When Will This Cruel War Be Over? Page 3

  There has been little to eat and what they do have — mostly cornmeal, crackers, and bacon — is not enough. They are forced to catch squirrels and rabbits and birds, which they roast at night on sticks since they have few utensils with which to cook. Many of the men are suffering from dysentery and malaria but Tally only has blistered feet.

  Even more than good food, he craves sleep. They are constantly kept in a weary state — at night they sleep on the hard ground.

  He says it is difficult to remain and fight knowing that those back home are suffering every day. But he feels this is his duty and cannot forsake it. Some men are so desperate to return to their homes that they have taken extraordinary measures. He observed one man who purposely shot off his finger in order to obtain a furlough. Sometimes it is as if he is in a dream and he wonders what it will be like when he wakes. Many of the men are growing sick of the war and are deserting. He says a battlefield is the saddest sight he has ever seen.

  Writing paper is quite scarce, and he is writing in between the lines so he can say as much as possible. It is indeed difficult to read. My letters are a great comfort to him and he hopes I will not tire of writing.

  He has sent me a ring which I must confess was quite a surprise, although a pleasant one. He says he will be home soon — although I am afraid to believe that that is true. I fear that my faith is not that strong. The ring is too small and I have placed it on a silver chain which I wear around my neck, but only when I am in my room alone, as I fear it would upset Mother — thinking Tally too forward and too old for me — as if eighteen were that much older than almost fifteen. I know we have only met once, and then briefly, but I know my heart.

  The ring is too dear to me to just place it in a drawer.

  Saturday, March 5, 1864

  The Broyles brothers have both returned home due to wounds received fighting Yankees at Deep Creek.

  We have grown accustomed to having no men around

  Monday, March 7, 1864

  The war has been going on far longer than anyone thought, so long that I fear we have become accustomed to it. We have grown accustomed to having no men around, accustomed to things we had taken for granted — coffee, ink, flour for baking — all becoming precious, and accustomed to all the gaiety having vanished from our lives. We seem to have lost all hope, as if this is the way it will be forever.

  Thursday, March 10, 1864

  Another letter from Father today. It was difficult for Aunt Caroline to read it. She said she did not think it wise to show the letter to Mother, who has not been well lately and has once again been confined to bed by Doctor Harris.

  Father remains confident that our cause will triumph in the end. He says the Abolitionists may rave as much as they like but the fact is that the Negro race is inferior to the white race and must remain so. He says the Negroes have thrived in the South due to our ever-watchful eyes and are better off with us than with the Yankees.

  He is proud to hear that our Negroes have remained loyal and that their behavior proves his argument, for if slavery were as bad as Northerners would have us believe then surely all the Negroes in the South would have abandoned the plantations and gone north by now.

  Sadly, he informs us that Jack Fellers was severely wounded and, although the surgeon said there was no danger — which at least allowed him to have a peaceful night’s sleep — he was beyond all human help by morning. Father requested that we tell the grievous news to the Fellers family. Father says that the suffering his brave and noble troops have had to endure will prove justified in the end, for their cause is a righteous one. To keep up their spirits, his men recently engaged in a fierce snowball battle. He urges us to pray to God so He will not forsake us during these dark and bloody days. Father has the utmost faith in General Lee, whose dignified presence is a solace to all around him and fills the men with pride, knowing that they are guided by his calm hand. Father has not been wounded and believes God has kept him in the hollow of His hand.

  I do not know if Father is aware of Mother’s condition. Each day she seems worse than the one past, and I fear it is becoming too much for me to bear.

  Father wonders why we don’t write him, which is curious because we have. I cannot help but think that our letters are not getting to their proper destination. The mail — like everything else — seems to be suffering lately.

  Sunday, March 20, 1864

  Cousin Martha’s daughter Bettie has the measles. The whole family fears they may get it also.

  There is little to say that is of any real help

  Monday, March 21, 1864

  We visited Mrs. Fellers today. Their home is understandably filled with sadness. They were married last year, just previous to Mr. Fellers’s leaving. Mrs. Fellers does not even have any children to remember him by. This is what this terrible war has brought to our land.

  Needless to say she was beside herself with grief. Aunt Caroline did her best to console her but, as we all know, there is little to say that is of any real help.

  Wednesday, March, 23, 1864

  Mother is still feeling poorly.

  Thursday, March 24, 1864

  Cousin Rachel has been quite a trial since she arrived. For some time I thought she was cross with me — but now I know that that is not so. Like all of us she is shaken because her world has been pulled out from under her. I think her father’s death affected her greatly, although she says nothing about it directly.

  We talked in my room until late in the evening, drinking tea sweetened with brown sugar, which helps relieve some of our anxiety.

  She is greatly disturbed that she has had to leave her school. Knowing that she may never return distresses her. The school was closed due to the war. Cousin Rachel, however, explained to me that she had to return home even before that, having become ill with what the doctors say is a weak stomach.

  She went on about the school quite at length. It is apparent that she liked it a great deal.

  Cousin Rachel lived with four other girls in a large room. She took drawing classes, French, piano, f lute, and musical composition, in addition to other studies. Her French teacher was Mademoiselle Vaucher, who was from France.

  In the evenings there was a two-hour study period, during which time Cousin Rachel said she and her roommates studied little, preferring to debate the merits of marriage and gossip about the cadets at the nearby military academy. Precisely at ten o’clock the lights were turned out — a practice that was strictly enforced by proctors patrolling the halls.

  She misses the theater parties, the fancy balls, the Friday evening musical soirees, and eating with her friends in the school dining room — although she was quick to point out that the school’s fare compared quite unfavorably to what she was accustomed to at home.

  From time to time they had Sunday dinner at Susan Anne Taylor’s home, where they feasted on oysters, turkey, fish, venison, pound cake, strawberries, and marmalade. Susan Anne was one of Cousin Rachel’s roommates and her closest friend. I gather that she misses her company, and I am afraid I cannot provide Cousin Rachel with that kind of companionship, try as I might.

  Although I have always appreciated the fact that Mother sees to my education, I have, nonetheless, been curious about what it is like going away to school, as Cousin Rachel did, and I quite enjoyed listening to her.

  She admitted that she has been behaving sourly.

  Cousin Rachel has a great many opinions that she holds quite strongly. She says she will never be governed by what others think, and she will do what her conscience dictates.

  She thinks that boys hide their real feelings and true characters and are not to be trusted, and that many girls foolishly marry boys who are unworthy, something she says she has no intention of doing. She maintains that girls are in every way superior to boys, and she believes that married life is infinitely taxing and she will never embark on that course.

  It would be foolish, she says, to agree to marry with the war raging over our land. You might,
she points out, be a widow before long.

  I am not sure I agree with all of this. Cousin Rachel seems so sure of her views; perhaps when I am her age I will come to agree with her, but for now I am afraid I do not.

  Saturday, March 26, 1864

  I no longer read aloud to Mother, as she cannot stay awake for long. I wish Father were here — I would not be so afraid if he were. Our only hope is in the Lord, though He seems far off.

  Wednesday, March 30, 1864

  The snow is almost gone. I am worried about Mother — Doctor Harris has been here twice this week.

  I am beside myself with fear

  Saturday, April 2, 1864

  Our troops passed near here today. They looked quite destitute. Many of them had no shoes. For one brief moment I thought I saw Tally among them. But it was only a boy, a young boy. Like Tally he was taller than the others, and he had the same curly brown hair and piercing, sad blue eyes. I was relieved that it was not him, for the boy looked quite forlorn.

  Tuesday, April 12, 1864

  I have not written for the last two weeks because of Mother’s condition. I am beside myself with fear for her and what will become of us.

  Doctor Harris is, I am sure, doing his best, but Mother looks more and more tired every day. Doctor Harris said he would be encouraged if Mother would only show a little craving for food, but she hardly takes a nibble, just some tea from time to time. It is more than I can bear to gaze upon her pale countenance. She understands everything and appreciates all we do for her, but somehow it is not enough.

  My heart is desolate

  Monday, April 18, 1864

  Mother died today.

  Thursday, April 28, 1864

  I have tried not to indulge myself in the dubious luxury of grief — but Mother’s leaving has cast a gloomy shroud about the house. It is the saddest event that has yet occurred in my young life. I have tried to behave as Mother would have wanted me to — and, indeed, as she so earnestly requested of me when we last spoke.

  I cannot help but remember, with great longing, those glorious days before this horrible war descended upon us and ruined everything. Everything. I cannot help but yearn for a return to that time. Perhaps I will wake one morning and Mother will be busily organizing the servants, going over the chores with Iris, the cooking with Denise, the sewing with Dolphy. O how calmly I write about it.

  Mother seemed to spend more and more time confined to bed these past few weeks. That night, Mother was sleeping soundly and I must have dozed off on the sofa, although I was resolved to stay awake. But the next thing I knew someone was gently shaking me and softly calling my name, “Miss Emma, Miss Emma,” but the voice seemed far away, like someone calling through a mist, like on the moors in Wuthering Heights.

  I was afraid to open my eyes, and hoped that the calling would go away and the shaking would stop. But whoever was calling would not stop and the shaking persisted. I willed my eyes to open and perceived Iris, her black face glistening with the tracks of her tears saying, “Miss Emma, your Mother wishes to see you.”

  I still did not know whether or not I was dreaming. I told Iris that I had to comb my hair first, but Iris said that that would wait, and helped me rise and led me to Mother’s bedside.

  The room was gray, the morning sun just beginning to cast its light. I placed my hand on Mother’s brow, which felt moist, and reached for a cloth that was kept on the night table. Tenderly I wiped the sweat from her forehead and waited for her eyes to open.

  Mother looked so serene and regal lying there. A light seemed to frame her beautiful face, and I could see that the pain and suffering were no longer etched there.

  It seemed like quite some time before Mother opened her eyes. When she did I could see that her dark brown eyes were telling me to prepare myself. She pulled me near, which must have taken all her strength. “Dearest child,” she said, “I fear my health is failing me, and I will not be able to care for you as before.” Tears filled her eyes, but none fell. “Be sure to help Aunt Caroline,” she continued, her voice almost a whisper, “and spend as little time as possible on tears, for tears will do us all no good. We must trust in the Lord’s blessing.”

  She asked me if I understood and I said that I had, although I must confess that I honestly do not understand.

  Suddenly, my body felt chilled to the bone. All I could think about was how well Mother had borne up during her illness and that I now must do the same.

  It was only then that I realized Aunt Caroline was there. She put her arm around me and led me to my room, where I clutched the daguerreotype of Mother that I always kept next to my bed and sobbed till somehow I must have fallen asleep.

  I was unable to attend Mother’s burial in the family graveyard. When I saw the men coming to take her away, my heart stopped beating and I turned from the window and sobbed in my bed, unable to rise. I could not bear it.

  Aunt Caroline came to my room later and said I should not be concerned about not attending Mother’s burial. She said she would do all she could to give me the love and care she knew I would dearly miss and that, although she knew no one could ever replace Mother, she would do her best to help.

  I have tried as best I can to obey Mother’s last wish, although, I must confess, I have spent a great deal of time in my room. My heart is desolate.

  Although I was ashamed of my selfish behavior, I could not help it. My room provided me with the solitude I needed — at least for the time — and I spent countless hours sitting in my window, watching the Negroes come and go.

  Friday, April 29, 1864

  Aunt Caroline reminds me so much of Mother. Like Mother, she seems resolved to these times and, like Mother, she has an unshakable faith in the Lord. She talks to Cousin Rachel and me about trusting the Lord, but I am not sure I can have the kind of faith that she and Mother have.

  Baby Elizabeth is quite pretty, just like her mother. The same sparkling blue eyes. Aunt Caroline allowed me to put her to sleep for the first time. I rocked her and sang “Three Little Kittens” and “Hush-a-Bye, Baby.”

  Sunday, May 8, 1864

  After breakfast we took the carriage into town and attended church for the first time in quite a while. Aunt Caroline said that it was the most wonderful sermon, but I heard little of it, my mind filled with thoughts of Mother. Mrs. Broyles, Mr. and Mrs. Garlington, Cousin Martha, and Mrs. Fellers expressed their greatest sympathy.

  Tuesday, May 10, 1864

  We received word of the death of Lieutenant Walker.

  I must write tonight

  Wednesday, May 11, 1864

  I took a walk in the garden, which helped soothe me. In the distance the apple orchard was a radiant field of large, white, billowing balls.

  How I loved to idle away the hours, walking the garden paths, while Mother tended to her plants, weeding, hoeing, and pruning them with great care and patience, often assisted by Amos, who seemed to care for them almost as much as she did.

  Being there reminds me of how much pride Mother took in her garden, especially the rose garden, which was her special joy. It was known throughout Gordonsville, and Mother took great delight in showing guests around it.

  I remember one particular day last spring, when Mother and I left the garden, our arms filled with pink and red roses, some of which I took up to my room to dry and some of which Mother gave to Iris, who made them into rosewater.

  A rose garden, Mother liked to say, helped remind us that nothing beautiful in life comes without thorns.

  I cherished the time I spent in the garden with Mother, and I try to care for the flowers even more now that she is no longer here to tend to them.

  Thursday, May 12, 1864

  I received a letter from Father today.

  My dearest daughter:

  I am today in possession of a letter from your Aunt Caroline providing me with the sad intelligence that your precious mother is no longer in this world.

  I am certain that her unexpected and lamentable departur
e has caused you to suffer great sorrow. Words of consolation often fail at times like these. I can only say that it is a great comfort to me to know that your dear, loving mother will abide in heaven, where she will joyously join her precious son in the hollow of His hand. Merciful are the ways of the Lord.

  I urge you to take some consolation in that knowledge. Aunt Caroline has kept me informed of your circumstances, which I know are quite difficult to bear. Such is the way throughout much of our hallowed land.

  These circumstances have been visited upon us by the Abolitionists from the North, who have invaded our land and forced us to respond with all the means at our command. Please take refuge in knowing, as I do, that our proud Confederacy is watched over by a kind providence and that there will come a time when we will surely return to the life we knew and cherished before the Abolitionists chose this blasphemous and brutal course of action.

  It gives me great pain to know that I cannot be with you at this time. I know you must be grieving sorely, feeling the severity of your loss. Although I would dearly like to return home to give you some comfort, my duty is here, with my men.

  Trust in the Lord, as I do.

  Your Father

  Wednesday, May 18, 1864

  A week has almost passed since I last wrote in my diary.

  The Negroes seem confused, and I feel it is no wonder. Last night I heard them singing their beautiful songs.

  Thursday, May 19, 1864

  Cousin Rachel does love to talk. We talked all day about marriage, which appears to be Cousin Rachel’s favorite topic. She went on at length about how men are full of deception, and that young girls must take care to protect themselves. Cousin Rachel says it is better if we are cautious in affairs of the heart. I told her I agreed — at least I nodded quite frequently — but in my heart, especially when I think of Tally, I am not quite sure I share her feelings. I look forward to, some day, being married, for I consider that the natural course of life.