August 8th, 1864.—This is a day of fasting, humiliation and prayer. Our armies in Virginia and in the West have suffered reverses of late and we have many such days. All who can, go to church; all the churches hold services. We take our knitting with us. Some stay all day, for they are fasting, but Father will not let us fast absolutely. He says “To keep your strength some food must be taken. Eat sparingly, but do not refrain entirely, for if you do you will not be capable of the best work and that is what our country calls for now.”
The telegraph wires are down and we have heard nothing for days. What there may be for us to hear we do not know. Father in Heaven, take care of our poor boys!
June 4th, 1864.—Uncle Richard has just returned from Tallahassee. This morning the telegraph wires were working for the first time in four days. It brings us dreadful news, on the 2nd inst. a battle was fought at Cold Harbor, some of our Florida boys were wounded and two were killed. Colonel Henry D. Capers was desperately wounded and is now in the hospital. Seven of his battalion were killed; the names were not given.
June 2nd, 1864.—There are many aching hearts in our land these bright, beautiful summer days. If it was not for the little children, who do not realize the danger we are facing, I do not believe we could stand it. Bless their dear young hearts, which are so light that they overflow with merriment no matter how black everything looks to us.
Fighting is almost continuous now and there is not standing room around the bulletin board, to do more than get a hurried glance at the list of “Killed, Wounded and Missing.” Oh, those horrible words, I seem to see them in letters of fire when I wake in the night.
Father has a very sick patient and Mother is helping to nurse him. Mrs. Manning, Aunt Robinson and I have been busy packing a large box of clothing to be sent tomorrow to the army of Northern Virginia.
A late supper of rice-cakes, Irish potatoes and squabs, cooked in Adeline’s best style, finished the day. It is now 10 o’clock and everybody ought to be abed and asleep. We will not hear from the front tonight. May the news, when we hear it, be good.
April 9th, 1864.—Today I have on railroad stockings and slippers. Guess what these slippers are made of? Whenever I go to uncle Richard’s I see an old black uncle, hard at work plaiting shucks and weaving the plaits together into door mats. It seemed to me a lighter braid might be sewed into something resembling shoes, so I picked out the softest shucks and soon had enough to make one slipper. So pleased was I that I soon had a pair of shoes ready to wear. They are a little rough so I have pasted inside a lining of velvet. Everybody laughed, but I feel quite proud.
April 8th, 1864.—I am at home again and father and mother say they have missed me. The hospital patients are better and High Private Watson is begging to go back to his uncle. Father has written to him and described the child’s condition, asking if he might send him to his relatives in Macon? No answer has come and the little fellow is too feeble to be allowed to go to camp, so Father is going to send him to Macon with Mr. Higgins, (who was wounded in the shoulder and is about well now). He has a short furlough to visit his home in Griffin and will take charge of him.
There are a number of soldiers sick with some kind of fever, which will fill the places these two leave vacant.
Brother Junius writes that he liked his knit undershirts and drawers so well that he wants me to knit him some of cotton. I will get to work on them right away. He writes that the army is almost constantly on the move and the soldiers have hopes of defeating Grant, in this Spring campaign and ending the war. I have taken care of all the letters he has written me; he writes alternately to Mattie and to me. Father says his letters would make a good history of the army of Northern Virginia. Last winter he wrote such entertaining accounts of the “night school” the soldiers had, not the primary grades either, but a classical school with oratorical efforts interspersed.
I have little time now for study, I still keep on with some studies and recite to Father, when he has time to hear me, or we talk it over when we are out in the woods collecting medicinal herbs. What I am most interested in at present is Upham’s Mental Philosophy. I do not teach Frances now, she was so bad that Mother sent her to stay at the Horse-shoe with Aunt Pendar. She does not work in the field but takes lessons in sewing from Mrs. Manning.
April 7th, 1864.—Today I have no shoes to put on. All my life I have never wanted to go bare-footed, as most Southern children do. The very touch of my naked foot to the bare ground made be shiver. Lulu my Mammy, scolds me about this—even yet she claims the privilege of taking me to task when she thinks I need it.
“Look here, chile,” she says, “don’t you know you is made outen the dus’ er de earth? Don’t you understand dat when you is dead you is gwine back ter dat dus’?”
“Yes, Lulu,” I answer meekly.
“Well, den, what is you so foolish fur? Better folks dan you is gone bare-footed.”
I listen to all she has to say but a thought has come to me and I have no time to argue the point. Until the shoes for the army are finished, Mr. McDearnmid will not have time to make any shoes for any one else, this is right, for our dear soldiers must come first in everything, but I will stop writing now and get to work.
April 6th, 1864.—There was a concert last night at the Capitol for the benefit of the Martha Reid Hospital, in Richmond. Local talent, assisted by Quincy and Monticello, furnished the music. Sister Mart was one of the star performers and there were a score of others. Pretty music they made and a pretty picture, too, as they all came forward to the footlights and bowed, when the curtain first rose. As one of the audience I had a good opportunity to judge.
Several gentlemen with fine voices offered their services and we had very fine music, both vocal and instrumental. They sang operatic selections; they sang soft, plaintive Confederate songs; they sang the world-old ballads that everybody loves and they sang patriotic songs and wound up with Dixie, sung by the entire assembly and followed by cheers so heartfelt as almost to shake the foundations of Florida’s Capitol.
Quite a large sum was realized and many of the gentlemen present added hundreds of dollars to the original amount. The hospitals will need all we can send them, for every day brings us fresh news of skirmishing and often of battles. We are so far off from the seat of war here that it is hard to remember all the time how perfectly terrible it is.
March 31st, 1864.—The box has gone and my socks were ready; that is, the requisite number went but I had to borrow one sock from Aunt Robinson, with the promise that I would knit another right away. I am going to Aunt Margaret’s to stay a few days. Her girls are going to school at Live Oak and I do not see them as often as when they attended school here at Pine Hill.
March 26th, 1864.—I am so ashamed of myself. In all the excitement we have experienced and, yes, all this ill-timed gaiety, I forgot I had not finished the allotment of socks, which was to have been ready for the box, which is to be forwarded to the Army of the West. I have only three pairs ready and cousin Henry may come for them any day. Never mind, if I can stay awake to dance and play I can surely keep my eyes open to knit socks for our dear soldiers. Aunt Robinson, who is always forehanded and never “puts off for tomorrow what should be done today” has given me some disapproving looks but I have designs on her, though I have not told her yet. I must stop and—knit—knit —knit.
March 21st, 1864. —The party at Goodwood was a grand success. The general and his staff were magnificently attired in new uniforms, just from Paris, via. Zeigler’s Blockade Runner. As many of Colonel Scott’s Battalion as could be spared at one time came in from Camp Randolph. There are quite a number of strangers in town and Captain Oliver, a wounded officer from a Maryland Regiment who is staying at Goodwood, was the lion of the evening. He has a lovely baritone voice and accompanies himself on the guitar. He sang “Maryland, my Maryland,” so feelingly that it brought tears to many eyes.
General Cobb’s band played for us to dance and we had a delightful time—as every one does when at Goodwood. I wore the crepe lisse dress and aunt Sue pinned white hyacinths in my hair. That grown-up person said they were perfectly lovely. The boys may not be able to make such pretty speeches but I still like them best.
