30 June 1862 – 6 July 1862

First came Dr. Trezevant, who announced Burnet Rhett’s death. “No, no; I have just seen the bulletin-board. It was Grimké Rhett’s.” When the doctor went out it was added: “Howell Trezevant’s death is there, too. The doctor will see it as soon as he goes down to the board.” The girls went to see Lucy Trezevant. The doctor was lying still as death on a sofa with his face covered.

No more news. It has settled down into this. The general battle, the decisive battle, has to be fought yet. Edward Cheves, only son of John Cheves, killed. His sister kept crying, “Oh, mother, what shall we do; Edward is killed,” but the mother sat dead still, white as a sheet, never uttering a word or shedding a tear. Are our women losing the capacity to weep? The father came to-day, Mr. John Cheves. He has been making infernal machines in Charleston to blow up Yankee ships. While Mrs. McCord was telling me of this terrible trouble in her brother’s family, some one said: “Decca’s husband died of grief.” Stuff and nonsense; silly sentiment, folly! If he is not wounded, he is alive. His brother, John, may die of that shattered arm in this hot weather. Alex will never die of a broken heart. Take my word for it.

Mem says she feels like sitting down, as an Irishwoman does at a wake, and howling night and day. Why did Huger let McClellan slip through his fingers? Arrived at Mrs. McMahan’s at the wrong moment. Mrs. Bartow was reading to the stricken mother an account of the death of her son. The letter was written by a man who was standing by him when he was shot through the head. “My God!” he said; that was all, and he fell dead. James Taylor was color-bearer. He was shot three times before he gave in. Then he said, as he handed the colors to the man next him, “You see I can’t stand it any longer,” and dropped stone dead. He was only seventeen years old. If anything can reconcile me to the idea of a horrid failure after all efforts to make good our independence of Yankees, it is Lincoln’s proclamation freeing the negroes. Especially yours, Messieurs, who write insults to your Governor and Council, dated from Clarendon. Three hundred of Mr. Walter Blake’s negroes have gone to the Yankees. Remember, that recalcitrant patriot’s property on two legs may walk off without an order from the Council to work on fortifications. Have been reading The Potiphar Papers by Curtis. Can this be a picture of New York socially? If it were not for this horrid war, how nice it would be here. We might lead such a pleasant life. This is the most perfectly appointed establishment—such beautiful grounds, flowers, and fruits; indeed, all that heart could wish; such delightful dinners, such pleasant drives, such jolly talks, such charming people; but this horrid war poisons everything.

Drove out with Mrs. “Constitution” Browne, who told us the story of Ben McCulloch’s devotion to Lucy Gwynn. Poor Ben McCulloch—another dead hero. Called at the Tognos’ and saw no one; no wonder. They say Ascelie Togno was to have been married to Grimké Rhett in August, and he is dead on the battle-field. I had not heard of the engagement before I went there.