Through Some Eventful Years by Susan Bradford Eppes

Susan Bradford Eppes, "Through Some Eventful Years"

May 10th, 1862.—There are rumors that McClellan has been removed from Richmond and McDowell appointed instead. With this new commander we may expect more fighting. “A new broom sweeps clean,” they say. Sister Mag has made up her mind to go to the front where she can be at hand if Brother Amos should be wounded. This dreadful waiting, waiting, has almost broken her heart. In June she will take her children, Eddie and the baby girl, whom her father has never seen, and go to Richmond. Sister Mart will accompany her and, of course, there are nurses for both babies. The whole neighborhood is interested and is busy embroidering pretty things for the children. No other trimming to be had in this blockaded country. But that is the least of all the inconveniences.

The book-keeper is getting on quite well with the work and Mrs. Ansell is a really cultivated woman, she comes to every meeting of the Sewing Society and seems as patriotic as the rest. Her little son sticks to me like a burr.

Susan Bradford Eppes, "Through Some Eventful Years"

May 5th, 1862.—We are continually hearing rumors of a fierce battle at Williamsburg but we do not know on what these rumors are based; we have no telegraphic communication and for weeks the mails have been so irregular as to amount to no news at all. No letters; no passing; just no news at all that can be relied on. We can only hope and pray.

Susan Bradford Eppes, "Through Some Eventful Years"

May 1st, 1862.—Father has engaged a book-keeper to come next week. He says it keeps me too close. This man is an Englishman with a wife, a small son and a brother-in-law; a strong, healthy man, who looks as if he ought to be in the army but he says being an Englishman he is not subject to military duty. Uncle Henry got his arm cut off just above the elbow, in the shingle mill and this young man is to take his place. They live in the house formerly occupied by the sawyer, Mr. Wheeler.

Father is so terribly afraid we will develop consumption because our grandmother Bradford died of it. That is why he requires us to spend so much time in out-door exercise. I am a little sorry to give up the book-keeping for I felt that I was helping, but there is a plenty to do in other ways. Fighting is going on all along the line but the telegraph wires have been cut and no certain news comes to us.

Susan Bradford Eppes, "Through Some Eventful Years"

April 5th, 1862.—Sewing societies were organized long ago and every neighborhood has one. Ours meets first at one house and then at another, and all of us sew steadily all day long. Mother cuts many of the garments and Mrs. Manning helps her, that is, when they meet with us.

Peter and Mac make packing cases and it is astonishing how many garments go forward from the Bradford neighborhood.

I did not know much about sewing at first; at the beginning I made Charley Hopkins two flannel shirts but I am ashamed to say Lulu did most of the sewing. Now I can take any kind of a garment and make it entire, even the buttonholes, though Sister Mag says my button holes “gape.” I mean to improve on them. I have to do my book-keeping early in the morning and sometimes I have to work at night to finish up the day’s work. Since we have been sewing so steadily I have given up my horseback rides. Father does not approve of that. I take a good deal of exercise in other ways, however, and I feel well and strong.

March 23rd, 1862.—This is Eddie’s birthday, Adeline made him a cake, (no white sugar to ice it) and by great good luck I found in my doll things, which have been packed away, two toy candles which delighted his heart.

Though the weather is still cold in Virginia the army seems to be on the move and I am afraid we will hear of more battles soon. If I, who have only brothers and cousins in the army, dread this so, what must it be to the poor wives and mothers and fathers? Uncle Richard has never been the same since Cousin Rich was killed.

March 16th, 1862.—The entire family wrote to Brother Amos this morning, he will surely find out he has a young daughter. As scarce as paper is Eddie had to have a whole sheet to write his letter on. He looked so in earnest that I asked what he was writing? He said, “I is sayin’, Father come home and wear de beautiful cloes.” He admires the gray and gold as much as the rest of us do.

March 15th, 1862.—Sister Mag has a daughter, born this morning. Poor little girl. She will, in all probability, never see her father’s face. I do not believe the war is going to end in even ninety days. Sister Mag is very ill tonight and I have Eddie upstairs with me, that he may not disturb his mother. He is as sweet and good as can be. When I told him about his baby sister he said, “Don’t bring her upstairs, let her be Aunt Pat’s baby, I is yours.” I certainly love him.

March 13th, 1862.—Brother Amos left this morning and our hearts ache for both of them. The women of the South have much to bear. Father takes me with him every other day to search for certain medicinal plants and roots, from which supplies for hospital use can be made. Medicines of all kinds are scarce in the Confederacy. Occasionally a vessel will run the blockade but not often; the Yankees have succeeded in making us very uncomfortable, to say the least of it.

Last week we sent to the hospital in Richmond a case of iron tonic for convalescents. We are now making a decoction of Boneset for chills and fever; this having been tried at home with good results was considered good enough for our dear soldiers. We make a salve too, from the leaves of what the negroes call “Jimson Weed.” It is healing and soothing and the small quantity of spirits of turpentine, we add to it, makes it more effective. Another salve is made from the root of the elder, grated and stewed in lard. With this salve goes a decoction of elder flowers, these used in conjunction are a preventive of gangrene and will sometimes cure it. Oh, if our poor soldiers could only have half the medicines they need; it is so hard to see them suffer for simple things that all the world besides can have. I think this blockade is devilish.

March 8th, 1862.—I do not like Dr. Cleveland. I wonder how much longer he is going to stay? This morning while we were sitting at the breakfast table he was contending with Mother about the “sweet-briar.” It seems he has spent much time in England, perhaps he is an Englishman, but he insists that there has never been any “sweet briar,” or as he says, any “true Eglantine” in America. I think it is rude of him to be so positive with Mother, but Father says, “all scientific men love to dispute with the laity.” At last, when we were rising from the table Mother said, “Sue, show Dr. Cleveland the sweet briar by the school room.”

We went down the walk to the frame where it grew and I pointed it out to him. Now this happened to be the very tangle of vines into which I threw my algebra, on that memorable day when Miss Darner made me pick it up. The vines are all thorns and they scratched me dreadfully. Dr. Cleveland inspected the vine, pinched a leaf, smelled it, sniffing loudly and then he said, “This is the true Eglantine.”

“Mother told you it was,” I replied.

He took from his pocket a small sketch-book and pencil and proceeded to make a picture of it, not a finished drawing but just a sketch. He replaced the book and pencil in his pocket and, trying to speak very pleasantly, he said: “When I get to my drawing materials I shall make and send you a pretty picture of this Eglantine, it is very rare.”

“Do not trouble to do that, please, I have no pleasant associations with that thorny tangle,” I answered, and we returned to the house.

The mail had arrived in our absence and the family were gathered around the library table; aunt Robinson handed me a letter from Brother Junius, saying as she did so, “Here is another birthday gift for you.”

Dr. Cleveland, who was apologizing awkwardly to Mother for contradicting her so flatly as to the sweet briar, turned to Father and asked, “Her birthday, is it, how old?” “Sixteen,” said Father. “Indeed—” went on the talkative man of science, “I should never have imagined it—there is none of the `beaute du diable,’ which we naturally associate with that age.” “No,” said Father, “and I am glad of it, I do not want my baby to grow up too fast.”

Then the whole crowd proceeded to discuss me as calmly as if I had been one of my own dolls. It was embarrassing but I found out what they thought of me. Among other things, I learned that I was bluntly truthful and would have to learn that Madam de Geniis’ “Palace of Truth” was not practical and a white lie could sometimes be used to advantage. Mother’s constant teaching of the Ten Commandments will, I think, make even white lies difficult for me, though I do try to be polite.

I had some pretty presents even if it is war times, and I got a nice letter from Brother Junius, written two days ago so I would get it today. Brother Amos is here and Sister Mag is happy, we are too, for all love our jolly soldier boy, he has been at home for ten days and he has only two weeks furlough. It will be hard for Sister Mag to let him go.

There is something I have never told you, my Diary; ever since that day in August of last year, when we went to the depot to see the Howell Guards off to Virginia, Sister Mag has never failed to lock herself in her room for awhile every day to pray for her husband. I did not know just at first what she was doing, but I heard her tell him she never let a day pass without asking God to take care of him and he might know, wherever he might be, that her thoughts and her prayers were following him.

I felt real mean to have overheard this, for it was never intended for my ears, but I had sung Eddie to sleep and was holding him in my arms in the dark, waiting for Nellie to come for him, and they were talking on the porch just outside.