December 25, 1865.

Sadai woke very early and crept out of bed to her stocking. Seeing it well filled she soon had a light and eight little negroes around her, gazing upon the treasures. Everything opened that could be divided was shared with them. ‘T is the last Christmas, probably, that we shall be together, freedmen! Now you will, I trust, have your own homes, and be joyful under your own vine and fig tree, with none to molest or make afraid.

THE END

December 24, 1865.

It has been many months since I wrote in this journal, and many things of interest have occurred. But above all I give thanks to God for His goodness in preserving my life and so much of my property for me. My freedmen have been with me and have worked for one-sixth of my crop.

This is a very rainy, unpleasant day. How many poor freedmen are suffering! Thousands of them must be exposed to the pitiless rain! Oh, that everybody would do right, and there would not be so much suffering in the world! Sadai and I are all alone in the house. We have been reading, talking, and thus spending the hours until she went to bed, that I might play Santa Claus. Her stocking hangs invitingly in the corner. Happy child and childhood, that can be so easily made content!

December 19th, 1865.—The party was splendid in spite of the —, there now, I came near writing Yankees, and I promised myself I would never say that again, after General Foster’s kindness. General Foster sent his band to play for us to dance. I had so many of my old friends around, I had not a single vacant space on my card but I saw Sister Mart dancing with Major Conant.

I know I will be lonely enough after Sister Mart has really gone. I am the only one left to Father and Mother. Josie Evans is Mattie’s governess this winter, so I still have company at home. I do not like to entertain young gentlemen by myself, I am afraid they will find it stupid, but Josie is very bright and entertaining. Then, too, she sings delightfully. She was here tonight. She was one of the bridesmaids so she just had to be present, school or no school.

Father is nearly well again and he gave the bride away. We had been afraid he would not be well enough and he looked so handsome in his new dress suit ordered from New York for the occasion. Mother had a new silk, too, and the New York dressmaker fitted her beautifully. She had not made a dress for Mother for more than four years yet she had not forgotten how.

Susan Bradford is 19 years old when this entry was made.

December 18th, 1865.—I thought I would be lonely beyond description when Sister Mart got married. It happened five days ago and I have not had time even to think. Weddings, like funerals, call together kindred and friends.

There was a big wedding; the bride was beautiful; friends flocked from far and near to Pine Hill; the supper was all a supper should be and champagne flowed like water. Again I say, at my wedding there shall be nothing but “Adam’s ale” to drink.

The next night Sallie Ward was married and I was a bridesmaid at her wedding too. It was a church affair, the bridal party, that is the attendants, went to the church in an omnibus. Did you ever hear of such a thing? The bride and the groom went in a carriage but I am sure we had the most fun.

I have been to a big entertainment of some kind every night since Sister Mart was married except the 17th, which was Sunday. Doesn’t the Bible tell us we must rest on Sunday?

Tonight Aunt Sue is giving a large party; “the gem of the season,” we say, for everybody knows the entertainments at Goodwood are not quite equalled anywhere else. There is one thing about this particular party that I dread; uncle Arvah has invited General Foster and his family and the officers in his command. I see Uncle Arvah’s side and he is right, but it will be painful to meet our conquerors. So far I have met only one and I cannot hope they will all be like him. To meet these blue-coats socially! Will I have the strength of mind to do it? Not much time for you my diary.

It is not difficult to get a dress now, but there are a thousand and one things to get through before tonight. Aunt Sue likes to have help in arranging flowers in the different rooms and the table in the dining room, which she has already dressed, is a dream of beauty.

Susan Bradford is 19 years old when this entry was made.

December 11.—I have been down town buying material for garments for our Home Missionary family which we are to make in our society. Anna and I were cutting them out and basting them ready for sewing, and grandmother told us to save all the basting threads when we were through with them and tie them and wind them on a spool for use another time. Anna, who says she never wants to begin anything that she cannot finish in 15 minutes, felt rather tired at the prospect of this unexpected task and asked Grandmother how she happened to contract such economical ideas. Grandmother told her that if she and Grandfather had been wasteful in their younger days, we would not have any silk dresses to wear now. Anna said if that was the case she was glad that Grandmother saved the basting thread!

December 8.—Yesterday was Thanksgiving day. I do not remember that it was ever observed in December before. President Johnson appointed it as a day of national thanksgiving for our many blessings as a people, and Governor Fenton and several governors of other states have issued proclamations in accordance with the President’s recommendation. The weather was very unpleasant, but we attended the union thanksgiving service held in our church. The choir sang America for the Opening piece. Dr. Daggett read Miriam’s song of praise: “The Lord hath triumphed gloriously, the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.” Then he offered one of his most eloquent and fervent prayers, in which the returned soldiers, many of whom are in broken health or maimed for life, in consequence of their devotion and loyalty to their country, were tenderly remembered. His text was from the 126th Psalm, “The Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad.” It was one of his best sermons. He mentioned three things in particular which the Lord has done for us, whereof we are glad: First, that the war has closed; second, that the Union is preserved; third, for the abolition of slavery. After the sermon, a collection was taken for the poor, and Dr. A. D. Eddy, who was present, offered prayer. The choir sang an anthem which they had especially prepared for the occasion, and then all joined in the doxology. Uncle Thomas Beals’ family of four united with our three at Thanksgiving dinner. Uncle sent to New York for the oysters, and a famous big turkey, with all the usual accompaniments, made us a ?ne repast. Anna and Ritie Tyler are reading together Irving’s Life of Washington, two afternoons each week. I wonder how long they will keep it up.

November 15th, 1865.—Of course, I have always known that it is the custom in the South for girls, when they put up their hair and put on long dresses, to be addressed by gentlemen, not related, by the title of “Miss.” I knew this but I never thought of this formality coming my way. This morning, when I appeared on the street, in a sweeping train, etc., etc., and met my dear old friend, Mr. Mariano Papy, I was really shocked to have him bow formally and address little me as “Miss Susie.” He then went on to pay some graceful compliments, which is just a way he has, but I could not help protesting against the change. Mr. Papy was Grandpa’s private secretary and was living at Live Oak, when I was born. He has carried me in his arms in baby days and sung me to sleep. I meet him nearly every time I am in town and he has never called me anything but “Susie.”

I called on Mrs. Papy before leaving town and confided my hurt feelings to her, this is what she said:

“Our little girl should not have grown up if she feels this way; there is nothing else to be done; you have and always will have, a warm corner, all your own, in Mr. Papy’s heart, but, my dear child, conventionalities must be observed as the good of society demands it.”

Perhaps she is right but I do hope Mr. Blake will not feel called upon to follow suit. When I told Father and Mother about Mr. Papy, Mother said it was all as it should be and father laughed and said, “We must all pay the penalty of mature age.”

I do not believe my family will ever think of me as anything but a baby.

Susan Bradford is 19 years old when this entry was made.

November 8th, 1865.—Well, the contents of the various boxes have been inspected and proven to be satisfactory. Sister Mart has a lovely dress of Marie Louise silk, beautifully made and the filmy laces look just like a bride. All my things are beautiful, I have congress gaiters to match every dress, laces of various kinds and I am the proud possessor of a dozen pairs of “Jouvains” kid gloves. I just love kid gloves ! Mother took each pair from the box and put my initials inside and when I asked what that was for, she said it was to keep me from giving them away. Miss Stevenson has made me a hat, which she sent out on the wagon. It is pretty and the next time I go to town I shall wear what Brother Amos calls my “young lady togs.”

Susan Bradford is 19 years old when this entry was made.

November 7th, 1865.—Boxes from Smallwood & Earle have arrived in Tallahassee. Uncle Arvah, too, has gotten back home and I am on the qui vive for a sight of my new belongings. The wagon went to town this morning to bring the boxes out. Sister Mart is more excited over this event than I am, for some of her wedding clothes, her trousseau, or a part of it, is contained therein.

Susan Bradford is 19 years old when this entry was made.

October 31st, 1865.—All this time I have dressed as a school girl. In the time of war we did not make any effort to follow fashion, just so we had a dress, it really mattered very little to what age it properly belonged. If it was suitable and becoming, so much the better, but no one offered criticism of another’s dress; we simply wore what we could get. Now it seems to be different;

I am actually grown up, though they say I do not look it, and now that Sister Mart is to be married in December, I shall be “Miss Bradford” and must dress accordingly.

Father ordered some things from New York and Mother has had some dresses with trains made for me, and Uncle Arvah will select a cloak and bring with him, when he comes, bringing his winter stock of goods. Of course I felt somewhat elated over these new possessions but I do not know if I like the idea of giving up my free and happy childhood.

Susan Bradford is 19 years old when this entry was made.

August 5th, 1865.—I have very little time for writing these days; not that there is so much work to do, our hands seem almost empty now that the war is over. We must try to make up to our soldiers for the years of hardship and privation. We have company nearly all the time and Mother makes ready for them as cheerfully as ever. Aunt Morea and Adeline have orders to serve a bountiful supper every night.

The way this order came about was very amusing. In the neighborhood, about seven miles away, a youthful uncle, with six nephews, were keeping bachelor’s hall; they were frequent callers and often spent the evening. One night they were announced while we were at supper. Mother went into the parlor and invited them to join us.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bradford,” spoke up six of them, almost simultaneously, “we have had our supper.”

The seventh one, who was really better acquainted than the others, said, “Mrs. Bradford, they may have eaten supper but I am a guest in the house and they did not give me any, so if I may, I will gladly accept your invitation.”

It was a laughing crowd Mother ushered into the dining room and, on leaving, they were given to understand that supper waited their pleasure any, or every night. [continue reading…]

August 2d.—Dr. Boykin and John Witherspoon were talking of a nation in mourning, of blood poured out like rain on the battle-fields—for what? “Never let me hear that the blood of the brave has been shed in vain! No; it sends a cry down through all time.”

E N D

July 26th.—I do not write often now, not for want of something to say, but from a loathing of all I see and hear, and why dwell upon those things?

Colonel Chesnut, poor old man, is worse—grows more restless. He seems to be wild with “homesickness.” He wants to be at Mulberry. When there he can not see the mighty giants of the forest, the huge, old, wide-spreading oaks, but he says he feels that he is there so soon as he hears the carriage rattling across the bridge at the Beaver Dam.

I am reading French with Johnny—anything to keep him quiet. We gave a dinner to his company, the small remnant of them, at Mulberry house. About twenty idle negroes, trained servants, came without leave or license and assisted. So there was no expense. They gave their time and labor for a good day’s feeding. I think they love to be at the old place.

Then I went up to nurse Kate Withers. That lovely girl, barely eighteen, died of typhoid fever. Tanny wanted his sweet little sister to have a dress for Mary Boykin’s wedding, where she was to be one of the bridesmaids. So Tanny took his horses, rode one, and led the other thirty miles in the broiling sun to Columbia, where he sold the led horse and came back with a roll of Swiss muslin. As he entered the door, he saw Kate lying there dying. She died praying that she might die. She was weary of earth and wanted to be at peace. I saw her die and saw her put in her coffin. No words of mine can tell how unhappy I am. Six young soldiers, her friends, were her pall-bearers. As they marched out with that burden sad were their faces.

Princess Bright Eyes writes: “Our soldier boys returned, want us to continue our weekly dances.” Another maiden fair indites: “Here we have a Yankee garrison. We are told the officers find this the dullest place they were ever in. They want the ladies to get up some amusement for them. They also want to get into society.”

From Isabella in Columbia: “General Hampton is home again. He looks crushed. How can he be otherwise? His beautiful home is in ruins, and ever present with him must be the memory of the death tragedy which closed forever the eyes of his glorious boy, Preston! Now! there strikes up a serenade to General Ames, the Yankee commander, by a military band, of course. . . . Your last letters have been of the meagerest. What is the matter?”

Friday, 21st—It rained all day. No pay yet. Most of the boys are staying down in -town. There is nothing of importance.

Thursday, 20th—We remained in camp all day. No pay yet.

Tuesday, 18th—We are still pushing on towards home and everything is all right. Our train ran all night, except when standing on some sidetrack. We arrived at Michigan City a little after dark and changed cars for Chicago.

Monday, 17th—We had our last reveille early this morning. We took down our rubber ponchos, packed our knapsacks, and at 5 o’clock started for the boat landing, where we took the ferry for New Albany, Indiana, crossing the river below Louisville. On our way up the river we passed the headquarters of Generals Logan and Belknap, and each delivered a short speech to us. At New Albany we took the train for Michigan City, leaving at 10 o’clock. We had fairly good passenger cars, but the train was a slow one, as it often had to switch onto sidings to let other trains pass.

July 16.—Rev. Dr. Buddington, of Brooklyn, preached to-day. His wife was Miss Elizabeth Willson, Clara Coleman’s sister. My Sunday School book is “Mill on the Floss,” but Grandmother says it is not Sabbath reading, so I am stranded for the present.

Sunday, 16th—It rained all day, and having no duty of any kind, we remained in our “ranches.” We had no services of any kind today, but as we had our last dress parade, and as this is our last Sunday in camp, we should have had some minister come out from the city for our last religious services in camp.

Saturday, 15th—Our regiment, the Eleventh Iowa Veteran Volunteers, was mustered out this morning at 9 o’clock. We were relieved from all duty and turned over to the general quartermaster the regimental teams and everything that does not belong to the individual officers or men. The papers for the rest of the brigade have not yet been made out.

Friday, 14th—I had a time getting the men out this morning when starting around the brigade to relieve the second relief, some refusing to come out of their tents. I finally started with what guards I had, and when I came to a guard for whom I had no man as relief, I told him to fall in behind and go to the guard tent, thus leaving his beat vacant. After I had made the round, I went to the tents of the absentees and ordered them out, each to his own beat number, adding that if they refused I would have them arrested and put in the guardhouse. I went to one chap’s tent the third and last time, and I tell you he did some lively stepping to reach his beat. He was a member of the Sixteenth Iowa. Our muster rolls and discharge papers were all finished today and the accounts with the regimental quartermaster were all squared up; everything has now been inspected and reported ready for mustering out. All the property belonging to the quartermaster will be turned over to him tomorrow morning. Some of the boys in the regiment have bought their Springfield rifles of the Government, paying $7.00 for them. I bought my rifle, as did more than half of the boys of Company E. These are the rifles we received at Cairo, Illinois, in May, 1864. We are entitled to our knapsacks, haversacks and canteens, and of course are taking them with us.