A Confederate Girl’s Diary by Sarah Morgan Dawson

Tuesday, March 31st.

“To be, or not to be; that’s the question.” Whether ‘t is nobler in the Confederacy to suffer the pangs of unappeasable hunger and never-ending trouble, or to take passage to a Yankee port, and there remaining, end them. Which is best? I am so near daft that I cannot pretend to say; I only know that I shudder at the thought of going to New Orleans, and that my heart fails me when I think of the probable consequence to mother if I allow a mere outward sign of patriotism to overbalance what should be my first consideration — her health. For Clinton is growing no better rapidly. To be hungry is there an everyday occurrence. For ten days, mother writes, they have lived off just hominy enough to keep their bodies and souls from parting, without being able to procure another article — not even a potato. Mother is not in a condition to stand such privation; day by day she grows weaker on her new regimen; I am satisfied that two months more of danger, difficulties, perplexities, and starvation will lay her in her grave. The latter alone is enough to put a speedy end to her days. Lilly has been obliged to put her children to bed to make them forget they were supperless, and when she followed their example, could not sleep herself, for very hunger.

We have tried in vain to find another home in the Confederacy. After three days spent in searching Augusta, Gibbes wrote that it was impossible to find a vacant room for us, as the city was already crowded with refugees. A kind Providence must have destined that disappointment in order to save my life, if there is any reason for Colonel Steadman’s fears. We next wrote to Mobile, Brandon, and even that horrid little Liberty, besides making inquiries of every one we met, while Charlie, too, was endeavoring to find a place, and everywhere received the same answer — not a vacant room, and provisions hardly to be obtained at all.

The question has now resolved itself to whether we shall see mother die for want of food in Clinton, or, by sacrificing an outward show of patriotism (the inward sentiment cannot be changed), go with her to New Orleans, as Brother begs in the few letters he contrives to smuggle through. It looks simple enough. Ought not mother’s life to be our first consideration? Undoubtedly! But suppose we could preserve her life and our free sentiments at the same time? If we could only find a resting-place in the Confederacy! This though, is impossible. But to go to New Orleans; to cease singing “Dixie”; to be obliged to keep your sentiments to yourself — for I would not wound Brother by any Ultra-Secession speech, and such could do me no good and only injure him — if he is as friendly with the Federals as they say he is; to listen to the scurrilous abuse heaped on those fighting for our homes and liberties, among them my three brothers — could I endure it? I fear not. Even if I did not go crazy, I would grow so restless, homesick, and miserable, that I would pray for even Clinton again. Oh, I don’t, don’t want to go! If mother would only go alone, and leave us with Lilly! But she is as anxious to obtain Dr. Stone’s advice for me as we are to secure her a comfortable home; and I won’t go anywhere without Miriam, so we must all go together. Yet there is no disguising the fact that such a move will place us in a very doubtful position to both friends and enemies. However, all our friends here warmly advocate the move, and Will Pinckney and Frank both promised to knock down any one who shrugged their shoulders and said anything about it. But what would the boys say? The fear of displeasing them is my chief distress. George writes in the greatest distress about my prolonged illness, and his alarm about my condition. “ Of one thing I am sure,” he writes, “and that is that she deserves to recover; for a better little sister never lived.” God bless him! My eyes grew right moist over those few words. Loving words bring tears to them sooner than angry ones. Would he object to such a step when he knows that the very medicines necessary for my recovery are not to be procured in the whole country? Would he rather have mother dead and me a cripple, in the Confederacy, than both well, out of it? I feel that if we go we are wrong; but I am satisfied that it is worse to stay. It is a distressing dilemma to be placed in, as we are certain to be blamed whichever course we pursue. But I don’t want to go to New Orleans!

Before I had time to lay down my pen this evening, General Gardiner and Major Wilson were announced; and I had to perform a hasty toilette before being presentable. The first remark of the General was that my face recalled many pleasant recollections; that he had known my family very well, but that time was probably beyond my recollection; and he went on talking about father and Lavinia, until I felt quite comfortable, with this utter stranger. . . . I would prefer his speaking of “our” recent success at Port Hudson to “my”; for we each, man, woman, and child, feel that we share the glory of sinking the gunboats and sending Banks back to Baton Rouge without venturing on an attack; and it seemed odd to hear any one assume the responsibility of the whole affair and say “my success” so unconsciously. But this may be the privilege of generals. I am no judge, as this is the first Confederate general I have had the pleasure of seeing. Wish it had been old Stonewall! I grow enthusiastic every time I think of the dear old fellow!

I am indebted to General Gardiner for a great piece of kindness, though. I was telling him of how many enemies he had made among the ladies by his strict regulations that now rendered it almost impossible for the gentlemen to obtain permission to call on them, when he told me if I would signify to my friends to mention when they applied that their visit was to be here, and not elsewhere, that he would answer for their having a pass whenever they called for one. Merci àu compliment; mais c’est trop lard, Monsieur!

Wednesday, March 25th.

Early last evening the tremendous clatter of a sword that made such unnecessary noise that one might imagine the owner thereof had betaken himself to the favorite pastime of his childhood, and was prancing in on his murderous weapon, having mistaken it for his war steed, announced the arrival of Captain Bradford, who with two friends came to say adieu. Those vile Yankees have been threatening Ponchatoula, and his battery, with a regiment of infantry, was on its way there to drive them back. The Captain sent me word of the distressing departure, with many assurances that he would take care of “my” John.

Scarcely had he departed, when lo! John arrives, and speaks for himself. Yes! he is going! Only a moment to say good-bye . . . sunset approaches. Well! he must say good-bye now! Chorus of young ladies: “Oh, will you not spend the evening with us? You can easily overtake the battery later.” Chorus of married ladies: “You must not think of going. Here is a comfortable room at your service, and after an early breakfast you can be on the road as soon as the others.” No necessity for prayers; he readily consents. And yet, as the evening wore on, when we laughed loudest I could not help but think of poor little Mrs. McPhaul sitting alone and crying over her brother’s departure, fancying his precious bones lying on the damp ground with only the soldier’s roof — the blue vault of heaven — above, while two miles away he sat in a comfortable parlor amusing himself.

About sunrise, while the most delightful dreams floated through my brain, a little voice roused me exclaiming, “Sady! Sady! John Hawsey say so! Say give Sady!” I opened my eyes to see little Gibbes standing by me, trying to lay some flowers on my cheek, his little face sparkling with delight at his own importance. A half-opened rosebud with the faintest blush of pink on its creamy leaves — a pink, and a piece of arbor vitae, all sprinkled with dew, this was my bouquet. The servant explained that Mr. Halsey had just left, and sent me that with his last good-bye. And he has gone! “And now there’s nothing left but weeping! His face I ne’er shall see, and naught is left to me, save” — putting away my book and all recollections of nonsense. So here goes!

March 17th.

On dit the Yankees have gone back to Baton Rouge, hearing we had sixty thousand men coming down after them. I believe I am positively disappointed! I did want to see them soundly thrashed! The light we thought was another burning house was that of the Mississippi. They say the shrieks of the men when our hot shells fell among them, and after they were left by their companions to burn, were perfectly appalling.

Another letter from Lilly has distressed me beyond measure. She says the one chicken and two dozen eggs Miriam and I succeeded in buying from the negroes by prayers and entreaties, saved them from actual hunger; and for two days they had been living on one egg apiece and some cornbread and syrup. Great heavens! has it come to this? Nothing to be bought in that abominable place for love or money. Where the next meal comes from, nobody knows.

Sunday, March 15th.

To my unspeakable surprise, I waked up this morning and found myself alive. Once satisfied of that, and assuring myself of intense silence in the place of the great guns which rocked me to sleep about half-past two this morning, I began to doubt that I had heard any disturbance in the night, and to believe I had written a dream within a dream, and that no bombardment had occurred; but all corroborate my statement, so it must be true, and this portentous silence is only the calm before the storm. I am half afraid the land force won’t attack.

We can beat them if they do; but suppose they lay siege to Port Hudson and starve us out? That is the only way they can conquer.

We hear nothing still that is reliable.

Just before daylight there was a terrific explosion which electrified every one save myself. I was sleeping so soundly that I did not hear anything of it, though Mrs. Badger says that when she sprang up and called me, I talked very rationally about it, and asked what it could possibly be. Thought that I had ceased talking in my sleep. Miriam was quite eloquent in her dreams before the attack, crying aloud, “See! See! What do I behold?” as though she were witnessing a rehearsal of the scene to follow.

Later. Dr. Kennedy has just passed through, and was within the fortifications last night; brings news which is perhaps reliable, as it was obtained from Gardiner. It was, as we presumed, the batteries and gunboats. One we sunk; another, the Mississippi, we disabled so that the Yankees had to abandon and set fire to her, thirty-nine prisoners falling into our hands. It was her magazine that exploded this morning. Two other boats succeeded in passing, though badly crippled. Our batteries fired gallantly. Hurrah! for Colonel Steadman! I know his was by no means the least efficient!

Clinton, they say, will inevitably be sacked. Alas, for mother and Lilly! What can we do? The whole country is at the mercy of the Yankees as long as Gardiner keeps within the fortifications. Six miles below here they entered Mr. Newport’s, pulled the pillow-cases from the beds, stuffed them with his clothes, and helped themselves generally. What can we expect here? To tell the truth, I should be disappointed if they did not even look in at us, on their marauding expedition.

Saturday, March 14th.

5 o’clock, P.M.

They are coming! The Yankees are coming at last! For four or five hours the sound of their cannon has assailed our ears. There! — that one shook my bed! Oh, they are coming! God grant us the victory! They are now within four miles of us, on the big road to Baton Rouge. On the road from town to Clinton, we have been fighting since daylight at Readbridge, and have been repulsed. Fifteen gunboats have passed Vicksburg, they say. It will be an awful fight. No matter! With God’s help we’ll conquer yet! Again! — the report comes nearer. Oh, they are coming! Coming to defeat, I pray God.

Only we seven women remain in the house. The General left this morning, to our unspeakable relief. They would hang him, we fear, if they should find him here. Mass’ Gene has gone to his company; we are left alone here to meet them. If they will burn the house, they will have to burn me in it. For I cannot walk, and I know they shall not carry me. I ‘m resigned. If I should burn, I have friends and brothers enough to avenge me. Create such a consternation! Better than being thrown from a buggy — only I’d not survive to hear of it!

Letter from Lilly to-day has distressed me beyond measure. Starvation which threatened them seems actually at their door. With more money than they could use in ordinary times, they can find nothing to purchase. Not a scrap of meat in the house for a week. No pork, no potatoes, fresh meat obtained once as a favor, and poultry and flour articles unheard of. Besides that, Tiche crippled, and Margret very ill, while Liddy has run off to the Yankees. Heaven only knows what will become of them. The other day we were getting ready to go to them (Thursday) when the General disapproved of my running such a risk, saying he’d call it a d— piece of nonsense, if I asked what he thought; so we remained. They will certainly starve soon enough without our help; and yet — I feel we should all be together still. That last superfluous word is the refrain of Gibbes’s song that is ringing in my ears, and that I am chanting in a kind of ecstasy of excitement : —

“Then let the cannon boom as it will,

We ‘ll be gay and happy still!”

And we will be happy in spite of Yankee guns! Only — my dear This, That, and the Other, at Port Hudson, how I pray for your safety! God spare our brave soldiers, and lead them to victory! I write, touch my guitar, talk, pick lint, and pray so rapidly that it is hard to say which is my occupation. I sent Frank some lint the other day, and a bundle of it for Mr. Halsey is by me. Hope neither will need it! But to my work again!

Half-past One o’clock, A.M.

It has come at last! What an awful sound! I thought I had heard a bombardment before; but Baton Rouge was child’s play compared to this. At half-past eleven came the first gun — at least the first I heard, and I hardly think it could have commenced many moments before. Instantly I had my hand on Miriam, and at my first exclamation, Mrs. Badger and Anna answered. All three sprang to their feet to dress, while all four of us prayed aloud. Such an incessant roar! And at every report the house shaking so, and we thinking of our dear soldiers, the dead and dying, and crying aloud for Sod’s blessing on them, and defeat and overthrow to their enemies. That dreadful roar! I can’t think fast enough. They are too quick to be counted. We have all been in Mrs. Carter’s room, from the last window of which we can see the incessant flash of the guns and the great shooting stars of flame, which must be the hot shot of the enemy. There is a burning house in the distance, the second one we have seen to-night. For Yankees can’t prosper unless they are pillaging honest people. Already they have stripped all on their road of cattle, mules, and negroes.

Gathered in a knot within and without the window, we six women up here watched in the faint starlight the flashes from the guns, and silently wondered which of our friends were lying stiff and dead, and then, shuddering at the thought, betook ourselves to silent prayer. I think we know what it is to “wrestle with God in prayer”; we had but one thought. Yet for women, we took it almost too coolly. No tears, no cries, no fear, though for the first five minutes everybody’s teeth chattered violently. Mrs. Carter had her husband in Fenner’s battery, the hottest place if they are attacked by the land force, and yet to my unspeakable relief she betrayed no more emotion than we who had only friends there. We know absolutely nothing; when does one ever know anything in the country? But we presume that this is an engagement between our batteries and the gunboats attempting to run the blockade.

Firing has slackened considerably. All are to lie down already dressed; but being in my nightgown from necessity, I shall go to sleep, though we may expect at any instant to hear the tramp of Yankee cavalry in the yard.

March 10th, Tuesday.

I had so many nice things to say — which now, alas, are knocked forever from my head — when news came that the Yankees were advancing on us, and were already within fifteen miles. The panic which followed reminded me forcibly of our running days in Baton Rouge. Each one rapidly threw into trunks all clothing worth saving, with silver and valuables, to send to the upper plantation. I sprang up, determined to leave instantly for Clinton so mother would not be alarmed for our safety; but before I got halfway dressed, Helen Carter came in, and insisted on my remaining, declaring that my sickness and inability to move would prove a protection to the house, and save it from being burned over their heads. Put on that plea, though I have no faith in melting the bowels of compassion of a Yankee, myself, I consented to remain, as Miriam urgently represented the dangers awaiting Clinton. So she tossed all we owned into our trunk to send to mother as hostage of our return, and it is now awaiting the cars. My earthly possessions are all reposing by me on the bed at this instant, consisting of my guitar, a change of clothes, running-bag, cabas, and this book. For in spite of their entreaties, I would not send it to Clinton, expecting those already there to meet with a fiery death — though I would like to preserve those of the most exciting year of my life. They tell me that this will be read aloud to me to torment me, but I am determined to burn it if there is any danger of that. Why, I would die without some means of expressing my feelings in the stirring hours so rapidly approaching. I shall keep it by me.

Such bustle and confusion! Every one hurried, anxious, excited, whispering, packing trunks, sending them off; wondering negroes looking on in amazement until ordered to mount the carts waiting at the door, which are to carry them too away. How disappointed the Yankees will be at finding only white girls instead of their dear sisters and brothers whom they love so tenderly! Sorry for their disappointment!

“They say” they are advancing in overwhelming numbers. That is nothing, so long as God helps us, and from our very souls we pray His blessing on us in this our hour of need. For myself, I cannot yet fully believe they are coming. It would be a relief to have it over. I have taken the responsibility of Lydia’s jewelry on my shoulders, and hope to be able to save it in the rush which will take place. Down at the cars Miriam met Frank Enders, going to Clinton in charge of a car full of Yankees, — deserters, who came into our lines. He thinks, just as I do, that our trunks are safer here than there. Now that they are all off, we all agree that it was the most foolish thing we could have done. These Yankees interfere with all our arrangements.

I am almost ashamed to confess what an absurdly selfish thought occurred to me a while ago. I was lamenting to myself all the troubles that surround us, the dangers and difficulties that perplex us, thinking of the probable fate that might befall some of our brave friends and defenders in Port Hudson, when I thought, too, of the fun we would miss. Horrid, was it not? But worse than that, I was longing for something to read, when I remembered Frank told me he had sent to Alexandria for Bulwer’s “Strange Story” for me, and then I unconsciously said, “How I wish it would get here before the Yankees!” I am very anxious to read it, but confess I am ashamed of having thought of it at such a crisis. So I toss up the farthing Frank gave me for a keepsake the other day, and say I’ll try in future to think less of my own comfort and pleasure.

Poor Mr. Halsey! What a sad fate the pets he procures for me meet! He stopped here just now on his way somewhere, and sent me a curious bundle with a strange story, by Miriam. It seems he got a little flying-squirrel for me to play with (must know my partiality for pets), and last night, while attempting to tame him, the little creature bit his finger, whereupon he naturally let him fall on the ground, (Temper!) which put a period to his existence. He had the nerve to skin him after the foul murder, and sent all that remains of him out to me to prove his original intention. The softest, longest, prettiest fur, and such a duck of a tail! Poor little animal could n’t have been larger than my fist. Wonder if its spirit will meet with that of the little bird which flew heavenward with all that pink ribbon and my letter from Mr. Halsey?

Wednesday, February 25th.

Here we are still, in spite of our expectations. Difficulty on difficulty arose, and an hour before the cars came, it was settled that mother should go to Clinton and make the necessary arrangements, and leave us to follow in a day or two. Two days more! Miriam no more objected than I did, so mother went alone. Poor Miriam went to bed soon after, very ill. So ill that she lay groaning in bed at dusk, when a stir was heard in the hall below, and Colonel Steadman, Major Spratley, and Mr. Dupré were announced. Presto! up she sprang, and flew about in the most frantic style, emptying the trunk on the floor to get her prettiest dress, and acting as though she had never heard of pains and groans. When we leave, how much I shall miss the fun of seeing her and Anna running over each other in their excitement of dressing for their favorites. Anna’s first exclamation was, “Ain’t you glad you did n’t go!” and certainly we were not sorry, from mere compassion; for what would she have done with all three? If I laughed at their extra touches to their dresses, it did not prevent me from bestowing unusual attention on my own. And by way of bravado, when I was carried down, I insisted on Mrs. Badger lending me her arm, to let me walk into the parlor and prove to Colonel Steadman that in spite of his prophecies I was able to take a few steps at least.

• • • • • • • • •

His last words, “You won’t go, will you? Think once more!” sent me upstairs wondering, thinking, undecided, and unsatisfied, hardly knowing what to do, or what to say. Every time I tried to sleep, those calm, deep, honest gray eyes started up before my closed ones, and that earnest “You won’t go, will you? Think once more!” rang in my ears like a solemn warning. Hopes of seeing Georgia grew rather faint, that night. Is it lawful to risk my life? But is it not better to lose it while believing that I have still a chance of saving it by going, than to await certain death calmly and unresisting in Clinton? I’d rather die struggling for this life, this beautiful, loved, blessed life that God has given me!

Tuesday [February] 24th.

Meeting Miriam by mere accident on the road last evening and hearing of our surprising journey to Georgia, Mr. Halsey came to spend a last evening with us, and say good-bye. What a deluge of regrets, hopes, fears, etc. Perfectly overwhelming. Why had I not told him of it the night before? All our friends would be so disappointed at not having an opportunity of saying good-bye. If the Yankees would only postpone their attack so he might accompany us! But no matter; he would come on in two months, and meet us there. And would we not write to him?

Thank you! Miriam may, but I shall hardly do so! We had such a pleasant evening together, talking over our trip. Then we had a dozen songs on the guitar, gay, sad, and sentimental; then he gave me a sprig of jessamine as a keepsake, and I ripped open my celebrated “running-bag” to get a real for true silver five cents — a perfect curiosity in these days — which I gave him in exchange, and which he promised to wear on his watch-chain. He and Miriam amused themselves examining the contents of my sack and laughing at my treasures, the wretches! Then came — good-bye. I think he was sorry to see us go. Well! he ought to miss us! Ah! these farewells! To-day I bid adieu to Linwood. “It may be for years, and it may be forever!” This good-bye will cost me a sigh.

Monday, February 23d.

Here goes! News has been received that the Yankees are already packed, ready to march against us at any hour. If I was up and well, how my heart would swell with exultation. As it is, it throbs so with excitement that I can scarcely lie still. Hope amounts almost to presumption at Port Hudson. They are confident that our fifteen thousand can repulse twice the number. Great God! — I say it with all reverence — if we could defeat them! If we could scatter, capture, annihilate them! My heart beats but one prayer — Victory! I shall grow wild repeating it. In the mean time, though, Linwood is in danger. This dear place, my second home; its loved inhabitants; think of their being in such peril! Oh, I shall cry heartily if harm comes to them! But I must leave before. No use of leaving my bones for the Yankees to pick; better sing “Dixie” in Georgia.

To-morrow, consequently, I go to that earthly paradise, Clinton, thence to be re-shipped (so goes the present programme) to Augusta in three days. And no time for adieux! Wonder who will be surprised, who vexed, and who will cry over the unforeseen separation? Not a single “good-bye”! Nothing —except an old brass button that Mr. Halsey gave me as a souvenir in case he should be killed in the coming assault. It is too bad. Ah! Destiny! Destiny! Where do you take us? During these two trying years, I have learned to feel myself a mere puppet in the hands of a Something that takes me here to-day, to-morrow there, always unexpectedly, and generally very unwillingly, but at last leads me somewhere or other, right side up with care, after a thousand troubles and distresses. The hand of Destiny is on me now; where will it lead me?