July 10, 1862

July 10, 1862:  Sarah Morgan, of Baton Rouge, wrote in her diary yesterday of a couple of shy and lonely Yankee listeners to the Morgan sisters’ evening music in occupied Baton Rouge---and of how war does not efface the common humanity in one’s enemy:

Wednesday, 9th July.

Poor Miriam! Poor Sarah! they are disgraced again! Last night we were all sitting on the balcony in the moonlight, singing as usual with our guitar. I have been so accustomed to hear father say in the evening, “Come, girls! where is my concert?” and he took so much pleasure in listening, that I could not think singing in the balcony was so very dreadful, since he encouraged us in it. But last night changed all my ideas. We noticed Federals, both officers and soldiers, pass singly, or by twos or threes at different times, but as we were not singing for their benefit, and they were evidently attending to their own affairs, there was no necessity of noticing them at all.

But about half-past nine, after we had sung two or three dozen others, we commenced “Mary of Argyle.” As the last word died away, while the chords were still vibrating, came a sound of — clapping hands, in short! Down went every string of the guitar; Charlie cried, “I told you so!” and ordered an immediate retreat; Miriam objected, as undignified, but renounced the guitar; mother sprang to her feet, and closed the front windows in an instant, whereupon, dignified or not, we all evacuated the gallery and fell back into the house. All this was done in a few minutes, and as quietly as possible; and while the gas was being turned off downstairs, Miriam and I flew upstairs, — I confess I was mortified to death, very, very much ashamed, — but we wanted to see the guilty party, for from below they were invisible. We stole out on the front balcony above, and in front of the house that used to be Gibbes’s, we beheld one of the culprits. At the sight of the creature, my mortification vanished in intense compassion for his. He was standing under the tree, half in the moonlight, his hands in his pockets, looking at the extinction of light below, with the true state of affairs dawning on his astonished mind, and looking by no means satisfied with himself! Such an abashed creature! He looked just as though he had received a kick, that, conscious of deserving, he dared not return! While he yet gazed on the house in silent amazement and consternation, hands still forlornly searching his pockets, as though for a reason for our behavior, from under the dark shadow of the tree another slowly picked himself up from the ground — hope he was not knocked down by surprise —and joined the first. His hands sought his pockets, too, and, if possible, he looked more mortified than the other. After looking for some time at the house, satisfied that they had put an end to future singing from the gallery, they walked slowly away, turning back every now and then to be certain that it was a fact. If ever I saw two mortified, hangdog-looking men, they were these two as they took their way home. Was it not shocking?

But they could not have meant it merely to be insulting or they would have placed themselves in full view of us, rather than out of sight, under the trees. Perhaps they were thinking of their own homes, instead of us.

Today, Miss Morgan writes about the new speech laws imposed on her city by the military government of Baton Rouge:

A proclamation is out announcing that any one talking about the war, or present state of affairs, will be “summarily” dealt with.  Now, seems to me “summarily” is not exactly the word they mean, but still it has an imposing effect.  What a sad state their affairs must be in, if they can’t bear comment. . . . I wonder if they expect to be obeyed?  What a stretch of tyranny!  O free America!  You who uphold free people, free speech, free everything, what a foul blot of despotism rests on a once spotless name!  A nation of brave men, who wage war on women and lock them up in prisons for using their woman weapon, the tongue; a nation of free people who advocate despotism; a nation of Brothers who bind the weaker ones hand and foot, and scourge them with military tyrants and other Free, Brotherly institutions; what a picture!  Who would not be an American? 

Sarah Morgan, 20 yrs. old in 1862

---Mary Boykin Chestnut, in her diary, remarks on political rumors in Richmond, and offers insight on the fire-breathing ladies who push their men into heroic acts:

July 10th.—My husband has come. He believes from what he heard in Richmond that we are to be recognized as a nation by the crowned heads across the water, at last. Mr. Davis was very kind; he asked him to stay at his house, which he did, and went every day with General Lee and Mr. Davis to the battle-field as a sort of amateur aide to the President. Likewise they admitted him to the informal Cabinet meetings at the President’s house. He is so hopeful now that it is pleasant to hear him, . . .

Public opinion is hot against Huger and Magruder for McClellan’s escape. Doctor Gibbes gave me some letters picked up on the battle-field. One signed “Laura,” tells her lover to fight in such a manner that no Southerner can ever taunt Yankees again with cowardice. She speaks of a man at home whom she knows, “who is still talking of his intention to seek the bubble reputation at the cannon’s mouth.” “Miserable coward!” she writes, “I will never speak to him again.” It was a relief to find one silly young person filling three pages with a description of her new bonnet and the bonnet still worn by her rival. Those fiery Joan of Arc damsels who goad on their sweethearts bode us no good.

Mary Boykin Chestnut

---Senator Wright of Indiana, in the U.S
. Senate, objects to Sen. Chandler’s defamation of McClellan and his strategic failures:

Mr. Wright, of Indiana: Mr. President, when the resolution was read the other day, I could not refrain an expression of surprise that in the midst of such a crisis as the present that an inquiry should be set on foot, the result of which must be to divide the friends of Union and to unite the enemies of the Union. The Senator proceeded in language and manner sufficiently violent and declamatory, to give the impression he meant to bring contempt and dishonor upon General McClellan. It is not to my taste to go back to the field of Manassas and to say that two hundred thousand men were held at bay by less than 30,000 rebels. I know little of the art of war. I am willing to trust the men in command of the Army. Judging from the explosive rhetoric of the Senator who takes pains to call General McClellan a criminal.

Mr. President, General McClellan has not been a newspaper general. He has not sought to write himself into renown, or court others so to do. Not one word has General McClellan offered to defend himself against the charges of the Senator. His reticence and silence has been remarkable. A more implusive man―and we are told that youth is most impulsive and General McClellan is a very young man—would have rushed into print and insisted upon such a defense of his conduct as would at least assure his friends that was not indifferent to his fame. His studied silence is probably his surest vindication.

I will say that, in my humble opinion, that his ten days campaign upon the peninsula, with an army that he tells us was so much smaller than that of the rebel enemy, out-tongues complaint, and will arouse admiration among our loyal people. Some will say that the general was surprised and taken unaware, and that all the allegations that his moves were planned are untrue. I will say only that the conflict displayed on his part uncommon genius, perseverance, and ability; that his troops were heroic and that he saved them from annihilation and captivity. Sir, I know not where in the history of nations you can point to a seven days' conflict, with the same number of men engaged, where there was more science and skill exhibited by the commander than General McClellan exhibited in this contest.