March 20th, 1863.—Mattie and I have the whooping cough very bad. She cannot retain her food, though I do not suffer in that way, it is extremely painful. When the spells of coughing take me the blood oozes from my eyes, nose and ears. Three doctors have been called in and they say they never saw such a case. It is well I am not going to school this winter for I do not believe I could study.
Sam Donelson went back to the army of the West today. Mother is with Aunt Nancy.
March 12th, 1863.—More bad news to write in my diary. Sweet little Susie died before day this morning. She was so pretty. Except cousin Rich, she was the best looking one of the family. She loved him devotedly and ever since he was killed she seemed to be thinking of him all the time. When she was dying she asked to be buried beside him. Our “God’s Acre,” is filling fast. Aunt Nancy is so frail we fear she cannot stand this fresh blow.
March 6th, 1863.—It is hard to even think, because I want to see Grandpa so bad. We were going to him in the summer and now I will never see him again. Father says I will see him in that beautiful Heaven, which he loved to talk of but it seems so far away. Grandma has sent me a lock of his lovely snow-white hair, but there is no comfort in that, for it only makes me long the more to put my arms about his neck and kiss the soft thick hair which glistened like silver.
His will has been read and he has left Uncle Kinchen and Aunt Amy in Mother’s care for the remainder of their lives; all their children were given to Mother, so they will not be separated from their family. Father has sent money to pay their way down and Uncle Kinchen is such a good traveler, they will get on all right.
Grandpa was buried in the cemetery at Enfield. He had stated in his will that he must be brought to Florida and buried beside Grandmother in our “God’s Acre,” but when he was dying he told them not to try to take his body back to Florida, the whole country is in such an upset condition on account of the war and he did not know what complications might arise. I wish he could have been brought here so we could take him flowers every day. I know what I can do, I can bear in remembrance the many talks we have had and try to be just what he wanted me to be.
January 8th, 1863.—Cousin Sam Donelson came last night. I have not seen him since the summer of 1859 and I would never have known him. Instead of a slender, pale boy, he is a splendid looking man. He is on Uncle Daniel’s staff, with the rank of Lieutenant.
Aunt Margaret left her home at the beginning of hostilities in the West. She had the farm wagons packed with belongings of the negroes and they walked behind and drove a herd of fine cattle uncle Daniel had raised. Old Aunt Purdy rode one saddle horse and Grace another and so on, until all the numerous riding nags were safely on the road and all the old and feeble negroes had a means of transportation. It is a wonder they got away but she managed to locate them in middle Georgia, where they are still waiting for the war to be over.
Cousin Sam is young and daring, he is having a good time in the main and he doesn’t care how long it lasts. He says Uncle Daniel has grown thin; they are pleased, as, indeed, we all are, at his promotion to be a Major-General. I am sure he deserves it. I love him dearly. He was so good to me when Father was so ill at his home in Tennessee.
January 3rd, 1863.—My dear, dear Grandpa is dead. I loved him so well and now I will never see him again. Mother was all ready to start to North Carolina today but a telegram came telling the sad news.
Mary Eliza died in the night and she will be buried here tomorrow. There is trouble and sorrow on every side. It proved to be whooping cough poor little Mary Eliza had and Mattie and I have taken it. I thought it was a baby disease but it seems grown people can have it.
Our men in camp are suffering for blankets. Mother has sent all of hers and she has several of the women on the place at work washing and carding wool, to make comforts to take the place of the covering she has sent to the army. She has already sent all the linen sheets to the Reid Hospital in Richmond; not as sheets but rolled in bandages for dressing wounds. We have used most of the table cloths to scrape lint, for this blockade cuts us off from any supplies for the sick or the wounded.
Father has taught Nan to make salve and we ship it every week. She keeps the pot of salve going all the time for our poor soldiers. They need so much and we can do so little.
December 27th, 1862.—Mother has a letter in the mail, which has just come telling of dear Grandpa’s illness. He went out on the ice to direct the man who was using the ice plow and took a violent cold. We feel very anxious. Mary Eliza is no better.
The papers say the armies have gone into winter quarters and we will have no more fighting until spring.
December 25th, 1862.—We reached home on the 24th but it is not like Christmas. No frolicking for anybody as Cousin Martha died yesterday morning and will be buried here tomorrow. Everybody loved her and grieves that she has gone.
Aunt Sue is in trouble, for little Mary Eliza is sick unto death and Father and Mother are with her today. She has typhoid pneumonia and she has always been delicate. Father has seven sick soldiers but none of them in danger at present, although he thought two of them would surely die the first part of the week. He has been fortunate so far, for he has not lost a single patient.
Brother Amos stood the trip very well and can handle his crutches better than at first. He can walk about in the house but has to have help to go down the steps. There are so many poor crippled soldiers. Oh, if this terrible war was over!
December 20th, 1862.—Last night we sat up all night, getting Harry ready to get off this morning, early, for Virginia. His sister and nieces were packing clothes, putting up provisions for him to take back to camp with him and I was finishing the last pair of socks I had on hand, that makes six pair I have knit for him. He wanted me to kiss him goodbye but Mother does not approve of caresses. All my playmates, with a few exceptions, have been boys and Mother’s rule is “hands off.” I am not allowed to waltz with any but cousins and she does not exactly like that.
Captain Mac Whitehead and Major Whitehead go tomorrow. Other people are coming but these soldiers who are going, are so near and dear and these new-comers are only just “company.” It makes a great difference.
December 15th, 1862.—We have news of a great battle in Virginia, Fredericksburg, a terrible battle in which our side won the victory and the enemy suffered severe losses. How I wish the war would end; it throws a cloud over everything.
All the gentlemen visiting here have been wounded but all are getting well; they expect to report for duty very soon. Brother Amos is the only one who is permanently disabled. He says he is going to offer his services to the Commissary Department as soon as he is able. He says a cripple can do what is required there, just as well as anybody. Sister Mag says he shall never leave her again. Father and Mother are missing us but in another week we will be at home.
December 6th, 1862.—We have been here three days; there are nine girls in the party and twelve gentlemen, young ones I mean; then there are two married couples with little children and our host and hostess, who are just lovely to us all. We have music and dancing at night, go riding whenever we feel like it and there is a nice boat on the Flint River which is very near the house. Albany is not far, if we want to shop—but there it is again—we have plenty of money but the stores are almost empty. When we went in yesterday, all we could find to buy was some delicious molasses candy. There is a cotton factory somewhere near here where they are making cloth for the army. I am going to see how they make it.
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