor Imogen—and my father is out there, scouting who knows where. I only know he’s in the advance guard. The Barron’s time has come. Mine could come any minute. Oh, Cousin Mary, when Mrs. Lee told Imogen, she fainted! Those poor girls; they’re almost dead with worry and fear.”

“Go straight back to those kids,” I said. “No one will lay a finger on their dad. Tell them I said that. They wouldn’t dare. They’re not completely out of control. This is a civilized war, you know.”

Mrs. Lee said to Mrs. Eustis (Mr. Corcoran’s daughter) yesterday, “Have you seen those reports about the arrests in Washington?” Mrs. Eustis replied calmly, “Yes, I’m aware of it. I assume you’re referring to the fact that my father has been imprisoned.” “No, no,” the explainer interrupted, “she’s talking about the detention of those adult Washington women suspected of being spies.” But Mrs. Eustis continued, “I have no concerns for my father’s safety.”

August 31st.—Congress wraps up today. Jeff Davis is sick. We’ll head home on Monday if I can travel. I can already feel the dreaded stillness and lethargy of our desert Sand Hill creeping into my veins. It chills me to the bone. I’m enjoying the hustle and bustle of city life. I know what lies ahead. The only sound to break the silence at Sandy Hill will be the lonely cry of a whip-poor-will, except as night falls, when the screech owl will add its mournful call.

September 1st.—North Carolina is requesting arms for her soldiers. Do we have any to send? No. Brewster, being straightforward, says, “The President is sick, and our situation is in the hands of incompetent people. All the generals are with the army; no one is here; General Lee is in Western Virginia. Reading the third Psalm. The devil is sick, and not a saint can be found. Lord, how have they multiplied that trouble me? Many are rising up against me!”

September 2nd.—Mr. Miles says he isn't going anywhere at all, not even home. He's going to stay here permanently—chairman of a committee to revamp camps, supply services, etc., etc.

We shared our thoughts about Mr. Mason, and we were completely in agreement. First of all, he has a dignified presence—truly a handsome man; he embodies the strong qualities of an old Virginian, being straightforward, brave, honest, smart, the very picture of an independent, spirited F. F. V. If the English appreciate a genuine person, they will find one here. In every way, he is the total opposite of Talleyrand. He has some quirks. He has never experienced any aches or pains himself; his physique is flawless, and he loudly proclaims that he despises seeing people unwell; it strikes him as an unforgivable weakness.

It started to get late. Many people had come to say goodbye to me. I had a fever as usual today, but in the excitement of being surrounded by friends, the sick person forgot about the fever. Mr. Chesnut held up his watch to me in a warning way and hinted that "it was definitely late for someone who has to travel tomorrow." So, as the Yankees say after every defeat, I “retired in good order.”

Not quite, because I forgot my handkerchief and fan. Gonzales rushed after me and met me at the bottom of the stairs. In his foreign, polite, high-class way, he bowed deeply and said he had a reason for the missing fan, as he had a gift for me. Then, although “startled and amazed, I paused and looked at the stranger.” Unfortunately, I’m a woman nearing forty, and the gift turned out to be a bottle of cherry bounce. Nothing could have been more timely, and with a little ice, I’m sure it will help save my life on that dreadful journey home.

No one in the North feels discouraged now. They capture our forts and are content for a bit. Then the English[126] take a neutral stance. It’s like the woman who watched her husband battle a bear; “It was the first fight she ever saw when she didn’t care who won.”

Mr. Davis was very understanding about everything. He told Mr. Chesnut to go home and keep an eye on all the state defenses, and that he would give him any position he wanted if he still wanted to stay in the army. This would be everything one could wish for, but Mr. Chesnut will never ask for anything. What would he ask for? That's the issue. I’m sure of very few things in life now, but I know this for sure: Mr. Chesnut will never ask any person for a promotion for himself or for a family member.

[127]

Camden, S. C., September 9, 1861.—I’m back home at Mulberry, completely taken over by the fever. My sister, Kate, is my ideal woman, the most pleasant person I know, with her gentle, soothing voice, her graceful and kind demeanor, and her beautiful gray eyes that I looked into so often as we shared our deepest thoughts.

God bless old Betsey’s yellow face! She’s an amazing nurse and would do anything for “Mr. James’ wife.” My minor issues in all this comfort make me think about the dead and dying soldiers I saw in Virginia. How weak my compassion turns out to be, after all.

I gave the old Colonel a letter from his son who’s in the army. He said, as he folded the letter from the battlefield, “With this war, we might die off. Your husband is the last—of my family.” He means that my husband is his only living son; his grandsons are in the army too, and they could be killed— even Johnny, the brave and cheerful one, might not be invulnerable. I don’t have any children.

Now, this old man of ninety years was born at a time when it wasn't fashionable for a gentleman to be a saint. Having been the master of everything he saw for so long, without anyone to answer to in the middle of his vast territory, it's amazing he wasn't a bigger tyrant—thanks, no doubt, to the soothing influence of that angelic wife. Whether saint or sinner, he understands the world around him—au fond.

[128]

Have experienced a violent episode with my heart. It stopped beating, then started shaking, creaking, and thumping like a high-pressure steamboat on the Mississippi, and the noise in my ears felt more like an ammunition wagon rattling over the stones in Richmond. That was yesterday, and yet here I am, alive. Going through something like that really makes you feel very human.

Russell mentions how disappointed Prince Jerome Napoleon was with the look of our troops, and “he did not like Beauregard at all.” Well! I’ll let Bogar go to him. But I can’t understand how anyone can criticize our soldiers, given what I’ve seen of them both individually and as a group in Charleston, Richmond, and everywhere else.

The British are the most self-important nation in the world, the most independent, self-satisfied, and cocky. However, not every individual is blowing their own horn; they boast collectively. Wellington—he definitely let others take the credit for praising him—although Mr. Binney thought the statue of Napoleon at the entrance of Apsley House was a bit like “‘Who killed Cock Robin?’ ‘I, said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow.’” But it's so nice to hear them when it's a big round of applause, without any individual bragging—praise for Trafalgar, Waterloo, the Scots Greys.

Fighting this and fighting that, with their elite troops stirs the blood and every heart responds—three times three! Hurrah!

But our people feel like they have to share their own achievements with statements like, “I did this and I did that.” I know they accomplished it; but I feel embarrassed.

In the Tarleton Memoirs, Lee’s Memoirs, Moultrie’s writings, and Lord Rawdon’s letters, there’s never an emphasis on the self. I've been rereading them and appreciate their modesty and good taste just as much as their bravery and intelligence. I’m drawn to that kind of British eloquence. It’s not, "Soldats! marchons, gloire!" Not at all; instead, it’s, [129] "Now, my lads, stand firm!" and, "Now up, and let them have it!"

Our name is still in circulation. Today, the Examiner, as usual, criticizes the President. It believes Toombs, Cobb, Slidell, Lamar, or Chesnut would have done a much better job in the position. There's quite a range of options in that group. Five men more completely different have never been mentioned in the same paragraph.

September 19th.—We received some upsetting news yesterday—our cousin, Mrs. Witherspoon, from Society Hill, was found dead in her bed. She seemed perfectly fine the night before. People say she was overwhelmed by family troubles. She was a proud and intense woman. Nothing cheap in word, thought, or action ever came near her. She also had a warm and tender heart; she embodied truth and integrity. Few people have ever been more loved and admired. She was a very attractive older woman, with a strong presence, dignified and commanding.

“Killed by family sorrows,” they said when Mrs. John N. Williams passed away. That’s what Uncle John said yesterday about his brother, Burwell. “Death abandons the army,” said that quirky old soul, “and takes unexpected shots of the most unusual kind closer to home.”

The high and aloof behavior our enemies expect from us is unintentional and unrecognized praise. They flatter us by expecting a level of virtue from us that they could never achieve themselves, and they criticize us for not meeting that expectation. It's a major offense for us to keep enslaving the Africans they brought here or sold to us when they decided it wasn't profitable to own them anymore. Gradually, they either pushed them out of here or sold them off, or planned to free them eventually, giving themselves years to get rid of them in a way that would benefit them. We also want to spread them to other regions—West and South, or Northwest—where the climate would either free them, harm them, or somehow improve them, like our friends up North do with the Indians. If they had been forced to keep the Black people in New England, I bet those Black people might have faced the same fate as the Indians, because those Yankee children of light are clever in their own way. Those troublesome Africans! That's exactly what Mr. Chesnut and Uncle John, both former Union supporters now completely in favor of states' rights, just said.

It’s strange how the same person can look so different depending on your perspective. “What a perfect gentleman,” said one person about another; “so good-looking, classy, distinguished, relaxed, free, and above all, graceful in how he carries himself; so refined! He always gets upset at any hint of wrongdoing. He’s charming—the kind of guy I love to show off to strangers—a true representative of our country.” “Yeah, every word of that is spot on,” came the reply. “He is all that. But there’s another side to him, too. You can always find him. You know where to look for him! Wherever there's a mirror, a bottle, or a woman, that’s where he’ll be.” “My God! And you call yourself his friend.” “Yeah, I know him inside and out.”

This conversation I overheard from an upper window when looking down at the piazza below—a complicated character truly beyond La Bruyère—with what Mrs. Preston calls refinement spread thin until it is just skin-deep.

An iron steamer has broken through the blockade at Savannah. We now lift our drooping heads like flowers after a rain. This piece of good news brings us back to life.[62]

[131]

Columbia, S. C., February 20, 1862.—I had a craving for my fancy breakfast. I always have breakfast in bed now. But then, my newspaper had such terrible news. That's quite the appetizing morning read. Fort Donelson[63] has fallen, but no soldiers went down with it. It's either prisoners we can't afford to lose or prisoners we might not be able to feed: that's something we need to "forefend," as Keitt says. They lost six thousand, we lost two thousand; I resent that ratio. In vain, alas! you brave few—few, but unbroken. Once again, they stand firm. We have Buckner, Beauregard, and Albert Sidney Johnston. With leaders like that and God's help, we might be saved from those despised Yankees; who knows?

February 21st.—A crowd gathered here last night and there was a serenade. I'm just like Mrs. Nickleby, who never saw a horse charging at full speed without thinking the Cheerybles had sent for Nicholas to join them in partnership. So, I got up and got dressed, even though it was late. I was convinced that England had finally sought our alliance, and we would[132] turn it into a Yorktown moment soon. Who was it? Can you guess?—Artemus Goodwyn and General Owens from Florida.

Just then, Mr. Chesnut rushed in, turned off the light, locked the door, and sat as still as a mouse. Knock, knock, came at the door. “Hey, Chesnut, they’re calling for you.” Finally, we heard Janney (the hotel keeper) loudly announcing from the porch that “Colonel Chesnut isn’t here at all.” After a while, when everyone had left the street and the house had settled into complete silence, the door was shaken roughly again. “I say, Chesnut, come on out—I know you’re in there. No one here wants to hear you give a speech now. That crowd has all gone. We just want to have a quiet talk with you. I just came from Richmond.” That was the key to getting in, and today I hear none of the news from Richmond is good. Colonel Shaw is being blamed for the disgraceful Roanoke surrender.[64]

Toombs is on a rampage and vows he won't accept a seat in the Confederate Senate after the disrespectful way the Georgia Legislature offered it to him. He calls it unfair treatment and points out that Georgia isn't the only place where good men have been treated poorly.

The Governor and Council have stirred things up, or at least, the tea gatherings. They’re discussing a call for all silver, among other things. I’m not sure we have enough to make the sacrifice worth it, but we plan to lead by example.

February 22nd.—What a beautiful day for our Confederate President to be inaugurated! May God guide him, protect him, and save him!

John Chesnut’s letter was exactly what we needed. In essence, it’s everything one could hope for. He writes, “Our recent setbacks are working well with the Army of the Potomac. A few more beatings and every soldier will enlist for the [133] war. Victories made us too confident and complacent, not to mention arrogant. Now for the challenge, and let them have it!”

A woman wrote to Mrs. Bunch: “Dear Emma: When should I pick you up to go see Madame de St. André?” She received a reply: “Dear Lou: I can’t go with you to see Madame de St. André, but I’ll always have the kindest feelings toward you because of our past relationship,” etc. The surprised friend wrote back to ask what this all meant. No response came, so she sent her husband to ask and demand an explanation. He was told: “My dear man, there can be no explanation. From now on, there will be no contact between my wife and yours; that’s all, nothing more.” So the men met at the club as usual, and there were no further issues between them. The woman who was slandered said, “I’m a woman and can’t fight!”

February 23rd.—While Mr. Chesnut was in town, I was with the Prestons. John Cochran and some other prisoners had requested to walk around the grounds, visit the Hampton Gardens, and see some friends in Columbia. After the alarming public reaction to one of the prisoners escaping, General Preston had to deny his request. Mrs. Preston and the rest of us wanted him to say “Yes” so we could find out who his traitorous friends in Columbia were. They must be quite bold to welcome Yankee invaders while there's already chaos from one enemy set loose among us.

General Preston said: “We’re about to risk our lives and fortunes for a crowd that won’t stand by us in the end.” The harsh comments about his lenient treatment of prisoners have really upset him. I told him what I heard Captain Trenholm say in his speech. He replied that he wouldn’t listen to any criticism unless it came from someone with a gun on their shoulder, who had signed up for the war, sacrificed everything, and faced the choice of either succeeding or dying.

[134]

February 24th.—Congress and the news media make you feel hopeless, like you just want to give up. They portray everything in our country as terrible. Then, someone returns from our brave and lively army at the front. The spirit of our army lifts our spirits in the end. Letters from the army bring us back to life. They arrive like a breath of fresh air in May. Full of hope and brightness, completely unaware of our deep despair.

February 25th.—They have taken more men in Nashville[65] than we had at Manassas; there was poor leadership with the troops, we poor women think, or this wouldn’t be happening. Mr. Venable added bitterly, “Giving up our soldiers to the enemy means giving up the cause. We can’t replace them.” The men from the up-country were generally Union supporters, while those from the low-country had seceded. The former complained; they never liked those elitist towns and parishes. They had a good and prosperous land, a solid constitution, and were content. But they were forced to leave everything behind and fight for those who caused all this trouble and who don’t seem too eager to fight for themselves.

That’s the far-upcountry perspective. The far-lowcountry viewpoint says Jeff Davis isn’t fully out of the Union yet. His inaugural speech sounds like one of his addresses from four years ago in the United States Senate.

A letter in the morning paper accused Mr. Chesnut of spending too much time in Charleston. When asked for the writer's name, the editor said it was Little Moses, the Governor's secretary. When Little Moses was confronted, visibly anxious, he claimed that Mrs. Pickens wrote it and got him to publish it. So it was ignored, because Little Moses is such a blatant liar that no one can trust him. Besides, if Mrs. Pickens finds that sort of thing entertaining, she can entertain herself.

March 5th.—Mary Preston returned to Mulberry with[135] me from Columbia. She met a guy there who was tall enough to take her to dinner—Tom Boykin, who stands six feet four, the same height as her dad. Tom looked really good in his uniform, and Mary was excited for a nice evening, but he seemed like he would prefer if she didn’t talk to him at all, setting a strong example by saying nothing.

Old Colonel Chesnut came to get us. When the train stopped, we saw Quashie, shiny and black, sitting on his box, just as sleek and polished as his thoroughbred horses. But the old Colonel would stop and pick up the dirtiest little kid I ever saw, who was crying by the side of the road. This ragged little boy was made to climb up and sit next to Quash. It messed up the look of the turnout, but it added character, and the old gentleman follows no rules but his own. He had a biscuit in his pocket that he gave to this sniffling little boy, who turned out to be his man Scip’s son.

I was sick at Mulberry and didn't leave my room. Doctor Boykin visited, looking more like a soldier than a doctor. Colonel Chesnut brought him up, along with Teams, who mentioned he was feeling down. Our guys weren't fighting as hard as they should be. We only had courage and luck, along with a stubborn fighting spirit, to make up for their advantage in numbers and weaponry. I wish I could recall Teams's exact words; this is just my interpretation of his thoughts. His way of speaking was unusual and impactful—no proper grammar, but full of sense and genuine feeling. Old Colonel Chesnut, catching a word, started his usual line, saying, “Numbers will tell,” “Napoleon, you know,” and so on.

At Mulberry, the war has always felt distant, but the dangers of losing our silver were really close—silver we had before the Revolution, silver that Mrs. Chesnut brought from Philadelphia. Jack Cantey and Doctor Boykin came back on the train with us. Wade Hampton is the hero.

Sweet May Dacre. Lord Byron and Disraeli turn their rosebuds Catholic; May Dacre is another Aurora Raby. I like Disraeli because I find so many smart things in him. I enjoy the sparkle and the glitter. Carlyle doesn’t raise his hands in horror at us because of African slavery. Lord Lyons has turned against us. Lord Derby and Louis Napoleon are silent in our time of greatest need. People call me Cassandra, since I proclaim that hope from outside is extinguished. No help is coming to this besieged land from the outside.

March 7th.—Mrs. Middleton was truly upset. General Lee had advised the planters about Combahee, saying they had to take care of themselves now; he couldn't do it anymore. Confederate soldiers had committed some acts of violence on the plantations, and the officers had dealt with them swiftly. She dismissed Yancey’s letter to Lord Russell with scorn.[67] It sounded like it was written by a shopkeeper, not at all in the style of a statesman.

We called to see Mary McDuffie.[68] She asked Mary Preston what Doctor Boykin had said about her husband while we were on the train. She heard it was something really nice. Mary P. tried to remember and repeat it all, much to the delight of the other Mary, who loved hearing positive things about her husband.

Mary was shocked to hear about the list of candidates for promotion. One sensitive person made his request for a raise by asking for a written description of the Manassas battle; he had heard Colonel Chesnut give such an impressive account of it in Governor Cobb’s office.

The Merrimac[69] business has arrived like a flash of lightning[137] lighting up a gloomy situation. Our sky is dark and overcast.

The Judge saw his little daughter at my window and came over. He was very charming and nice. It was truly a pleasant visit; not a single harsh word was said. He didn’t criticize anyone at all, as he only talked about himself, and he praised himself generously. He didn’t look at me even once, although he was very kind in his conversation with me.

March 10th.—Second year of Confederate independence. I write every day for my own enjoyment. These mémoires pour servir might someday provide information about these times and be useful to people more important than I am. I don’t want to cause any harm or hurt anyone. If any scandalous stories slip in, they can easily be burned. It’s tough, with everything moving so fast right now, to separate the good from the bad. Now that I've made my statement and written down my wishes, I can write freely and with a clear conscience.

Congress in the North is against us. They frequently talk about executing slave owners. They claim they control Port Royal, just like we did when we first took it from the indigenous people, who ran away from us; thus, we are to be wiped out and replaced, à l’Indienne, from the earth.

Medea, when asked: “Country, wealth, husband, children, all are gone; and now what remains?” answered: “Medea remains.” “There is a time in most men’s lives when they resemble Job, sitting among the ashes and experiencing the full bitterness of complicated misfortune.”

[138]

March 11th.—A freshman came in eager to learn all the tricks of society. He wanted to give flirting a shot and asked for detailed instructions since he didn’t know anything at all: he was really green. “Dance with her,” he was told, “and talk to her; walk with her and compliment her; dance until she feels warm and tired; then suggest a stroll in a cool, shady plaza. It should be a somewhat dim plaza. Start your walk slowly; ease into it; pull her arm closer and closer; then, make your move.”

“Heavens, what is that—break her wing?” “What, you don’t even know that? Just put your arm around her waist and kiss her. After that, it’s smooth sailing. She’ll come down when you call her, just like the raccoon to Captain Scott: ‘You don’t need to fire, Captain,’ etc.”

The guy trying to get famous as a flirt followed these clear instructions exactly, but when he grabbed the poor girl and kissed her, she screamed in terror as if the house was on fire. Her cries for help were so quick, sharp, and loud that the daring flirt jumped over the banister, where a strong climbing rose was growing. He pushed through it and ran straight toward the college. He got so scratched up by the thorns that he had to go home and let his family help him get them out. The girl's brother confronted him. However, there was no fight, because the cocky young man who misled the freshman stepped in and cleared things up. An explanation and an apology at every turn quieted the whole situation.

Now, we all laughed at this silly story very heartily. But Mr. Venable stayed serious and lost in thought, and someone asked, “Why are you so unaffected? It's funny.” “I prefer more realistic humor; I've been to college and I've kissed many girls, but not a single one in a silly way yet.”

Last Saturday was the deadliest we've had in[139] relation to numbers.[70] The enemy lost 1,500. The few remaining at home are finally rushing to the front lines. Bragg has gone to join Beauregard in Columbus, Miss. Old Abe really took to the field in that Scottish cap of his.

Mrs. McCord,[71] the oldest daughter of Langdon Cheves, organized a unit for her son, funding it herself. She has the intelligence and drive of a man. Today, she quoted a frustrated low-country gentleman: “This Government (Confederate) protects neither person nor property.” Just imagine the scornful twist of her lips! Someone inquired about Langdon Cheves, her brother. “Oh, Langdon!” she responded casually, “he's a complete patriot; he has no ambition. While I was there, he was allowing Confederate soldiers to dig ditches in his garden and destroy it at their leisure.”

Cotton is five cents a pound and labor is worth nothing; it’s not priced at all. People are happy to hire out their workers just to get them fed and clothed, which is something that can't actually be done. Cotton osnaburg is 37½ cents a yard, leaving no possibility to dress them. Langdon was all for martial law and forcing the greedy to give back their ill-gotten wealth. We, foolish patriots, who are destroying ourselves, will watch our children end up in the streets while the treacherous millionaires drive by in their carriages—carriages gained by exploiting our needs.

This brutal naval battle involved the Monitor, the Merrimac, and others. Everyone on the Cumberland went down. She fought bravely and fired a shot as she sank. The Congress[140] raised a white flag. She shot at our boats as they approached to rescue her wounded. She ended up being set on fire. The worst part is that all of this will make them even more determined to destroy us. They already hated us before, but how much more now?

In Columbia, I don't know a handful of men who wouldn’t eagerly try to take Jeff Davis’s place, firmly believing they'd do a better job in every way. The sheer arrogance and cluelessness of these critics! It's nice to hear Mrs. McCord on this topic when they start shaking their heads and telling us what Jeff Davis should do.

March 12th.—In the naval battle the other day, we had a total of twenty-five guns. The enemy had fifty-four on the Cumberland, forty-four on the St. Lawrence, in addition to a fleet of gunboats armed with rifled cannons. Why not? They can have as many as they want. “No limited Utica restricts their abilities”; the entire vast world is theirs to draw from. Ours is just this small patch of land—the blockade, or stockade, which confines us with only the sky open to us, and despite that, they are so careful and cautious as they approach.

An anonymous letter seems to respond to Colonel Chesnut’s address to South Carolinians currently serving in the army of the Potomac. The writer says, “All that nonsense is useless.” He knows a lot of people whose fathers were infamous Tories during our war for independence and got rich by betraying their country. Their sons have the top positions, and they are still cowards and traitors. Names are mentioned, of course.

Floyd and Pillow[72] are removed from their commands[141] because of Fort Donelson. The people of Tennessee want the same outcome for Albert Sidney Johnston. They claim he is foolish. Can human foolishness go any further than this Tennessee insanity?

I did Mrs. Blank a favor. When her name came up, I told the women that she was childless now, but that she had lost three children. I hated to leave her all alone. Women have such a disdain for a childless wife. Now, they will be all sympathy and kindness. I took away her “shame among women.”

March 13th.—Mr. Chesnut is stressed and frustrated. Everyone, from the poor old blind bishop on down, is urging him to let students, both theological and otherwise, avoid going into the army. One piece of comfort is that the boys will enlist. Mr. Chesnut responds: “Wait until you’ve saved your country before you focus on making preachers and scholars. Once you have a country, there will be no shortage of divines, students, and scholars to enhance and purify it.” He claims he is a one-idea person. That idea is to get as many men as possible into the ranks.

Professor Le Conte[73] is a skilled assistant. He has taken on the responsibility of overseeing and continuing the powder-making venture—the first of its kind in the Confederacy, and Mr. Chesnut is proud of it. It's a huge success, all thanks to Le Conte.

Mr. Chesnut gets anonymous letters pushing him to arrest the Judge for being disloyal. They claim he’s a threat and upset with the government. His criticism of Jeff Davis and the Council is extreme. Mr. Chesnut laughs and tosses the letters into the fire. “Disloyal to Jeff Davis,” he says; [142] “disloyal to the Council, that doesn’t matter. He knows what he’s doing; he wouldn’t harm his country for anything.”

Read Uncle Tom’s Cabin again. These Black women have an opportunity here that women have nowhere else. They can redeem themselves—the “impropers” can. They can marry respectably, and nothing is held against these women of color. It’s not a pleasant topic, but Mrs. Stowe revels in it. How delightfully self-righteous it must feel to rise above and think we are so degraded that we defend and enjoy living among such degraded people around us—like men such as Legree and his women.

The best way to embrace Black people is to keep as much distance as possible. From my perspective, Southern women do everything missionaries could to prevent and ease problems. The social issues haven't been resolved in old England or New England, in London or in Boston. People in those areas expect more virtue from a plantation African than they can manage to secure for themselves, despite all their own high moral surroundings—light, education, training, and support. Lady Mary Montagu says, “Only men and women at last.” “Male and female, created he them,” states the Bible. There are cruel, graceful, beautiful mothers of angelic Evas both North and South, I would say. The Northern men and women who came here were always the toughest, as they expected an African to work and behave like a white man. We do not.

Ihave often thought, based on what I've seen, that perfect beauty can harden the heart. And when it comes to grace, what’s more graceful than a cat, a tigress, or a panther? A lot of love, admiration, and worship can make an idol’s heart completely callous and selfish. It begins to expect to receive everything and give nothing in return. It may even enjoy the thrill of watching others suffer. I'm sharing this from what I have observed with both horror and amazement.

Topsys I’ve known, but none that were abused or mistreated.[143] Evas mostly exist in the imagination of Mrs. Stowe. People can’t love things that are dirty, ugly, and repulsive, just because they’re supposed to; they can keep their distance and be kind, which is simple enough. You see, I can’t rise too high; I can only judge based on what I see.

March 14th.—Thank goodness for a ship! It made it past the blockade with arms and ammunition.

There are no black sexual relations as shocking as Mormonism. Yet, the United States Government has no problem welcoming Mormons with open arms. Mr. Venable said England protects “the malignant and the turbaned Turk” to save him, slaves, harem, and all. But she rolls her eyes at us when slavery, as bad as it is, is stepping out into freedom every moment through Christian civilization. They don’t begrudge the Turk even his baggage and Bosphorus privileges. To a defiant wife, it’s, “Here yawns the sack; there rolls the sea,” etc. And France, the bold, the brave, the ever free, has not been so careful in Algiers. But the “you are another” argument is a weak one. “You see,” says Mary Preston wisely, “we are white Christian descendants of Huguenots and Cavaliers, and they expect us to act differently.”

I took Mrs. Preston’s carriage to bring my boarding-school girls here for dinner. At my door, I ran into J. F., who wanted me to promise right then to help him with his request or point him in the right direction. At the carriage steps, Gus Smith helped me in; he wants his brother to be made commissary. The funny part is they all think I have some influence, while I don't have any at all. I never bring up Mr. Chesnut’s military matters, promotions, or anything like that.

March 15th.—When we got back from Richmond, there was Warren Nelson, leaning against my door, casually waiting for me, that handsome guy. He said he wanted to be heard, so I walked back with him to the drawing room.[144] They’re wasting their time trying to please me. I can’t help them. They should pick up their weapons and go to war like real men.

After tea came “Mars Kit”—he said he wanted to talk, but Mr. Preston wouldn’t let him because Mr. Preston had arrived before him. Mr. Preston said “Mars Kit” thought it was “bad form” to laugh. After that, you can be sure we got “Mars Kit” to laugh. Time and again, he had to laugh for real. I went against Oliver Wendell Holmes’s good rule—never to be as funny as he could be. I did my absolute best.

Mr. Venable interrupted the fun, which was wild and exciting, with some really bad news! Newbern was shelled and burned, along with cotton and turpentine—everything. There were 5,000 North Carolinians in the conflict, and 12,000 Yankees. Now Goldsboro is standing in the way. One more step and we’ll be split in two. The railroad is our lifeline, like the Blue Ridge and the Alleghanies, with which it runs parallel. So many difficulties, it’s no surprise we feel down.

Mr. Venable agrees with us—Garnett is our most comprehensive scholar; Lamar is the most original and the cleverest among us—L. Q. C. Lamar—I don't have time to write out his full name. Then there's R. M. T. Hunter. Muscoe Russell Garnett and his Northern wife: that match was arranged at my house in Washington when Garnett was a member of the United States Congress.

March 17th.—I'm back at the Congaree House waiting for my husband, who made a quick trip to the Wateree region. As we drove up, Mr. Chesnut said, “Did you notice the look of respectful admiration E. R. gave you? It lasted so long! I could barely keep a straight face.” “Yes, my dear, I appreciate the honor, even though it’s not really about me. I’m just the wife of the man who has the power to make appointments right now, with so many positions to fill. I’m nearly forty, and they credit my intelligence with the idea that I could believe they admire my mature beauty. They think they’re tricking me into thinking they find me charming. It’s one of the most ridiculous performances in the world.”

Last night, a house was set on fire; last week, two houses. “The red rooster crows in the barn!” Our troubles really pile up when betrayal comes from that dark place.

When the President first offered Johnston Pettigrew a brigadier-general position, he replied, “Not yet. There are too many men ahead of me who have earned their promotion in the field. I will come after them, not before. So far, I haven't done anything to deserve a reward,” etc. He refused to accept a rank when he could have it. I think he might be waiting a while for it now. He was too proud. There was another principled man—Burnet, from Kentucky. He gave up his regiment to his lieutenant-colonel when he realized the lieutenant-colonel could lead the regiment and Burnet could not maneuver it in the field. He entered the fight simply as an aide to Floyd. Modest merit is highly valued right now.

William Gilmore Simms is here; read us his latest poetry; I've already forgotten what it was about. It wasn't boring, though, and that's a big deal when people insist on reading their own verses.

I didn't hear what Mr. Preston was saying. “The last bit of Richmond news,” Mr. Chesnut said as he left, and he looked so worn out I didn’t ask any questions. I knew it was bad.

At dawn, there was a loud knock at my door. I hurried into a robe and rushed to open it. “Mrs. Chesnut, Mrs. M. says please don’t forget her son. She hears Mr. Chesnut has returned. Please help her son get a commission. He needs a position.” I shut the door in the servant’s face. If I had the influence these foolish people think I have, why wouldn't I help my own? I have a brother, two brothers-in-law, and a ton of relatives, all of them just regular privates, and they'd remain that way forever before they’d come to me about commissions. After a long conversation, we were finally fed up, and the men headed off to the bulletin board. Whatever else it might indicate, good or bad, there’s always sorrow for some family among the killed and wounded. We need strong hearts. I can feel mine sinking as we approach the board.

March 18th.—My war leader is overwhelmed with requests, and someone says that for every one you grant, you create one ungrateful person and a thousand foes.

As I walked into Miss Mary Stark's place, I whispered, “He promised to vote for Louis.” Everyone's faces lit up. To my friend, Miss Mary asked, “What’s your son-in-law doing for his country?” “He's a tax collector.” Then the plump old girl chimed in: “Look at my cheek; I’m blushing for you. What a strong, healthy young man! Shame on him! Shame on him! Tell his wife; chase him out of the house with a broomstick; send him down to the coast at least.” Can you imagine my cheeks? I couldn’t raise my eyes to the poor lady, who was being so ruthlessly criticized. My face was just as hot with sympathy as Miss Mary pretended hers was with shared embarrassment.

Went to see the lovely and kind Mrs. Bartow. She read us a letter from Mississippi—not too bad: “There are more men here than the enemy realized, and we have explosives ready to blow up the scoundrels when they arrive.” Next, I visited Mrs. Izard. She had a relative visiting from the North. This lady had asked Seward for passports, and he told her to “hang on for a bit; the road to South Carolina will soon be open to everyone, open and safe.” Today, Mrs. Arthur Hayne heard from her daughter that Richmond is set to be surrendered. Mrs. Buell is her daughter.

Met Mr. Chesnut, who said: “New Madrid[74] has been abandoned. I don’t know any more than the dead where New Madrid is. Still, it’s terrible to give up like this. I[147] can’t take it. The process of being cornered is almost done. The ring of fire is nearly unbroken.”

Mr. Chesnut’s slaves offered to fight for him if he would give them weapons. He acted like he believed them. He says one person can’t do it alone. The entire country has to agree. He would trust those he chose, and he would give each one who enlisted a certain number of acres of land and their freedom.

Mrs. Albert Rhett came to get an office for her son John. I told her that Mr. Chesnut would never nominate a relative for an office, but if someone else recommended him, he would definitely vote for him since he is very qualified for the position. Right now, he's a private.

March 19th.—Those who hurry can read. Conscription means we're in a tough situation. This war started with volunteers. Tomorrow, conscription starts—the dernier ressort. The President has reshaped his Cabinet, leaving Bragg for North Carolina. His War Minister is Randolph from Virginia. A top-notch Union supporter, Watts from Alabama, is the Attorney-General. And now, a year too late, when all the skilled workers are in the army, Mallory starts to message Captain Ingraham to build ships at any cost. We're locked in and can't get “the essentials for naval architecture,” as one pompous person puts it.

Henry Frost says everyone turns a blind eye to cotton being shipped out. Why not send it out and buy some ships? “Every now and then, there’s a massive destruction of cotton,” says the show-off. Conscription has woken the Rip Van Winkles. The streets of Columbia have never been so packed with men. Fighting and being forced to fight are two different things.

To my limited understanding, whenever people stuck together and fought with strength, no general, no matter how powerful, managed to conquer them. Don't we have swamps, forests, rivers, mountains—every natural obstacle? The Carthaginians begged for peace because they lived in luxury and couldn't handle the struggles of war, even though[148] the enemy suffered just as much as they did! "Divisions among themselves" is what causes us to fail. Now, we need a great leader to rise up and guide us. Why is he taking so long to arrive?

March 20th.—The Merrimac is now called the Virginia. I find these name changes so confusing and pointless. Like the French “Royal Bengal Tiger,” “National Tiger,” etc. Rue this, and the next day Rue that, with the days and months just being symbols that mean nothing.

I was lying on the couch in my room when two men were walking back and forth in the hallway, talking loudly as if every room was empty at this midday hour. I asked Maum Mary who they were. “Yeadon and Barnwell Rhett Jr.” They were criticizing the Council harshly, and my husband’s name caught my attention. Later, when Yeadon went after Mr. Chesnut, Mr. Chesnut surprised him by knowing everything he was going to say in advance. Naturally, I had repeated the loud discussion I had overheard in the hallway.

First, Nathan Davis called. Then Gonzales, who looked impressive in his military uniform, resembled Beauregard more than ever. Nathan, as everyone knows, is professionally a dashing guy.

General Gonzales told us what he had written to Jeff Davis in the bitterness of his soul. He regretted not being his classmate; then he might have been treated as well as Northrop. In any case, he wouldn’t have been denied a brigadier position, referencing General Trapier and Tom Drayton. He had worked for it and earned it; they had not. To his surprise, Mr. Davis responded with a sharp four-page note. Mr. Davis demanded to know from whom he quoted, “not his classmate.” General Gonzales replied, “from the public voice only.” Now he will fight for all of us, but he will continue to demand justice from Jeff Davis until he gets what he deserves—at least until one of them gets[149] what he deserves, because he intends to keep hitting Jeff Davis over the head whenever he gets the chance.

"I’m afraid," I said, "you'll find him tough to deal with." He responded in his elaborate way in Spanish: "Jeff Davis will be the sun, shining down all light, warmth, and support; he won't be a moon reflecting public sentiment because he has the spirit of a dictator; he enjoys going against public opinion. Look, people criticized him for making Crittenden a brigadier. Immediately, he promoted him to major-general, and that was right after a blundering, foolish defeat." He also told the President in that letter: "Napoleon promoted his generals after their significant achievements, not just for having graduated from St. Cyr, or Brie, or the Polytechnique," and so on. Nathan Davis sat as still as a Sioux warrior, not a single eyelash moved. Yet he later said he found it amusing while the Spaniard criticized his famous namesake.

Gonzales said, “Mrs. Slidell would proudly claim she was a Creole. They were so clueless, they thought Creole meant—” Here, Nathan cut in cheerfully: “At the St. Charles in New Orleans, they had ‘Creole eggs’ on the menu. When they were served to a guy who ordered them, he simply held them up and said, ‘Well, they’re just regular eggs after all.’ What he expected them to be, who knows?” Nathan smiled, looking elegant.

One woman says (as I sit reading by the drawing-room window while Maum Mary tidies my room): “I make sure to dress my Black workers well. I couldn't stand seeing them in dirt and rags; it would be unpleasant for me.” Another woman replies: “Yeah, I do the same. But not in fancy clothes, you know. I think—now—that indulging them in luxurious clothing was one of our national sins. We will face consequences for it.”

Last night, Mrs. Pickens met General Cooper. She only knew him as our adjutant-general and Mr. Mason’s brother-in-law. In her slow, graceful, impressive way, with her beautiful eyes full of emotion, she criticized Mr. Davis’s wrongness in always sending men from the North to lead in Charleston. General Cooper is currently on his way to inspect there. The dear general adjusted his cravat with his forefinger; he fidgeted a bit more with the something that always feels off inside his collar, and looked up straight through his glasses. Someone crossed the room, stood behind Mrs. Pickens, and whispered in her ear, “General Cooper was born in New York.” Sudden silence.

Dined with General Cooper at the Prestons. General Hampton and Blanton Duncan were there too; the latter was a laid-back, charming Western guy, good-looking and smart, maybe even bolder than the rest. He pointed to Buck—Sally Buchanan Campbell Preston. “What’s that girl laughing at?” Poor thing, she looked so surprised. He told them “not to lose hope; not all the nice young men would be killed in the war; there would still be a few around. As for himself, he couldn't offer them any hope; Mrs. Duncan was unusually healthy.” Mrs. Duncan is also beautiful. We've seen her.

March 24th.—I got invited to the Tognos’ tea, so I turned down a ride with Mary Preston. As I sat alone in my spot, waiting for the time to go to the Tognos, I saw Mrs. Preston’s carriage pass by, with Mr. Venable making Mary laugh at his army stories, just like only he can. I already felt like I had overpaid for what I was about to experience—that is, the Togno tea. The Gibbeses, Trenholms, and Edmund Rhett were all there. Edmund Rhett has really striking eyes and knows how to use them well. He sits quietly and still, with his hands on his knees, head tilted forward, and his eyes locked on you. The only thing I could compare it to was a setter dog watching a covey of partridges.

As for President Davis, he fell into even deeper levels of criticism than Gonzales. I quoted Yancey: “A[151] crew may not like their captain, but if they are crazy enough to mutiny while a storm is raging, everyone is bound to sink.” After that, I just shook my head mildly when I disagreed with him, and eventually I began to shake so much that it was like early-stage paralysis. “Jeff Davis,” he said, “is arrogant, stubborn, combative, and a traitor.” “Now I've put up with a lot in silence,” I finally said, “but that is harmful nonsense. Let's not waste any more time listening to your quotes from the Mercury.”

He cheerfully changed the subject, which was easy at that moment since a delicious dinner was ready for us on the table. But Doctor Gibbes started the argument again. He served me some pâté—“Not foie gras,” said Madame Togno, “pâté perdreaux.” However, Doctor Gibbes added his own twist. “Eat it,” he said, “it's good for you; rich and wholesome; as healthy as cod-liver oil.”

A strange thing happened. At the post office, a man saw a small boy unlock the Governor and Council's mailbox, grab the contents, and run for his life. Naturally, the man yelled at the kid to stop. The kid didn’t listen, but realizing he was being chased, he started tearing up the letters and papers. He was caught, and the pieces were collected. Once he found himself trapped, he pointed out the Black man who had given him the key. The man was arrested.

Governor Pickens came to see me today. We started with Fort Sumter. For an hour, we went over that fortress, taking it gun by gun. He was very nice and friendly in his manner.

James Chesnut has been really nice this winter; so reasonable and thoughtful—that is, for a guy. The night I came back from Madame Togno’s, instead of getting upset about how late it was, he said he was “so wide awake and so hungry.” I put on my bathrobe and cooked up some eggs, etc., right there on our own fire. And with our feet on the fender and the small supper table between us, we enjoyed dinner and some great gossip. It’s pretty lovely when your own husband is in a good mood and smarter than all the guys outside.

This afternoon, the entente cordiale is still going strong. Maum Mary called me out mysteriously, but Mr. Chesnut said, “Just say it, old woman; it's just me here.” “Mars Nathum Davis wants to talk to her,” she replied. So I rushed off to the drawing-room, with Maum Mary shuffling her worn-out shoes behind me. “He’s leaving because someone stole his boots. How could he manage without boots?” So Nathan said goodbye. Then we ran into General Gist, with Maum Mary still hanging around, and I congratulated him on his promotion. He's now a brigadier. He accepted it with modest pleasure. “I knew he was a general,” said Maum Mary as he walked away, “he told me right after he got to his room before his son put down his trunks.”

As Nathan, the unlucky one, said goodbye, he told me that a Mr. Reed from Montgomery was in the drawing room and wanted to see me. Mr. Reed had traveled with our foreign envoy, Yancey. I was eager for news from abroad. Mr. Reed quickly settled that. “Mr. Yancey says we shouldn’t have any hope at all. He could have Mallory executed for not buying arms in time. The best citizens want to remove the state government and take things into their own hands, since the current leaders are ineffective. Men from the West are rushing to the front, getting ready. In two more months, we’ll be prepared.” What could I do but laugh? I really hope the enemy will be considerate and patient enough to wait for us.

Mr. Reed’s calm faith in Mr. Yancey’s gift for speaking was wonderful to witness. He asked for Mr. Chesnut. I returned to our rooms, bursting with news like an excited pigeon. Mr. Chesnut exclaimed, “Well! Four hours—a visit[153] from Nathan Davis that lasted four hours!” Men are so ridiculous! So I carry the weight of my forty years with pride. I can only laugh. “Mr. Nathan Davis took the five o’clock train,” I said; “it’s now around six or seven, maybe eight. I’ve had so many visitors. Mr. Reed from Alabama is looking for you out there.” He left without saying a word, but I doubt he went to see Mr. Reed; my laughter had made him so angry.

At last, Lincoln is threatening us with a proclamation to abolish slavery[75]—here in the free Southern Confederacy; and they say McClellan has been removed. The government, whose members are not at risk, wants more fighting and is just hoping for the new generals' luck and skill.

March 28th.—I left Maum Mary with a heavy heart. She was such a great, knowledgeable person. My Molly, while perfect in many ways, doesn’t get the inside scoop from newly appointed generals right away. She has a very limited understanding of military matters. Maum Mary was my source of comfort. She helped me avoid trouble as much as she could. At seventy, if she's a day, she’s as lively and agile as a cat, with an insatiable curiosity, black and well-groomed; plus, she picks up on a joke immediately and is completely honest. I think the Black people feel embarrassed to steal from people as careless as James Chesnut and me.

One night, just before we left the Congaree House, Mr. Chesnut realized he had forgotten to tell Governor Gist something really important before he was set to leave on a public mission the next day. So at dawn, he put on his bathrobe and went to the Governor’s room. He found the door unlocked and the Governor sound asleep. He shook him awake. Half-asleep, the Governor shot up, wrapped his arms around Mr. Chesnut, and said: “Honey, is that you?” The misunderstanding was quickly sorted out, and the confused governor got his instructions. Mr. Chesnut came into my room, flopped down on the sofa, and nearly laughed himself to death, repeatedly mimicking the Governor’s dramatic greeting.

Mr. Chesnut calls Lawrence “Adolphe,” but says he is absolutely perfect as a servant. Mary Stevens mentioned, “I used to think Cousin James was the laziest man alive until I met his man, Lawrence.” Lawrence won’t budge an inch or lift a finger for anyone except his master. Mrs. Middleton politely sent him on an errand; Lawrence was very polite in return; hours later, she found him sitting on the front yard fence. “Didn’t you go?” she asked. “No, ma’am. I’m waiting for Mars Jeems.” Now, Mrs. Middleton refers to him as “Mr. Take-it-Easy.”

My very last day at the Congaree. I was waiting for Mars Jeems in the drawing room when a lady there introduced herself as the wife of an officer in Clingman's regiment. A man who seemed quite friendly with her shared everything Mr. Chesnut said, thought, intended to do, wrote, and felt. I asked, “Are you sure about all these things you’re saying about Colonel Chesnut?” The man barely acknowledged my rude interruption, coming from a stranger who hadn’t even been introduced! After he left, the wife of Clingman’s officer became curious and asked, “Madam, may I know your name?” I told her, adding, “I guess I showed myself to be an attentive listener while my husband’s affairs were being discussed.” At first, I hesitated to give my name because it would have embarrassed her friend if[155] she revealed who I was. The man was Mr. Chesnut’s secretary, but I had never seen him before.

A letter from Kate says she had been up all night getting David’s things ready. Little Serena sat up and helped her mom. They had no idea that they might never see him again. After reading it, I cried, and James Chesnut cursed the Yankees.

Gave the girls some flannel for soldiers' shirts; also a string of pearls to be raffled at the Gunboat Fair. Mary Witherspoon sent a silver teapot. We don’t hold back on our precious items now. Our silver and gold, what do they mean?—when we sacrifice for war our loved ones.

April 2nd.—Dr. Trezevant, who was taking care of Mr. Chesnut while he was sick, arrived only to find his patient had passed away; he couldn’t handle the news from that last battle. Despite feeling weak, he got up, got dressed, and went out to learn the news for himself. The doctor was upset with me for allowing this, and even more upset with him for such foolishness. I explained to him the difference between petty foolishness and serious nonsense. He said, “He will definitely suffer the consequences after all that calomel in this damp weather.”

Today, the women in their carriages were harshly criticized by the morning newspaper for lounging in their silks and satins, with tall footmen in uniforms, driving up and down the streets while the poor soldiers’ wives stood on the sidewalks. It's the same old story of rich and poor! My little carriage isn’t here, nor does James Chesnut have any of his horses here, but I drive every day with Mrs. McCord and Mrs. Preston, either of whose carriages fits the bill. The Governor’s carriage, horses, servants, etc., are magnificent—just what they should be. Why not?

April 14th.—Our Fair is in full swing. We run a restaurant. Our waitresses are Mary and Buck Preston, Isabella Martin, and Grace Elmore.

April 15th.—Trescott is too smart to ever be boring; that was clear today, as he hung out for two hours; as usual, [156] Mr. Chesnut said “four.” Trescott was in a bad mood; he refers to himself as the former Secretary of State of the United States; but nothing in particular about South Carolina or the Confederate States. Then he yawned, “What a drag this war is. I wish it would end, one way or another.” He mentioned the idea of crossing the border to join the service in Mexico. “Nonsense, there’s not much Mexico for you,” I replied. Another patriot came along and insisted, “I’ll take my family back to town so we can all surrender together. I gave it up early in the spring.” Trescott made a face behind their backs and said: “Lache!”

The enemy has surrounded Beauregard at Nashville. There’s already enough sorrow for Albert Sidney Johnston; we’re beginning to realize what we've lost. We were driving them into the river when General Johnston got injured. Beauregard was in his tent at the back, suffering from a deep sadness—whatever you want to call it. He was too slow to react and lost all the advantages gained by our fallen hero. Without him, there’s no leader for our Western army. Pulaski has fallen. What else is left to lose?

April 15th.—Mrs. Middleton: “How did you handle Molly’s little issue with Mrs. McMahan, that ‘piece of her mind’ that Molly gave our landlady?” “Oh, we paid our way out of it, of course, and I said sorry for Molly!”

Gladden, the hero of the Palmettos in Mexico, is dead. Shiloh has hit us hard. Last winter, my brother Stephen had the chance to do something great for Colonel Gladden. In the dark, he heard Gladden's name and found out he had to either walk twenty-five miles through Alabama mud or ride on an ammunition wagon. So, he introduced himself as a South Carolinian to Colonel Gladden, who he only knew by reputation as the colonel of the Palmetto regiment in the Mexican War. They comfortably drove him in a carriage to his destination—a fifty-mile night drive for Stephen, since he had to make the return trip, too. I would rather live in Siberia, or even worse, in the Sahara, than live in a country that has been given over to Yankees.

The Carolinian says the draft law passed by Congress is a threat to our freedoms as a people. Let’s be a people “certain and sure,” as poor Tom B. said, and then discuss rebelling against our own government.

Sat up all night. Read Eothen straight through, our old Wiley and Putnam edition that we bought in London in 1845. How could I sleep? The power they are bringing to bear against our country is huge. Its weight might be unstoppable—I dare not think about that, though.

April 21st.—I’ve been feeling sick. One day I had dinner at Mrs. Preston’s, with pâté de foie gras and partridge made just the way I like them. I had been really down for days and couldn’t sleep at night because of anxiety, but I didn’t realize I was physically unwell. Mrs. Preston came back with me. She insisted, “Molly, if your mistress gets worse during the night, call me right away.” I thought it was strange. I couldn’t breathe if I tried to lie down, and soon I lost my voice. Molly hurried out and sent Lawrence to get Doctor Trezevant. She said I had croup. The doctor said, “congestion of the lungs.”

So here I am, stuck and held back. Battle after battle has happened, disaster after disaster. Every morning's newspaper is enough to drain a healthy woman and wear out a strong one.

Today, the waters of this stagnant pool were stirred up. The President sent a telegram for my husband to come to Richmond and offered him a position on his staff. I was a happy woman. It was a path opened by Providence[158] from this Slough of Despond, this Council whose advice no one follows. I wrote to Mr. Davis, “Thank you, and sorry for the trouble, but I would love to go.” Mrs. Preston agrees with me; Mr. Chesnut should go. Through Mr. Chesnut, the President might hear many things beneficial to our State, etc.

Letter from Quinton Washington. That was the best tonic yet. He writes so cheerfully. We have fifty thousand men on the Peninsula and McClellan has eighty thousand. We expect that kind of disparity in numbers. We can handle it.

April 23rd.—On April 23, 1840, I got married at the age of seventeen; therefore, on March 31, 1862, I was thirty-nine. I saw a wedding today from my window that looks out onto Trinity Church. Nanna Shand married a Dr. Wilson. Then, a lovely group of girls rushed into my room. What a flurry and a chatter! Well, thank goodness for a wedding. It’s a delightful break from the grim routine of our everyday lives.

A letter today from our 80-year-old friend at Mulberry. His nephew, Jack Deas, had two horses shot out from under him; the old Colonel grumbles, "That’s enough for glory, and no harm after all." He ends, though, with his usual refrain: We can’t fight the whole world; two and two only make four; it can't make a thousand; numbers don’t lie. He says he has already lost half a million in railroad bonds, bank stocks, Western promissory notes, not to mention slaves to be freed, and lands to be taken, as he sees the most pessimistic side of everything.

April 26th.—Feeling gloomy, alarm bells are ringing. Telegrams say the mortar fleet has gone past the forts at New Orleans. We're sinking into deep despair.

April 27th.—New Orleans is gone[77] and with it the Confederacy.[159] The loss of the Mississippi is a disaster for us. The Confederacy has been shattered by the politicians. It's no surprise that we are lost.

The soldiers have done their duty. All respect to the army. Politicians are as busy as bees with their own agendas or personal honor, too preoccupied to notice the enemy on the horizon. With a magnifying glass, they’re focused on their own interests or grievances, completely overlooking the needs of the people they represent. They’re crafting newspaper articles to undermine the government. No matter how crucial it is, nothing can be hidden from the enemy. They have to constantly show what they’re doing, day and night, or the all-knowing Buncombe will overlook them.

This collapse of New Orleans means complete disaster for the Preston family's finances. Mr. Preston came from New Orleans feeling very optimistic about Mansfield Lovell and the impressive steam-rams he saw there. While he was in New Orleans, Burnside offered Mr. Preston five hundred thousand dollars, a debt owed to him by Burnside, but he declined to take it. He believed the money was safer in Burnside's hands than in his own. And that may turn out to be true, given how grim things look right now. Burnside is alert; he’s not someone who gets caught off guard.

Mary Preston was saying she had asked the Hamptons how they felt about the idea of being broke. If the country is saved, none of us will care about that. Thinking deeply and feeling patriotic, Mr. Chesnut came in and said, “Conrad has been telegraphed from New Orleans that the great ironclad Louisiana sank at the first shot.” Mr. Chesnut and Mary Preston then walked off, first to the bulletin board and then to the Prestons’.

[160]

April 29th.—A major disaster, the news from New Orleans is devastating for us. I met Mr. Weston. He wanted to know where he could find a safe place for two hundred Black people. I looked at his face to see if he was serious; then to see if he was sane. There was a particular group of two hundred Black people that had become a problem. It seemed like all the white men in the family felt obligated to stay home to take care of them. There are still people who believe Black people are property—like Noah’s neighbors, who insisted that the Flood would just be a little rain shower after all.

These Black people, however, were Plowden Weston’s, a completely different situation. He provided field rifles to one company and forty thousand dollars to another. He is currently with our army at Corinth. So I said: “You can count on Mr. Chesnut, who will do everything he can to help you find a home for these people. Nothing belonging to that patriotic gentleman will be allowed to suffer if we have to take care of them on our own property.” Mr. Chesnut did find a place for them, just as I said he would.

Had to go to the Governor’s or they would think we had raised the black flag. I heard there that we are going to be defeated like Cortez defeated the Mexicans—by superior weaponry. Mexican bows and arrows didn't stand a chance against Spanish gear. Our enemies have such advanced weapons of war; we hardly have any except what we take from them during battle. The Saxons and the Normans faced similar challenges.

War feels like a game of chess, but we start with an uneven number of pawns. We have plenty of knights, kings, queens, bishops, and castles. However, our clever generals, whenever they can't set the board up the way they prefer, end up burning everything and retreating. We want them to protect the country. They seem to believe their only responsibility is to sink ships and save the army.

Mr. Robert Barnwell wrote that he had to hang his[161] head for South Carolina. We hadn't provided our share of the new draft, which was five thousand men. Today, Colonel Chesnut released his statement to show that we have actually sent thirteen thousand, instead of just the required number; so Mr. Barnwell can hold his head up high again.

April 30th.—The last day of this month of disasters. Lovell left the women and children to face the shelling and took the army to a safe location. I don’t understand why we don’t send the women and children to the safe place and let the army stay where the fighting is. Armies are meant to protect, not to be protected. At least, being protected isn’t exactly their raison d’être. If this continues, the spirit of our people will be crushed. One glimmer of hope comes from Henry Marshall. “Our Army of the Peninsula is strong; so good that I don’t think McClellan will dare to attack it.” So be it.

May 6th.—I'm taking on a painful task I chose myself: but why write when I have nothing to share but disaster?[78] So I read instead: First, Consuelo, then Columba, two very different books, and then a translated version of Elective Affinities. There's plenty to think about in each of these unusual books.

At the Prestons' house, where I’m staying (since Mr. Chesnut went to visit his grumpy old father, whom he cares for and who’s said to be sick), I ran into Christopher Hampton. He mentioned that Wigfall is out for a fight; he wants them to go for Maryland. We don’t know the President’s take on this move. Mr. Hampton also met the first lieutenant of the Kirkwoods, E. M. Boykin. He says Boykin is exactly the same person he was at South Carolina College. No matter who you’re with, he’s always the most pleasant person in the room.

A telegram says: “We've pushed the enemy back at[162] Williamsburg.”[79] Oh, if only we could send them back “to their own country!” Richmond was under a lot of pressure today. The Mercury today states, “Jeff Davis now treats everyone as if they were mindless bugs.”

Mary Preston said all sisters fight. No, my sisters and I don’t. We reserve all our harsh words for our enemies. We’re straightforward heathens; we despise our enemies and cherish our friends. Some people (like us) can't make up after an argument; a few harsh words and it’s all over. To us, forgiveness is out of the question. Forgiveness means being unemotionally indifferent; it’s all about philosophy as long as love lasts. Forgiving the wrongs of love is impossible. Those dutiful wives who faithfully overlook—well, everything—don't care at all about their husbands. I figured that out on my own years ago. Some people think it's noble to praise their enemies and demonstrate their fairness and justice by admitting the faults of their friends. I believe in the straightforward approach, the good old way. I praise those I love and criticize those I hate.

Mary Preston has been translating Schiller out loud. We have Bulwer’s translation, Mrs. Austin’s, Coleridge’s, and Carlyle’s, and we show how each one interprets the passage Mary will translate into English. In Wallenstein, at one point in the Max and Thekla scene, I prefer Carlyle over Coleridge, even though some say Coleridge’s Wallenstein is the only translation in the world that’s half as good as the original. Mrs. Barstow recited some beautiful excerpts by Uhland that I had never heard before. She is going to write them down for us. Wishing for peace and a carefree literary retirement in my old age!

General Preston accused me of turning into a boarding-house gossip, and his daughters triumphantly responded: “But, dad, you love to gossip with him just as much.”

Hampton estate has fifteen hundred Black people on Lake Washington, Mississippi. Hampton girls are talking like they’re in a James novel: “Neither Wade nor Preston—that amazing guy!—would pick up a lance—or get ready for a fight, which is the right term for battling to maintain slavery. They hate it as much as we do.” “What are they fighting for?” “Southern rights—whatever that means. And they don’t want to be forever subservient to the Yankees. They speak pretty well about it, but I can’t remember exactly what they say.” Johnny Chesnut says, “There's no point in trying to explain—anyone would feel compelled to join the fight.” It takes four Black people to attend to Johnny properly.

It’s this giving up that really gets to me. They’re talking about Norfolk now; why not Charleston next? I read in a letter from the West, “Not Beauregard, but the soldiers who took time to drink the whisky they’d captured from the enemy, lost us Shiloh.” Cock Robin is as dead as he’ll ever be now; what difference does it make who killed him?

May 12th.—Mr. Chesnut says he’s really glad he went to town. Everything in Charleston is way more satisfying than what’s been said. The troops are in good spirits. It’s going to take a lot of ironclads to capture that city.

Isaac Hayne mentioned at dinner yesterday that both Beauregard and the President held Mr. Chesnut's knack for strategy and military development in high regard. Hon. Mr. Barnwell agreed; that is, Mr. Barnwell had heard this from the President. “Then why didn’t the President offer me something better than a position as an aide?” “I heard he offered to make you a general last year, and you said you didn’t want to step over other men’s heads until you earned a promotion. You’re too hard to please.” “No, not really; I was only offered a colonelcy, and Mr. Barnwell convinced me to stick with the Senate. Then he wanted my position, and in trying to balance both, I ended up with nothing.”

My Molly will forget Lige and her babies, too. I asked her who sent me that beautiful bouquet I found on my center table. “I gave it to you. It was given to me.” And Molly was all wiggly, giggly, and blushing.

May 18th.—Norfolk has been burned, and the Merrimac has sunk without firing a shot since her coup d’état in Hampton Roads. Read Milton. Look at Adam’s speech to Eve from a fresh perspective. Women won’t stay at home; they’ll go out to see and be seen, even if it’s by the devil himself.

Very encouraging letters from Hon. Mr. Memminger and L. Q. Washington. They convey the same message in very different ways. It boils down to this: “Not an inch of Virginia soil will be surrendered without a fierce battle for it. We have a total of one hundred and five thousand men, while McClellan has one hundred and ninety thousand. We can handle that difference.”

What things I've been accused of saying! Mr. —— thought he heard me making sarcastic comments about the Governor and the Council—or at least he claims he did. James Chesnut sent him a note saying my name should be kept out of it—actually, that he should never mention my name again under any circumstances. It was all ridiculous nonsense, but it really irritated my husband. He said it was a plot to twist my words against him. He was very supportive about it. He knows my true nature so well that he can always distinguish my genuine sassiness from what others make up about me.

There’s an order from Butler[80] handing over[165] the women of New Orleans to his soldiers. This reveals the extent of his wrongdoings. We always believed that generals kept their soldiers in check, using force if necessary, to prevent their brutality. This grotesque, cross-eyed monster tells his men to treat the women of New Orleans like prostitutes—to punish them, he claims, for their disrespect.

Footprints on the edge of another world again. Willie Taylor, before he left home for the army, thought one day—day, remember—that he saw Albert Rhett standing next to him. He backed away from the ghostly figure. “You don’t need to do that, Willie. You’ll soon be like me.” Willie ran into the next room to tell them what happened and fainted. It really drained him emotionally. And now, just the other day, he died in Virginia.

May 24th.—The enemy is landing at Georgetown. With a bit more daring, where couldn't they land? But we've scared them enough that they're being cautious. If it's true, I hope some level-headed white men will get the Black people to save the rice for us. We need it badly. They say it could have been done at Port Royal with a bit more effort. South Carolinians have enough spirit, but they only work in bursts; there's no consistent effort; you can't rely on them for steady work. They'll stop to play—or have fun in some way.

Without interruption, Halleck is being reinforced. Beauregard, undisturbed, was giving some great speeches—and issuing proclamations, while we foolishly expected him to launch a surprise attack on Huntsville. Why not? Hope springs eternal in the Southern heart.

[166]

My Hebrew friend, Mem Cohen, has a son in the war. He’s in John Chesnut’s company. Cohen is a respected name among the Jews: it means Aaron. She often falls into long periods of silence and is absent-minded. If she’s suddenly brought back to reality, she tends to say, with tear-filled eyes and hands clasped, “If it pleases God to spare his life.” Her daughter is the sweetest little girl. The son is the mother’s pride. Mrs. Cohen used to be Miriam de Leon. I’ve known her closely my entire life.

Mrs. Bartow, the widow of Colonel Bartow, who was killed at Manassas, was Miss Berrien, the daughter of Judge Berrien from Georgia. She is currently working in one of the departments here, cutting Confederate bonds for five hundred Confederate dollars a year, a woman without any money. Judge Carroll, her brother-in-law, has been strongly encouraging her to come and live with his family. He has a large household, and she won’t be an extra burden to him. Despite everything he says, she refuses to give up her determination. She wants to be independent. She is a determined little woman, with the softest, silkiest voice and mannerisms, and incredibly clever.

Columbia is the place for great living, friendly people, enjoyable dinners, and nice drives. I think I’ve placed the dinners in the wrong spot. They are the highlight of the good things here. This is the most welcoming place in the world, and the dinners truly reflect that.

In Washington, there was a continuous stream of state dinners. I was treated well. I don’t recall ever being stuck next to two boring neighbors; there was always a smart person on one side or the other, so I enjoyed the dinners in Washington.

In Montgomery, there were a few dinners—like Mrs. Pollard’s—but the social scene was a bit rough and unrefined. As it was, it revolved around balls and late-night suppers. In Charleston, Mr. Chesnut attended gentlemen’s dinners all the time, with no ladies around. I received flowers, went out for drives, and was invited for tea. The suppers at the end of those celebrations were some of the nicest and most exquisite of their kind. [167]

In Richmond, there were parties that I didn’t go to—only a couple that I was invited to: the MacFarlands’ and the Lyons’. James Chesnut had dinner out almost every day. But the breakfasts—the Virginia breakfasts—always had nice people. Honestly, I had a great time everywhere—always smart people, and people I liked, and everyone was so kind to me.

Here in Columbia, family dinners are a highlight. You either call, or they come pick you up and bring you home. “Oh, stay for dinner!” and you happily agree. They send for your husband, and he comes without hesitation. Then you enjoy a wonderful dinner. You can’t imagine how it could be better; yet they haven’t had time to change things or add anything due to the surprise guests. They have everything of the highest quality—silverware, glassware, china, table linens, and damask, etc. Plus, the planters live “within themselves,” as they say. From the plantations come mutton, beef, poultry, cream, butter, eggs, fruits, and vegetables.

It’s easy to live here, with a cook who has been sent for training at the best restaurant in Charleston. Old Mrs. Chesnut’s Romeo was trained at Jones’s. I’m not sure where Mrs. Preston’s got his degree, but he deserves a medal.

At the Prestons', James Chesnut got Buck to recite something about Joan of Arc, and she did it in a way that moved everyone. While she was speaking, my husband turned to a young man who was listening to a group of girls chatting and said: “Écoutez!” The young man looked at him in confusion for a moment, then seriously stood up and started to turn down the gas. Isabella remarked: “Écoutez, then, means to turn off the lights.”

I remember a scene that happened at a ball hosted by Mrs. Preston while her husband was in Louisiana. Mrs. Preston sparkled in diamonds, lace, and velvet.[168] There's a calm dignity about her that's really appealing; her voice is soft and sweet, and she has a strong will. She's incredibly knowledgeable, but very quiet, shy, and reserved. Honestly, her seeming gentleness almost comes off as timid. She has perfectly chiseled features and a strikingly graceful figure.

Governor Manning said to me, “Look at Sister Caroline. Does she seem like she has the courage of a heroine?” Then he shared how, not long ago, William, the butler, came to tell her that John, the footman, was drunk in the cellar—wild with drink; that he had a carving knife which he was waving around in a drunken rage, and he was preventing everyone from doing their work, threatening to kill anyone who dared to enter the basement. They were like a bunch of scared sheep down there. She didn’t say a word to any of us but followed William down to the basement, lifting her skirts. When she arrived, she found the servants running around, screaming and shouting that John was insane and going to kill them. John was roaring like a bull of Bashan, knife in hand, chasing them for his own amusement.

Mrs. Preston walked up to him. “Give me that knife,” she said firmly. He handed it to her. She placed it on the table. “Now come with me,” she instructed, putting her hand on his collar. She guided him to the empty smokehouse, locked him inside, and tucked the key in her pocket. Then she returned to her guests, without a hint of disturbance on her calm face. “She told me about it, smiling and serene just like you see her now,” the Governor finished.

Before the war locked him away, General Preston ordered his salmon from the lakes, venison from Mississippi, and mutton and grouse from the mountains. It’s the best dish at all these homes, what the Spanish refer to as “the hearty welcome.” Thackeray mentions that at every American table, he was first served with “grilled hostess.” At the head of the table sat a person, with a fiery face, anxious and nervous, inwardly murmuring, like Falstaff, “I wish it were night, Hal, and everything was fine.”

At Mulberry, the house is always bustling, and each day feels strikingly similar to the last. People are constantly arriving and leaving, with carriages pulling up or driving away. It has the vibe of a popular resort where you don’t have to pay, and everyone feels like they belong. At Christmas, the china cabinet reveals its treasures. The glassware, china, silver, and fine linens saved for special occasions come out. As for the dinner itself, it’s just a matter of serving more—more turkey, more mutton, more partridges, more fish, and so on, along with more formal stiffness. Usually, when a few unexpected guests drop by, it doesn’t make a difference. The family just informs the housekeeper, and that’s all it takes.

People are starting to come here from Richmond. One swallow doesn't make a summer, but it shows which way the wind is blowing, just like these hints do—Mrs. “Constitution” Browne and Mrs. Wise. The Gibsons are at Doctor Gibbes’s. It really looks stormy. We are drifting on the waves.

May 29th.—Betsey, the stubborn maid of the W.’s, has been sold to a telegraph worker. She’s as attractive as a mixed-race person can be, and skilled at all kinds of tasks. My Molly believes her mistress is “very lucky to be rid of her.” She was “a risky resident,” but she’ll make a great cook, a good housekeeper, an excellent dairy worker, a beautiful starcher, and completely useless to her new owners if she wants to be. Molly clearly dislikes her, but feels it’s her obligation “to support her race.”

Mrs. Gibson is a woman from Philadelphia. She's devoted to her husband and kids, but she doesn't believe in us—the Confederacy, that is. She's feeling down and hopeless; she lacks faith in our ultimate success just like Sally Baxter Hampton. I understand where those people are coming from. If I had married North, they would be dealing with a tough situation with me right now up there.

[170]

Mrs. Chesnut, my mother-in-law, has lived in the South for sixty years, and her feelings and tastes haven't changed at all. She can't enjoy hominy for breakfast or rice for dinner without something to add flavor. She can't eat watermelons and sweet potatoes without restraint, like we do. She won't eat hot cornbread without limits, or hot buttered biscuits without any.

“Richmond is bound to fall,” Mrs. Gibson sighed. “You would think so too if you had seen our poor soldiers.” “Poor soldiers?” I replied. “Are you talking about Stonewall Jackson’s men? Poor soldiers, really!” She said her mind was set on one thing, and always had been, even after she married and moved South: she would never own slaves. “Who would, unless they were born into it?” I exclaimed, more worked up than ever. She is very attractive, very smart, and has really pleasant manners.

“Dear ma'am,” she says, with tears in her beautiful eyes, “they have three armies.” “But Stonewall has already defeated one of them. Heath got another.” She only responded with a disbelieving moan. “Nothing seemed to satisfy her,” I said, as we left. “You definitely did not,” someone said to me; “you contradicted everything she said with a kind of angry protest.”

We met Mrs. Hampton Gibbes at the door—another Virginia woman who was as good as gold. They told us Mrs. Davis was wonderfully settled in Raleigh; North Carolinians are so loyal and so welcoming; she hadn’t even been allowed to eat a meal at the hotel. “How different from Columbia,” said Doctor Gibbes, looking at Mrs. Gibson, who had probably been left to have all her meals at his house. “Oh, no!” exclaimed Mary, “you're doing Columbia a disservice. Mrs. Chesnut used to say that she was never once subjected to the whims of the Congaree cuisine, and at McMahan’s it’s all about fruit, flowers, and dinner invitations every day.”

After we left, I was asked, “Why didn’t you support me?” “Why did you let them talk badly about Columbia?”[171] “It was really uncomfortable,” I replied, “but you see, it would have been even worse to let Doctor Gibbes and Mrs. Gibson realize how differently things were with other people.”

Took a moonlit walk after tea at the Halcott Greens’. Everyone in the group enjoyed the lovely night by walking home with me.

Uncle Hamilton Boykin is here, staying at the de Saussures’. He says, “Manassas was a warm-up for Williamsburg,” and he was at both battles. He led a part of Stuart’s cavalry in the charge at Williamsburg, riding a hundred yards ahead of his company.

Toombs is ready for another revolution and freely curses everything Confederate, from the President down to a horse boy. He believes there’s a conspiracy against him in the army. Why? Goodness, why?

June 2nd.—A battle[81] is reportedly happening around Richmond. I’m at the Prestons’. James Chesnut left for Richmond unexpectedly on business for the Military Department. It’s always his luck to show up just in time and witness a major battle.

Wade Hampton was shot in the foot, and Johnston Pettigrew was killed. A telegram says Lee and Davis were both on the field: the enemy was pushed back. The telegraph operator said, “Ma'am, our men are fighting.” “Of course they are. What else can they do now but fight?” “But, ma'am, the news is encouraging.” Each army is burying its dead: that looks like a standoff. We keep checking the bulletin board.

Back at McMahan’s. Mem Cohen is sick. Her daughter, Isabel, tells me not to bring up the fighting happening around Richmond. Young Cohen is involved. Mrs. Preston is worried and upset about her sons. John is with General Huger in Richmond; Willie is in the swamps along the coast with his unit. Mem tells me her cousin, Edwin de Leon, has been sent by Mr. Davis on a mission to England.

Rev. Robert Barnwell is back at the hospital. Oh, how I wish we had donated our thousand dollars to the hospital instead of the gunboat! “Stonewall Jackson’s movements,” the Herald says, “aren’t hurting us; they’re actually bringing out volunteers in large numbers.” And a Philadelphia paper criticized us so intensely that I could feel my blood boiling with anger.

June 3rd.—Doctor John Cheves is creating explosive devices in Charleston to take out the Yankees; what a lovely name they have for those machines. The overseer says my horses are too thin to send over. Back in January, they claimed there was enough corn on the property to last for two years; now, in June, they say it won’t last until the new crop comes in. Someone is enjoying themselves on the plantation, if it isn’t my poor horses.

Molly will tell me everything when she comes back, and then some. Mr. Venable has been appointed as an aide to General Robert E. Lee. He’s at Vicksburg and writes, “When the fighting is done here, I’ll be happy to head to Virginia.” He’s in great spirits. I see that army guys are always like that when they write.

Apropos of calling Major Venable “Mr.” It should be noted that in social situations, we usually don’t use titles for people we know well or our close friends and family. A general’s wife feels it’s improper to call her husband anything but “Mr.” When she uses his title, it’s just a slip. If I get confused about titles in this diary, no one should hold it against me.

Telegrams are coming from Richmond, ordering troops from Charleston. They can’t be sent because the Yankees are attacking Charleston, probably to stop Lee from getting reinforcements from there.

I sat down by my window in the beautiful moonlight and[173] tried really hard to think of nice things. A guy started to play the flute with piano backing, first playing, “Ever of thee I am fondly dreaming,” and then, “The long, long, weary day.” At first, I thought this just added to the beautiful scene, and it calmed my frayed nerves. But when Von Weber’s “Last Waltz” played, it was too much; I lost it. Oh my, what a heartbreaking cry I let out, along with streams of tears! It’s a miracle there was any of me left.

I find out that women in Richmond take their carriages to pick up the wounded, bring them home, and care for them. One woman saw a man who was too weak to hold his musket. She took it from him, slung it over her shoulder, and helped the poor guy along.

If there was ever a guy who could manage his emotions, who could act tough or like a leader, it’s James Chesnut. But one day, after coming back from the Council, he had to admit he broke down. He felt incredibly ashamed of his weakness. He had a letter from Mrs. Gaillard asking for his help, and he tried to read it to the Council. She needed a permit to go see her son, who was injured in Virginia. Colonel Chesnut couldn't keep his voice steady. There wasn't a dry eye in the room when one man suddenly shouted, "God bless the woman."

Johnston Pettigrew’s aide says he left his boss mortally wounded on the battlefield. Just before Johnston Pettigrew went to Italy to join the fight for freedom there, I ran into him one day at Mrs. Frank Hampton’s. There were several people around. Someone mentioned the engagement of the beautiful Miss —— to Hugh Rose. Another person asked, “How do you know they are engaged?” “Well, I never heard it, but I saw it. In London, a month or so ago, I walked into Mrs. ——’s drawing-room and saw these two young people sitting on a sofa right across from the door.” “Well, that doesn’t mean anything.” “No, not on its own. But they looked so silly and so happy. I’ve noticed that newly engaged people always look like that.” And so on. Johnston Pettigrew was flushed white and red in quick succession[174] during this part of the conversation; he was furious with indignation and disgust. “I think this kind of talk is disrespectful to the young lady’s name,” he finally exclaimed, “and it’s rude of us.” I imagine him left dying alone! I wonder what those feel like—those who are left to die from their wounds—alone—on the battlefield.

Free schools aren't everything, as shown by this spelling. Yankee letters found in camp demonstrate how illiterate they can be, despite all their claimed schools. Fredericksburg is spelled "Fredrexbirg," medicine is "metison," and we see "To my sweat brother," etc. For the first time in my life, no books can hold my interest. Life is so real, so completely serious, that fiction feels flat. Only what's happening in this chaotic world of ours can capture my attention for even ten minutes.

June 4th.—Fighting is happening near Richmond, along with shelling in Charleston. Beauregard is reportedly trying to break through or get in.

Mrs. Gibson is here at Doctor Gibbes’s place. There are always tears in her eyes. Her oldest son is Willie Preston’s lieutenant. They’re down on the coast. She admits she has no hope at all. She used to be Miss Ayer from Philadelphia, and she says, “We can expect Burnside now, our troops that kept him from leaving on his iron ships have been pulled back. They’re three to one against us now, and they’ve barely started to show their strength—in numbers, I mean. We’ve reached the end of our rope, except we can wait for the yearly crop of boys as they grow up to the right age.” She could make even the most optimistic person feel down. “Generally speaking,” says Mrs. Gibson, “government people tend to be optimistic, but the son of a high-ranking official whispered to Mary G. as he helped her into the car, ‘Richmond is bound to fall.’” The idea now is that we’re going to be starved out. If they lock us in and prolong the agony, it can only end one way.

Mrs. Preston and I talk quietly, but Mrs. McCord[175] scorns quiet voices and speaks out loudly. She says: “Look at our soldiers. There have never been better ones since the world began, but God doesn’t bother to send us a general who deserves them. I’m not talking about drill-sergeants or military sticklers who won’t fight until everything is perfect. The real fuel for our war is our faith in ourselves and our passion for our cause. West Point dismisses enthusiasm, mocking it. They want discipline. And now we have a new threat—these blockade-runners. They’re lining their pockets and mocking the fools who fight. Don’t you see this Stonewall? He ignites the soldiers’ hearts; he might just be our leader after all. People say he doesn’t care how many get killed. His job is to save the country, not the army. He fights to win, God bless him, and he does win. If they don’t want to face danger, they can stay home. They say he leaves the sick and wounded to be looked after by those whose job it is. His job is war. They say he wants to raise the black flag, push for a quick and decisive war, and end it fast. He’s a soldier of Christ.”

June 5th.—Beauregard is retreating and his rear guard is cut off. If Beauregard’s veterans won’t hold their ground, why should we expect our newly recruited reserves to do the same? The Union general who is laying siege to Savannah has declared his orders are "to capture Savannah in two weeks and then move on to wipe Charleston off the map."

Albert Luryea was killed in the battle on June 1st. Last summer, when a bomb fell right in the middle of his company, he picked it up and threw it into the water. Think about that, those of you who love life! The company sent the bomb to his father. Inscribed on it were the words, “Albert Luryea, bravest where all are brave.” Isaac Hayne did the same thing at Fort Moultrie. This group has enough brains, but they aren't as quick-thinking as those old Revolutionary figures, like the Middletons, Lowndeses, Rutledges, Marions, and Sumters. They have descended directly from active-minded ancestors; otherwise, they wouldn't be here. But after two or three generations of gentleman planters, how much the blood has changed! Recently, all the driven individuals who have emerged in our government come from Scotch or Scotch-Irish lineage—Calhoun, McDuffie, Cheves, and Petigru, who changed his name from Huguenot origins but couldn't shake his Irish roots. Our planters are great guys, but slow to act; they are impulsive yet hard to keep going. They are fantastic for a quick burst of effort, but with all their strength, they enjoy taking breaks.

June 6th.—Paul Hayne, the poet, has moved in here. My husband came and offered to buy me a pair of horses. He says I need more exercise outside. “Come on, are you setting me up for a quick getaway?” I said. “I'm not really ready for an adventure.”

Mrs. Rose Greenhow is in Richmond. Half of the ungrateful Confederates say Seward sent her. My husband says the Confederacy owes her a debt it can never repay. She warned them at Manassas, which is how they got Joe Johnston and his Paladins to show up right when they were needed. In Washington, they said Lord Napier left her a legacy to the British Legation, which accepted the gift, unlike the British nation, who refused to accept Emma Hamilton and her daughter, Horatia, even though they were bequeathed to the nation by Lord Nelson.

Mem Cohen, just out of the hospital where she went with a beautiful Jewish friend, whom we'll call Rachel (whether that's her name or not), was assigned to care for a very weak patient. Mem noticed how handsome he was and how quiet and tidy he seemed. She suspected from those signs that he was a gentleman. While performing her duties, the lovely young nurse leaned down kindly and held the cup to his lips. After that, when she wiped his mouth, to her shock, she felt a pair of surprisingly strong arms wrap around her neck and felt a kiss on her lips that she found quite intense. She didn’t say anything or make a complaint. She quietly slipped away from the hospital, and from then on in her hospital duties, she would keep her distance, no matter how weak, tired, sick, or sore the patient was. “And,” said Mem, “I thought he was a gentleman.” “Well, a gentleman is still a man, after all, and she shouldn’t have leaned in with those red lips of hers so close.”

June 7th.—Cheves McCord’s artillery unit on the coast has three guns and one hundred soldiers. If this unit were to be captured, John’s Island and James Island would be vulnerable to the enemy, leaving Charleston completely exposed.

Wade Hampton writes to his wife that Chickahominy wasn't the clear victory he had hoped for. Fort Pillow and Memphis[82] have been surrendered. What's next! And next!

June 9th.—When we read about the battles in India, Italy, and Crimea, did we really care? It was just another interesting topic to read about in the paper. Now, when you hear about a battle, it sends a chill down your spine. It's personal; half the people we know are facing the enemy's fire. A telegram arrives, and you just leave it on your lap. You feel pale with fear. You either touch it cautiously or hesitate to handle it, like it's a rattlesnake; even worse—a snake can only bite you. How many lives will this little piece of paper reveal have been lost?

When you meet people, the greeting is often sad and sorrowful; they shake your hand, tears welling up in their eyes or streaming down their cheeks, depending on how much control they have over their emotions. They have brothers, fathers, or sons who are fighting in the war. It feels like this situation will never end. We aren't given a moment to breathe. It can't be like this up North, because the papers say that gentlemen there don’t join the ranks but are officers or department clerks. Then we see so many prisoners from foreign regiments—Germans, Irish, Scots. The odds are heavily stacked against us. Every company on the battlefield, from the top ranks to the lowest, is filled with our closest loved ones, who are ordinary soldiers.

Mem Cohen's story today. A woman she knew heard that her son was killed, and she barely grasped the horror of it when they came to say it was all a mistake regarding the name. She fell to her knees with a shout of joy. “Praise the Lord, O my soul!” she cried, in her wild delight. The household was completely thrown into chaos; the switch from weeping and wailing just moments before was overwhelming. In the midst of this chaos, the hearse arrived with the poor boy in his metallic coffin. Does anyone wonder why so many women die? Grief and constant anxiety claim nearly as many women at home as men are lost on the battlefield. Mem’s friend is on the verge of death with brain fever; the abrupt shifts from grief to joy and joy to grief were more than she could handle.

A story from New Orleans. While a group of Yankees passed by two boys playing in the street, one of the boys threw a handful of burned cotton at them, saying, “I saved this for you.” The other boy, trying to keep up, spat at the Yankees and said, “I saved this for you.” The Yankees took note of the house. Later, a guard came by. Madam was chatting amiably with a friend, and despite the friend's protests that he was just a morning visitor and not the homeowner, he was taken to prison.

Mr. Moise got his money out of New Orleans. He went to a station with his two young sons. When he arrived, the carriage he expected wasn’t in sight. He had brought no money with him, knowing he might be searched. A friend called out, “I’ll lend you my horse, but you’ll have to leave the[179] kids.” He accepted the offer, and as he rode away, one of the boys shouted, “Dad, here’s your tobacco that you forgot.” Mr. Moise turned back, and the boy handed him a roll of tobacco that he had been holding openly the whole time. Mr. Moise took it and galloped off, waving his hat at them. Inside that roll of tobacco was twenty-five thousand dollars.

Now, the Mississippi is pretty much open for the Yankees. Beauregard has pulled out of Corinth.[83]

Henry Nott was killed at Shiloh; Mrs. Auzé wrote to tell us. She had no hope. Being defeated and destroyed had always been her fate, no matter how hard she tried, and now she realized it would be through her country that she would suffer. She had endured more than most women, and she fought the battle of life with courage, patience, and faith. Long ago, when she was young, her lover died. After that, she married another man. Then her husband died, and then her only son. When New Orleans fell, her only daughter was there, and Mrs. Auzé went to her. She can certainly say that she has bravely carried her burden until now.[84]

Stonewall said, in his unique way: “I enjoy strong drinks, so I never have any.” May heaven, who sent him to help us, keep him safe from all harm!

My husband mapped out Stonewall’s impressive campaign. He defeated Frémont and captured all his cannons; now he's going after Shields. The telegram's wording is unclear: “Stonewall has taken a lot of prisoners”—a lot, for sure, and more than enough. We can’t even feed our own soldiers, so how are we supposed to feed prisoners?

They criticize Toombs in some Georgia newspaper, which I[180] saw today, for growing a large crop of cotton. They argue he should be planting food for the soldiers.

And now every man in Virginia and the eastern part of South Carolina is in rebellion because old men and boys are being drafted as a reserve corps, and, worst of all, sacred property, meaning enslaved people, has been taken and sent to work on the fortifications along the coast. We're in great shape to defend Columbia!

June 10th.—General Gregg writes that Chickahominy[85] was a near victory because Joe Johnston was seriously wounded and G. W. Smith was sick. The officers in command weren’t informed about the battle plan.

A letter from John Chesnut claims there's been a mistake regarding Wade Hampton's injury because he saw him in the field right up until late that night. Hampton writes to Mary McDuffie that the bullet was removed from his foot on the battlefield and that he was in the saddle all day. However, when he tried to take off his boot at night, his foot was so inflamed and swollen that the boot had to be cut off, and the wound turned out to be more troublesome than he had anticipated.

Mrs. Preston sent her carriage to take us to see Mrs. Herbemont, whom Mary Gibson calls her “Mrs. Burgamot.” Miss Bay came down, always looking fresh, in a hat so outrageous that I couldn’t help but laugh. It was decorated with a sharp row of white satin spikes. She playfully refused to get into Mrs. Preston’s carriage—“to put foot into it,” as she put it—but she eventually let herself be convinced.

I’m feeling really sick. Mrs. Ben Taylor told Doctor Trezevant, “Honestly, she’s too sick to be out and about; she should be in bed.” “She is very weak, very nervous, as you mentioned, but she’s living off this nervous energy. If you confine her[181], she’d probably just give up.” I have this strange weakness in my heart. Sometimes it beats so softly that I’m convinced it’s stopped completely. Then they say I’ve fainted, but I never actually lose consciousness.

Mrs. Preston and I were talking about Black people and cows. A Black person, no matter how sensible they are on any other topic, can never be convinced that there’s any need to feed a cow. “Just let them out to eat grass. Grass is good enough for a cow.”

Famous news is coming from Richmond, but it's not great from the coast. Mrs. Izard said, quoting someone I can't remember: “If West Point could provide brains along with training!” Smith is under arrest for not following orders—Pemberton’s orders. This is the third general that Pemberton has replaced in just a few weeks—Ripley, Mercer, and now Smith.

When I told my husband that Molly was acting all high and mighty since her recent trip home, he replied, “Tell her to hit the road—she or anyone else on the plantation who is unhappy; let them leave. It’s already a hassle to feed and clothe them.” When he went over to the plantation, he came back feeling great about their loyalty to him, their fondness, and their reliability.

Sixteen more Union regiments have arrived on James Island. Eason writes, “They have twice the energy and initiative of our people.” I replied, “Hold on. Just give it some time. Let them deal with the climate, mosquitoes, sand flies, and managing the Black population, and it will wear them out.” Stonewall is a solid guy, always on the move, making progress wherever he goes. Governor Pickens came to see me. His wife is very upset, filled with anxiety and uncertainty. Her brother and her brother-in-law are either dead or captured.

Tom Taylor says Wade Hampton didn't leave the field because of his wound. “What heroism!” someone exclaimed. No, it's just luck! He's the luckiest man alive. He'll[182]never be killed. He was shot in the temple, but that didn’t take him down. His soldiers believe in his luck.

General Scott, commenting on Southern soldiers, says that we have élan, courage, woodcraft, exceptional horsemanship, and the ability to endure pain like the Indians, but we refuse to follow discipline. We don’t take care of things or manage our resources. Wherever we are, there’s waste and destruction. If everything could be accomplished with one wild, desperate leap, we would do it. But he doesn’t believe we can handle the long, empty months in between the actions—the waiting! We can endure pain without complaint, but we won’t submit to being bored, etc.

Now, for the other side. Men from the North can be patient; they can handle discipline; they can endure for as long as it takes. Losing battles means very little to them. Their supply of soldiers and war materials is endless, and if they choose to, they'll fight to the very end. Here’s a lovely outlook for us—just as reassuring as the old man's croak at Mulberry, “Bad times, worse is coming.”

Mrs. McCord says, “In the hospital, those who are more privileged, meaning those born into wealth and social status, who are used to a life of comfort, tend to be the better patients. They endure their pain quietly. They are tougher, stronger, and less likely to break down than the working-class.” “Why is that?” I asked, and she replied, “There's something in people that goes beyond just the physical.”

I know what it’s like to die. I’ve experienced it over and over. For example, when someone calls out, “Albert Sidney Johnston is dead,” my heart stops. I feel nothing. For so many seconds, so many minutes—I can’t tell how long—I’m completely without sensation—dead; and then, there’s that intense throb, that sharp pain, and life kicks back in. The clock starts ticking again, and I pick up the weight of living once more. One day it will stop for too long, or my weak heart will be too exhausted to trigger that jolt, and it will all be over. I don’t think when the end comes that[183] there will be any difference, except for the miracle of that new heartbeat. And now, good news feels just as thrilling as bad news. “Hurray, Stonewall has saved us!” The joy is almost painful because of how I experience it.

Miriam’s Luryea and the coincidences of his life. He was born as Moses and is the hero of the bombshell. His mother was at a hotel in Charleston when the kind-hearted Anna De Leon Moses went to help her sister-in-law and gave up her own room so the child could be born in the comfort and privacy of a home. Only our people are known for such extreme hospitality. So little Luryea was born in Anna De Leon’s room. After Chickahominy, when he, now a man, lay fatally injured, Anna Moses, who was living in Richmond, found him and brought him home, even though her house was packed to the doorsteps. She gave up her room to him, and just as he had been born in her room, in her room he died.

June 12th.—New England’s Butler, known to us as “Beast” Butler, is currently famous or infamous. His shocking order to his soldiers in New Orleans and his remarks about it are on everyone’s lips. We never expected someone from Massachusetts to act in a way that would embarrass a Comanche.

One happy moment has arrived in Mrs. Preston’s life. I observed her face today as she read the morning papers. Willie’s battery is praised to high heavens. Every paper featured a paragraph commending him.

South Carolina was at Beauregard’s feet after Fort Sumter. Since Shiloh, she has gotten up and looks away whenever his name is mentioned. And without Price or Beauregard, who’s in charge of the Western forces? “Can we hold out if England and France stay out of it?” cries Mem. “No, our time has come.”

“For shame, coward! Our people are courageous, our cause is right; our spirit and our ability to endure are unquestionable.” Then Mary Cantey spoke up: “I might not have any logic or sense. I give up. My woman’s[184] instinct tells me that slavery’s time has come. If we don’t put an end to it, someone else will.”

After all this, I tried to read Uncle Tom, but I couldn’t; it was too disgusting. Just think of a man sending his little son to beat a person tied to a tree. It’s as awful as Squeers beating Smike. Flesh and blood revolts; you have to skip that part; it’s too much.

Mr. Preston shared a story about Joe Johnston when he was a kid. A group of boys in Abingdon was out having fun, with more boys than horses, so Joe Johnston rode behind his cousin, John Preston. While they were crossing the mountains, they tried to swap horses and ended up behind a servant taking care of them all. The servant's horse kicked up and threw Joe Johnston off, breaking his leg; a bone was sticking out. “Hey, guys! Come over and check this out: that damn bone has popped out,” Joe called out calmly.

They had to carry him on their shoulders, taking turns as they got tired. They realized he must be in a lot of pain, but he never complained. He remained calm and collected after his injury, just like he was before. He was treated pretty roughly, but they couldn't avoid it. His father was incredibly angry because his son’s leg was going to be set by a local doctor, and it could end up crooked. At Chickahominy, brave but unfortunate Joe already had eleven wounds.

June 13th.—Decca’s wedding. It happened last year. We were all lounging on the bed or sofas, taking our time getting undressed. Mrs. Singleton had the floor. They were engaged before they went up to Charlottesville; Alexander was on Gregg’s staff, and Gregg was pretty lenient with him; Decca was the most lovesick girl I had ever seen. “Letters came while we were at the hospital from Alex, urging her to let him marry her right away. In wartime, human events, especially life, are very unpredictable.

“For several days in a row, she cried non-stop, and then she agreed. The hospital rooms[185] were all packed. Decca and I shared a room. It was arranged by letter that the wedding would happen; a lunch at her grandfather Minor’s, and then she was going to leave with Alex for a few days in Richmond. That was going to be their short honeymoon.”

“The day arrived. The wedding breakfast was prepared, and so was the bride, all dressed up; but there was no Alex, no groom. Unfortunately, that’s the unpredictability of a soldier’s life. The bride didn’t say anything, but she cried like a water nymph. During dinner, she gathered her courage, and at my sincere request, was about to join us. And then we heard the call, ‘The groom is coming.’ He arrived with his best man and other friends. We had a great dinner. ‘Circumstances beyond his control’ had kept him away.”

“His father sat next to Decca and talked to her the whole time as if she were already married. It was just a moment of absent-mindedness on his part, but it was really frustrating, and the girl had already dealt with a lot that morning, as you can imagine. Right after dinner, the late bridegroom suggested a walk, so they went for a short hike up the mountain. When Decca came back, she said to me, ‘Send for Robert Barnwell. I’m getting married today.’”

“‘Impossible. There’s no extra room in the house. We can’t leave; all the trains are gone. Don’t you see this hospital is packed to the brim?’ ‘Alex says I promised to marry him today. It’s not his fault; he couldn’t get here earlier.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t care,’ said the determined little thing, ‘I promised Alex I would marry him today, and I will. Get Rev. Robert Barnwell.’ We located Robert after a lot of trouble, and the bride, looking beautiful in Swiss muslin, got married.”

“Then I suggested they go for another walk, and I asked one of my sister nurses if I could stay with her for the night since I wanted to give my room to the young couple. At dawn the next day, they caught the train for[186] Richmond.” That’s the little bit of honeymoon allowed during wartime.

Beauregard’s telegram: he can’t leave the army of the West. His health is poor. No doubt the sea breezes would help him recover, but—he can’t come now. Such a lovely name—Gustave Tautant Beauregard. But Jackson and Johnston and Smith and Jones will work—and Lee, how short and sweet.

“Every day,” says Mem, “they come here in crowds—men saying we can’t hold Richmond, and we can’t hold Charleston for much longer. Cowards, beasts! Why do you come here? Why don’t you stay there and fight? Don’t you see that you’re exposing yourselves as cowards by fleeing right in the middle of a battle? If you’re not lying about the danger, you’re cowards for running away from it.” Thus shouts the practical Mem, getting angrier with every word. These Jeremiahs laugh. They think she’s talking about others, not the people in front of her.

Tom Huger left his position in the United States Navy and joined us. The Iroquois was his ship in the old navy. They say that as he stood in the rigging after being shot in the leg, while his ship was leading the attack on the Iroquois, his former crew on the Iroquois cheered for him. When his body was brought in, the Federals removed their hats in honor of his bravery. As he was dying, Meta Huger told him: “An officer wants to see you; he is one of the enemy.” “Let him come in; I have no enemies now.” But when he heard the man's name:

“No, no. I do not want to see a Southern man who is now in Lincoln’s navy.” The officers of the United States Navy attended his funeral.

June 14th.—Everything is working against us. Memphis is gone. The Mississippi fleet has been completely destroyed, and we’re hearing about it all with a boring indifference, as if it were just a story about the English war in China that happened a year or so ago.

The sons of Mrs. John Julius Pringle have arrived. They[187] were left at school up North. A young Huger is with them. They seem to have had plenty of adventures. They walked, waded, and rowed in whatever boats they could find; they swam across rivers when there were no boats available; they are brave boys. One can only admire their courage and energy. Mrs. Fisher, of Philadelphia, née Middleton, gave them money to help them get home.

Stuart’s cavalry have surged through McClellan’s defenses and set five of his transport ships on fire. Jackson has received reinforcements of 16,000 troops, and they are hopeful that the enemy will be pulled away from Richmond, making the valley the center of the conflict.

John Chesnut is with Whiting’s brigade, which has been sent to Stonewall. Mem’s son is with the Boykin Rangers; we call it Company A, No. 1. She has been crying non-stop ever since she heard the news. It’s no joke, she says, when you’re with Stonewall. He doesn’t mess around with soldiering. He doesn’t care for his men at all. He only goes to fight the Yankees.

Wade Hampton is here, shot in the foot, but he knows no more about France than he does about the man in the moon. He’s being a real downer right now. Johnston is badly wounded. Lee is the King of Spades. They are all once again fighting for their lives. Unless we can reinforce Stonewall, it’s over for us. Our leaders manage to squash and ruin the enthusiasm of anyone who gets close to them. All this digging in and falling back is ruining the morale of the army. This constant retreating is killing the men’s spirit. Plus, we're running low on gunpowder.

James Chesnut is really proud of Le Conte’s powder factory here. Le Conte knows what he’s doing. James Chesnut gives him the resources to make it happen.

Colonel Venable gets straight to the point: “If we don’t strike a significant blow, one that will be noticed, we’ll soon be done for. We’ll lose the Southwest. We can’t afford to hesitate much longer.”

[188]

Thousands are signing up with the other side in New Orleans. Butler is offering incentives. Mostly, they are foreigners trying to avoid starvation. We can consider Tennessee lost since we left her vulnerable at Corinth, Fort Pillow, and Memphis. Someone needs to be sent there, or we will lose it for good.

“You call a spade a spade, it seems, and not a farming tool?” “They call Mars Robert ‘Old Spade Lee.’ He keeps them working hard.” “General Lee is a great Virginian. Respect something in this world. Cæsar—should we call him Old Spade Cæsar? As a soldier, he was above suspicion, just like he expected his wife to be, like Cæsar’s wife, you know. If I remember Cæsar’s Commentaries, he admits to a lot of digging. You leave Mars Robert alone. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Tell us about the women in New Orleans; how did they react to the fall of the city?” “They are an excitable bunch,” the man from that city replied. While my source was standing on the levee, a elegantly dressed lady made her way toward him, holding a parasol. She greeted him with great politeness, and her expression was as calm and composed as it was before the war. Her first question was: “Could you please tell me what the latest general order is?” “No order that I know of, ma'am; General Disorder is what’s happening now.” “Ah! I see; and why are those people running and yelling so loudly and acting so out of control in the streets?” “They’re looking for a shell to explode over their heads any moment now.” “Ah!” Then, with a dignified and graceful gesture, she waved her parasol and walked away but paused to adjust it at the right angle to shield her face from the sun. There was no hurriedness in her movements. She left as gracefully as she arrived. My source had not managed to unsettle her with his alarming news. She was the only composed person in New Orleans at that time.

[189]

Another woman rushed over, so hot and out of breath that she barely had time to say she had run for miles in her wild panic and confusion when a sudden rain started. In an instant, she felt cool and composed. She forgot all the questions she came to ask. “I have to save my hat at all costs,” she said, and then flipped her dress over her head and left, forgetting her country’s troubles and yelling for a taxi.

Went to visit Mrs. Burroughs at the old de Saussure house. She has such a lovely face, with soft, kind, beautiful dark gray eyes. Those eyes are like poetry. No wonder she had a long romance. We sat on the porch at noon on a June day, with the glorious Southern sun blazing down. But we were in deep shade—surrounded by magnolias in full bloom, ivy, vines of who-knows-what, and roses all around. It was a living wall of everything beautiful and sweet. In all this flower garden of Columbia, that's the most delightful spot I've been to so far.

Got from the Prestons' French library, Fanny, with a brilliant introduction by Jules Janier. Now, I've come to the worst. There can be no worse book than Fanny. The lover is jealous of the husband. The woman supports polyandry as a way of life. She cheats both and refuses to end things with either. But to criticize it, you have to be as shameless as the book itself. Of course, it's incredibly clever, or it would be thrown into the gutter. It's not any nastier or coarser than Mrs. Stowe, but it's not written for the sake of philanthropy.

We had an unexpected dinner party today. First, Wade Hampton and his wife arrived. Then Mr. and Mrs. Rose showed up. I remember the late Colonel Hampton once said to me, which I thought was strange at the time, “Mrs. James Rose” (and I can’t recall who the other person was) “are the only two people on this side of the water who know how to throw a state dinner.” Mr. and Mrs. James Rose: if anyone[190] wants to capture old Carolina at its best, they should try to paint a picture of these two people.

Wade Hampton still limps a bit, but he’s recovering quickly. Here’s what he said, and he’s earned the right to be heard: “If we plan to treat war like a game of chess, using West Point tactics, we’re guaranteed to lose. They have all the advantages. They can sacrifice pawns endlessly and never feel the impact. We’d be wasting everything we hoped for—Southern fiery determination, fearless bravery, a sense of adventure, and the willingness to take on impossible challenges.”

Mrs. Rose is Miss Sarah Parker’s aunt. Somehow, it got revealed when I wasn’t around, but those girls tell me everything. It seems Miss Sarah said, “The reason I can’t stand Mrs. Chesnut is that she laughs at everything and everyone.” If she saw me now, she would acknowledge that I can cry pretty hard as well as laugh. It was still embarrassing to hear something like that about myself.

General Preston came in and announced that Mr. Chesnut was in town. He had just seen Mr. Alfred Huger, who arrived on the Charleston train with him. Then Mrs. McCord came and offered to take me back to Mrs. McMahan’s to find him. I discovered my room was locked. Lawrence said his master had gone to look for me at the Prestons’.

Mrs. McCord suggested that we keep looking for my wandering husband. At the door, we ran into Governor Pickens, who showed us some very important telegrams from the President. The Governor added, "And I have one from Jeems Chesnut, but I hear he's been following it so closely, almost right behind it, that I don’t need to show you that one."

“You don’t seem interested when you hear your husband’s name,” he said. “Is that his name?” I asked. “I thought it was James.” “My advice to you is to find[191] him, because Mrs. Pickens says he was last seen with two really attractive women, and now you can call him whatever you want.”

We soon met. The two gorgeous ladies that Governor Pickens threw in my face were some women from Rafton Creek, who are almost neighbors and live near Camden.

By way of a friendly comment to Wade Hampton: “Oh, General! The next battle will give you a chance to become a major general.” “I was really foolish to give up my Legion,” he replied sadly. “Promotion doesn’t really bother many people.” Mary Gibson says her dad writes to them so they can go back. He now thinks that the Confederates can hold Richmond. Gloria in excelsis!

Another personal defeat. Little Kate said, “Oh, Cousin Mary, why don’t you focus on your heart? They say at Kirkwood that you should put your brains aside for a bit and work on your heart.” She clearly picked up a phrase and kept repeating it for my sake. So that’s how they talk about me! The only advantage of loving someone with your whole heart is to give that person the ability to hurt you.

June 24th.—Mr. Chesnut, who had missed the Secessionville[86] fight by half a day, was determined to witness the one near Richmond. He set off with General Cooper and Wade Hampton. Blanton Duncan arranged for them to have lunch on the train—ice, wine, and all kinds of delicious food.

In all this death and destruction, the women are the same—chatter, patter, clatter. “Oh, the Charleston refugees are so full of themselves; there’s no sympathy for them here!” “Oh, really! That’s strange. They’re not nearly as snobby as these Hamptons and Prestons. The way these people act.” “Snobby, snobby,” laughed [192] Mrs. Bartow, parodying Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade. “Snobs to the right of them, snobs to the left of them, someone had messed up.” “Volleyed and thundered rhymes but is out of place.”

The worst attitude came from a landlady with democratic ideals, who was asked by Mrs. President Davis to shake out a carpet and felt herself seething with anger as she replied, “You know, ma'am, you don’t have to stay here if my carpet or anything else doesn’t meet your standards.”

John Chesnut shares a lively account of their ride around McClellan. I sent the letter to his grandfather. The women rushed out, screaming with joyful greetings as soon as they spotted our soldiers in their gray uniforms; they ran to them with handfuls and armfuls of food. One gray-haired man, after quickly preparing a meal for them, knelt and prayed while they grabbed it, so to speak. They were in the saddle from Friday until Sunday. They were exhausted; so were their horses. Johnny is asking for clothes and more horses. Miss S. C. says: “There’s no need to send any more of his fine horses to be killed or captured by the Yankees; let’s wait and see how the siege of Richmond turns out.” The horses will go anyway, as Johnny wants them.

June 25th.—I forgot to mention Mrs. Pickens’s reception for General Hampton. My dear Mem described it all. “The Governess” (“Come on, Mem! that’s not the right name for her—she’s not a teacher.” “Never mind, it’s easier to say than the Governor’s wife.” “Madame la Gouvernante” was suggested. “Why? That’s even worse than the other!”) greeted him at the door, took his crutch away, and put his hand on her shoulder instead. “That’s how you greet heroes,” she said. Her blue eyes were shining, and in response, poor Wade just smiled, smiling until his face turned into a stiff grin of embarrassment and annoyance. He’s a down-to-earth guy, you know, and he doesn’t want to be fussed over by women.

The butler wasn’t in casual clothes; instead, he wore, like the other servants, a stunning uniform decorated with gold embroidery from the Court of St. Petersburg. They served champagne and Russian tea, the latter coming from a samovar made in Russia. Little Moses was there too. They’ve never dressed their servants in Russian uniforms for us, nor have they paraded Little Moses in front of us, but I have to admit that the Russian tea and champagne they offered were outstanding. “How did General Hampton handle his honors?” “Well, until the end, he looked like he wished they would just leave him alone.”

Met Mr. Ashmore just back from Richmond. He says Stonewall is coming up behind McClellan. And here comes the tug of war. He thinks we have so many spies in Richmond that they might have figured out our strategic movements and could block them.

Mrs. Bartow’s story about the clever Miss Toombs. So many men were in love with her, and each courtship was as thrilling and confusing as a fox chase. She enjoyed the excitement of the chase, but she wanted more than just to know that a man was desperately pursuing her; she wanted him to love her, but she needed to love him back too. How could she tell? Yet she had to be certain before saying “Yes.” So, as they sat by the lamp, she would look at him and silently ask herself, “Would I be willing to spend all those long winter evenings sitting here mending your old socks forever?” Never, the answer echoed. No, a thousand times no. So, each one had to make way for the next.

June 27th.—We all went together (six ladies, with no man to escort us since they’re all in the army) to a concert. Mrs. Pickens arrived. She was soon joined by Secretary Moses and Mr. Follen. Doctor Berrien came to save the day. The singing was absolutely awful. From a financial standpoint, it was a huge success, as the audience was entirely female, but it was still a large turnout.

[194]

Telegram from Mr. Chesnut: “Safe in Richmond”; that is, if Richmond is safe, with all the might of the United States of America pounding at her gates. It's odd not to hear a word from Stonewall Jackson after all! Doctor Gibson is texting his wife, “Stay where you are; a terrible battle[87] is expected here.”

Decca is dead. That poor little sweetheart! Right after her baby was born, she became convinced that Alex was killed. He was injured, but no one around her had informed her of that. She shocked them by asking, “Does anyone know how the battle has gone since Alex was killed?” She couldn’t read for a day or so before she passed away. Her mind was confused, but she wouldn’t let anyone else handle her letters; so she died with several unopened ones close to her heart. Mrs. Singleton, Decca’s mother, fainted but didn’t shed any tears. We went to the house and saw Alex’s mother, a daughter of Langdon Cheves. Annie was with us. She said: “This is the saddest thing for Alex.” “No,” said his mother, “death is never the saddest thing. If he weren't a good man, that would be much worse.” Annie, in total disbelief, said, “But Alex is so good already.” “Yes, seven years ago the death of one of his sisters whom he loved dearly made him a Christian. That death in our family was worth a thousand lives.”

One needs to be tough-hearted now. Even old Mr. Shand was in tears. Mary Barnwell sat completely still, pale and emotionless. “Grief that can express itself through tears is something to be thankful for,” said Rev. Mr. Shand. Then a telegram arrived from Hampton: “All well; so far we are successful.” Robert Barnwell had been sent for via telegram. His response came back: “Can’t leave here; Gregg is fighting across the[195] Chickahominy.” Alex’s mother said, “My son, Alex, may never hear this sad news,” and her lip tightened. “Go on; what else does Hampton say?” she asked. “Lee has one wing of the army, Stonewall the other.”

Annie Hampton came to share the latest news—that we have abandoned James Island and are strengthening our defenses on Morris Island. “And now,” she says, “if the enemy can just hold off, we’ll be ready for them in two months.”

Rev. Mr. Shand and that devoted Christian woman, Alex’s mother (who looks right into your soul with those big, shining blue eyes of hers) both agreed that the Yankees, even if they captured Charleston, wouldn’t destroy it. I think they will, sinner that I am. Mr. Shand said to her, “Madam, you have two sons in the army.” Alex’s mother answered, “I’ve had six sons in the army; I currently have five.”

There are people here who are too focused on petty arguments in the newspapers to think about anything bigger. It’s hard to find humor in the headlines these days, especially with serious challenges right in front of us. Those who sit safely in their homes, churning out heated articles that criticize those who are actually doing the work, are not worth our respect. Only those who are engaged in the struggle, as Trenholm mentioned the other night, have the right to voice their opinions now.

In pouring rain, we went to that poor child's funeral—Decca's. They buried her in the little white dress she wore when she got engaged to Alex, and which she put on again for her wedding about a year ago. She lies now in the churchyard, visible from my window. Should we feel sorry for her? She said she had "months of perfect happiness." How many people can say that? So many of us live long, monotonous lives, and happiness never arrives for us at all. It seems so close, yet it slips away forever.

June 28th.—Victory! Victory is in every telegram[196] now;[88] you see it on the bulletin board. It's the anniversary of the battle of Fort Moultrie. The enemy retreated so fast, I wonder if it was a setup to draw us away from Richmond to somewhere they could hurt us more. And now here comes the list of those killed and wounded. Victory doesn't seem to ease the pain. Mrs. Haskell has five sons facing the enemy’s endless cannons. Mrs. Preston has two. McClellan has been defeated, and we have twelve thousand prisoners. Prisoners! My God! What are we supposed to do with them? We can’t even feed our own people.

For the first time since Joe Johnston was injured at Seven Pines, we can finally breathe easier; we were so worried about another general, or a new one stepping in. Stonewall can't be everywhere, even though it feels like he tries to be.

Magruder did an amazing job at Big Bethel. It was incredible how he played his ten thousand in front of McClellan like fireflies and completely fooled him. It was partly because of the scare we gave them at Manassas; they will never be reckless again. Now we're cheering for R. E. Lee. We hope that from the Lees we will get what the first bold charge at Manassas couldn’t provide. We really hope there won’t be any “ifs.” “Ifs” have brought us down. Shiloh was a victory if Albert Sidney Johnston hadn’t been killed; Seven Pines if Joe Johnston hadn’t been hurt. The “ifs” stick out like porcupines. That win at Manassas did nothing but send us into a foolish state of arrogance, and it stirred the determination of the Northern people. Out of sheer embarrassment, they had to step up.

A French warship is docked at the wharf in Charleston to evacuate French citizens when the attack starts. William Mazyck reports that the enemy’s gunboats are[197]bombarding and destroying property along the Santee River. They raise the white flag, and the enslaved people rush towards them. Planters might as well have allowed these enslaved individuals to be taken by the Council to help with the fortifications. A letter from my husband:

A telegram from my husband dated June 29th from Richmond: “Was on the field, saw everything. Things are looking good so far. I haven't heard anything about John Chesnut. He’s with Stuart's command. I saw Jack Preston; he’s safe for now. There’s no reason we can’t capture McClellan’s army or take them apart. We’ve already got four to six thousand prisoners.” Doctor Gibbes rushed in like a whirlwind to say we were pushing McClellan into the river.

June 30th.—First, Dr. Trezevant arrived to announce Burnet Rhett’s death. “No, no; I just saw the bulletin board. It was Grimké Rhett’s.” When the doctor left, it was added: “Howell Trezevant’s death is listed there, too. The doctor will see it as soon as he checks the board.” The girls went to visit Lucy Trezevant. The doctor was lying still as death on a sofa with his face covered.

[199]

July 1st.—No more news. It has settled into this. The major battle, the crucial battle, still needs to be fought. Edward Cheves, the only son of John Cheves, is dead. His sister kept crying, “Oh, mother, what are we going to do; Edward is dead,” but the mother sat completely still, pale as a ghost, not saying a word or shedding a tear. Are our women losing the ability to cry? The father came today, Mr. John Cheves. He has been making explosive devices in Charleston to destroy Union ships.

While Mrs. McCord was telling me about the terrible trouble in her brother’s family, someone said, “Decca’s husband died of grief.” Nonsense; that’s just silly sentiment, foolishness! If he’s not injured, he’s alive. His brother, John, might die from that broken arm in this hot weather. Alex will never die of a broken heart. Trust me on that.

July 3rd.—Mom says she feels like she wants to just sit down, like an Irishwoman does at a wake, and cry day and night. Why did Huger let McClellan get away? We arrived at Mrs. McMahan’s at the wrong time. Mrs. Bartow was reading to the grieving mother a letter about the death of her son. It was written by a man who was there when he got shot in the head. “My God!” he said; that was it, and then he fell dead. James Taylor was the color-bearer. He was shot three times before he finally gave in. Then he said, as he handed the colors to the guy next to him, “You see I can’t take it anymore,” and dropped dead. He was only seventeen years old.

If anything can help me accept the idea of a terrible failure after all our attempts to gain independence from the Yankees, it's Lincoln’s proclamation freeing the slaves. Especially you guys who send insults to your Governor and Council from Clarendon. Three hundred of Mr. Walter Blake’s slaves have gone to the Yankees. Keep in mind that that disobedient patriot’s property on two legs[200] can leave without permission from the Council to work on the fortifications.

Have been reading The Potiphar Papers by Curtis. Can this really represent social life in New York? If it weren't for this awful war, it would be so nice here. We could have such a lovely life. This place is perfectly set up—so beautiful with its grounds, flowers, and fruits; truly everything one could desire; such wonderful dinners, enjoyable drives, great conversations, and lovely people; but this awful war ruins everything.

July 5th.—Went out with Mrs. “Constitution” Browne, who shared the story of Ben McCulloch’s love for Lucy Gwynn. Poor Ben McCulloch—another fallen hero. Stopped by the Tognos’ but didn’t see anyone; no surprise there. They say Ascelie Togno was supposed to marry Grimké Rhett in August, and he died on the battlefield. I hadn’t heard about the engagement before visiting.

July 8th.—A gunboat was captured on the Santee. That’s bad news for us. We don’t want any more prisoners, and next time they’ll probably send a fleet of boats if one isn’t enough. The Governor forwarded me Mr. Chesnut’s telegram along with a note saying, “I’m sorry the telegram doesn’t meet our hopes regarding the complete destruction of McClellan’s army. I do think, however, that the strength and ferocity of the war can now be seen as broken.”

Table-talk today: We started this war to shake off the rule of foreign invaders. So we believe our cause is just. The Yankees, since the war began, have realized they're fighting to free the slaves. So their cause is noble. They also expect to profit from the war. Yankees don’t engage in anything unless it pays off. They think we belong to them. We have been their good cash cows—milked by the tariff or skinned. We let them take all of our hard-earned money. We endure the burden of slavery; they reap the rewards. Cotton profits everyone who deals with it, sells it, or manufactures it, but rarely pays the man who grows it. The Yankees benefited from the wages of slavery. They got rich. We got poor. The person who receives is just as bad as the thief. That applies to us too, since we took in the people they stole from Africa and brought to us on their slave ships. Just like the Egyptians, it will be the same for us: if they let us go, it must be across a Red Sea—but one stained with blood.

July 10th.—My husband has returned. He believes that, based on what he heard in Richmond, we are finally going to be recognized as a nation by the monarchs across the ocean. Mr. Davis was very gracious; he invited him to stay at his home, which he did, and he went to the battlefield every day with General Lee and Mr. Davis as a kind of unofficial aide to the President. They also let him join the informal Cabinet meetings at the President’s residence. He is feeling so optimistic now that it’s nice to listen to him, and I haven’t had the heart to bring up Yeadon and Pickens just yet.

Public opinion is really against Huger and Magruder for McClellan’s escape. Doctor Gibbes gave me some letters he found on the battlefield. One signed “Laura” tells her boyfriend to fight in a way that no Southerner can ever call Yankees cowards again. She talks about a guy at home who’s still saying he wants to make a name for himself by charging into battle. “What a pathetic coward!” she writes, “I’ll never talk to him again.” It was a relief to find one silly young woman filling three pages with a description of her new bonnet and the one still worn by her rival. Those fiery Joan of Arc types who push their boyfriends to fight aren’t doing us any favors.

Rachel Lyons was in Richmond, working closely with Mrs. Greenhow. Why not? “So attractive, so smart, so incredibly kind,” Rachel says about Greenhow, “and she’s offered to guide me.”

Mrs. Philips, another beautiful and smart Jewish woman, has[202] been thrown in jail again by “Beast” Butler because she was laughing as a Yankee funeral procession passed by.

Captain B. shared stories about John Chesnut's antics. Johnny was riding a strong horse he had taken from the Yankees. The horse charged straight into the Yankee lines. A dozen Confederates followed him, yelling, "Stuart! Stuart!" The Yankees, thinking this wild charge was Stuart's cavalry, broke formation and ran away. Those daring Camden boys ride like the wind!

Mr. Chesnut says he was riding with the President when Colonel Browne, his aide, was with them. The General in charge rode up and, bowing politely, said: “Mr. President, am I in charge here?” “Yes.” “Then I forbid you to stand here under enemy fire. Exposing a life like yours is wrong, and this is unnecessary exposure. You need to go back.” Mr. Davis replied: “Of course, I’ll set an example of following orders. Discipline needs to be upheld.” But he didn’t go back.

Mr. Chesnut ran into the Haynes, who had gone to care for their injured son only to find he had died. They were in the hallway of the Spotswood. Even though Mr. Chesnut was staying at the President’s, he kept his room at the hotel. So he gave his room to them. The next day, when he returned to his room, he found that Mrs. Hayne had thrown herself across the foot of the bed and hadn’t moved. No other part of the bed had been touched. She eventually got up and went back to the cars, or was led back. He says these heartbroken mothers are tough to be around.

July 12th.—At McMahan’s, our little colonel, Paul Hayne’s son, came into my room. To entertain the kid, I handed him a photo album to flip through. “You have Lincoln in your book!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe it. I hate him!” Then he dropped the book on the floor and punched Old Abe in the face with his fist.

An Englishman told me Lincoln said that if he[203] had known a war would come after his election, he never would have gone to Washington or been inaugurated. He never imagined this terrible brother against brother bloodshed. That doesn’t seem like the true John Brown spirit. I was really glad to hear it— to hear something from the President of the United States that wasn’t just a crude joke, and usually a joke so crude that you felt embarrassed to laugh, even though it was funny. They say Seward has gone to England and his crafty words will turn everyone against us.

Browne told us there was a son of the Duke of Somerset in Richmond. He laughed hard at our ragged, dirty soldiers, but he stopped when he saw them in battle. Our men take the shoes off the Yankee dead but won’t touch the shoes of a comrade. Poor guys, they’re nearly barefoot.

Alex is here. I saw him ride up around dusk and head into the graveyard. I closed my windows on that side. Poor guy!

July 13th.—Halcott Green came to see us. Bragg is a strict disciplinarian, according to Halcott. He really didn’t understand citizen soldiers at all. During the retreat from Shiloh, he ordered that no guns should be fired. A soldier shot a chicken, and then that soldier was shot. “For a chicken!” said Halcott. “A Confederate soldier for a chicken!”

Mrs. McCord says that a nurse, who's also attractive, should leave her looks at the door along with her coat and hat. One beautiful nurse said to a gruff old soldier, whose injury didn’t seem serious, “What can I do for you, my good man?” “Kiss me!” he replied. Mrs. McCord was furious “at the woman’s telling it” because it brought her hospital a bad reputation, and rightfully so. She knew there were women who would brag about an insult if it fed their vanity. She wanted nurses to come dressed like nurses, like Sisters of Charity, not like high society ladies. Then there wouldn’t be any issues. When she saw them[204] arriving in flowing sleeves, showing off their bare arms and in their light fabric, revealing their lovely shoulders and necks, she felt inclined to kick them off the premises. That was not an appropriate outfit for a nurse. Mrs. Bartow wears her widow’s garb, which Mrs. McCord appreciates. But Mrs. Bartow has her stories as well. A surgeon told her, “I give you no detailed instructions: a mother is by necessity a nurse.” She then went on quietly, “smilingly agreeable, my dear, as if I had ever been a mother.”

Mrs. Greenhow has informed Rachel Lyons about Mr. Chesnut’s character in Washington. He was “one of the very few men about whom there was no gossip at all. I don’t believe, my dear, that he ever spoke to a woman there.” He did know Mrs. John R. Thompson, though.

Walked up and down the college campus with Mrs. McCord. The buildings were all lit up with gas, and soldiers were sitting under the elms in every direction, at various stages of recovery. Through the open windows, I could see the nurses moving around. It was a strange, eerie scene. Walked home with Mrs. Bartow. We stopped at Judge Carroll’s place. Mrs. Carroll offered us a cup of tea. When we got home, I found out the Prestons had come by to invite me to dinner at their house to meet General Magruder.

Last night, the Edgefield Band played for Governor Pickens. Mrs. Harris came out on the porch and sang the Marseillaise for them. It's been over twenty years since I first heard her sing; her voice was beautiful back then, but nothing gets damaged by time quite like a woman’s singing voice. That’s an odd metaphor for you.

The Black people on the coast welcomed the Rutledge’s Mounted Rifles with what seemed like a lot of celebration. The troops were pleased to see the Black people in such a friendly mood. One servant leaned over to his master and said, “Don’t mind them, don’t trust them,” referring to the Black people. The master then dressed up as a Federal officer and went to a Black neighborhood. The very first greeting he got was, “Hey, sir, you come to catch rebels? We can show you how to catch thirty tonight.” They took him to the Confederate camp, or pointed it out, and then added for his benefit, “We can catch officers for you whenever you want them.”

Bad news. Gunboats have gone past Vicksburg. The Yankees are spreading across our beautiful Southern land like red ants.

July 21st.—Jackson has entered enemy territory. Joe Johnston and Wade Hampton will follow.

Think of Rice, Mr. Senator Rice,[89] who sent us the buffalo hides. I see from his position in the Senate that he refers to us as savages, who mix gunpowder and whiskey into soldiers’ canteens to drive them into a frenzy during battle. No, that's not true. We value calmness here, because we lack it; we don’t need alcohol to be brave. My knowledge of classical history is pretty limited, but I vaguely recall something about the Spartans who marched to the sound of lutes. They didn’t need drums and fifes to lift their spirits. In that one way, we are like Spartans.

The Wayside Hospital[90] is now established at the Columbia[206] Station, where all the railroads meet. Hats off to Mrs. Fisher and the other women who work there so diligently! The young women of Columbia started this hospital. In the first winter of the war, soldiers without money, sick and wounded, suffered a lot when they had to stay here because of train delays. Rev. Mr. Martin, who usually met trains to offer help to those in need, suggested to the Young Ladies’ Hospital Association that they take action; immediately, the committed young women set up a room where our injured soldiers could get their wounds treated and find some comfort. Now, the “Soldiers’ Rest” has evolved into the Wayside Hospital, with experienced individuals taking on some of the tougher tasks and greater responsibilities. I am ready to help in any way I can, through donations and more, but I am too weak to go there often.

Mrs. Browne heard a man say at the Congaree House, “We're hitting our heads against a brick wall. We're destined to be defeated. We can’t keep this up much longer against a nation as powerful as the United States. Crowds of Irish, Dutch, and Scottish people are flooding in to boost their armies. They are promised our lands, and they believe they'll get them. Even if we succeed, we can't survive without Yankees.” “Now,” says Mrs. Browne, “I call that man a Yankee spy.” To which I reply, “If he were a spy, he wouldn't dare show his hand so openly.”

“To think,” says Mrs. Browne, “that he isn’t being taken seriously. Seward’s little bell would ring, a guard would show up, and the Grand Inquisition of America would have that man arrested in the blink of an eye if he dared to speak out against Yankees in Yankee territory.”

General Preston said he had “the right to pick up anyone who wasn't in their right place and send them where they belonged.” “Then please take my husband immediately. He's definitely out of place in this little Governor’s Council.” The general stared at me and slowly said in his most dramatic voice, “If I could put him where I think he should be!” I took this as a huge compliment and was ready to thank him. Upon thinking it over, I realize he could have been clearer. He left too much to the imagination.

Then Mrs. Browne described the Prince of Wales, whose manners, it seems, are very different from those of Mrs. ——, who criticized us from morning to evening and scolded us about our rude behavior and customs. The Prince, when he visited, immediately adapted to whatever he noticed was the way of those hosting him. He closely imitated President Buchanan’s way of doing things. He took off his gloves as soon as he saw that the President wasn’t wearing any. He started by bowing to the people introduced to him, but when he noticed Mr. Buchanan shaking hands, he shook hands, too. While casually smoking with Browne on the White House porch, he shared his satisfaction with the great cigars Browne had given him. The President said, “I was saving some excellent ones for you, but Browne beat me to it.” Long after Mr. Buchanan had gone to bed, the Prince ran into his room in a happy, boyish way and said, “Mr. Buchanan, I’ve come for the great cigars you have for me.”

As I walked up to the Prestons' place, down a lovely shaded back street, a carriage drove by with Governor Means inside. As soon as he spotted me, he leaned out and kissed both his hands to me over and over. It was a heartfelt greeting, as they say, and I returned it with equal warmth. "Goodbye," he called, and I replied, "Goodbye." I might never see him again. I'm not even sure I didn't shed a few tears.

General Preston and Mr. Chesnut were sitting on the[208] porch of the Hampton house when I walked in. I confronted them in a scornful tone: “You cold, formal, serious, overly-polite people, burdened by your own dignity. You'll never know the thrill of a sad goodbye like the one John Means and I just had. He was in a cab,” I continued, “and I was on the sidewalk. He was heading off to war, poor guy. The cab driver drove steadily down the middle of the street; if it weren't for our gray hair, I don't know how he might have viewed us. John Means didn't hide his emotions when he unexpectedly ran into an old friend, and I really needed that good cry. We live in a constant state of fear and anxiety. My heart is in my throat half the time. But you two, under any circumstances, could never forget your manners.”

Read Russell’s India all day. Saintly people those English when they’re fired up. We don’t expect anything better from the sepoys and blacks, but what an example of Christian patience and kindness the white “angels” from the West set for them.

The beautiful Jewish woman, Rachel Lyons, was here today. She boldly complimented Paul Hayne, and he responded in kind.

Today I saw the Rowena to this Rebecca when Mrs. Edward Barnwell dropped by. She embodies the purest type of Anglo-Saxon—exquisitely beautiful, distant, composed, elegant, as fair as a lily, with the longest, darkest eyelashes, and her eyes are so light that someone remarked “they're the color of cologne and water.” In any case, she has a unique claim to them; there are no others like them available. The effect is striking, but incredibly beautiful.

Blanton Duncan shared a story about Morgan in Kentucky. Morgan entered a courtroom where they were trying some Secessionists. The judge was about to deliver the sentence, but Morgan stood up and requested permission to call some witnesses. The judge asked who his witnesses were.[209] “My name is John Morgan, and my witnesses are 1,400 Confederate soldiers.”

Mrs. Izard saw two examples of patriotism in the group known as “Sandhill tackeys.” One lonely, cold, and feverish-looking woman, yellow, dirty, and dry as a nut, was selling peaches for ten cents a dozen. Soldiers gathered around her cart. She removed the cover and shouted, “Dig in. Eat as much as you want. I never charge our soldiers anything.” They tried to give her money, but when she kept refusing, they cheered for her excitedly and said, “Sleep peacefully. Now we will fight for you and protect you from the Yankees.” Another poor Sandhill man refused to sell his cows and donated them to the hospital.

[210]

Flat Rock, N. C., August 1, 1862.—Since I was unwell, I left Mrs. McMahan’s for Flat Rock[91]. The weather was very hot and uncomfortable for someone sick in a boarding house in that climate. The La Bordes and the McCord girls accompanied me part of the way.

The cars were packed, and a disabled soldier had to stand, leaning on his crutches in the aisle between the seats. One of us offered him our seat. You can be sure it was easy to find a seat for our group after that. Dr. La Borde shared a classic story. In some Greek assembly, an old man was left standing. A Spartan gave him his seat. The Athenians cheered wildly, even though they had stayed seated. The remark was, “Lacedemonians practice virtue; Athenians know how to admire it.”

Nathan Davis just happened to be at the station in Greenville. He immediately took charge of Molly and me, since my group had shrunk down to just the two of us. He accompanied us to the hotel, called the landlord, informed him who I was, secured us nice rooms, and made sure we were comfortable in every way. At dinner, I walked into that huge dining room alone, but I spotted friends and acquaintances all around. My first move was to share with Mrs. Ives Mrs. Pickens’s mistake in being suspicious of men from the North and asking General Cooper to back her up. Martha Levy clarified the serious expressions of my listeners by mentioning that Colonel Ives was from New York. I was in a state of distress.

Louisa Hamilton was there. She told me that Captain George Cuthbert, with his arm in a sling from a wound that was far from healed, was going to take the risk of riding on a bumpy stagecoach; he was headed to his cousin, William Cuthbert’s, at Flat Rock. George Cuthbert represents the best kind of Southern soldier. We can’t make them any better than he is. Before the war, I knew him; he traveled around Europe with my sister, Kate, and Mary Withers. Immediately, I offered him a seat in the comfortable carriage Nathan Davis had reserved for me.

Molly sat across from me, and often when I was tired, she would rest my feet in her lap. Captain Cuthbert’s man was with the driver. We had plenty of space. We looked pretty worn out. I was so sick I could barely sit up, and Captain Cuthbert couldn't use his right hand or arm at all. I had to draw his match, light his cigar, and so on. He was very quiet, appreciative, gentle, and, I was going to say, submissive. He is a passionate soldier, one of those whose whole face lights up in battle, as one of his men described his way with the company. He doesn’t brag about himself, but I made him tell me the story of his duel with the Mercury’s reporter. He seemed really embarrassed about wasting time in such a situation.

That night we stopped at a country house halfway to our destination. There, we met Mr. Charles Lowndes. His son, Rawlins Lowndes, is with Wade Hampton.

First we accidentally drove into Judge King’s yard, our[212] cab driver mistaking it for the hotel. Then we made our way to Farmer’s Hotel (as the sailors say).

Burnet Rhett, with his horse, was at the door; both he and the horse were decked out in as much red and gold artillery uniform as they could carry. He held onto his horse. The stirrups looked like little side-saddles and were Mexican, I think. When he saw his buddy, George Cuthbert, get out and leave a veiled lady in the carriage, this attractive and unbothered young artilleryman walked around the carriage, chatted with the driver, and peered into the doors and at the front. Suddenly, I decided to lift my veil and satisfy his curiosity. Our eyes met, and I smiled. It was impossible not to laugh at the comical disappointment on his face when he saw a woman old enough to be George Cuthbert’s mother, looking worn out from a year of gastric fever, almost about to faint from exhaustion. He quickly jumped on his impressive horse and pranced off to his fiancée. He is set to marry the wealthiest heiress in the State, Miss Aiken. Then Captain Cuthbert told me his name.

At Kate’s, I found Sally Rutledge, and then for weeks life was a blur; I remember nothing. The illness that had been creeping up on me for so long finally took hold. In Greenville, I had met many friends. I saw Barny Heyward trying to win over hearts, once the husband of the beautiful Lucy Izard, now a widower and a bon parti. He was there caring for his brother Joe. Also there was the stunning Henrietta Magruder Heyward, now a widow, because poor Joe passed away. There’s something magnetic about Tatty Clinch’s large, shiny black eyes. No man has ever been able to resist their pull. She claims her untouched heart has never raced for anyone down here—until now, when it finally gives in to Barny. Well, as I mentioned, Joseph Heyward died, and quickly the grieving beauty shook off the dust of this poor Confederacy and prepared to spread her wings for a journey across the water.

[213]

[Let me share now, much later, everything I know about that brave spirit, George Cuthbert. While I was living in the winter of 1863 at the corner of Clay and Twelfth Streets in Richmond, he came to see me. No one enjoyed life more than he did. The Preston girls were staying at my house then, and it was a lively time for the young soldiers who would come down from the army for a day or so. We had heard about him, as usual, courageously facing the odds at Sharpsburg.[92] And he asked if he were to be wounded, would I ensure he was brought to Clay Street.

He was shot at Chancellorsville,[93] leading his men. The surgeon didn't think he was fatally wounded. He sent me a message saying “he's coming to our house right away.” He knew he'd recover there. He also said, “I shouldn't be worried; those Yankees couldn't kill me.” He asked one of his friends to write a letter to his mother. Later, he mentioned he had another letter to write but wanted to sleep first because he felt so exhausted. At his request, they turned his face away from the light and left him alone. When they came back to check on him, they found him dead. He had been dead for a while. It was bitterly cold; wounded men lost a lot of blood and were weakened because of it; they didn't have warm blankets or any comforts. Many died who could have been saved with just one good hot drink or a few bites of nourishing food.

One of the generals said to me, “The fiery and reckless bravery of Captain Cuthbert is contagious; guys like him in an[214] army are priceless; losses like this really hurt us.” But I can’t dwell too much longer on the memory of the bravest of the brave—a true representative of our old régime, bold, cheerful, and unfortunate.—M. B. C.]

August 8th.—Mr. Daniel Blake drove down to my sister’s in his sturdy English phaeton, pulled by strong horses. I returned with him and enjoyed two wonderful days at his welcoming home. There, I encountered the Rev. Mr. ——, who acted as a sort of chaplain. He treated me unfairly. We had a lengthy debate, and when we knelt for evening prayers, he spontaneously prayed for me in a very obvious way. There I was on my knees, seething with anger. David W. remarked that it was clearly a case of kicking someone when they’re down. Later, I found the humor in it all and struggled to stifle my laughter. To say the least, it was not a spiritually uplifting experience for me.

Before Chancellorsville, there was the deadly battle of Sharpsburg.[94] My friend, Colonel Means, was killed on the battlefield; his only son, Stark, was wounded and taken prisoner. His wife hadn’t gotten over the loss of their other child, Emma, who had died from tuberculosis early in the war. She was lying on a bed when they informed her of her husband’s death, and then they tried to keep Stark’s condition from her. They now believe she misunderstood and thought he was dead too. She covered her face with something. She didn’t say a word. She stayed silent for so long that someone took off the light shawl she had thrown over her head and found that she had passed away.[215] Miss Mary Stark, her sister, later said, “No wonder! How could she face life without her husband and children? That was all she had ever lived for.” These are sad, painful memories. Let’s move on from them.

What hasn’t my husband been doing this year, 1862, when all our South Carolina troops are in Virginia? Here we were without soldiers or weapons. He essentially raised an army and brought in weapons through the Trenholm firm. He had weapons to sell to the Confederacy. He set up a niter bed, and the Confederacy reached out to Columbia to learn from Professor Le Conte how to start their own. He bought up all the old weapons and had them modified and repaired. He built ships. He imported clothes and shoes for our soldiers, which they had desperately needed for a long time. He brought in cotton cards and got everyone who was idle to start carding and weaving. The whole world was busy spinning cotton. He tried to halt the sale of whiskey, and unfortunately, he called for reserves—that is, men who were older than the typical age for service, and he committed the unforgivable act of sending the sacred enslaved people to work on fortifications away from their owners’ plantations.

[216]

Portland, Ala., July 8, 1863.—My mom is sick at her home on the plantation nearby—where I’ve come to visit her. But first, let me talk about my journey back from Flat Rock to Camden. At the station, I saw men sitting on a line of coffins, smoking, talking, and laughing, with their legs crossed to keep them out of the wet. This is how war toughens people’s hearts.

Met James Chesnut in Wilmington. He only crossed the river with me and then went back to Richmond. He was strongly against sending our troops into Pennsylvania; he wanted all we could spare sent West to finish our enemies there. He was secretive about Vallandigham.[95] I’m sure we couldn’t rely on him to help us or to harm the Yankees. The Coriolanus situation is over.

As we arrived in Camden, Molly sat next to me in the cars. She touched me, and, with her nose in the air, said: “Look, Missis.” There was the expected bride and groom—at least that’s what I thought—and the usual kissing and leaning against each other that I had seen so many times before. I was kind of surprised by Molly’s modesty, but there was something different about this scene. The guy needed the girl to brush his cheek with her beautiful long eyelashes for his peace of mind. Molly became so upset in her dark modesty that she kept her head out of the window to avoid seeing it! When we were stuck at a small wayside station, this woman made a huge fuss about her room. She seemed to recognize me and appealed to me, saying her brother-in-law was the adjutant to Colonel K——, etc.

Molly said, “You should go over there, ma’am, where your husband is calling you.” The woman straightened up proudly and, with a huff, exclaimed, “Husband, really! I’m a widow. That’s my cousin. I loved my dear husband too much to ever marry again!” Tears filled her eyes. Molly, weighed down with shawls and bags, stood still and said, “After all that nonsense in the cars! Oh, Lord, I should have let it go that it was my husband and me! Black as I am.”

Here I was at home, on a comfy bed, with every physical comfort; but life is just one long interrogation there, thanks to the nosiness of people who never leave their small world.

In Richmond, Molly and Lawrence had a fight. He said he couldn't deal with her mood swings anymore. Unfortunately, I told him, for the sake of peace and a calm home, to be patient with her temper; I did say that, but she was really kind and helpful. He was petty enough to tell her what I had said at their next argument. The terrible accusations she threw at me then! She said she was “mortified that I had embarrassed her in front of Lawrence.”

But the day of her revenge finally arrived. At the black balls in Richmond, guests had to carry "passes," and while changing his coat, Lawrence forgot his pass. The next day, Lawrence was missing, and Molly came to me laughing so hard she was in tears. “Come and look,” she said. “Here’s the fine gentleman tied between two black guys and taken off to jail.” She giggled and teased so much that she had to hold onto the window to stay upright. Lawrence ignored her[218] and shouted to me, “Please, ma’am, ask Mars Jeems to come get me out of this. I haven’t done anything.”

As soon as Mr. Chesnut came home, I told him about Lawrence's unfortunate incident, and he immediately went to help him. There had been a fight and chaos at the ball. The police were called, and when every Black person had to show their “pass,” Lawrence was arrested for not having one. He looked really dejected when he came home walking behind Mr. Chesnut. He is usually very respectable and well-mannered and carries himself with dignity.

I went over to Mrs. Preston’s at Columbia. Camden had become completely unbearable for me. That’s where the telegram reached me, telling me I had to go to my mother, who was sick at her home back in Alabama. Colonel Goodwyn, his wife, and their two daughters were going, so I joined them. I messaged Mr. Chesnut for Lawrence, and he replied, telling me not to go at all; it was too hot, the trains were really uncomfortable, and fever would definitely be the result. Miss Kate Hampton, with her gentle voice, said, “The only problem in life is when you can’t figure out which way duty is leading you. Once you know your duty, everything else is easy.”

I don't know if she thought it was my obligation to obey my husband. But I felt it was my duty to go to my mother, since I was only putting myself at risk.

We had two days of thrilling drama right in front of us. A group had arrived in Columbia claiming they had made it past the blockade and had come in by a flag of truce, etc. Colonel Goodwyn asked me to take a look around and see if I could identify the suspected crew. It was pretty easy. We were all in rough shape. After three years, we had worn out our good clothes, and now our only option was to flip them inside out or upside down, and do some mending, darning, patching, and so on.

Next to me on the train to Alabama sat a young woman in a bright yellow travel dress; she had a mass of curls, rosy cheeks, and a wonderfully light and relaxed demeanor. She was engrossed in a flirtation with a Confederate major, who, despite his nice, new gray uniform and two stars, had a very Northern look—fresh, clean-cut, sharply featured, completely untanned, bright, healthy, and attractive. What more can you say to compliment your enemies? Two other women faced this couple, and we could tell they were new arrivals by their nice clothes. One of these women was German. She was the one who had betrayed them. I found that out later.

The prettiest of the three women had a tough, Northern face, but all were dressed beautifully in feathers, flowers, lace, and jewelry. If they were spies, why were they so foolish to boast about New York and constantly compare us unfavorably to the other side in loud, shrill voices? Surely, that wasn’t how to go unnoticed in the Confederacy.

A man walked in, stood up, and read from a paper, “The surrender of Vicksburg.”[96] I felt like I had been hit hard on the top of my head, and my heart took one of its strange turns. I was completely out of it—though not for long, I suppose. The first thing I heard was cheers and shouts of joy from the overly dressed group. My anger and embarrassment were intense. A guy nearby had slept through it all. He had a greyhound-like face, eager and curious when awake, but now he looked like one of the seven sleepers.

Colonel Goodwyn wrote on a blank page of my book (one of De Quincey’s—the note is there now) that the sleeper was a Richmond detective.

[220]

Finally, hot and exhausted, we arrived at West Point, on the Chattahoochee River. The dusty cars were completely still, except for the playful banter between the girl in the yellow dress and her major. Two Confederate officers walked in. I sensed trouble in the air. One of them touched the smart major, who was whispering to the girl in yellow. The major turned quickly. Instantly, all the color drained from his face; a spasm seized his throat; it was a pitiful sight. And right then, I felt really sorry for him. He was led out of the car. Poor girl in yellow held her color well, but the whites of her eyes looked frantic. We never heard from the three women spies again. The high-minded Confederates only ever sent women out of the country. But when we later read about the execution of a male spy, we thought of the “major.”

At Montgomery, the boat was waiting for us, and in my rush, I fell out of the bus with Dr. Robert Johnson’s help, almost breaking my neck. The temperature was in the high nineties, and they put me in a stateroom above the boiler. I spent my Confederate cash generously to the maid just to escape that oven. No matter where we go from here, an Alabama steamer in August, sitting under the bluff with the sun blazing down, will give you a sneak peek—almost a clear idea—of the heat to come. The floorboards burned my feet while we were under the bluff in Selma, where we stayed almost all day—I’m not sure why.

Met James Boykin, who had lost 1,200 bales of cotton at Vicksburg, and blamed it all on Jeff Davis in his anger, which didn’t seem quite fair to me. In Portland, there was a horse ready for James Boykin, and he rode away, promising to send a carriage for me immediately. But he had to ride seven miles on horseback to reach my sister Sally’s, and then Sally would send someone back for me. Alone by the riverside, Molly and I were surrounded by dismal swamps, with vast plantations, and hardly any white people[221]. Deep down, I knew my husband was right when he advised me against making this trip.

There was only one person at this small riverside inn—a white man who owned a store across the way, and man, was he drunk! Even though it was hot, Molly kept a fire going with pine knots. There was no lamp or candle in that abandoned house. The drunken man stumbled around now and then, holding a lantern; he would pause with his goofy, glazed expression or shuffle around us unsteadily, always trying to be polite. He almost tripped over us, but I quickly moved out of his way as he asked, “Well, ma'am, what can I do for you?”

Shall I ever forget the headache of that night and the fear? My temples throbbed with silent misery. I sat in a chair, with Molly on the floor, her head resting against my chair. She was as close as she could get to me, and I kept my hand on her. “Missis,” she said, “I really believe you’re scared, scared of that poor, drunken guy. If he was sober, I could take him in a fair fight, and even drunk, I could throw him over the banister if he so much as touches you. I don’t care about him one bit!”

Taking comfort from such brave words, I laughed. It felt like forever, but the carriage arrived by ten o’clock, and then, with just the coachman as our only protector, we poor women traveled eight miles or more along a carriage road, through long paths, swamps of thick darkness, with plantations on every side.

The house, as we got closer, resembled a graveyard from a nightmare, its shapes so blurry and ghostly.

I found my mother sick in bed, weak but better than I expected to see her. “I knew you’d come,” she said, reaching out her hands. Then I went to bed in that quiet house, which felt like a house of the dead. I thought I wouldn’t see my sister until the next day. But she came in a little while after I had gone to bed. She kissed me softly, without any tears. She looked thin and pale, but her voice was calm and gentle.

[222]

As she raised the candle above her head to show me something on the wall, I noticed that her beautiful brown hair had turned white. It was incredibly difficult not to break down and cry. She looked so lovely, yet completely heartbroken. But since she seemed emotionless, it wouldn’t be right for me to disturb her with my tears.

Next day, at noon, Hetty, my mother's old maid, brought my breakfast to my bedside. What a breakfast it was! Delmonico couldn't have done better. “I know it’s really late,” I said, to which Hetty replied, “Yes, we didn’t want to wake Molly.” “You have such a great cook here.” “My daughter, Tenah, is Miss Sally’s cook. She’s good enough for most times, but when our Miss Mary comes to visit, I do it myself,” and she curtsied all the way to the floor. “Bless your sweet old soul,” I exclaimed, and she rushed over and gave me a big hug.

She is my mother’s right-hand woman; she's been her maid since she was six, when she was bought from a Virginia dealer along with her mother and all her siblings. She has been spoiled to the point of being a bit of a tyrant at times. She can do everything better than anyone else, and my mother relies on her a lot. Hetty is Dick’s wife; Dick is the butler. They have more than a dozen kids and take life quite easy.

Sally came in before I was out of bed and immediately, in the same cold, stony manner, told me about the death of her children. It had happened just two weeks earlier. Her eyes were completely lifeless; there was no expression at all, and in a calm and sad way, she recounted the story as if it were something she had read and wanted me to know:

“My oldest daughter, Mary, had grown up to be a beautiful girl. She was around thirteen or fourteen, you know. Baby Kate had my sister’s gray eyes; she was clearly going to be the beauty of the family. It's strange that one of my children has lived and is gone, and you[223] have never seen her at all. She died first, and I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral. I thought it would break me to see her buried. I was lying down, overwhelmed with grief when Aunt Charlotte came to me after the funeral with this news: ‘Mary has that awful disease, too.’ There was nothing to say. I got up, got dressed immediately, and went to Mary. I didn’t leave her side again during that long fight between life and death. I did everything for her with my own hands. I even prepared my darling for the grave. I went to her funeral, and when I came home, I walked straight to my mother and begged her to find comfort; I would endure it all in silence if God would just spare me the one remaining child I had.”

Sally has never cried, but she's aged twenty years, becoming cold, tough, and worn out. With the same stiff demeanor, she started to go over all the details of Mary’s illness. “I hadn’t lost hope, not at all. While I sat by her side, she said: ‘Mom, put your hand on my knees; they’re so cold.’ I placed my hand on her knee; the chill pierced my heart. I knew it was the coldness of death.” Sally reached out her hand to me, and it seemed to bring back that feeling. She collapsed in a fit of crying that lasted for hours. The doctor said this reaction was a blessing; without it, she would have either died or gone insane.

While the mother was crying bitterly, the little girl, the last of them, a bright child of three or four, crawled into my bed. “Now, Auntie,” she whispered, “I want to tell you all about Mamie and Katie, but they watch me so closely. They say I must never talk about them. Katie died because she ate blackberries, I know that, and then Aunt Charlotte read Mamie a letter and that made her die, too. Maum Hetty says they have gone to God, but I know the people saved a spot for me between them in the ground.”

Uncle William was really upset about the lack of patriotism out here. “West of the Savannah River,” he said,[224] “it’s all about property first, life second, and honor last.” He gave me an amazing pair of shoes. What a gift! For over a year, I had only some awful shoes that Armstead makes for me, and they really hurt my feet. These don’t fit perfectly, but that doesn’t matter; they’re big enough and don’t pinch anywhere. I finally have a respectable pair of shoes!!

Uncle William says the guys who went into the war to save their Black people are completely miserable. Neither side now cares at all for these cherished Black individuals and would send them all to heaven in a hand-basket, as Custis Lee puts it, to win the fight.

General Lee and Mr. Davis want the Black people to be enlisted in the army. Mr. Chesnut and Major Venable talked about it one night, but would they fight for us or switch sides? They wouldn't join the enemy because they are comfortable where they are and expect to be free eventually.

When we were kids, our nurses would serve us tea outside on little pine tables that were scrubbed as clean as milk pails. Sometimes, when Dick walked by with his slow and serious stride, we would shout, “Come on, Dick, wait on us.” “No, little ladies, I don’t wait on pine tables. Wait until you’re big enough to put your legs under your dad’s mahogany.”

I taught him to read as soon as I could read myself, sitting on his little board. He won’t look at me now; instead, he stares over my head, sensing freedom in the air. He’s always been very ambitious. I don’t think he ever cared much about books. But then, as my father used to say, Dick, standing in front of his sideboard, has heard every topic under the sun debated by the smartest people in our world. He’s proud in his own way. Hetty, his wife, complained that the other male servants looked better in their uniforms. “Nonsense, old woman, a butler never lowers himself to wear a uniform. He is always in plain clothes.” Somehow, he picked that up.

[225]

He is the first Black person I've noticed a change in. Others walk around with their stoic expressions, not showing any emotions, yet when it comes to everything except the war, they are the most passionate of all races. Now Dick could easily pass for a mysterious Egyptian Sphinx, so silently unbothered is he. He did take the time to ask about General Richard Anderson. “He was my young master once,” he said. “I'll always like him better than anyone else.”

When Dick married Hetty, the Anderson house was next door. The two families agreed to sell either Dick or Hetty, whichever one agreed to be sold. Hetty outright refused, so the Andersons sold Dick so he could be with his wife. This was generous of the Andersons because Hetty was just a lady’s maid and Dick was a trained butler, in whom Mrs. Anderson had put a lot of effort in his dining room training. Of course, if they hadn’t sold Dick, Hetty would have had to work for them. Mrs. Anderson was really upset by Dick’s ingratitude when she discovered he was willing to leave. As a butler, he’s a gem; he carries himself with dignity, but that doesn’t affect his performance at all.

My dad had a servant named Simon who could perfectly mimic his voice. Sometimes, after my dad got on his horse, Simon would call out from the yard: “Dick, bring me my overcoat. I see you over there, hurry up.” When Dick rushed out, overcoat in hand, and only Simon was visible, after several trying-to-be-polite “Yes, sir; whatever you say, sir,” my mom always had to step in and stop a fight. Dick never forgave her for laughing.

Once in Sumter, when my dad was really busy getting ready for a legal case, the rowdy crowd outside bothered him, and he complained about it while Simon was getting the fire going. Suddenly, he heard what sounded like his own voice saying, “the Hon. S. D. Miller—Lawyer Miller,” as the Black gentleman introduced himself in the dark—asking the people[226] outside to leave and let a lawyer have some peace to prep for his case the next day. My dad said he could have sworn it was his own voice. The crowd broke up, but some loud Black guys came by, and Simon charged at them with the sulky whip, swinging it around in the dark, calling himself “Lawyer Miller,” who was determined to have some peace.

Simon returned, complaining that "those people run so fast that he never got within a hundred yards of any of them."

At Portland, we met a man who said: “Is it not strange that in this struggling, devoted land of ours, there are some men who are making money by running blockades, cheating our stressed government, and avoiding the fight?”

Montgomery, July 30th.—When I arrived here from Portland, there wasn't a stateroom available for me. Only my mother had one. My aunt and I ended up dozing in armchairs since the floors and sofas were packed with people sleeping, too. That night, the heat was unbearable, and even a light layer of clothing felt suffocating. On the floor lay a mixed group of people—black, white, and Asian—all sprawled out together. Children and their nurses, exposed to the surroundings, were sound asleep. There were no social divides here. Garrison, John Brown, or Gerrit Smith couldn't have imagined a more complete sense of equality. A very large, dark-skinned man would occasionally waddle in to check on the lamps. The atmosphere in that cabin was oppressive, and seeing those figures on the floor didn’t help. So we quickly moved outside to sit by the guards.

The next day was the hottest I've ever experienced. One great comfort was the watermelons, which were the best, and the ice. A very attractive woman, who I didn't know, recounted all our troubles in the field. Then, as if she was blaming me, she faced me angrily, "And where are our big men?" "Who do you mean?" "I mean our leaders, the ones we expect to save us. They got us into this mess. Let them get us out of it. Where are our big men?" I felt for her and understood her frustration, but I responded lightly, "I don't know the exact size you're looking for."

Here in Montgomery, we have been so warmly welcomed. Wow! Those women really talked! And all at once! They connected me with General Dick Taylor’s brother-in-law, Mr. Gordon, who married one of the Beranges. It was a really nice setup for me. He was kind, attentive, and really enjoyable with his stories from New Orleans. On the first of last January, all his servants except four left him. To those loyal few, he immediately gave free papers so they wouldn’t lose anything by staying loyal if the Confederates took charge again. He paid good wages, and everything ran smoothly for a few weeks. One day, his wife saw some Yankee officers’ cards on a table and said to her maid, “I didn’t know any of these people had visited?”

“Oh, Missis!” the maid replied, “they come to see me, and I’ve been waiting to tell you. It’s too hard! I can’t do it! I can’t dance with those nice gentlemen at night at our Union Balls and then come here and be your servant the next day. I can’t!” “So,” said Mr. Gordon, “freedom must be followed by fraternity and equality.” One by one the loyal few slipped away, and the family was left to figure things out on their own. Why not?

When General Dick Taylor's property was looted, his workers moved to Algiers, a village close to New Orleans. An elderly woman approached Mr. Gordon to tell him that these workers wanted him to inform “Mars Dick” that they were suffering from illness and hunger; thirty had died that day. With Dick Taylor's assistance not being an option, Mr. Gordon turned to a Federal officer. He discovered this officer was not a humanitarian but a cynic, who said: “All right; this is going as I expected. Get rid of the workers and Indians off the continent. We enlist their strong men into the army. The rest will vanish.”

Joe Johnston can sulk. As he's sent West, he says, “They may give Lee the army Joe Johnston trained.” Lee is reaping what he sowed, he thinks, but then he was backing straight through Richmond when they stopped his retreat.

[229]

Richmond, Va., August 10, 1863.—Today I got a letter from my sister, asking about her old playmate, friend, and lover, Boykin McCaa. It's been almost twenty years since they both got married, and now they each have kids who are nearly grown. “To be honest,” she writes, “in these last terrible years, with David in Florida where I can't hear from him often, and everything feeling grim, anxious, and unsettling, I had nearly forgotten about Boykin. But he came to me last night; he stood by my bedside and spoke to me kindly and affectionately, as if we had just seen each other. I said, extending my hand, ‘Boykin, you look very pale.’ He replied, ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ and then took both my hands. His hands were as cold and hard as ice; they chilled me to the bone. I screamed over and over until my whole household rushed in, and then the people from the yard came in, all shaken awake by my piercing screams. This might have been a dream, but it won’t leave my mind.

“Someone sent me an old article detailing his injuries and recovery, but I know he's dead.” “Stop!” my husband said at this point, and then he read from that day’s Examiner these words: “Captain Burwell Boykin McCaa found dead on the battlefield leading a cavalry charge at the front of his unit. He was shot in the head.”

The famous colonel of the Fourth Texas, named John[230] Bell Hood,[97] is here—everyone calls him Sam, thanks to his classmates at West Point, though the reason is unclear. John Darby asked if he could introduce his hero to us; he bragged about him a lot, saying he earned his three stars under Stonewall's watch and that he was promoted at Stonewall's request. When Hood arrived with his melancholic Quixote expression, like an old Crusader who believes in his cause, his cross, and his crown, we weren't expecting such a person to represent the wild Texans. He’s tall, thin, and shy; has blue eyes and light hair; and a bushy tawny beard that covers the lower part of his face, giving him an overall appearance of awkward strength. Someone remarked that his great reserve in demeanor only showed around women. Major Venable noted that he had often heard about the fierce light of battle shining in a man's eyes. He had witnessed it once—when he brought Hood orders from Lee and saw him transformed in the heat of battle. I will never forget the fierce light in Hood's eyes.

Hood came to invite us to a picnic the next day at Drury’s Bluff.[98] The naval heroes were set to greet us, and then we would drive out to the Texan camp. We blamed John Darby for starting this unexpected celebration. There were going to be bands of music and dances, with turkey, chicken, and buffalo tongue to eat. The next morning, just as my foot was on the carriage step, the girls standing behind me ready to follow with Johnny and the Infant Samuel (Captain Shannon, to be exact), up rode John Darby in a rush. He threw his bridle to one of the men holding the horses and came toward us quickly, the sound of his cavalry spurs clanking despairingly as he[231] shouted: “Stop! It’s all off. We’ve been ordered back to the Rappahannock. The brigade is marching through Richmond right now.” So we unpacked and unloaded, sent the hacks away, and sat down with a sigh.

“Let’s go watch them pass the toll booth,” someone suggested. The idea was met with excitement, and we set off. Johnny and the Infant were dressed in regular clothes, while the Straggler— as Hood refers to John Darby, since the Prestons arrived in Richmond—was decked out in his surgeon’s uniform with plaid and feathers. He didn’t lose any of his style; he was trying to impress and walked ahead with Mary Preston, Buck, and Johnny. The Infant and I, both a bit out of shape and struggling to keep up, fell behind. They called back to us as the Infant stumbled along, “Hurry up or we’ll leave you behind.”

At the turnpike, we stood on the sidewalk and watched ten thousand men march by. We had never seen anything like this before. Until now, we had only seen regiments marching neatly in their fresh, sharp uniforms, just coming from home and heading to the army. The rags and tags we saw now were unlike anything else. Most of the clothes and weapons were taken from the enemy. The shoes they wore were a sight. “Oh, our brave boys!” Buck sighed. They had tin pans and pots tied to their waists, with bread or bacon stuck on the ends of their bayonets. Anything that could be spiked was bayoneted and held up high.

They didn’t seem to care about their worn-out appearance; they laughed, shouted, and cheered as they walked by. Not a disrespectful or trivial word was said, but they targeted the men who were huddled behind us, trying to shrink away to avoid being noticed.

Hood and his team finally rode up, got off their horses, and joined us. Mary Preston handed him a bouquet. Then he took out a Bible that he had in his[232] pocket. He said his mom had given it to him. He pressed a flower in it. Mary Preston pointed out that he hadn’t really used it at all, since it looked brand new and beautifully kept. The Texans heard every word as they marched past us, almost brushing against us. They laughed, joked, and made their own rough comments.

September 7th.—Major Edward Johnston didn’t join the Confederacy until after the first battle of Manassas. For some reason, before he could get away from that influential figure, Seward rang his little bell and sent him to a prison in the New York harbor. I can’t remember if he was exchanged or if he escaped on his own. The next thing I heard about my friend from before the war was that he had defeated Milroy in Western Virginia. There were so many Johnstons that they named him Alleghany Johnston for this victory.

He had a strange habit of winking non-stop whenever he got even a little startled or upset. During those moments, it looked like he was constantly winking at you with one eye. He didn't mean anything by it, and honestly, he didn't even realize he was doing it. In Mexico, he had been injured in the eye, and the nerve twitched on its own. During the winter of 1862 and 1863, he used crutches. After a while, he hobbled down Franklin Street with us, and we were proud to match our speed to that of the injured general. His ankle remained stiff, so when he sat down, another chair had to be placed in front of him. He would stretch out his stiff leg, perfectly straight. At that time, he was our only wounded hero, and the girls took care of him and made his life enjoyable.

One night, I found myself listening to two love stories at the same time, my mind split between the two. William Porcher Miles, with his perfectly modulated voice, smooth rhythm, and soft tones, was sharing the happy ending of his romance. He had gotten engaged to sweet little Bettie Bierne, and I wholeheartedly congratulated him. It was a great match, perfect for both of them. I was really into Mr. Miles’s story, but there was chaos on the other side; old Edward, our beloved general, sat diagonally across the room with one leg stretched out like a poker, wrapped in bright red carpet leggings, as red as a turkey. His head had a strange shape, like a cone or an old-fashioned beehive; or, as Buck said, it had three tiers, resembling a pope’s tiara.

There he sat, speaking loudly and winking a thousand times, flirting with Mary P. I won’t apologize for listening. It was impossible not to hear him. I tried not to miss a word of Mr. Miles’s tale as the veteran’s despair was shouted into my other ear. I paid attention to both conversations. Mary can’t completely control her voice, and her high-pitched cries of denial, “No, no, never,” etc., completely failed to drown out her hurt lover’s boisterous declarations of his endless love for her.

Buck said later: “We heard every word on our side of the room, even when Mamie yelled at him that he was talking too loud. Now, Mamie,” we said afterward, “do you really think it was nice to say he was forty if he was a day?”

Strangely enough, the pet general, Edward, revived his love in just one day; at least two days after, he was heard saying that he was "now paying attention to his cousin John Preston's second daughter; her name is Sally, but they called her Buck—Sally Buchanan Campbell Preston, a lovely girl." And with her, he now drove, rode, and hobbled on his crutches, sent her his photo, and eventually bombarded her, from the same place where he had courted Mary, with proposals to marry him.

Buck was never as firm in her “No’s” as Mary. (“At least not so loud,” Buck corrects, always reading what I’ve written and sharing her thoughts.) So again, he began to express his deep feelings in a woman’s ears. As they rode down [234] Franklin Street, Buck says she could tell the people on the sidewalk heard bits of their conversation, even though she was riding as fast as she could, and she asked him not to speak so loudly. Eventually, they rushed up to our door as if they were in a race. Unlucky in love, but lucky in battle, our general is now earning new honors with Ewell in the Valley or the Army of the Potomac.

I think I've explained how Miles, still “so gently over me leaning,” talked about his successful love while General Edward Johnston expressed his pain and disappointment over his failures. Mr. Miles mentioned sweet little Bettie Bierne as if she had just come from a convent in France, kept away from men just for him. You’d think, listening to him, that Bettie had never looked into a man’s eyes until he came along.

Now, since I first met Miss Bierne in 1857, when Pat Calhoun was popular, she has had a story about men as long as a Highland chief’s. Every summer at the Springs, their father would show up in the ballroom a little before noon and send the three beautiful Biernes home regardless of all the pleas, and it was said that he would scowl away their many admirers at all hours of the day.

This new engagement was shared with me as a deep secret. Naturally, I didn’t mention it, not even to my own family. The next day, little Alston, Morgan’s assistant, and George Deas came by. As Colonel Deas took off his gloves, he said, “Oh! Have you heard about the Miles and Bierne news?” “No, what’s the fuss about?” “They’re engaged to be married; that’s it.” “Who told you?” “Miles himself, while we were walking down Franklin Street this afternoon.” “And didn’t he ask you not to say anything because Bettie didn’t want it talked about?” “Goodness, he did. And I totally forgot about that.”

Colonel Alston urged the heavyset Carolinian not to take[235] his unintentional betrayal of trust too seriously. Miss Bettie’s engagement had given him a terrible night. A young man, a close friend of his, came to his room in deep despair and handed him a letter from Miss Bierne, which was the source of all his pain. Not knowing she was already engaged to Miles, he had proposed to her in a heartfelt letter. In her response, she clearly stated that she was engaged to Mr. Miles, and instead of thanking her for freeing him from his misery, he found her explanation made the heartbreak of his love letter and rejection even worse. “Too late!” he shouted, “by Jingo!” So much for keeping it a secret.

Miss Bierne and I became close friends. Our friendship was built on our shared respect for the honorable member from South Carolina. Colonel and Mrs. Myers and Colonel and Mrs. Chesnut were the only friends of Mr. Miles who were invited to the wedding. At the church door, the sexton asked for our credentials. Only those whose names he had on his list were allowed to enter. Not twenty people were there—a small group gathered around the altar in that big church.

We were among the first to arrive. Then there was a faint movement and Mrs. Parkman (the bride’s sister, dressed in mourning for her young husband, who had been killed within a year of their marriage) quickly walked up the aisle alone. She dropped to her knees in the front pew and stayed there, motionless, throughout the entire ceremony—a mass of black fabric and a heavy weight on my heart. She knows the reality of war. A cannonade near Richmond interrupted her wedding service—a dark sign—and a year later her groom was lifeless on the battlefield.

While the wedding march made us think of her and filled us with sympathy, the bride walked down in white satin and point d'Alençon. Mrs. Myers whispered that the bride was wearing Mrs. Parkman's wedding dress.[236] She recalled the beautiful lace and shuddered with superstitious dread.

Everything had been going wonderfully inside, but a sudden downpour cleared out the curious crowd from the church porch. As the rain fell, we wondered how we were going to gather at Mrs. McFarland’s. All the horses in Richmond had been commandeered for some urgent cavalry need a few days earlier. I slipped between Mr. McFarland and Senator Semmes, holding my pretty Paris rose-colored silk over my head to protect it. When we reached the welcoming home of the McFarlands, Mr. McFarland took me straight into the drawing room, not realizing that my ruffled feathers needed proper smoothing and tidying up.

Mrs. Lee called for me. She was staying at Mrs. Caskie's. I was taken straight to her room, where she was lying on the bed. She said, before I even sat down, “You know there’s a fight happening right now at Brandy Station?”[99] “Yes, we're worried. John Chesnut's company is there, too.” She spoke sadly but calmly. “My son, Roony, is wounded; his brother has gone to get him. They’ll be here soon, and we’ll know everything unless Roony’s wife takes him to her grandfather. Poor, helpless mother, I feel useless to my children.” Mrs. Caskie reassured her, “You shouldn’t be worried. The General mentioned in his telegram that it’s not a serious wound. You know even Yankees trust General Lee.”

That day, Mrs. Lee gave me a picture of the General taken shortly after the Mexican War. She really prefers it over the later ones. He was definitely a good-looking man back then, even more so than now. I’ll cherish it for Mrs. Lee’s sake as well. She mentioned that old Mrs. Chesnut and her aunt, Nellie Custis (Mrs. Lewis), were quite close during Washington’s Administration in Philadelphia. I told her that Mrs. Chesnut, senior, is the historical member[237] of our family; she had a lot to share about Revolutionary times. She was one of the “white-robed choir” of little maidens who scattered flowers before Washington at Trenton Bridge, which everyone who writes about Washington always asks her to recount.

Mrs. Ould and Mrs. Davis came home with me. Lawrence had a basket of delicious cherries. “If only we had some ice,” I said. Respectfully but firmly, Lawrence replied, “Give me some money, and you’ll get your ice.” Through the underground telegraph, he had learned of an ice house across the river, even though some luxurious folks kept it a secret because they wanted it all to themselves. In no time at all, we had mint juleps and sherry cobblers.

Overall, it’s been a nice day, and as I sat alone, I found myself chuckling every now and then at the memory of some funny story. Suddenly, the phone rang violently, and a stack of telegrams was handed to me. I couldn’t have recoiled in more shock if the papers had been a nest of rattlesnakes. First, there was news that Frank Hampton was killed at Brandy Station. Wade Hampton sent a message to Mr. Chesnut to have Robert Barnwell take care of arrangements to recover the body. Mr. Chesnut is still in Wilmington. I called for Preston Johnston, and my neighbor, Colonel Patton, offered to make sure everything was handled properly. That afternoon, I walked out alone. Willie Mountford had shown me where the remains—what was left of Frank Hampton—were to be laid in the Capitol. After a while, Mrs. Petticola joined me, and then Mrs. Singleton.

Preston Hampton and Peter Trezevant, along with me and Mrs. Singleton, made up the somber group that followed the coffin. A group of soldiers was lined up in front of the State House porch. Mrs. Singleton suggested we should go inside and see him before the coffin was sealed shut. I really wish I hadn't looked. I remember him so clearly in all the pride of his impressive manhood. He died from a saber cut to his face and head, leaving him completely disfigured.[238] Mrs. Singleton seemed overwhelmed with grief. In all my life, I had never witnessed such deep sorrow. She had her own struggles, but I was unaware of them. We sat for a long time on the large steps of the State House. Everyone had left, and we were alone.

We talked about everything—how we had gone to Charleston to see Rachel in Adrienne Lecouvreur, and how, while I was waiting in the hallway near the living room, I ran into Frank Hampton bringing his stunning bride from the ship. They had just arrived. Later, at Mrs. Singleton’s place in the countryside, we all enjoyed a wonderful week together. Now, just a few years have passed, but nearly all of that lovely group are gone, and our world, the only one we cared about, has literally fallen apart. And she cried, “We are two lonely women, stuck here.” Rev. Robert Barnwell was in a serious state, and Mary Barnwell, his daughter, was expecting her baby any day now.

Here now, later, let me add that it wasn’t until I returned to Carolina that I learned about Robert Barnwell’s death, just a day apart from Mary and her newborn baby’s. Husband, wife, and child were buried together in the same grave in Columbia. And now, Mrs. Singleton has three orphaned grandchildren. What a heartbreaking year it has been for her.

Robert Barnwell had insisted on being sent to the hospital in Staunton. Because of his wife’s situation, the doctor recommended it too. He was carried out on a mattress. His brave wife tried to stop it, saying, “It’s just a fever.” And she cared for him until the end. She tried to say goodbye cheerfully and called after him, “As soon as my troubles are over, I’ll come to you in Staunton.” At the hospital, they diagnosed him with typhoid fever. He died the second day after arriving. Poor Mary fainted when she heard the ambulance leave with him. Then she crawled into a low trundle bed meant for the children in her mother’s room.[239] She never got out of that bed again. When the message arrived from Staunton saying that Robert had a fever and nothing more, Mrs. Singleton recalls she will never forget the look in Mary’s eyes as she turned to her. “Robert will get well,” she said, “it’s going to be fine.” Her face was glowing, full of light. That night, the baby was born, and Mrs. Singleton received a telegram that Robert was dead. She didn’t tell Mary, who stood by the window while she read it, anxiously waiting for Robert’s body to arrive at any moment. As for Mary’s life being in danger, she never considered it. Her thoughts were only on Robert. Then a servant touched her and said, “Look at Mrs. Barnwell.” She rushed to the bedside, and the doctor, who had just arrived, said, “It’s all over; she’s gone.” Not in anger or wrath did the angel of death come that day. He came to set Mary free from a world that had become too hard to bear.

During Stoneman’s raid[100], I burned some personal papers. Molly kept telling me, “Missus, listen to the guns. Burn everything. Mrs. Lyons says they’re definitely coming, and they’ll publish whatever you write here in their newspapers every day.” The gunfire sounded really close, and when Mrs. Davis arrived and told me that if Mr. Davis left Richmond, I had to go with her, I admit I panicked. So, I burned part of my journal but rewrote it later from memory—my relentless enemy that never lets me forget the things I want to. I'm not great with dates. I don't always think to check the calendar and write them down. Plus, I don't always have a calendar handy.

[240]

Camden, S. C., September 10, 1863.—It's a relief to shift focus from petty political rivalries to our major battles—toward Lee and Kirby Smith after all the arguments in Council and Convention. Lee has turned out to be everything my husband predicted about him back when he was so disliked and Joe Johnston was the celebrated hero of war. Just hearing the words convention or council is exhausting. Not that I’m completely ready for Richmond yet. We need to take care of home and plantation matters, which we've unfortunately neglected. May heaven support my husband through these tough times.

The wedding of Miss Aiken, daughter of Governor Aiken, the largest slave owner in South Carolina; Julia Rutledge, one of the bridesmaids; the location, Flat Rock. For a while, we couldn't imagine what Julia would wear for a dress. My sister Kate remembered some muslin we had in the house for curtains, bought before the war and set aside since it was no longer needed. The fabric was white and thin, a little coarse, but we covered it with lots of beautiful lace. It made a lovely dress, and Julia looked absolutely stunning in it! On the night of the wedding, it stormed as if the world was ending—wind, rain, thunder, and lightning were all around the mountain cottage.

The bride had a duchesse dressing table, adorned with muslin and lace; not one of the simple, honest styles of war-driven poverty,[241] but rather a millionaire’s effort to seem frugal, thinking that this style would better connect the family with their less fortunate neighbors. A candle was left too close to this delicate fabric and it caught fire. Outside, there was enough lightning to set the world ablaze; inside, the bridal chamber was on fire, and there was enough wind to blow the house down the mountainside.

The English maid acted bravely and, with the help of Mrs. Aiken’s and Mrs. Mat Singleton’s staff, extinguished the fire without interrupting the wedding ceremony happening below. Everything in the bridal chamber was destroyed except for the bed, which was just a pile of ashes, soot, and bits of burned and charred wood.

At Kingsville, I got a glimpse of our army. Longstreet’s corps was heading West. God bless those brave guys! Not a single man was drunk; I didn’t hear one rude word. It was a strange sight—part of it. There were seemingly miles of flatbed cars, soldiers wrapped in their blankets, lying in rows, heads covered, fast asleep. In their gray blankets, packed neatly, they resembled mummies. One man near where I sat was writing on his knee. He was using his cap as a desk and sitting on a rail. I watched him, wondering who that letter was for—probably home. I can imagine the heavy hearts waiting for him there.

A terrible feeling of depression hit me. All these great guys were either going to kill or be killed. Why? And a phrase kept playing in my mind like an old song, “The Unreturning Brave.” When a group of cheerful, young kids walked past me, I felt a strange wave of sympathy. Ah, I understand how your families feel, poor kids! Once, last winter, people came to us in Camden with such bizarre stories about Captain ——, Morgan’s man; stories about his father, too; tales about turf and murder, or at least, how he killed people. He had been a huge favorite of my husband, who once brought him in, leading him[242] by the hand. Later he said to me, “With these girls in the house we need to be more careful.” I agreed to be coolly polite to ——. “After all,” I said, “I hardly know him.”

When he called afterwards in Richmond, I was really happy to see him, completely forgetting that he was banned. We had a long, private conversation. He talked about his wife and kids, his time in the army, and shared stories about Morgan. We both became more friendly. He thanked me for the warm welcome he received in that house; he said I was a true friend and told me about a situation he was in that would ruin him if it got out, even though he was innocent; but he believed time would sort everything out. He asked me not to share anything about his situation, not even with Colonel Chesnut; I agreed right away, and then he left. I sat there poking the fire, thinking about how fascinating he was, this famous Captain ——, when the folding doors slowly opened and Colonel Chesnut came in. He had returned home two hours earlier from the War Office with a headache and had been lying on the sofa behind that door listening for hours.

“So, this is your way of being ‘coldly polite,’” he said. Just think about my feelings. “Honestly, I had completely forgotten what they said about him. The lies they told never even crossed my mind. He’s a lot smarter, and I would say just as good as those who slander him.”

Mattie Reedy (I knew her as a striking girl in Washington a few years back) got fed up with hearing the Federals insult John Morgan. One day, the insults were worse than ever, and she became restless. To mark her as a rude girl, the Yankee officer asked, “What’s your name?” She replied, “Write ‘Mattie Reedy’ for now, but with God’s grace, one day I hope to call myself the wife of John Morgan.” She didn’t know Morgan, but he eventually heard the story; it was said to be quite a funny tale. However, he made it a point to find her, and since she was as beautiful as she was patriotic, thanks to God, she is now Mrs. Morgan! These shy Southern women can be brave enough under fire.

Aunt Charlotte told a story about my dear mother. They were in Shelby, Alabama, a place where white people lived and didn’t want black people around. The ladies had a few black people with them, belonging to my uncle, at whose house they were staying while he was away. One black man who had married and lived in a cabin was particularly disliked by the neighbors for some reason. My aunt and my mother, being old-fashioned and wary of anything outside their own home, knew nothing about this. They stayed in rooms on opposite sides of an open hallway. The house was open and unfinished underneath. One night, my aunt suddenly heard a terrible noise—it sounded like a man running for his life, chased by other men and dogs, shouting, yelling, and barking. She barely had time to lock herself in. Completely isolated from her sister, she sat down, frozen with fear, when loud knocking started at the door, accompanied by men cursing, dogs running around, sniffing, darting in and out of the hallway, and barking like crazy. Aunt Charlotte was sure she heard the panting of a black man as he ran into the house a few minutes earlier. What could have happened to him? Where could he have hidden? The men shook the doors and windows, loudly threatening revenge. My aunt felt sorry for her frail sister, trapped in the room across the hallway. This fright could kill her!

The cursing and shouting kept going strong. A man’s voice, harsh and loud, cut through everything: “Get out of my house, you troublemakers!” he yelled. “If you’re not gone in two seconds, I’ll shoot!” There was complete silence except for the dogs barking. The men quickly slipped away. Once they were out of range, they started calling their dogs. When it was all over, my aunt quietly made her way across the [244] passage. “Sister, who was the man that scared them off?” My mother laughed in triumph. “I am that man,” she said.

“But where is John?” John crawled out from a corner of the room, where my mother had tossed some trash over him. “Lord bless you, Miss Mary opened the door for me and they were right behind me—” Aunt says my mother was really proud of her skills. And she showed some moral bravery, too!

At the President’s in Richmond once, General Lee was there, and Constance and Hetty Cary came in; also Miss Sanders and others. Constance Cary[101] was sharing some war stories, including one about an attempt to throw together a supper the night before at some prominent F. F. V.’s house, and how several refined guests went into the kitchen to whip up something to eat by the light of a single, sad candle. One of the men in the group, not being particularly helpful, flipped over a tub and sat down on it. Custis Lee, wanting to rest as well, found nothing to sit on except a gridiron.

One memory I have from the evening at the President's: General Lee leaning over the lovely Miss Cary's hands in the hallway outside. Miss —— stood up to be part of the scene and asked Mr. Davis to join her in the next drawing room. He looked surprised but got up awkwardly, frowning, and was led away. As they passed where Mrs. Davis was sitting, Miss ——, confidently looking back, said, “Don’t be jealous, Mrs. Davis; I have an important message to share with the President.” Mrs. Davis's amusement led to a notable “Well! Would you look at that?”

During Stoneman’s raid, on a Sunday I was in Mrs.[245] Randolph’s pew. The Battle of Chancellorsville was also going on. The noise of ammo wagons, the march of soldiers, and the constant slamming of those iron gates of the Capitol Square right across from the church made it difficult to focus on the service.

Then a scene unfolded that would make even the strongest heart tremble. The sexton walked quietly up the aisle to deliver messages to worshipers whose loved ones had been brought in injured, dying, or deceased. Frightened, pale-faced people followed him out. Eventually, Rev. Mr. Minnegerode leaned over the chancel rail to speak with the sexton for a few moments, whispered to him, and then vanished. The assistant clergyman took over the communion that Mr. Minnegerode had been conducting. At the church door stood Mrs. Minnegerode, looking as tragically distressed and wild as ever Mrs. Siddons did. She managed to tell her husband, “Your son is at the station, dead!” However, when these anguished parents arrived at the station, it turned out to be someone else’s son who had died—but a son nonetheless. Mr. Minnegerode returned, pale and weary, to his place behind the altar rail. After the sacred communion ended, someone asked him what it all meant, and he replied: “Oh, it was not my son who was killed, but it felt so close it still hurts me!”

At home, I found L. Q. Washington, who stayed for dinner. I could see that he and my husband were deeply absorbed in some issue they didn't want to share with me. Right after dinner, my husband lent Mr. Washington one of his horses, and they rode off together. I headed over to my kind neighbors, the Pattons, to find out what was going on. There, I discovered Colonel Patton was also gone. However, Mrs. Patton was aware of everything. She said there was a raiding party about forty miles away, and no troops were in Richmond! Those kind ladies invited me to stay for tea, hoping we could learn more about the situation. After tea, we went out to the Capitol[246] Square, accompanied by Lawrence and three male servants for protection. It looked like they were mustering citizens by the thousands. Company after company was forming, then battalions, and then regiments. It was an amazing sight for us as we peered through the iron railing, watching them line up.

Then we went to the President’s house and found the family at dinner. We sat on the white marble steps, and General Elzey explained the situation and our immediate danger. Pickets were coming in. Men were racing back and forth from the door as fast as they could ride, delivering messages and orders. Calmly, General Elzey talked about our current weaknesses and our chances for support. After a while, Mrs. Davis came out and embraced me without saying a word.

“It’s terrible,” I said. “The enemy is just forty miles away from us—only forty!” “Who told you that story?” she replied. “They’re just three miles from Richmond!” I dropped to my knees like I was made of stone. “You should keep quiet,” she said. “The President is sick. Women and children shouldn't make things worse.” She asked me to stay the night, which I was grateful to do.

We sat up. Officers were coming and going, and we provided them with whatever snacks and drinks we could from a constantly replenished side table. Eventually, with all the excitement and the ongoing activity and new faces, we lost sight of the danger. Officers shared funny stories and seemed in great spirits, which helped us feel more at ease. There wasn’t a moment of rest for anyone. Mrs. Davis remarked something even more amusing: “We look like scared women and children, don’t we?”

Early the next morning, the President came down. He still looked weak and pale from his illness. Custis Lee and my husband loaded their pistols, and the President left in Dr. Garnett’s carriage, with my husband and Custis Lee riding on horseback next to him. By eight o’clock, the troops from[247] Petersburg arrived, and the danger was over. The authorities will never take troops away from Richmond again. We had a close call, but we got through it. It was a rough night, even though we made the best of it.

I was walking on Franklin Street when I ran into my husband. “Come with me to the War Office for a few minutes,” he said, “and then I’ll go home with you.” What else could I do but go? He took me up a dark stairway and then down a long, dark corridor, leaving me sitting in a window, saying he “wouldn’t be gone a second”; he had to go into the Secretary of War’s room. There I sat for what felt like hours. Men came to turn on the gas lights. I lowered my veil from the start so nobody would recognize me. A lot of people I knew walked by, but I barely felt respectable sitting up there like that, so I didn’t say a word and just looked out the window. Judge Campbell slowly walked back and forth with his hands behind his back—the saddest face I’d ever seen. He had given up his position as a Supreme Court Judge in the U.S. to be the under-secretary of something or other—I don't know what—for the C.S.A. No wonder he was feeling down that night!

Finally, Judge Ould arrived; I called him over, and he immediately joined me, seemingly surprised to find me there, and stayed with me until James Chesnut showed up. In fact, I asked him to find that missing member of my family.

When my husband arrived, he said, “Oh, Mr. Seddon and I got into an argument, and I lost track of time! Honestly, I completely forgot you were here.” Once we were back on the street, he continued, “Now, don’t scold me because there’s bad news. Pemberton has been fighting the Yankees by brigades, and he’s lost every time; now Vicksburg is doomed!” I guess that was his side of the argument with Seddon.

Once again, I went to the War Office. I accompanied Mrs. Ould to see her husband at his office. We wanted to organize a gathering on the river using the flag-of-truce boat and to visit those beautiful spots, Claremont and Brandon. My husband became overly cautious and said it was too risky, so he disrupted all our plans. Then I was supposed to take the canal boat up to John Rutherford's, but he vetoed that too, calling it "too risky," as if anyone would actually bother us!

October 24th.—James Chesnut is at home on his way back to Richmond; he was sent by the President to visit the Western armies; he says Polk is a great guy. They claim he was asleep in his tent at seven o’clock when he was supposed to attack at dawn, but he has too clear a conscience to sleep that deeply.

The battle didn't start until eleven at Chickamauga[102] when Bragg had ordered the advance at dawn. Bragg and his generals don't see eye to eye. I believe a general is ineffective if his subordinates argue with him. There's something off about the guy. Good generals are admired by their troops. Look at Napoleon, Caesar, Stonewall, Lee.

Old Sam (Hood) got his orders to defend a specific bridge from the enemy, and he had already pushed them several miles back when the slow generals were still asleep. Hood has achieved a victory, even though he only has one leg to stand on.

Mr. Chesnut was with the President when he reviewed our army under enemy fire before Chattanooga. He told Mr. Davis that every honest man he met out West thought highly of Joe Johnston. He knows that the President can't stand Joe Johnston because of all the trouble he’s caused him,[249] and General Joe feels the same way about Jeff Davis, but even more intensely. His hatred for Jeff Davis is almost like a religion to him. It influences everything he does.

Joe Johnston, whether moving forward or pulling back—retreating is probably more accurate—has a magnetic presence. He really earns the goodwill of those around him. It’s unfortunate that with his strong dislike for certain people, he chose to focus that on the President of our country. He doesn’t hate wisely, but he certainly hates passionately. Our friend Breckinridge[103] welcomed Mr. Chesnut with open arms. There’s nothing narrow-minded or selfish about Breckinridge. He doesn’t wear a pair of green-tinted glasses made of prejudices, only seeing the good in his own fervent supporters.

October 27th.—Young Wade Hampton has been here for a few days, staying with our closest neighbor and cousin, Phil Stockton. Wade isn’t as good-looking or athletic as his brother Preston, but he’s such a great guy. We lent him some horses and ended up throwing him a small party. What we lacked in guests was made up for by the excellent old Colonel Chesnut’s vintage Madeira and champagne. If everything in the Confederacy was as genuinely good as the Colonel’s wine cellars! Then we had a salad and a jelly cake.

General Joe Johnston is so careful with his aides that Wade has never seen a battle. He always seems to be sent far away when the fighting starts. He doesn’t seem too thankful for this and intends to be reassigned to his father’s command. He says, “No one puts themselves in danger more recklessly than General Johnston, and no one works harder to keep others out of harm's way.” But the aim of this war is to save the country, and a commander has to put his men’s lives at risk to achieve that. There’s a French saying[250] that you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.

November 5th.—We’ve had a week of such a calm, happy time here. My husband and Johnny are still here. James Chesnut has been hanging out with his father or lounging on the rug in front of my fire, reading Vanity Fair and Pendennis. Luckily, he hadn’t read them before. We saved Esmond for last. He admits he’s having a great time. Johnny is happy too. He doesn’t care much for books. He’ll pick up a novel now and then, especially if the girls talk about it around him. He won’t touch anything else in the way of literature. He comes tugging at his long blond mustache uncertainly, as if he’s hoping someone will advise him not to read it—“Aunt Mary, will I like this thing?” I don’t think he has any idea what we’re fighting about, and he doesn’t want to know. He says, “My company,” “My men,” with a pride, a faith, and an affection that are truly impressive. He came into his inheritance at twenty-one (just when the war started), and it was a substantial one, with beautiful old houses and a matching estate.

Yesterday, Johnny visited his plantation for the first time since the war started. John Witherspoon accompanied him and reported it like this: “How are you, Marster! How’ve you been?”—and from every direction, the loudest welcomes came from the Black workers. Johnny was quietly shaking hands with everyone as he rode into the crowd.

As the noise quieted down, he said to the overseer, “Send down more corn and feed for my horses.” And to the driver, “Do you have any peas?” “Yes, plenty, sir.” “Send a wagon-load down for the cows at Bloomsbury while I'm there. They don't have enough milk and butter for me. Any eggs? Send down all you can gather. What about my turkeys and ducks? Send them down two at a time. And how’s the mutton? Fat? That’s good; send down two a week.”

[251]

As they rode home, John Witherspoon said, “I was surprised you didn't go into the fields to check on your crops.” “What was the point?” “And the workers; you barely talked to them.”

“No point in talking to them before the overseer. They keep coming down to Bloomsbury, day and night, in groups, and they talk me to death. Plus, William and Parish head up there every night, and God knows they tell me enough plantation gossip—overseer lining his pockets; the same for the workers at my expense. Caught between the two, I just want to grab something to eat while I’m here.”

For him, we set up a lovely picnic at Mulberry. Everything was perfect—the day couldn't have been better, and the place looked stunning. Those big rooms were great for dancing; we had a dinner that could satisfy any appetite— the finest fish, poultry, and game; wine from an unbeatable cellar. Despite the blockade, Mulberry still hosts beautifully. Mrs. Edward Stockton drove down with me. She used her taste and skill to help arrange everything. We had no issues though. All the old servants who haven't moved to Bloomsbury caught wind of the festivities from a distance and practically rushed in to lend a hand.

[252]

Richmond, Va., November 28, 1863.—Our nice time at home ended quickly. Johnny had to return to Company A, and my husband was ordered by the President to visit Bragg’s Army again[104].

So we arrived here where the Prestons had rented apartments for me. Molly was with me. Adam Team, the overseer, with Isaac McLaughlin’s help, came along to handle the eight large boxes of supplies I brought from home. Isaac, Molly’s husband, is our only servant, the only one my husband ever purchased. Isaac’s wife belonged to Rev. Thomas Davis, and Isaac was owned by someone else. The owner of Isaac was about to move West, and Isaac was really upset. They wanted a thousand dollars for him. He is a large man, truly a remarkable example of a Black gentleman. He used to be a stagecoach driver. Now, he’s a carpenter, or will be someday. He’s extremely grateful to us for buying him; he’s really devoted to his wife and kids, although he has a strange way of showing it because he has a mistress, en titre, as the French say, which Molly always complained about as soon as his back was turned. “Great big good-for-nothing comes whining to master to buy him for his wife’s[253] sake, and all the while he—” “Oh, Molly, stop that!” I said.

Mr. Davis visited Charleston and got a warm welcome. He told General Preston all about it. He loved Governor Aiken’s traditional Carolina lifestyle. Those old gray-haired helpers and their silent, efficient service, the result of thorough training—one really misses that when you’re away from home, where your own staff anticipates your needs; they understand your habits and preferences; they take care of everything for you, even when it comes to your comfort and well-being. The butler at Mulberry would be unhappy and feel like a complete failure if I ever had to ask him for anything.

November 30th.—I have to share an adventure I had in Kingsville. Honestly, I don't know anything about kids; in fact, I'm really scared of them.

Mrs. Edward Barnwell came with us from Camden. She had a wonderful two-year-old boy. Now don’t expect me to tone that down, because this little one is a marvel of childlike beauty, health, and strength. Why not? If like produces like, especially with such a good-looking couple as parents! The boy’s eyes alone would secure any girl’s future.

At first, he was really pleasant, reciting nursery rhymes and singing. Then something shifted. Suddenly, he turned into a little monster, fighting, kicking, and scratching like a tiger. He did everything wrong and seemed to enjoy it, all while his lovely mom, with flushed cheeks and tear-filled eyes, pleaded with him to behave.

When we stopped at Kingsville, I got out first, then Mrs. Barnwell’s nurse, who put the little guy down next to me. “Can you watch him for a moment, please?” she asked. “I need to help Mrs. Barnwell with the bags.” She hurried back, and then the cars drove away. They went half a mile to turn around. I was trembling in my shoes. This[254] kid! No man could ever scare me like this. What if he decided to misbehave again? It felt like forever while I waited for that train to turn around and come back. My little charge was taking everything in stride. He looked at me with total disdain, completely unafraid. And for the moment, I was his complete servant.

He stretched out lazily, fully extending himself. Then he pointed down. “Those are great legs,” he said seriously, looking at his own. I instantly joined him in admiring them excitedly. Nearby, he noticed a bundle. “Kitty tied up in that bundle.” He was up in an instant and pounced on it. If we were going to be seen as thieves, it didn’t matter; I couldn't interfere with that kid. I had seen what he was capable of. Inside the old handkerchief were several cooked sweet potatoes—probably belonging to some African American. He settled himself, broke one in half, and started eating. Clearly, he had found something he liked. In this position, Mrs. Barnwell spotted us. She approached, her face full of mock alarm, unsure of our relationship and whether we had decided to handle things on our own. The old nurse exclaimed, “Oh my goodness!” with both hands raised. Without saying a word, I ran away. In another moment, the Wilmington train would’ve left me. She was heading to Columbia.

We only broke down once between Kingsville and Wilmington, but between Wilmington and Weldon, we managed to do it so completely that we had to stay at that miserable station for twelve hours.

The room I saw was packed with soldiers. Adam Team managed to secure two chairs for me, and I sat on one, propping my feet on the other. Molly sat on the floor, resting her head against my chair. I woke up feeling cold and cramped. An officer, who didn't give his name but claimed to be from Louisiana, came over and encouraged me to move closer to the fire. He offered me his seat by the fire,[255] where I found an old lady and two young women, along with two men in the uniforms of regular soldiers.

We chatted effortlessly all night as if we had known each other our entire lives. We talked about the war, the military, and current events. There were no questions asked, no names shared, and no personal stories exchanged, yet if these men and women weren’t upper-class and of the highest quality, I really don't know what true ladies and gentlemen look like.

Being a bit surprised at how little interest Mr. Team and Isaac showed in how I was doing, I went outside to check, and I found them working hard. They had been at it all night. In the crash, my boxes were damaged. They had gathered up the contents and were trying to fix the boxes so they could use them again.

At Petersburg, a well-dressed woman walked in, scanned the crowd, and then asked to sit next to me. Although Molly’s seat was paid for just like mine, she immediately stood up, offered her seat to the lady, and stood behind me. I’m sure Molly thinks of herself as my bodyguard as well as my servant.

The lady then got comfortable in Molly’s seat and began to tell her sad story in a sorrowful tone. She was a widow. She lost her husband in the battles around Richmond. Soon, someone left, and a man offered her the empty seat. Without hesitation, she started flirting with the polite gentleman. Another person, a complete stranger, said to me, “Well, look over there. The moment she started lamenting about her dead boyfriend, I knew she was looking for another one.” “Boyfriend, really?” exclaimed another listener, “she said it was her husband.” “Husband or boyfriend, it’s all the same. She won’t waste any time. It won’t be her fault if she doesn’t find another one soon.”

But the big moment was the night before: the cars were packed with soldiers, of course; nobody I recognized. An Irish woman, clearly marked by her accent, came[256] in. She paced back and forth in the car, loudly complaining about the lack of courtesy from the men who wouldn’t make space for her. Two men stood up and offered her their seats, saying it didn’t matter since they were getting off at the next stop.

She had the strongest accent I’d ever heard, and she let us experience it. She went on to say that the men should all stay out of that; that car was “shootable” only for women. She put a large mirror on the empty seat beside her. She kept talking until she fell asleep.

A tired soldier walked in, saw what he thought was an empty seat, and quietly sat down. Suddenly, glass shattered. The soldier groaned, and the Irish woman screamed. He was badly cut by the broken glass. She was just acting crazy. She shook her fist in his face, claiming she was a single woman and he had taken that seat for no good reason. How could he dare?—and so on. I don't think the man said a word. The conductor took him to another car to get the glass out of his clothes, and she kept yelling. Mr. Team shouted loudly and laughed as if he were in the Hermitage Swamp. The woman's unreasonable anger and ridiculous accusations were definitely funny.

Soon the car was quiet, and I drifted into a comfortable nap. I felt Molly give me a gentle shake. “Listen, Miss, Mars Adam Team is talking really loudly, all about the old master and our business, and to strangers. It’s a shame.” “Is he saying anything bad about us?” “No, ma’am, nothing like that. He’s bragging like crazy about how the old master is and how rich he is, and all that. I’m going to tell him to stop.” Molly got up. “Mars Adam, Miss says please don’t talk so loud. When people travel, they don’t do that.”

Mr. Preston’s guy, Hal, was waiting at the depot with a car to take me to my Richmond house. Mary Preston had rented these apartments for me.

[257]

I found my dear girls there by a cozy fire. Everything looked so nice and welcoming to the tired traveler. Mrs. Grundy, who lives on the lower floor, served me some authentic Virginia tea, hot cakes, and rolls. Just imagine living in a house with Mrs. Grundy, without worrying about “what Mrs. Grundy will say.”

My husband is here; he really likes the house, Grundy’s, and everything. He’s already bought Grundy’s horses for sixteen hundred Confederate dollars in cash. He seems closer to being content and happy than I've ever seen him. He hasn’t found a reason to complain yet, but I’m keeping an eye out every day. He’ll soon figure out anything that’s off about Cary Street.

I threw a party; Mrs. Davis was really funny; the Preston girls were very pretty; Isabella's fun was wild and crazy. No party could have gone better, but my husband decided we won't have any more celebrations. This isn't the time or the place for such festivities.

Maria Freeland is absolutely charming when it comes to her wedding. She has every detail ready, right down to the last piece of lace, but her stubborn father says “No.” She adores John Lewis—that's a given. She doesn’t pretend to be as in love as Mary Preston, though. In fact, she’s never met anyone who was. But she is as in love as she can be with a guy who, while not really handsome, is as good a match as any girl could hope for. He’s everything her heart desires and comes from such a good-looking family. His mother, Esther Maria Coxe, was the beauty of her time, and his father was a nephew of General Washington. All that said, he looks way better than John Darby or Mr. Miles. She always planned to marry someone better than Mary Preston or Bettie Bierne.

Lucy Haxall is happily engaged to Captain Coffey, an Englishman. She is certain that she will marry him. He is her first crush.

Mr. Venable, from Lee's staff, was at our party, and he seemed out of[258] sorts. He knows everything that's happening. His mood doesn’t look good for us. Today, General Hampton sent James Chesnut a nice saddle that he captured from the Yankees during battle.

Mrs. Scotch Allan (Edgar Allan Poe’s patron’s wife) sent me ice cream and lady apple cheeks from her farm. John R. Thompson[105], the only writer I know in Richmond, sent me Leisure Hours in Town, by A Country Parson.

My husband says he hopes I’ll be happy because he came here this winter to make me happy. If I could have been satisfied at home, he would have given up his role as aide-de-camp and joined some service in South Carolina. I’m a decent excuse, if nothing else.

Old tempestuous Keitt had breakfast with us yesterday. I wish I could remember half the brilliant things he said. My husband has now gone with him to the War Office. Colonel Keitt thinks it's time he was promoted. He wants to be a brigadier.

Now, Charleston is under constant attack day and night. It honestly makes me dizzy thinking about the endless noise they're making down there. Bragg has been defeated and is cut off from Longstreet. It’s a long road with no end in sight, and Rosecrans hasn’t been captured after all.

November 30th.—There's a sense of anxiety everywhere. Lee is battling Meade. Suffering is rampant. Bragg is retreating in front of Grant[106]. Longstreet, whom the soldiers nicknamed Peter the Slow, is setting up camp outside Knoxville.

[259]

"General Lee expects us to respond to every letter," Mr. Venable said, "and to do our best to comfort the unfortunate individuals whose husbands and sons are fighting for our country."

December 2nd.—Bragg is asking to be relieved of his command. The army will be glad to be rid of him. He has a remarkable talent for making everyone dislike him. Goodness, how they despise him! The swift retreat of his army ended at Ringgold. Hardie refuses even a temporary leadership role in the Western army. Preston Johnston has been dispatched urgently on a moment's notice. He wasn't even given time to go home and say goodbye to his wife or, as Browne, the Englishman, put it, “to pack a clean shirt in his traveling bag.” Lee and Meade are facing each other bravely[107].

On December 1st, we went with a group organized by Mrs. Ould to check out a French frigate anchored down the river. The French officers came aboard our boat. The Lees were on board too. The French officers weren't very appealing in either their manners or looks, but our ladies were very attentive, and some of them bombarded the officers with broken French, often accompanied by funny faces to make up for their limited vocabulary, with their sentences usually ending in an anxious shriek. “Are they deaf?” Mrs. Randolph asked.

[260]

The French frigate was a pretty shabby vessel. Doctor Garnett was so filled with hope that the French were coming to our rescue that he wouldn’t let me say, “an English man-of-war is the cleanest thing in the world.” Captain — told Mary Lee, with a foreign twist of his face that passed for a smile, “I’m a bachelor.” Judge Ould remarked as we headed to dinner on our own steamer, “They won’t drink to our President’s health. They don’t recognize us as a nation. Just remember, none of you say ‘Emperor,’ not once.” Doctor Garnett had a different interpretation of politeness and stepped forward, his mouth filled with so much French, and said: “Vieff l’Emperor.” Young Gibson quietly supported him with, “À la santé de l’Empereur.” But there was silence. Preston Hampton was the handsomest man on board—“the figure of Hercules, the face of Apollo,” exclaimed an enthusiastic girl. Preston was as lazy and sleepy as always. He commented on the Frenchmen: “They can’t help not being good-looking, but with the whole world available to them, how can they wear such shabby clothes?”

The lieutenant's name was Rousseau. On the French frigate, there was a book of Jean Jacques Rousseau's works lying on one of the tables, oddly placed next to a map of South Carolina. Mary Lee politely asked this lieutenant to choose a lady for her to introduce him to. He replied, "I choose you," with a bow that felt like a blessing and a prayer.

And now I’m all set for Hetty Cary’s starvation party, where they’re collecting thirty dollars for music and not a single cent for food. Preston said happily, “I hate dancing, and I hate cold water; so I’ll skip the party tonight.”

Found John R. Thompson at our house when I got home so tired tonight. He brought me the latest issue of the Cornhill. He knew how much I was interested in Trollope’s story, Framley Parsonage.

[261]

December 4th. — My husband bought a barrel of flour, a bushel of potatoes, a peck of rice, five pounds of salt beef, and a peck of salt at the Commissary yesterday for sixty dollars. In the street, a barrel of flour costs one hundred and fifteen dollars.

December 5th.—Wigfall was here last night. He started off by wanting to hang Jeff Davis. My husband handled him really well. He quickly stopped talking crazy and settled into his usual solid common sense. I realized it was pretty late, but I had no clue what time it actually was. My husband signaled me to come over. “It’s all your fault,” he said. “What?” “Why do you keep looking so interested in everything Wigfall is saying? Don’t let him catch your eye. Look into the fire. Didn’t you hear it strike two?”

This attack was so sudden, so intense, so unexpected, I could only laugh uncontrollably. However, as a dutiful wife, I went back, seriously took my seat, and stared into the fire. I didn’t even dare to look up to see what my husband was doing—whether he was also staring into the fire. Wigfall quickly got bored with such a passive audience and left.

General Lawton was here. He was one of Stonewall's generals. So I listened closely when he said: “Stonewall couldn’t sleep. So, every two or three nights, you were woken up with orders to have your brigade ready to march before dawn and report in person to the Commander. Then you were marched a few miles out and then a few miles back again. All this was to keep us prepared, always on alert. The result was this: Jackson's men could march half a day's distance before Peter Longstreet even woke up and had breakfast. I think there’s a common misconception about how much praying he did. He definitely preferred a fight on Sunday to listening to a sermon. If a fight didn’t happen, he enjoyed a long Presbyterian sermon, Calvinistic to the core.”

“He had little sympathy for human weakness. He was a man with a single-minded focus. He viewed exhausted and defeated individuals as nothing different. He categorized everyone who was weak and worn out, who collapsed on the side of the road, as lacking in patriotism. If a man’s face was as pale as cotton and his pulse was so faint you could barely feel it, he regarded him simply as an ineffective soldier and rode away impatiently. He embodied the true spirit of all great soldiers. Like the successful warriors of history, he did not value human life when he had a goal to achieve. He could send men to their deaths without a second thought. His soldiers followed him to the end. Their faith in him was stronger than death. He commanded their respect. I doubt he had as much of their love as is often claimed while he was alive. Now, knowing that a few more years with Stonewall could have liberated them from the Yankees, they idolize him. Any man is proud to have been a part of the famous Stonewall brigade. But make no mistake, it was incredibly demanding to keep up with him, as anyone who ever served under him can attest. He gave his orders quickly and clearly and rode off, never allowing for a response or objection. It was always, ‘Look there—see that spot—take it!’ If you failed, you were likely to find yourself under arrest. When you reported that the position had been secured, he simply said, ‘Good!’”

Spent seventy-five dollars today on a bit of tea and sugar, and I have five hundred left. My husband’s pay has never been enough to cover our rent. He just came in with some awful news. I've cried so many times over things that never happened, so I’ll hold back my tears this time for something real. Today, a poor woman threw herself on her dead husband’s coffin and kissed it. She was crying hard. I did too, in sympathy.

My husband, as I told him today, could watch me and everything he loves get hanged, drawn, and quartered without flinching, as long as a crowd was watching; he could even have the same thing done to him and not show any reaction. To all this shocking suggestion, he replied calmly: “So could any civilized person. [263] However, savages—Indians, at least—handle that situation with more dignity than we do. Loud, restless grief doesn’t affect me at all; it just frustrates me. We all need self-control. You are incredibly sensitive; self-control is what you need.” “So you are civilized!” I said. “One day, I intend to be.”

December 9th.—“Come here, Mrs. Chesnut,” Mary Preston said today, “they're lifting General Hood out of his carriage right at your door.” Mrs. Grundy quickly had him taken into her drawing room on the first floor. Mary Preston and I rushed down and greeted him just as cheerfully and warmly as if nothing had changed since we last saw him a year ago. He had so much attention! They brought him some sliced oranges. “People are so kind,” he said. “Not once since I was injured have I been without fruit, no matter how hard it is to find now.” “The monetary value of friendship is easy to calculate now,” someone remarked, “oranges are five dollars each.”

December 10th.—Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Lyons came over. We ordered lunch for them, and then gave a clear explanation of the chronique scandaleuse, featuring Beck J. as the main character. We walked home with Mrs. Davis and saw the President riding alone. That definitely seems wrong. It must be unsafe for him with so many traitors around, not to mention bribed Black people. Burton Harrison[108] says Mr. Davis prefers to go alone, and no one dares to disagree with him.

My husband set the rules last night. I felt it was the last straw. “No more feasting in this house,” he said. “This isn’t the time for partying and celebrating.” “But you said you brought me here to enjoy the winter before taking me home and facing me towards[264] a blank wall.” He is the one in charge; when he speaks, I have to obey.

December 14th.—I went out with Mrs. Davis. She had a watch in her hand that some deceased soldier wanted sent to his family. First, we went to her dressmaker, then we drove to the Fair Grounds where the band was playing. Suddenly, she realized the watch was missing. She remembered having it when we left the dressmaker’s. We turned back right away, and there was the watch lying near the steps of the little porch in front of the house. Apparently, no one had gone in; in any case, no one had noticed it.

Preston Hampton came with me to meet Conny Cary. The conversation was intensely focused on literature, which Preston found quite demanding. I had just picked up the St. Denis edition of Les Misérables.

Sunday, Christopher Hampton walked to church with me. As we were leaving, General Lee was seen slowly making his way down the aisle, bowing elegantly to both sides. I pointed him out to Christopher Hampton just as General Lee looked our way. He bowed low, giving me a charming smile of recognition. I felt embarrassed for being so happy about it. I blushed like a schoolgirl.

We went to the White House. They served us tea. The President said he had been on his way to our house with the whole Davis family to see me, but the kids got so unruly that they decided to turn back. Just then, little Joe rushed in and insisted on saying his prayers at his father's knee right then and there. He was still in his pajamas.

December 19th.—A box has arrived from home for me. Taking advantage of this good luck and a fully stocked pantry, I’ve invited Mrs. Davis to dinner with me. Wade Hampton sent me a basket of game. We had Mrs. Davis and Mr. and Mrs. Preston over. After dinner, we walked to the church to see the Freeland-Lewis wedding. Mr. Preston had Mrs. Davis on his arm. My husband, Mrs. Preston, Burton[265] Harrison, and I followed behind. Willie Allan joined us, and we enjoyed waiting for a whole hour. Then the beautiful Maria, the loveliest of brides, appeared on her father’s arm, and Major John Coxe Lewis followed with Mrs. Freeland. After the ceremony, there was an abundance of kissing up and down the aisle. The thrilled groom kissed everyone enthusiastically, and several girls complained, but he said: “How am I supposed to know Maria’s relatives whom I’m supposed to kiss? It's better to show too much affection for new family than too little.”

December 21st.—Joe Johnston has been appointed Commander-in-chief of the Army of the West. It’s said that General Lee was behind this decision. Miss Agnes Lee and “little Robert” (as everyone affectionately calls General Lee’s youngest son in this hero-worshiping community) stopped by. They mentioned that the President, General Lee, and General Elzey had gone out to inspect the fortifications around Richmond. My husband came home saying he had been with them and lent General Lee his gray horse.

Mrs. Howell, Mrs. Davis’s mother, says that a year ago on the train a man declared, “We want a Dictator.” She responded, “Jeff Davis will never agree to be a Dictator.” The man turned sharply toward her and said, “And who asks him? Joe Johnston will be made Dictator by the Army of the West.” “Imperator” was suggested. Recently, the Army of the West has not been in a position to dictate to either friends or enemies. Clearly, Jeff Davis was reluctant to put Joe Johnston in charge of what little remains of it. Detached from General Lee, what a terrible failure Longstreet has become! Oh, for a day with Albert Sidney Johnston out West! And Stonewall, if only he could return to us here!

General Hood, the injured knight, came to get me to drive. I sensed that I would soon be chaperoning some girls, but I didn’t ask any questions. He used the time between Franklin and Cary Streets to say, “I really like your husband.” “So do I,” I answered simply.[266] Buck was sick in bed, or so William said at the door, but she recovered and came down for the drive dressed in black velvet and ermine, looking regal. And then, with the top of the landau down, wrapped in furs and blankets, we enjoyed a long drive on that bitterly cold day.

One day, as we were heading home from the fairgrounds, Sam, the wounded knight, asked Brewster what the signs of being in love are. Sam (everyone calls him Sam, but I don’t know why) said he didn’t know; at seventeen he thought he was in love, but that was "a long time ago." Brewster then talked about the signs of love: "When you see her, you might find it hard to breathe. If it feels like you can barely catch your breath, you’re in deep. You get ridiculously jealous, glaring with jealousy, and you have a gloomy, unshakeable belief that she likes every idiot you meet more than you, especially those you know she completely disdains; that is, you knew it before you lost your mind, I mean, before you fell in love. I’ll spare you the last stages of full-on infatuation," Brewster said, giggling and waving his hand. "Well," said Sam, taking a relieved breath, "I haven’t felt any of these things yet, and they say I’m engaged to four young ladies, a generous amount, you’ll agree, for a guy who can't walk without help."

Another day (the Sabbath), we stopped by on our way from church to see Mrs. Wigfall. She was unwell, but Mr. Wigfall insisted on taking me into the living room to rest for a bit. He mentioned that Louly was there, and indeed she was, along with Sam Hood, the wounded knight, lying back on a sofa with a rug draped over him. Louis Wigfall asked me, “Do you know General Hood?” “Yes,” I replied, and the General smiled with his eyes as I looked at him, but he didn't say anything. I found it an interesting contrast to what he had talked about the day before. Louly Wigfall is a very attractive girl.

[267]