When Will This Cruel War Be Over? Read online

  DEAR AMERICA

  The Diary of

  Emma Simpson

  When Will This

  Cruel War Be Over?

  BARRY DENENBERG

  For my own lovely Emma

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Gordonsville, Virginia 1863

  Times gone by

  One does not know what to expect these days

  The story takes me far away from my own troubles

  My diary has become my true friend

  The moon had never shone as brightly

  She has called upon me to take her place

  When will this cruel war be over?

  I simply want Tally to return safely

  We have grown accustomed to having no men around

  There is little to say that is of any real help

  I am beside myself with fear

  My heart is desolate

  I must write tonight

  All the boys are gone now

  O what a strange war it is

  Those eyes haunted me

  I pray that the Yankees will soon leave our land

  The air is filled with restlessness

  Everyone talks as if they were just tables and chairs

  The newspapers are filled with woeful reports

  The war is at our door

  This is all some horrible dream

  Nothing seems safe anymore

  I am trying not to feel blue

  I see little hope

  I wonder if he and Father are fighting the same war

  I am glad Mother is not here to see what has happened

  I am not as frightened as perhaps I should be

  There was death shining in his eyes

  How precious life is

  Why can we not go on living as we did before?

  I fear my heart will simply break

  I am no longer young

  I was at a loss for words

  How long O Lord, how long?

  There is a black hole where my heart previously beat

  Epilogue

  Life in America in 1864

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Other books in the Dear America series

  Copyright

  Gordonsville,

  Virginia

  1863

  Times gone by

  Wednesday, December 23, 1863

  Brother Cole returned home today.

  I cannot fully convey the pain that pierced my heart as Nelson and Amos carried his coffin from the cart.

  Mother is inconsolable — her hopes so recently raised by the intelligence that he was recovering from his wounds in Richmond.

  We received word that he was on lookout duty late one evening when a ball from a Yankee sharpshooter’s rifle wounded him in the chest. His condition, although serious, was not thought to be life threatening. We were told that when he was well enough to travel he would be given a furlough and returned home.

  Only two weeks later we learned that, while recuperating in the hospital, he died from pneumonia.

  As I write this I wonder how I can remain so calm. Perhaps the full knowledge of what has happened to our family has not been wholly realized.

  What words can I use to express our profound grief? How can I adequately describe the apprehension, fear, hope and, finally, despair that has filled our days?

  As if it were not enough to learn of his suffering, what solace are we to find in knowing that he met his demise not in glorious battle defending our beloved land, but was touched by the hands of fate in such a tragic manner?

  Mother urges me to trust in the Lord, for He is our protector.

  Brother Cole is safe in heaven, now. Surely the Lord is with him. He was a good son and a gentle brother. I fear we shall not see his kind again.

  Friday, December 25, 1863

  There will be no Christmas celebration this year.

  My thoughts dwell on times gone by. My memories beckon to me, pulling me back, reminding me at every turn of how our lives used to be, reminding me of Christmases past.

  Even Father, who usually tolerated no variation of his arduous daily duties, considered Christmas a special time. He and Brother Cole would go with Nelson to choose a proper tree, which Father insisted be put up as early as possible so that we could decorate it appropriately and enjoy it for the longest possible time.

  The house would be a beehive of activity for weeks before.

  Mother was even more occupied than usual: seeing to it that everything was just so, supervising the Negroes, talking to Dolphy about readying all the beautiful silk and satin dresses we would be wearing — we all dressed with such care then — to Denise about preparing the food, and Iris about the endless list of housekeeping chores.

  The guest rooms on the second and third floors had to be put in perfect “apple-pie order,” as Iris called it. Everything was washed, swept, dusted, cleaned, and polished until each room sparkled.

  The house was filled with the merry sounds of loved ones and warmed by a feeling of hospitality that lightened the heart. The children gleefully anticipating their gifts — candy and toys, a wagon with horse attached, a monkey in a box, a hobbyhorse, dolls, and diaries.

  The hams, turkeys, mutton, and bacon were brought from the smokehouse by the Negroes, and the tables piled high with pies, cakes, cookies, and candies.

  It seems only yesterday that we anxiously awaited the arrival of Uncle Benjamin, Aunt Caroline, and Cousin Rachel from Richmond. Father enjoyed Uncle Benjamin’s company immensely, taking out the chessboard immediately upon his arrival. Aunt Caroline is so much like Mother, both in appearance and manner — one would think they were twins. And Cousin Rachel, whom I have known nearly all my life, grew dearer to me with each visit. O how glorious was their arrival, made all the more glorious by the knowledge that they would remain with us to greet the New Year. There was so much to talk about; those days seemed to just fly by.

  Could it be only three years ago that Father, Mother, Brother Cole, and I stood on the front porch greeting the constant stream of friends, neighbors, and relatives arriving to celebrate the Christmas season? I can see the scene so clearly in my mind’s eye, as house servants darted in and out, attending to the gift-laden carriages, making sure that all the guests were nicely settled in their rooms.

  Those visits were the most joyous memories of my life. Alas, now they are only that, memories.

  I can remember that Christmas Eve, after our sleigh ride — how gloriously Mother sang hymns for us that night, while Aunt Caroline accompanied her on the piano. Mother has such a melodious voice, and she and Aunt Caroline are the picture of harmony.

  Cousin Rachel had to be coaxed for quite a time but she finally agreed to grace us with her delightful flute playing. She, like Mother and Aunt Caroline, is so talented.

  I wish I were as gifted as they, but I am afraid that I am not musically inclined.

  They each have such beautiful, wavy brown hair — I am envious. I wish mine looked more like theirs, rather than this common, straight, dark hair that I, like Brother Cole, seem to have inherited from Father.

  All of us drinking eggnog as Father offered a toast to everyone’s lifelong health and happiness.

  And O how hard it was to wait for Christmas morning. Brother Cole and I would wake everyone at dawn, eager to see what was in our stockings.

  I can still remember the surprised look on Cousin Rachel’s face when she unwrapped her gift, revealing the two lively, little white rabbits that she immediately Christened Agnes and Annie. That night we stayed up until the early hours o
f the morning, talking and feeding them apples and cabbage leaves.

  And Cousin Rachel was such a delight to converse with. I know I tend to be on the quiet side. Mother accuses me of being much too serious and thinks that Cousin Rachel is a proper antidote for me, since she is such a chatterbox. Mother is, of course, correct in her supposition, for I am truly comforted when Cousin Rachel is around to entertain me with her endless conversation — she has an opinion on everything.

  Everyone seemed so happy then. How could I know that would be the last time I would see Uncle Benjamin? How could I know it would be the last Christmas we would all celebrate together?

  1863 was the most dismal year of my life.

  The house seems so empty now, for indeed it is. Father has been gone for over two years. And my dear, sweet Brother Cole is in the kingdom of the Lord.

  Once it wasn’t that way.

  Now our land is in a distressing state. Our struggle with the Yankees is, they say, going poorly, even after two years of this infernal fighting.

  Friday, January 1, 1864

  I have decided upon my resolutions for the New Year. I have always had the habit of writing down my resolutions and referring to them from time to time throughout the year.

  Those I made in years past seem so childish: wash my hair more, take better care of my appearance, watch sweets, tend to the horses, rise earlier in the morning.

  This year I have decided to concentrate on fewer areas in the hope that I can be more successful.

  I have resolved to faithfully keep my diary, which was begun at Mother’s suggestion. She hoped it might help develop my writing skills and improve my penmanship.

  I strive to take my time — although there is so much I want to say that sometimes my pen flies in my hand and I have to remind myself to take care.

  My only other resolution, which is truthfully the most important one, is to try and help Mother more. I must confess, I have felt overwhelmed many times over the past two years. I fear I have been more of a burden to Mother than a help. So much has fallen on her shoulders. This coming year I vow that she can depend on me more.

  My most fervent prayer is that 1864 will be a happier year, although I do not see anything on the horizon that would support that hope. I trust that the Lord will provide.

  One does not know what to expect these days

  Sunday, January 3, 1864

  The thermometer reached only seven degrees today. There were icicles hanging from the house and the trees — and the milk freezes if left exposed. It was so cold we did not attend church.

  It has been difficult without Father.

  Father and Mother always had their responsibilities strictly defined, unless Mother required his assistance with the more troublesome Negroes. Father saw to the farm and the field-work while Mother saw to the house and the house servants — everything ran like clockwork. My world seemed so safe and secure then. I thought it would always remain that way.

  Now all responsibilities have fallen to Mother. She has done her best, but Father’s lengthy absence has shown us how various were his tasks. I fear that Mother cannot replace him in all areas, try as she might.

  Nelson has been a great help to Mother. He, along with Amos and Iris, is proving to be one of our most reliable Negroes. He has helped Mother see to it that the tobacco, corn, and other crops are properly cared for and that the horses and livestock are tended to. These tasks had become a time-consuming part of Mother’s day. As always, Amos assists Mother with her garden.

  Our Negroes, bless them, mind Mother as they always have and I cannot think of one instance in which they have not helped in every way.

  Still, I think they miss Father’s understanding but firm guiding hand. When Father was home contentment and order reigned supreme. Father always treated our Negroes with compassion — using force only when called for.

  There is constant talk now, especially by Mr. Garlington and Doctor Harris, of a growing spirit of rebelliousness among the Negroes in the area. I have not seen any evidence of this. However, one does not know what to expect these days.

  Monday, January 4, 1864

  We are so isolated here — seldom seeing the number of visitors we used to, and I miss that very much.

  Mrs. Broyles and her daughters, Lily and Lucy, came by today. Although they are a year and two younger than me — Lily is the elder — they are quite pleasant company. Both Broyles boys have gone off to fight the war.

  Last fall Mother told me that Mrs. Broyles thought I was a proper influence on her two girls, and Mother hoped I would do my best to be courteous to them. I do find them both sweet and kind, although it is no use talking to them about anything serious. I hope I am not being too harsh — Mother says I am too hard on people.

  I told Mother it would be fine if she invited them to see the beautiful new colt that Falla had just given birth to. Falla was named such because when she was born Amos said she would “falla” him everywhere.

  They helped me feed Falla some corn and care for the new colt. They seemed to take to the horses right away, and I think they enjoyed themselves.

  Later I suggested that we all go riding. I rode Little, who will not let anyone but me ride her, and Lily rode Plum. Lucy began by riding Boy, who, however, proved too much for her because he enjoys galloping and can be skittish. Lily manages the horses better so I had her ride Boy and put Lucy on Plum.

  We all had a delightful time, and that night ate apples, which we baked on the hearth, and roasted eggs, which we cut in half so we could remove the yolks and fill the cavity with salt. We also helped Denise make ice cream and molasses candy in the kitchen.

  During this more recent visit, Mrs. Broyles and Mother talked at length in the parlor. Mother told me later that Mrs. Broyles feels quite alone. They have not seen a white face for nearly a month. She is quite concerned about her two boys, whose decision to join the war has left her in a dreadful state. She lost her husband at Gettysburg last July. She learned of his tragic death when she saw his name in the newspaper’s casualty report. Mother counsels her that the Lord will not forsake those who put their trust in Him.

  The story takes me far away from my own troubles

  Tuesday, January 5, 1864

  I have decided to commence reading again. I read only one book last year, which is quite odd for me, and was due to my melancholy state. The one book was Emma, by Jane Austen, which Mother gave me for my birthday. It was inscribed: “To my own lovely Emma.” I told Mother I hoped she didn’t think I was anything like that Emma. She is forever poking her nose into everybody’s affairs and paying too little attention to her own. Mother laughed when I told her this and assured me that she did not think that about me. She thought only that it would make an appropriate birthday gift because her name was the same as mine, and that I might like the story, which I most assuredly did.

  Mother has been insistent that things remain, whenever possible, as they were.

  As before the war, Mother and I breakfast alone, after she has spoken with Iris, Denise, Dolphy, and Nelson. As I mentioned, the time she spends with Nelson is necessitated by Father’s absence. So we begin our day by eight o’clock — an hour later than usual.

  After Iris serves us biscuits and apple butter for breakfast, we read from the Bible — which mother is quite adamant about — and then we begin my studies. I do not care much for arithmetic, geometry, rhetoric, or French lessons, preferring the time we spend on reading.

  Although I think Mother is, at times, concerned with my lack of attention to some of my studies, we both take great delight in my reading list, which Mother attends to with great care. Books are becoming quite difficult to obtain, but our library, which Mother takes as much pride in as her garden, affords a wealth of possibilities. Mother has composed quite a respectable list for me.

  I do love reading so and intend to devour everything on Mother’s list this year. I know she was disappointed by my inattentiveness last year, and the great amount of time I spent idly i
n my room.

  Each morning, after Mother reads a chapter aloud, we discuss the book we are reading. We began this year with Wuthering Heights, which, I must confess, I am having some difficulty with.

  For one thing, I am, at times, confused by the characters. Perhaps I am foolish, but I do not understand how anyone can be as dark and troubled as Heathcliff. Nor do I understand why he would care so much for Catherine, who seems quite frivolous to me and unworthy of all that attention.

  I am, however, enjoying Wuthering Heights, for the story takes me far away from my own troubles.

  Wednesday, January 6, 1864

  Try as I might, I cannot seem to stop thinking about times past. The long walks, the buggy rides into town, the dances and fancy balls after which we would feast on cake, strawberries, and ice cream, the sparkling conversation, the laughter and the merriment — there is none of that now.

  Although I have vowed to keep my mind on the tasks at hand and not dwell on the past, as I did last year, so many little things remind me of the way things once were.

  Just this morning I was fixing my hair — which seems to vex me no matter what I do — and I realized I was using Cousin Rachel’s comb, the one she lost last summer.

  That, now that I think of it, was the last time we went into town to shop for new dresses at Mr. Breckinridge’s store. Even then there was little to choose from. Mother says we have the Yankee blockade to thank for that. Despite Mr. Breckinridge’s diminished selection, Cousin Rachel and I spent sufficient time making our choices and then rushed home to try them on in preparation for dinner.

  That night Cousin Rachel and I drank, I think, too much strong tea and were up till three o’clock in the morning talking about personal matters, the war, and marriage — which has become one of Cousin Rachel’s favorite topics. I can only attribute this to the fact that she is three years older than me.

  The next day we went riding at dawn in order to avoid the heat of the day. Cousin Rachel insisted on riding Sultan, although I cautioned her against it. Sultan can be as stubborn as a mule when he sets his mind to it. And the more he is whipped the more stubborn he becomes, turning every which way and moving off at whatever pace suits him. Of course, he is a superior animal. In the open field I have never ridden a horse that can best him. He f lies like the wind.