trying to conceal something from us....

He went away before daybreak, and I never saw him again.

April 26th, 1862.

There is no word in the English language that can express the state
in which we are, and have been, these last three days. Day before
yesterday, news came early in the morning of three of the enemy's boats
passing the Forts, and then the excitement began. It increased rapidly
on hearing of the sinking of eight of our gunboats in the engagement,
the capture of the Forts, and last night, of the burning of the wharves
and cotton in the city while the Yankees were taking possession.
To-day, the excitement has reached the point of delirium. I believe I
am one of the most self-possessed in my small circle; and yet I feel
such a craving for news of Miriam, and mother, and Jimmy, who are in
the city, that I suppose I am as wild as the rest. It is nonsense to
tell me I am cool, with all these patriotic and enthusiastic sentiments.
Nothing can be positively ascertained, save that our gunboats are sunk,
and theirs are coming up to the city. Everything else has been
contradicted until we really do not know whether the city has been
taken or not. We only know we had best be prepared for anything. So day
before yesterday, Lilly and I sewed up our jewelry, which may be of use
if we have to fly. I vow I will not move one step, unless carried away.
Come what will, here I remain.

We went this morning to see the cotton burning--a sight never before
witnessed, and probably never again to be seen. Wagons, drays,--everything
that can be driven or rolled,--were loaded with the bales and taken a
few squares back to burn on the commons. Negroes were running around,
cutting them open, piling them up, and setting them afire. All were as
busy as though their salvation depended on disappointing the Yankees.
Later, Charlie sent for us to come to the river and see him fire a
flatboat loaded with the precious material for which the Yankees are
risking their bodies and souls. Up and down the levee, as far as we
could see, negroes were rolling it down to the brink of the river where
they would set them afire and push the bales in to float burning down
the tide. Each sent up its wreath of smoke and looked like a tiny
steamer puffing away. Only I doubt that from the source to the mouth of
the river there are as many boats afloat on the Mississippi. The
flatboat was piled with as many