Otranto, November 20, 1864.
I have not written to you for some time, as we have been moving about a good deal, and have had some interesting and funny experiences. Last summer we were tired of refugeeing, and decided to go back to Charleston, and lived in a house on Mary street, as we thought well out of shell range; our own residence on South Bay being in the grass, and glass-strewed district. Our family consists only of my mother, sister and myself, our mankind being in service, as you know, except father, who is in the home guard. My mother spent most of her time visiting the hospitals and devising comforts for the soldiers; my sister and I knit socks, and rejoiced when some of our soldier relatives could snatch a breathing-space from arduous duties at Sumter or on the islands to visit us and partake of the best we could bestow on them.
The sound of the shells with their sharp, rasping, hissing sound before they exploded was familiar, the interest being to venture into range sometimes and discover the last place hit. There was a method in Gilmore's management of his "Swamp Angel." We always noticed the shells came quicker at church time on Sunday, and at ten to eleven at night. To add to our troubles, yellow fever broke out this year, the only time during the war. It was not a violent epidemic, but there were some deaths. We thought we were immune, but in September my sister took it.
One evening early in September my sister was better and a friend of mine (whose house we faced in their rear) begged me to come to tea. I went over at dusk, and with her and another guest were enjoying a cup of real tea and a bit of toast—quite a feast, when there was a tremendous explosion apparently just at hand. We all sat quiet, tea cups in hand. The negro boy rushed in, rolling his eyes, with the announcement that the opposite house in Aiken's row was struck, and they were moving out. The lady and her daughter were both ill with fever, and both died shortly in consequence of the fright and removal.
In quick succession several houses in Aiken's row were struck. As I look back now it seems strange to me that we all sat quietly in the drawing-room waiting our turn to be hit. The man servant returning at intervals to report that another of the houses was hit. I welcomed my father, when at nine, he came for me. Nothing ever overcame his sense of humor. He brought a large cotton umbrella, which, he said, he had brought to please my mother, as a shell might spare its hideousness. When I got home I found my mother and sister anxiously awaiting me. I had a little cot in a corner of my sister's room, and my mother, being anxious, lay on the bed by her. I went to bed and was soon asleep, the shelling apparently having ceased, but they had only paused to try a new gun. The first shells always going farthest, I was awakened by the horrible familiar hiss and plaster and glass falling over me. The shell cut the corner of the house and passed so near me that the glasses of the window near by my bed were broken, and the plastering above fell on me. The monster buried itself in our yard, making a horrible deep pit, but not exploding. A few more inches and I would have been buried with it. It shows how accustomed we were to shocks that I do not remember feeling any terror, but remarked quietly in the dark to my mother, "I think we are hit." To my astonishment she broke forth in ejaculations of thanksgiving. The noise and crash had been so great she thought the side of the room with me in it had been taken away. That was the longest range shell that fell in Charleston. In a few days we went to the up-country to be with friends, and then last week came down to Otranto, where we are now.
Otranto, January 15, 1865.
I have not written for some time, but we all are really so troubled and depressed that, as mother says, we have to be physically active to keep from thinking, so little writing have I done this winter. I suppose you know father has gone with his company of reserves to Summerville. They are all men of over sixty, but we hear that Summerville is pleased to have them. Aunts Anna and May became so tired of refugee life in Camden that they decided to join mother, Annie, and me on the plantation. With father and our brother away we are very lonely, but Aunt Anna's eighty odd years make us anxious to make her comfortable. She is better off with us, for the terrible scarcity of provisions has not touched us here. We have enough of home provisions, but mother gives every morsel she can spare to the hospitals and soldiers' wayside homes in Charleston. The aunts say that despite the enormous board they had to pay in Camden they had only fresh pork and biscuits, not even milk, as so many of the cattle have been impressed for the army.
Christmas was certainly a very gloomy day. The news that Sherman was in Savannah struck us cold. Our three cousins got leave of absence and came up for a few hours. Mother had a turkey and we did our best, but I think they feel very grave over the state of things. We are in terror lest Charleston will have to be abandoned. Hal begged mother to return to the up-country, but she says she went away three times and will not leave again. She manages the plantation, you know. The negroes are very good, but there is a spirit of restlessness perceptible. Hal was shocked when he heard that we never locked up the house at night.