New Orleans, May 9th [1862]. It has been long since we heard from our dear brother, for the letters I sent to his last encampment must have failed to reach him, and of late have had no means of communicating with him. I would have told him of events which have come to pass in this city at the time of their passing, but I have been too excited to take orderly note of anything. Before he sees this, if ever he does, he will have heard of the surrender of the city. A pitiful affair it has been. In the first place, Lovell, a most worthless creature, was sent here by Davis to superintend the defense of this city. He did little or nothing and the little he did was all wrong. Duncan, the really gallant defender of Fort Jackson, could get nothing that he needed, though he continually applied to Lovell. Only a few guns at the fort worked at all, but these were gallantly used for the defense of the city. The fort is uninjured and could have held out till our great ram, the Mississippi, was finished, but a traitor sent word to the commander of the Federal fleet to hasten, which he did, and our big gun, our only hope, was burned before our eyes to prevent her from falling into Federal bands. First and last then, this city, the most important one in the Confederacy, has fallen, and Yankee troops are drilling and parading in our streets. Poor New Orleans! What has become of all your promised greatness! In looking through an old trunk, I came across a letter of my father to my Uncle Thomas, in which, as far back as 1836, he prophesied a noble future for you. What would he say now to see you dismantled and lying low under the heel of the invader! I am going to write this letter of my father’s here in my journal. [See Letter, p. 17.]
Behold, what has now come to the city! Never can I forget the day that the alarm bell rang. I never felt so hopeless and forsaken. The wretched generals, left here with our troops, ran away and left them. Lovell knew not what to do; some say he was intoxicated, some say frightened. Of course the greatest confusion prevailed, and every hour, indeed almost every moment, brought its dreadful rumor. After it was known that the gunboats had actually passed, the whole city, both camp and street, was a scene of wild confusion. The women only did not seem afraid. They were all in favor of resistance, no matter how hopeless that resistance might be. The second day matters wore a more favorable aspect, and the Mayor and the City Council assumed a dignified position toward the enemy. Flag Officer Farragut demanded the unconditional surrender of the town. He was told that as brute force, and brute force only, gave him the power that he might come and take it. He then demanded that we, with our own hands, pull down the flag of Louisiana. This I am happy to say, was refused. Four days we waited, expecting to be shelled, but he concluded to waive the point; so he marched in his marines with two cannons and our flag was taken down and the old stars and stripes lifted in a dead silence. We made a great mistake here; we should have shot the man that brought down the flag, and as long as there was a house-top in the city left, it should have been hoisted. The French and English lay in the Gulf and a French frigate came up the river to protect French subjects.
Farragut allowed the women and children but forty-eight hours to leave the city, but the foreign consuls demanded a much longer time to move the people of their respective nations. If we had been staunch and dared them to shell, the Confederacy would have been saved. The brutal threat would never have been carried out, for England and France would never have allowed it. The delay would have enabled us to finish our boat, and besides a resistance would have showed the enemy and foreign nations, too, what stuff we were made of and how very much we were in earnest. I never wished anything so much in my life as for resistance here. I felt no fear—only excitement. The ladies of the town signed a paper, praying that it should never be given up. We went down to put our names on the list, and met the marines marching up to the City Hall with their cannon in front of them. The blood boiled in my veins— I felt no fear—only anger. I forgot myself and called out several times: “Gentlemen, don’t let the State Flag come down,” and, “Oh, how can you men stand it?” Mrs. Norton was afraid of me, I believe, for she hurried me off. I have forgotten to mention—at first, the Germans at the fort mutinied and turned their guns on their officers. In the first place, several gunboats had passed the fort at night because a traitor had failed to give the signal. He was tried and shot, and Duncan telegraphed to the city that no more should pass—then came a report that the Yankee vessels were out of powder and coal and they could not get back to their transports which they had expected to follow them. We were quite jubilant at the idea of keeping them in a sort of imprisonment, and this we could have done but for the German mutineers. The wives of these men were allowed to visit the fort, and they represented the uselessness of the struggle, because the city had already surrendered. They were told, too, that Duncan intended to blow up the fort over their heads rather than surrender. So they spiked their cannon and threatened the lives of their officers and then the Yankee fleet poured up. These people have complimented us highly. To quell a small “rebellion,” they have made preparations enough to conquer a world. This is a most cowardly struggle—these people can do nothing without gunboats. Beauregard in Tennessee can get no battle from them where they are protected by these huge block steamers. These passive instruments do their fighting for them. It is at best a dastardly way to fight. We should have had gunboats if the Government had been efficient, wise or earnest. We have lost our city, the key to this great valley, and my opinion is that we will never, never get it more, except by treaty. Many think otherwise. The most tantalizing rumors reach us daily (though the papers are not allowed to print our news, we hear it). We have heard that Stonewall Jackson has surprised and taken Washington City; that Beauregard has had a splendid victory in Tennessee; and our other generals have annihilated the enemy in Virginia. Sometimes we are elated, but most generally depressed.
My dear, dear brother! We are filled with anxiety for him! Even if he is spared through this fight, when and where can we see him again! I feel wretched to think of his hardships and loneliness, hearing nothing from home. I hope he is not uneasy about us—for we are to leave the city with kind friends—and sister Matilda is in a safe place. Mail communication is cut off. I hope he is not anxious because he does not hear.
This is a cruel war. These people are treated with the greatest haughtiness by the upper classes and rudeness by the lower. They know how they are hated and hang their heads. Shopkeepers refuse to sell to them, and the traitor who hurried them up the river has to have a guard. Public buildings have been seized by the troops, but so far the civil government has not been interfered with. I think their plan is to conciliate if possible. The cotton and sugar have been burned; that is one comfort, and the work of destruction still goes on on the plantations. I shall never forget the long, dreadful night when we sat with our friends and watched the flames from all sorts of valuables as the gunboats were coming up the river.
My dear brother! If I could only, only hear from him! If I could only see him for but a little while! And if I could be near enough to get to him if he were wounded—I would be content. Thoughts of the long ago fill my heart as I write, and I feel that he may not even be alive while I do so. I long so for his safety and do not care for distinction. Oh, if we were only all safe and together in some quiet land where there would be no war, no government even to make war! I long to be rid of the evil and suffering which spring from the passions of men! Clap-trap sentiments and political humbugs! I almost hate the word “Flag” even!
Mrs. Norton and all our friends are so kind to us and we are safe in their hands. Billy Ogden is with Claude, and his brother Abner, who served at Fort Jackson, is on parole. He is much grieved at the surrender of the Fort. No one can leave the city without a pass. How I am ever to get this I don’t know. Mrs. Brown told me to write tonight and she would try to get a letter through for me to Claude. I am told that a stand will be made at Vicksburg. They are working hard at batteries there. They will at least delay the gunboats until we can do something that we wish. About their having the whole river, that is of course only a question of time. Fort Pillow will fall, if it has not already done so. Our only hope now is from our soldiers in the field, and this brings me to my dear brother again and all he will have to endure. Sometimes I feel that nothing is worth such sacrifice. These States may divide and fight one another, too, sometime. This war has shaken my faith. Nothing is secure if the passions and follies of men can intermeddle. Often, though, I feel that these insolent invaders with their bragging, should be conquered—come what will. Better to die than to be under their rule. The Yankees have established strict quarantine. The people of the town are frightening them terribly with tales about the yellow fever. We are compelled to laugh at the frequent amusing accounts we hear of the way in which they are treated by boys, Irish women, and the lower classes generally. Mr. Soulé refused General Butler’s hand (they were old friends), remarking that their intercourse must now be purely official. Our Mayor has behaved with great dignity. Butler says he will be revenged for the treatment he and his troops have received here—so he will, I expect, if matters go against us in other places. There is some fear that the city will need provisions very much. The country people won’t send in anything; they are so angry about the surrender. The Texas drovers who were almost here as soon as they heard of it, sold their cattle for little or nothing just where they were and went home again. I wish we were all safe back there again. I don’t think Texas will ever be conquered.
God bless my dear brother; God protect him and let us meet once more. I do not feel anxious about sister Tilly, only him. I hope he will send us a line whenever he can. I hope he will inquire about returning soldiers and not let one come in without trying to send us a line to say he is well. Letters directed to Mrs. Chilton or Charley in Hinds County reach us. But I must be careful how I write; it may reach other eyes. Oh, to say good-night to my poor brother. Ginnie is not well. Our love to our brother from Jule.
