The Journal of Julia LeGrand

January 20th [1863]. Wrote letters to-day to Claude and Mrs. Chilton by persons going out. My heart felt so like breaking to feel so far off from all, that I was forced to relieve it by crying before I could go on.

Mr. Hill has just stopped in. He says that the Yankees will not hold this city much longer. Although I have heard this so often, it gives me a gleam of comfort every time I hear it. Oh, to break our prison bonds here, to be able to go once more where and when we pleased, to send comfort to those who are sick away from us and to be able to write a letter without thinking that some ruffian with epaulettes may read it, and perhaps send an orderly for us for not making it respectful enough to our jailers. Just had an offer for Greenville place; don’t know yet how it will turn out. Mr. Randolph called with fresh negotiations for the Greenville place. He advises us not to sell, as all property has been depreciated by the war and that in a few years a house like ours with three acres attached, lying on the Carrollton railroad, will be very valuable. He told us much war news. Banks has gone to Baton Rouge, it is said, to quell a mutiny among the soldiers. They say openly here that they do not want to fight us and they will seize the first opportunity to be paroled by being made prisoners. Others again hate us, and preach openly to the negroes to arise and kill us. Why they have done nothing except rob and steal, is a wonder. If they were not negroes we would have had another bloody revolution among us, but the African must shed several skins and pass through various stages before his red tide can mount at the words, “Give me liberty or give me death.” Almost daily encounters pass between white men and black, and the white man is always punished. Colonel French, however, has issued an order that no negro shall go out at night without a pass from his master; many arrests have been made; even the Yankee police hate them, and have been treated so badly by them that they are glad to rid the streets of them. A white policeman was beaten to death by negro soldiers in United States uniform—no punishment for the soldiers.

January 19th [1863]. Mary Waugh spent the evening; talked about ghosts and goblins until Jake, the little darky, was afraid to go to bed. Mrs. Norton said “nonsense” and “how can people be so silly?” to each veracious tale unfolded, but presently fell to telling the most wonderful spiritual visitation that I ever heard of, which had come under her own experience. She also quoted the spiritual accidents which happened in John Wesley’s family—people whom she could not doubt, being a fervent Methodist. These are the only ghosts she believes in; she says all the others are “lies and nonsense.”

January 17th [1863]. Company all day. Mrs. Roselius and a sweet little girl, who came to let us know they had a letter from Henny Davenport. She and her mother had a stormy passage across the water; had put in at Cork, but were now safe with friends at Kingston. Henny sends word that she likes Europe, but New Orleans better. She longs to see the Confederate uniform. Mrs. Davenport had a private interview a few days before she left for Europe with two gentlemen— friends of her husband. During this interview she agreed to accept from Mr. Wringlet, one of the gentlemen, a certain amount of household silver, in payment of a debt, he being at this crisis unable to give money, though worth millions. She thought, and so did the gentleman, that the interview was strictly private; their astonishment was therefore profound when General Butler sent for all three and opened up the silver subject. Mrs. Davenport, though angry enough, trotted along with Butler’s orderly. She found his Lordship walking the floor in his usual theatrical manner. The two gentlemen were summoned and accused, in brutal language, of swindling. “Do you know that these men have cheated you?” he said to Mrs. D——. “How did this happen?” he said, turning to Mr. ——. “Mind how you lie to me.” “You do not awe me by threats or such language, General Butler,” returned Mr. ——;”I lie to no man.” The precious image of brutal Judge Jeffries now stamped his foot and made his favorite threat—Fort Jackson. Mrs. D ——, trembling, said she had made a previous contract with these gentlemen and by it she was determined to abide. After more threats and much sifting he ordered the gentlemen to prison and Mrs. D —— to leave his presence. The silver had been conveyed to the vessel upon which Mrs. D —— was to sail. Butler had the hatchways broken and the silver delivered over to his tender and honest mercies. The gentlemen were ordered to raise a certain sum of money by such a time; one of them was bought off by one of his nieces. The next day the orderly was sent again for Mrs. D ——, and through a broiling sun she had again to follow him. This time she was so angry she forgot to be afraid. “Here is some money for you,” said Butler to her, pointing to $500.00, “in return for the debt out of which those men cheated you.” “I will not take it,” she said firmly; “I abide by my bargain.” “You won’t, won’t you! Here have I been to the trouble to do you justice and you don’t choose to accept of it; they tell me you are going to Europe; how well you would look now to go among your friends there with a bit of silver marked in one name and another bit in another. You are not so young, I think, that you don’t know something of business. When are you going to be off?” “On Monday, sir.” “I shall send you sooner.” “I shall go when I am ready, sir,” very firmly. “You shall go tomorrow,” stamping. “I shall go when I am ready, sir,” more firmly still. “I wish none of your impudence; you have a very long tongue of your own.” “Yes, sir, I have, but I only use it, as now, when I have occasion.” “I wish none of your impudence. Orderly, show that woman out,” and so ended the matter. The lady, being born a British subject, though long a resident here, hopes to get the silver. The matter rests with Mr. Coppel, the British-acting Consul here. Butler does as he pleases with the Consuls here and as he is a notorious thief, my private opinion is that her silver may be put down in the family account book, but it should not be counted in the family exchequer.

Mrs. Montgomery and the Judge and Mrs. Wells spent an evening with us. The Judge says we’ll have peace before spring, and though he is considered an oracle, I feel inclined to doubt him this time. Mrs. Montgomery read in an “extra” that her nephew was wounded at the late battle of Murfreesboro, and was sad in consequence. Mrs. Wells has not heard from her sweet daughters since December 4th. They left Vicksburg on account of the late attack there both by boat and land. They are still near enough to hear the cannon roar—I wish I was. The girls, Mattie and Sarah, had had their tea and other delicacies stolen. They had procured passes for them with so much trouble, too. Mrs. Wells says that she is glad of it, as they were always laughing at her locking-up system; that has been the rock upon which our household economies have split. It is so pleasant to trust; so convenient to say, “Oh, nobody will trouble it.”

January 16th [1863]. The Ogden and Harrison girls all in to-day from Greensville, looking rosy from the cold, and fat and cheerful in spite of blockades. They are brimful of the pride and glory and chivalry of “Rebeldom.” Our Southern heroes are fondly talked of by thousands of firesides from which they are shut out. I read an amusing letter written by an Englishman, one of the Alabama‘s men. Semme’s Southern chivalry, it seems is sometimes put to the test—he spared the Tonawando from destruction because of the female passengers, though it well nigh broke his heart to part with so fine a vessel. Ah, never let it be said that Southerners injure women! All prisoners are treated well, this Englishman says, though many are not grateful for having their lives spared. The Englishman says he is “taking both to the people, the ship, and the cause.”

Mr. Payne’s funeral took place to-day; died from brain affection brought on by trouble caused by this war. His sons are in the army, and he has left two young and pretty daughters. They have no mother and he was the fondest of fathers. The breaking up of the home is a solemn and awful thing to see. In after years we often realize how dear has been the common daily routine of the old home life.

A Yankee soldier remarked in the car to-day, “I wonder if these Southern girls can love as they hate? If they can, it would be well worth one’s trying to get one of them.” Another, passing the gate, said to his companions, “I tell you these Southerners have real pluck; if they were man to man with us they would whip us all to smash, but we have three to one, and that’s the only way we ’11 whip them.” Strange that they have so many men yet always complain when defeated that they were overwhelmed by numbers. I am told that there is a great speech of Valandingham out. How I admire this man, with his clear, keen, practical sense, imbued by a lofty sentiment; his rectitude, his strength, his sagacity to see the right, and his courage to speak it, in a time so corrupt that there is danger in so speaking. He can never become the mere man of wood that so many are. His noble protests against this cruel war have given positive comfort to me; it is so bitter to believe humanity corrupt. The number of his admirers in his own country proves that the Northern people are not all filled with spite and hatred of us, as so many believe. I love my own land as well as any man or woman that it nourishes! How gladly would I submit to sacrifices for her benefit or ennobling! How proudly would I shed my blood in her defence if I could, but my heart has yet to learn to take pleasure in the idea of evil in other lands! Love of country does not consist in hatred of other countries, or patriotism in believing that ours is free of faults; an honest desire to rectify the faults of one’s own country should stir the heart of each man and woman in it. This is a greater safeguard than boasting of our excellences. The statesman, or author, who tells us the truth is a greater benefactor than he who flatters our pride. No fear, with our English blood, of our becoming too humble-minded.

There is a war of parties expected at the North; I wish for it if it can result in letting the South pass in peace, but this great end gained, I cannot contemplate without horror the idea of civil war and its desolations. “They deserve it,” say my friends, who are ready to shake me for what they call luke-warmness. How painful it is never to be comprehended; of two evils, both for myself and my enemy, I would choose the least. If the North can suffer enough from the reign of her bloody radicals to bring back her good sense and humanity, I will be glad enough for her to suffer; further than this I wish her no ill; my prayer is ever that she may repent and go in peace. They have treated us cruelly and I wish companionship, fellowship and community of interest, never any more. Just heard from a gentleman from the North, that there is no hope of peace from that quarter. The radicals, knowing that they have the reins of Government in their own hands, are determined to press the war and overwhelm us before the Democrats can come into power. There is no hope that Lincoln will extend the time of Congress, and therefore the Democrats must sit in silent patience. These dreadful radicals are the jacobins of America and their cry is like the old one, “More blood!” The Democrats treat them, I hear, with the greatest contempt socially and politically. We have been hoping so for peace; my God, can we endure another year of war! Mrs. Roselius has just told us of some of the sufferings of Pierre Soule in Fort Lafayette; he was an intimate acquaintance of hers and she has learned much concerning him. A friend of Soule’s who knew how comfortably he had lived in New Orleans, got permission from the Government at Washington to send him little luxuries in prison. These she carried to him daily with her own hands, trusting none except the one to whom her little offerings were necessarily consigned—the jailer himself. What was her surprise after Mr. Soule’s release to hear that he had never received one of the articles which the jailer had made so many kind promises to deliver. Mr. Denman rode in the car in New York with an old woman who publicly cursed the secessionists and wished them all sorts of horrors; one of her sons they had killed outright, she said, and another to whom she was hastening had been wounded. “Were they drafted men, or did they enlist?” asked Mr. Denman. “They enlisted.” “Ah, well, they must have expected and been prepared for the consequences of war. They went to invade the South; their country was not invaded.”

January 15th [1863]. It stormed all night. I lay awake and thought of the poor, poor soldiers. I thought, too, much of the fall of Ft. Donelson, where the flag of the Confederacy went down in storm and blood. How sadly I recall my feeling of horror the night an “extra” made known to us that tragic event! How much blood shed since! Lincoln calls the slaughter of Fredericksburg an accident—some new road to Richmond is to be proposed, his troops are not to go into winter quarters. This will keep our poor Southern boys also exposed, and now, even in this latitude, the cold wind is singing its melancholy song, both by night and day. God help them all, and the poor anxious women who are watching.

Mrs. Blinks’conversed with a gentleman who had spoken with four different ship owners at the North; each had lost a vessel at nearly the same time, and each loser reported himself to have been robbed by the Alabama, Captain Semmes. He and others think that we have several privateers out; the Arrieto lately ran the blockade at Mobile. I have just read the captures of the Ariel by the Alabama, and the speech of Captain Semmes to the frightened crew. “We are gentlemen, not pirates,” and “We gentlemen of the Alabama harm no one,” are speeches which especially took my fancy. In answer to a voice which cried,” You nearly sunk our ship just now with your shot,” he said, “That is our duty; we war upon the sea.” He is no pirate, he claims, but carries a Confederate State’s commission. He is a gallant fellow, and I am glad he comes from Maryland. These Southern soldiers often stir a vein of poetry in my heart which I had thought belonged exclusively to the knights of old. I remember when Bradley Johnson rode into Fredericktown, Maryland, he cried out to the timid, “We come to harm no one; we are friends, we are not robbers, but Southern gentlemen.” The Northern people have not shown their boasted civilization in the progress of this war. Robbery, house-burning, and every species of depredation has marked the course of the Northern armies. Our soldiers at least respect woman, but even in this town helpless females have been driven from their houses without their personal effects, and insulted in the grossest manner. I hear that our Louisiana boys often go into a fight with cries of “New Orleans and Butler.”

Negroes are starving in the streets, though the Federals have taxed all citizens here who have had anything to do with the war for the support of the poor. They boast of feeding our poor, but the city furnishes the means; they do not contribute a penny themselves, but sell their provisions at the highest rate. Butler boasted to the last of having fed this starving city.

January 14th [1863]. Just this moment got a letter from Mrs. Chilton; it came from Vicksburg, where she has been to attend Miss Emanuel’s wedding. She went by boat with a flag of truce. She writes enigmatically, but informs us, who understand her, that all is safe in that region for our Confederate arms; she has just heard from our dear Claude, whom she calls Claudine, who writes with his poor left hand from Texas. All well and all safe there. She has just written to our dear sister there that we are well; I wish she could have said happy. I feel grateful to hear even through others when so many here are cut off entirely. Mrs. Stone has lost her young son in the army; so also has Mrs. Prentiss. How my heart aches for the poor desolate mothers in this cruel war. Mr. Brink came up with a few lines from Mr. Brown, written without date or signature; all are in fine spirits beyond the lines and Bragg’s fight with Rosecranz in Tennessee is considered a victory to our side in the Confederacy, though here the Yankees dole it out to us in the papers as a defeat. An order of Banks’ today enjoins on all of us a most respectful treatment of Federal soldiers; parents are to be held responsible for the behavior of the children. I had no idea rulers could descend to such trifles, for my part I consider it beneath me to treat anyone with rudeness, least of all would I treat with indignity these wretched privates who have been induced to leave their homes by thousands of pretenses, and are uncomfortable and miserable enough without our jeers. They all have a serious, heavy-hearted aspect; men fighting for home and fireside feel differently; our Confederate knights have at least this consolation to support them under all their trials. The wind blew a perfect hurricane all day; I thought of the poor soldiers at sea. Spent the evening at Mrs. Dameron’s; got an old music book containing many songs which are among my first recollections, when my father’s guitar and his melodious voice seemed to me the finest music. As I recalled one by one the friends whose voices are forever stilled, who used to sing those songs, I felt a pang like that of a new parting for each and all; my heart would cry out, “What is life after all?”

An order to-day tempting planters to bring down their produce. The earnest desire to open the river is made known by other means than those used at Port Hudson and Vicksburg. These places both hold out, though it is represented in Northern papers that both have fallen. This is a deliberate falsehood gotten up to prevent recognition. By the fall of either we would lose the supplies from Red River and Texas, upon which a large portion of our people depend, and by the seizure of the railroad which would follow, the Confederacy would be cut in half. The fleet has all left Vicksburg, being threatened from above. A large force is drilling here daily for an attack on Port Hudson. We hear that our people are killing the enemy rapidly in various portions of Louisiana, where they have been burning houses, stealing negroes and all other property, and committing frightful depredations. We Confederates of New Orleans consider that Louisiana has been neglected by our Government; Mississippi gets the credit of holding out better against the foe, but as soon as she was threatened the Government made haste to help her with tried soldiers from all parts of the Confederacy. Louisiana and Kentucky bled in defense of Vicksburg, coward “New Orleans” is the cry. There were no troops left to defend New Orleans, though such an important point. We had no soldiers except the ”Confederate Guard,” a sort of holiday regiment composed of the well-to-do old gentlemen of the city, who were anxious to show their patriotism on the parade ground, but who never expected to fight. The pomp and circumstance they kept up finely. They had beautiful tents, too, on their camping-out excursions, to which they transported comfortable bedsteads, sundry boxes and demijohns’. I have no doubt that the idea of being of immense service to a grateful country, gave quite a flavor to their expensive wines; these were our defenders, and General Lovell was given to feasting with them. They were called his pets. When the forts fell the most valiant of these gentlemen returned with General Lovell to Camp Moore, and others, using much discretion, made haste to pack away their epaulettes and became the most unassuming of citizens on a moment’s notice. We had no tried men at the forts. Congress was appealed to again and again, but the President and House seemed to keep up a hardened blindness as to its condition. I am told that Davis said that two guns could defend New Orleans, and that Benjamin laughingly said that “Timbuctoo would be attacked as soon.” Well, well, here am I writing, nearly a year after its fall, running out to look at Yankee cavalry instead of the Confederate Guards, while, more serious matter still, the poor, surprised plantations are defended by hastily gotten up guerrilla bands. There is a fight at Baton Rouge, in Yankee possession, nearly every night; no Yankee boat dares go beyond a certain distance up the river. The guerrillas, not infrequently, fire on them and sometimes capture or burn them. To what a dreadful condition is our dear country reduced—our country which once lay in happy security.

Every wile is used to obtain cotton; when it can be seized, it is, of course. Men are going round constantly buying even the smallest parcels of this now precious commodity—mattresses and small samples—offering fabulous prices for the same. On our old plantation, with what little reverence I regarded this beautiful staple! Now it seems to represent so much that it appeals to my fancy almost like a matter of poetry. “King Cotton dethroned must mount again.” How the working world is suffering for his aid. A letter has recently arrived from Mrs. Roselius’ sister, who is English and in England; she dwells much on the suffering of the people near her; she had had no idea that the world could contain such distress; she never saw anything like it in America, where she lived so long. The Government is allowing the starved operatives five cents per day. Food is as dear there as here, and I am sure that no American, no negro slave, could support life on such a sum. Ah, if men would only grow wise enough to let the evils of other countries alone until they had remedied those near them! “The Greeks are at our door,” said John Randolph once, when called on to contribute to their assistance.

January 12th [1863]. “Picayune extra” is called through the streets to-day and late to-night. Terrible slaughter at the battle of Murfreesboro on both sides; all Rosecranz’s staff killed; Breckenridge’s division on our side defeated; the Federals mowed down by thousands and their slaughter, especially in officers, to use their own words, “heartrending.” The dauntless Confederates, our splendid braves, went down by thousands, leaving many a sweet babe fatherless and many a widow mourning. Ah, when will this deadly, wild war be past? The Monitor is destroyed. Lincoln about to take the field in person, and McClellan restored to command. He is the only Federal general I either fear or respect. Two long trains of artillery passed our door to-day.

One young officer particularly attracted my attention; he looked so truly gallant—some mother ‘s darling, I know. In his young enthusiasm he has come to fight for the Union; he will die for it, probably, without in any way contributing to its restoration. We find a great difference in the appearance of Banks’ troops and those of Butler; the last appeared to be mere scum of the earth, nevertheless I am sorry for them because they suffer. A Federal officer stopped at Mrs. Harrison’s gate a day or two ago, asking a few rosebuds that he might press them to send to his wife; there are no flowers where she is now. This pure remembrance and thought of the soldier touched me. I was touched, too, at the remark of a private passing the gate. “Here I am,” said he, “so many miles from home, and not a soul that cares a damn whether I live or die, or what becomes of me.” Another remarked, when the newsboy cried out “a new order,” “I wish it were an order for peace and one to go home.” Mrs. Norton got quite impatient with Miss Marcella Wilkinson to-day for praising several of the officers who had been kind to her family, and interested themselves in procuring the release of her brother, who had been arrested by Butler. Mrs. N thinks no-one can be a true Southerner and praise a Yankee. She thought it no honor “to be treated decently by one of the wretches; she wished the devils were all killed.” There is a difference even among devils, it seems, as some of Banks’ people do try to be kind to us, while Butler’s were just the reverse. How few people have an enlarged liberality! I wonder if it will ever be possible for a novelist to render to view the faults of his countrymen in this land; the mention of one failing even in private conversation raises a sort of storm, not always polite either. I am thought all sorts of things because I endeavor to do justice to all parties; one day I am an abolitionist, another a Yankee, another too hot a “rebel,” another all English, and sometimes I love my Maryland, and no other State; all the while I love my own land, every inch of it, better than all the world and feel a burning desire ever kindling in my heart that my countrymen should be first in all the world for virtue. They are so kind, so generous, so brave, so gallant to women that I desire for them all the good that belongs to human character, the graces of chivalry as well as its sturdy manhood, and the elegant liberality of philosophy and benevolence.

Went with Mrs. Dameron and Ginnie to look at a house, after the sale of her home; we found one room filled with pretty furniture, which the old man said he could not remove without asking Banks, or Clark, or some of our Yankee rulers, the owners thereof having left town when it was captured and being Confederates, their property having been seized. We found a garden filled with sweet blooming roses and jessamines and violets; also an old picture which interested me,”The Soldier’s Dream,” the foreground representing a man covered with a blanket by a rude camp fire; the background, which is misty and dreamlike, presents a woman and little ones clasping a returned soldier almost at the hamlet door. This picture made me very sad. It suits our present times very well. Will men ever be civilized and let war cease? Did not go out again all day, but saw several visitors in our rooms; I hate the squares and streets .and would be content in a prison to be rid of them.

January 10th [1863]. A long train of artillery has just passed. The news is kept from us as much as possible, but it is thought that the men are on their way to attack Port Hudson. The mortar boats have been brought from Mobile and are now lying here, some think, to shell this place in case of attack by Confederates, but for the Port Hudson attack, I think. Many rumors are afloat as to our recognition by France; some think the matter already settled, that Slidell was received by Louis Napoleon on 1st January. We look eagerly for news; we are prepared to fight our own battles, yet recognition is longed for. Once, how the thought of foreign interference would have fired our blood! I can scarcely comprehend my own feelings. I do hate those bloody wretches who have made war upon us, and I glory in our Southern chivalry, but I feel towards the Government of the United States as if it had been seized by usurpers. I feel that we should have retained the old flag, as we alone held fast to the Constitution. The Yankees have no right to it; they have been persecutors and meddlers even from the witch-burning time until now. I wish that we may part with them forever, yet I cannot look at an old map of our country, magical word, without a strange thrill at my heart. Mr. Roselius passed by just now—sneered at our Confederate victories. Says we ‘ll get back New Orleans when the “geese have teeth.” I was informed by a friend later in the day that geese have splendid rows of very sharp teeth. I sent Mr. Roselius a teasing message on the subject. In truth, though, the taking back of the city which involves the misery of so many is no subject for jesting.

January 9th [1863]. A very sad day to Ginnie and myself. I was careless enough to leave the key in my trunk, for I shall never, never learn to lock up, and my purse with $30 or $40 was taken out. There is a child in the house who stays to wait on us in our rooms, the greatest story-teller in the world; she is accused, and I suppose will be punished. If I had lost it in the street I should not have felt so unhappy about it. Punishment of no matter how great a criminal afflicts me. I have gone into the room in which Mrs. Norton has locked Harriet, to try and move her to tell the truth. She has been singing and amusing herself, while we have been suffering for her. She vows that she never touched the purse, yet no one else was in our room. I feel miserable lest she may be punished wrongfully. She is considered so dreadfully bad that she never gets a kind word from any one. The servants hate her and her old grandmother, who has taught her to lie and steal, almost beats her to death sometimes. Ginnie and I have been very kind to her, and she has waited on us so cheerfully and with so much apparent affection, that I feel an indescribable pang at the idea of having brought her into trouble. She says she would not have stolen from us. Oh, well, we are always in trouble of some sort. I feel so low in health and spirits that I wonder sometimes what more can happen. We have had $303.50 stolen in less than two years. It is our habit to be gentle with dependents, though we are proud and exacting with our equals. I begin to think that this is bad policy. The world will not let us be what we wish; it seems a part of chivalry, to my mind, to be gentle to the lowly and proud to the high. I have always practiced this, both from impulse and principle, but I must admit that I have always suffered for it.

Mrs. Norton called on General Banks to-day. She wished us to go with her, but we were not well enough. The orderly did not present her card, so the gentle-mannered ruler demanded of her quite bluntly who she was. “The mother of Mrs. Harrison,” she returned. “What Mrs. Harrison?” “The mother of the lady whose house you occupy.” He started visibly, but roughly demanded, “What do you want?” She stated her desire to sell her house, but as she had not taken the oath of allegiance to the United States she didn’t know if the sale would be lawful. He had no objection, he said; is that all you want? She then asked him if Mr. Harrison were to return to New Orleans would he be compelled to take the oath. “I know nothing about it,” returned the polite general. “I would be obliged if you would tell me who does know, as I had thought you are the very person to whom I should apply.” The General scarcely waited to hear her remark before turning on his heel to leave her. Other ladies were present with their requests. To each and all he spoke rudely. Having waited in vain for his return to the room, they all left. These people rob us of our houses, make laws forbidding us to sell property, or to leave town, or in fact to do anything without their permission, yet they are angry and rude when one calls on this necessary business. Men have been snatched up without knowing wherefore and kept in forts or in the custom house, and their wives and friends have been treated as impudent intruders for even making inquiry after them. Mr. Wilkinson, grandson of old General Wilkinson of the last war, has just got out of confinement, having been placed in same by Butler on the testimony of a negro woman—offence, keeping arms in his house—with the town filled with homeless, lawless negroes who commit robberies and other offences daily. I never realized until this Yankee rule here how many bad men America had produced. I took a walk with Katie Wilkinson; poor girl, she lost her father in the battle of Manassas, the last Manassas. She was devoted to him and he was fondly attached to his girls.