William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, July 8, 1861

Care of Lieut. S. R. Elliott,

10th Co., 79 Regiment, Virginia.

Glebewood, Virginia, July 8th, 1861.

My Dear Mother:

You see from the above that the “sacred soil” continues to be invaded. General Scott is inexorable, so, notwithstanding the protests of the States Right supporters, Regiment after Regiment crosses the line, and the sanctity of the Old Dominion is violated by the desecrating footsteps of the ruthless horsemen. Yesterday we left Georgetown and after two hours march arrived at our present camping ground. A romantic scene it was last night, arriving as we did at an evening hour. But our advent was followed by a dreadful act of destruction! The ruthless invaders charged with full force upon a snake-fence, demolished it, laid the pieces upon four different piles, and set to them the incendiary torch; soon our camp fires were blazing. The men fell into groups, some song-singing, some keeping guard, while here and there hoarse laughter showed that the solemnity of invading the sacred soil did not entirely prevent the outburst of unseasonable hilarity. Then the stars shone brightly, and the comet whisked its tail for us, and the tattoo sounded for sleepy souls to say their prayers before sinking into slumber. But when all was ready, the baggage-wagons were still far from us, lagging sadly behind, so we had no tents to cover us, but lay in the long grass looking upward at the silent stars. Those of us who had brought our blankets were fortunate, those of us who had trusted in an unsoldierly way, for the wagons to bring them to us, and I was one of those, could do naught else than lie without any barrier between us and the bare soil — “sacred soil” — stickey, clayey soil it was too — of the “Sovereign State of Virginia.” Owing to its quality much of it stuck to us, but it being the real “sacred” stuff you know, made us regard our soiled garments with becoming reverence. We woke early this morning, you can imagine, as the sun rises hot in these regions, but we woke in excellent spirits. Our poor little Lieutenant was found after the Reveille, still enjoying his morning dreams. “Fence him in!” the Captain orders. With the greatest alacrity a couple of men took some rails, and while the youth still slept, built a sort of a chicken-coop around him. Then a circle laughing and employing derisive epithets was formed about the unfortunate. At these unwonted sounds our little Lieutenant awoke, looking irresistibly comical, in a state of utter bewilderment. As he released himself from his confinement, he looked so pitiable that the mirth excited was only the more increased.

I saw Ned Tyler yesterday. He is looking well. Much better than I had expected. We had a pleasant time together, though our interview was interrupted by our march hitherward. Major-General Tyler, who is to command our Division I believe, also looked well — and full of business.

Good-bye, Mother. In these times let us put our trust in God and accept the inevitable.

Very affectionately,

Willy.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 49-51

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: June 28, 1861

We have a flaming comet in the sky. It comes unannounced, and takes a northwestern course. I dreamed last night that I saw a great black ball moving in the heavens, and it obscured the moon. The stars were in motion, visibly, and for a time afforded the only light. Then a brilliant halo illuminated the zenith like the quick-shooting irradiations of the aurora boroalis. And men ran in different directions, uttering cries of agony. These cries, I remember distinctly, came from men. As I gazed upon the fading and dissolving moon, I thought of the war brought upon us, and the end of the United States Government. My family were near, all of them, and none seemed alarmed or distressed. I experienced no perturbation; but I awoke. I felt curious to prolong the vision, but sleep had fled. I was gratified, however, to be conscious of the fact that in this illusory view of the end of all things sublunary, I endured no pangs of remorse or misgivings of the new existence it seemed we were about to enter upon.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 56

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: July 9, 1861

Our battle summer. May it be our first and our last, so called. After all we have not had any of the horrors of war. Could there have been a gayer, or pleasinter, life than we led in Charleston. And Montgomery, how exciting it all was there! So many clever men and women congregated from every part of the South. Mosquitoes, and a want of neatness, and a want of good things to eat, drove us away. In Richmond the girls say it is perfectly delightful. We found it so, too, but the bickering and quarreling have begun there.

At table to-day we heard Mrs. Davis's ladies described. They were said to wear red frocks and flats on their heads. We sat mute as mice. One woman said she found the drawing-room of the Spotswood was warm, stuffy, and stifling. “Poor soul,” murmured the inevitable Brewster, “and no man came to air her in the moonlight stroll, you know. Why didn't somebody ask her out on the piazza to see the comet?” Heavens above, what philandering was done in the name of the comet! When you stumbled on a couple on the piazza they lifted their eyes, and “comet” was the only word you heard. Brewster came back with a paper from Washington with terrific threats of what they will do to us. Threatened men live long.

There was a soft, sweet, low, and slow young lady opposite to us. She seemed so gentle and refined, and so uncertain of everything. Mr. Brewster called her Miss Albina McClush, who always asked her maid when a new book was mentioned, “Seraphina, have I perused that volume?”

Mary Hammy, having a fiance in the wars, is inclined at times to be sad and tearful. Mrs. Preston quoted her negro nurse to her: “Never take any more trouble in your heart than you can kick off at the end of your toes.”

SOURCE: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 79