Through Some Eventful Years by Susan Bradford Eppes

February 17th, 1865.—There is little but bad news now. Sherman is a very Devil. If this goes on much longer Georgia will be desolate indeed, for his favorite weapon is the torch. Every State Capitol in the South, except Tallahassee, has been captured and we cannot expect to escape much longer. The Yankees come nearer every day and we lie in Sherman’s path to the sea. As they advance they pilfer and burn; all valuables are stolen; all provisions are taken, of course, and the rest goes up in smoke. Mother asked Adeline if she could trust her to help her to hide her valuables from McCook’s men. Adeline thought she could be trusted, so, with Jordan’s help, they dug pits in unlikely places; secreted some small articles in hollow trees; hid the oil paintings under the floor of Adeline’s own house; carefully wrapped the family portraits and put them in the loft above her head. Mother had implicit confidence in Jordan and Adeline had given her word to be true and the mistress felt that she need have no fear for her treasures. The walls look bare with only the big mirrors to break the broad expanse. We will eat off of vari-colored plates and dishes. The set of French china and all the cut glass are boxed and buried. “Fingers were made before knives and forks,” mournfully announced Father, as he saw the silverware being packed, but something must be done to save them from McCook’s men. Captain Lester will not believe they will ever get here. I hope they will not, but I am afraid.

All the girls in the neighborhood know how to shoot and we have agreed, if we cannot escape we will shoot ourselves rather than fall into the hands of the enemy as they are treating the women and old men dreadfully in Georgia. Another thing they are doing; in those old Colonial homes in Georgia are many handsome portraits, painted by famous artists; and of course family portraits are always highly prized. When the Yankees enter a house, where any of these are hanging their first thought is to destroy them. Sometimes they slit them to pieces, sometimes they shoot them up, sometimes they are piled and burned—and it is such vandals as this we have to deal with.

February 22nd, 1865.—Washington’s birthday I used to read of the War of the Revolution and wondered if it could be true; it seemed so unbelievable. I admire General Washington very much but I never once imagined war could ever be so real to me. I wonder when it will end? Some wars last so long and perhaps this one may last for thirty years. If it does I hope I will not live through all those years.

December 26th, 1864.—Christmas was truly delightful. The joy of the children, at sight of the beautiful tree and toys fully compensated us for the time spent in their manufacture. Such exclamations of delight; such squeals of joy; as they received the gifts and realized that the blockade had not kept old Santa out. I never saw a happier set of youngsters in my life. We, who are grown old in service, do not expect gifts any more but this morning I have two letters, one from the Army of Northern Virginia and one from General Forrest’s Command in the West. Do diaries ever feel curious? I shall not tell you who these letters are from.

December 16th, 1864.—We have had company today, ladies from town to spend the day. I have listened to many a bit of gossip and heard some laughable incidents related. Life is a complex problem; it is like a kaleidoscope in its changing scenes. On one side all is gay and bright and on the other, sorrow and dark misery.

One of Father’s favorite texts is this: “Trust in the Lord and do good,” and it seems that is the only thing left for us to do. Father says I must remember that the Bible says there is a time for all things, a time to laugh and a time to weep and it is as much our duty to “rejoice with them that do rejoice” as it is “to weep with them that weep.” So I have tried to forget the poor sick Yankee and his sad death and take part in the fun these ladies are having.

There are to be two or three weddings; at least two engagements are in sight, if not yet une fait accompli. One couple were married last week and parted at the church door; he to go to Virginia and she to go home to wait for him.

Lieutenant So-and-So was suspected of casting soft glances at a certain charming young widow, who still wears her weeds, and eyebrows went up and voices were lowered to a whisper, as the tale was recited of a certain aged Romeo and Juliet who are, at present, amusing Tallahassee society. Well, the day is over and I will not deny that I have laughed as heartily as if there was no war, but it is only to lose sight of it for a little while.

December 9th, 1864. —The poor, sick prisoner is sick and in prison no longer. He died this morning, died happy, too, for Mr. Craig, who sat up with him last night, says he could not see any harm in telling him the papers had come and now he was going home. He was so happy and he held Mr. Craig’s hand and made his plans to start next day; asked if he would not go with him to Port Royal, where Southern authorities took their prisoners for exchange. He talked of his mother, of his sisters and told Mr. Craig they would write and tell him how grateful they were. Poor fellow. He was buried at sundown today, in the spot reserved for those who die in the hospital. His grave is marked and if his family should wish it, he can be moved when the war is over.

November 24th, 1864.—Three times a week Mother fixes up a basket to send in to the Tallahassee hospital, fresh butter and butter milk; fresh vegetables from the garden; any kind of fruit we happen to have and always two large loaves of delicious home-made bread. This last is a luxury as flour is hard to get. Father raises wheat and he has put in bolting cloths in his grist mill, so the wheat can be prepared for use. This morning Sister Mart and I carried the basket and I was so sorry for a patient, whom I had not heard of until today. It seems he was shot through the lungs, at the battle of Olustee, and has been here in the hospital ever since. Some of the people here, becoming interested in him, have tried to get him exchanged but have met with no success. He is slowly dying of consumption and he wants to go home. His family live up North, somewhere and Mr. Craig, who goes often to see him, says they are frantic to get him exchanged but they can do no more than the few who are trying in Tallahassee can do. Mr. Craig writes his letters home for him since he has grown so weak; he still cherishes the hope of going home but they say he would not be able to go now, even if the exchange could be made. It is pitiful ! Sick in a strange land and for so long.

November 3rd, 1864.—We have grown so expert in sewing and knitting and materials are getting so scarce that we have gone into a new business. The Bradford neighborhood has inaugurated a Toy Shop. At Uncle Tom’s there are ten children, four of Cousin Mary’s and six of Cousin Tom’s; at Cousin William’s there are two; at Dr. Holland’s, little George is to be looked after and Sister Mag has two, so we are making toys and it taxes the inventive powers to the utmost.

We have made rag dolls of all sizes. Some are dressed as babies, some are nurses, some are dressed in Confederate uniforms and some are fine ladies in hoop-skirts. We have made many kinds of animals of scraps of dark goods and a mock snow man of ginned cotton but Cousin Sallie has surpassed all the workers in the neighborhood by making a rooster a foot high, of watermelon seed. The natural color of the seed lent themselves beautifully to the breast and sides and she stained some of the seed to give the needed touch of red and to furnish the black tail which all common fowls seem to possess. It is such a success we are all envious.

We have a maker of books also and our Christmas tree will surprise the children who have been told that Santa Claus cannot run the blockade. We, ourselves„ have gotten a lot of pleasure out of these preparations and I am sure the soldiers in camp will read with interest of these efforts to make their little ones happy. Of course we only work at this when other duties have been disposed of but we have several weeks still ahead of us and much more can be accomplished; we keep thinking of other children who must not be forgotten.

October 27, 1864.—I certainly do love to go to Uncle Tom’s; I have always loved him and his daughters but the principal attraction just now is the crowd of children who are living with him “until this cruel war is over.” Captain Bernard and Cousin Torn, both brought their families to Uncle Torn, when they enlisted in the army. Cousin Mary Bernard is a beautiful woman and she has four uncommonly good-looking little folks; Bettie, ten years old, is a demure, wee maiden, much smaller than Overton, who is only eight.

Ruby is just the prettiest brunette youngster you ever saw and Jessie, who is only two years old, is perfectly lovely and I love to get her in my arms. But we have a sweet little girl at our house and cousin William and cousin Sarah have two, who are hard to beat, but all of these, like Cousin Mary’s, are quiet children. Cousin Tom and Cousin Frances have six and they interest me greatly. They are not quiet, not they. Such rollicking, frolicking, jolly boys you never saw.

Uncle Tom really adores them but he complains heavily of the liberties they take. No sooner does he settle himself comfortably on the front porch to read the newspaper than they absolutely swarm all over him. If he has a letter to write he runs them off but usually it ends in his rising from that aforesaid comfortable position and going with them to the pasture to catch a horse; to the lot to yoke up some calves to be broken for oxen; to the lake to paddle the canoe or perhaps to catch some fish, anything to get “grandpa,” who is their idol, out in the open with them.

It is in vain that Cousin Frances says “Father, do not let these boys disturb you in this manner, Daniel has nothing to do but look after them.” But she knows all the time that it is his pleasure to humor them.

I love this “rough and tumble” young army; they are like steps when they stand in a row and the eldest one is just a very small boy. I love to take them out of doors and listen to them talk. Yesterday we met at Walnut Hill, to sew and then, of course, we could not play, but the children came around and there was a steady stream of talk. The boys and girls seemed equally proud of the “Soldier Papa” as they called their absent fathers but today they had Christmas on the brain.

“What will Santa Claus bring us, Aunt Lizzie?” asked Sam.

Aunt Lizzie explained that the blockade would keep Old Santa out of the country.

“Don’t you remember, Sam, when Captain Wheeler’s boat was trying to enter the Suwanee and the Yankees captured him and all the nice clothes Grandpa had ordered and paid for, for you, were captured?”

“Yes,” Sam remembered, and a silence fell upon the group, sitting around on the floor and, when conversation was resumed, it was rather a sad outlook for Christmas.

Sam was certainly needy; the clothes he wore were neatly patched in almost every conceivable place and like Joseph’s coat, showed many colors. Sadly the boys talked of Christmas trees they had either seen or heard of ; almost with tears they deplored the blockade and finally little Henry sobbed out loud, “Oh, God, please ‘stroy de’ Ankees.” Some way must be found to help Santa Claus run the blockade.

August 11th, 1864.—Communication is established once more and Oh, the horrible, horrible news that has come to us! Capers’ Battalion reached Petersburg just in time for that terrible explosion and a part of his command were blown to atoms. Frank Baker is killed and so is my little new cousin. Mr. Kellar will never sing for us again. When he said goodbye and we told him we hoped to have him back before long and hear his sweet songs again, he said, “If I don’t come back I’ll join the Choir as soon as I get to Heaven and I’ll sing for you there.”

It is heart-rending to think of death and destruction, bodily destruction, for those young boys, who were so thoroughly alive, who were looking forward to a speedy return home and the home folks who were waiting for them. Oh, it is dreadful!