Met Mr. Ashmore fresh from Richmond. He says Stonewall is coming up behind McClellan. And here comes the tug of war. He thinks we have so many spies in Richmond, they may have found out our strategic movements and so may circumvent them.
Mrs. Bartow’s story of a clever Miss Toombs. So many men were in love with her, and the courtship, while it lasted, of each one was as exciting and bewildering as a fox-chase. She liked the fun of the run, but she wanted something more than to know a man was in mad pursuit of her; that he should love her, she agreed, but she must love him, too. How was she to tell? Yet she must be certain of it before she said “Yes.” So, as they sat by the lamp she would look at him and inwardly ask herself, “Would I be willing to spend the long winter evenings forever after sitting here darning your old stockings?” Never, echo answered. No, no, a thousand times no. So, each had to make way for another.
June 27th.—We went in a body (half a dozen ladies, with no man on escort duty, for they are all in the army) to a concert. Mrs. Pickens came in. She was joined soon by Secretary Moses and Mr. Follen. Doctor Berrien came to our relief. Nothing could be more execrable than the singing. Financially the thing was a great success, for though the audience was altogether feminine, it was a very large one.
Telegram from Mr. Chesnut, “Safe in Richmond”; that is, if Richmond be safe, with all the power of the United States of America battering at her gates. Strange not a word from Stonewall Jackson, after all! Doctor Gibson telegraphs his wife, “Stay where you are; terrible battle[87] looked for here.”
Decca is dead. That poor little darling! Immediately after her baby was born, she took it into her head that Alex was killed. He was wounded, but those around had not told her of it. She surprised them by asking, “Does any one know how the battle has gone since Alex was killed?” She could not read for a day or so before she died. Her head was bewildered, but she would not let any one else touch her letters; so she died with several unopened ones in her bosom. Mrs. Singleton, Decca’s mother, fainted dead away, but she shed no tears. We went to the house and saw Alex’s mother, a daughter of Langdon Cheves. Annie was with us. She said: “This is the saddest thing for Alex.” “No,” said his mother, “death is never the saddest thing. If he were not a good man, that would be a far worse thing.” Annie, in utter amazement, whimpered, “But Alex is so good already.” “Yes, seven years ago the death of one of his sisters that he dearly loved made him a Christian. That death in our family was worth a thousand lives.”
One needs a hard heart now. Even old Mr. Shand shed tears. Mary Barnwell sat as still as a statue, as white and stony. “Grief which can relieve itself by tears is a thing to pray for,” said the Rev. Mr. Shand. Then came a telegram from Hampton, “All well; so far we are successful.” Robert Barnwell had been telegraphed for. His answer came, “Can’t leave here; Gregg is fighting across the Chickahominy.” Said Alex’s mother: “My son, Alex, may never hear this sad news,” and her lip settled rigidly. “Go on; what else does Hampton say?” asked she. “Lee has one wing of the army, Stonewall the other.”
Annie Hampton came to tell us the latest news—that we have abandoned James Island and are fortifying Morris Island. “And now,” she says, “if the enemy will be so kind as to wait, we will be ready for them in two months.”
Rev. Mr. Shand and that pious Christian woman, Alex’s mother (who looks into your very soul with those large and lustrous blue eyes of hers) agreed that the Yankees, even if they took Charleston, would not destroy it. I think they will, sinner that I am. Mr. Shand remarked to her, “Madam, you have two sons in the army.” Alex’s mother replied, “I have had six sons in the army; I now have five.”
There are people here too small to conceive of any larger business than quarreling in the newspapers. One laughs at squibs in the papers now, in such times as these, with the wolf at our doors. Men safe in their closets writing fiery articles, denouncing those who are at work, are beneath contempt. Only critics with muskets on their shoulders have the right to speak now, as Trenholm said the other night.