I am in despair. Miss Jones, who has just made her escape
from town, brings a most dreadful account. She, with seventy-five others, took
refuge at Dr. Enders's, more than a mile and a half below town, at Hall's. It
was there we sent the two trunks containing father's papers and our clothing
and silver. Hearing that guerrillas had been there, the Yankees went down,
shelled the house in the night, turning all those women and children out, who
barely escaped with their clothing, and let the soldiers loose on it. They
destroyed everything they could lay their hands on, if it could not be carried
off; broke open armoirs, trunks, sacked the house, and left it one scene of devastation
and ruin. They even stole Miss Jones's braid! She got here with nothing but the
clothes she wore.
This is a dreadful blow to me. Yesterday, I thought myself
beggared when I heard that our house was probably burnt, remembering all the
clothing, books, furniture, etc., that it contained; but I consoled myself with
the recollection of a large trunk packed in the most scientific style,
containing quantities of nightgowns, skirts, chemises, dresses, cloaks, — in
short, our very best, — which was in safety. Winter had no terrors when I
thought of the nice warm clothes; I only wished I had a few of the organdie
dresses I had packed up before wearing. And now? It is all gone, silver,
father's law papers, without which we are beggars, and clothing! Nothing left!
I could stand that. But as each little article of Harry's
came up before me (I had put many in the trunk), I lost heart. . . . They may
clothe their negro women with my clothes, since they only steal for them; but
to take things so sacred to me! O my God, teach me to forgive them!
Poor Miss Jones! They went into her clothes-bag and took out
articles which were certainly of no service to them, for mere deviltry. There
are so many sufferers in this case that it makes it still worse. The plantation
just below was served in the same way; whole families fired into before they
knew of the intention of the Yankees; was it not fine sport? I have always been
an advocate of peace — if we could name the conditions ourselves — but I
say, War to the death! I would give my life to be able to take arms against the
vandals who are laying waste our fair land! I suppose it is because I have no
longer anything to lose that I am desperate. Before, I always opposed the
burning of Baton Rouge, as a useless piece of barbarism in turning out five
thousand women and children on the charity of the world. But I noticed that
those who had no interest there warmly advocated it. Lilly Nolan cried loudly
for it; thought it only just; but the first shell that whistled over her
father's house made her crazy with rage. The brutes! the beasts! how cruel!
wicked! etc. It was too near home for her, then. There is the greatest
difference between my property and yours. I notice that the
further I get from town, the more ardent are the people to have it burned. It
recalls very forcibly Thackeray's cut in “The
Virginians,” when speaking of the determination of the Rebels to burn the
cities: he says he observed that all those who were most eager to burn New York
were inhabitants of Boston; while those who were most zealous to burn Boston had
all their property in New York. It is true all the world over. And I am afraid
I am becoming indifferent about the fate of our town. Anything, so it is
speedily settled! Tell me it would be of service to the Confederacy, and I
would set fire to my home — if still standing — willingly! But would it?
SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's
Diary, p. 174-6
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