by John Beauchamp Jones
JULY 31sT.—Clear, dry, and hot.
A dispatch from Gen. Lee (I have not seen it yet) says, in the repulse of the enemy’s assault on the breach made by their mine, we captured over 800 prisoners—a general and his staff among them—some 12 stands of colors, and killed some 500. Our loss very light.
The enemy has mostly countermarched from this side of the river, followed, of course, by our army at double-quick, and rumor says there are little or no forces of either party on the north side of the James this morning.
This was probably Grant’s grand stratagem for our destruction, and it has failed disastrously for him. What will he do next? No matter what, Lee is the master of the situation.
My daughter’s large pet cat died last night under the cherry-tree, and was buried this morning under a rose-bush. I sympathize with Fannie in the grief natural on such an occasion; but really, the death of the cat in such times as these is a great relief to me, as he was maintained at the cost of not less than $200 per annum. His death was probably occasioned by a surfeit of meat which his mistress obtained unexpectedly, seeing it fall in the street, and sending a servant for it.
This morning a large fat chicken was found in my yard, picked and prepared for cooking, brought hither by a cat which had stolen it from some kitchen. A portion of the breast only had been eaten, and our cook seized upon the remains for her own benefit. To such straits are we reduced by this cruel war!
