Having at last shaken off the trauma of Don Quixote, Col. Moss’ sunny nature has returned just in time for winter. As Richmond is the capital of the Confederacy the city is filled with people from all around the Southeast as well as a few foreign countries. Col. Moss encounters a group of the foreigners and forges a quick friendship that will no doubt lead to a new set of adventures:

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January 14, 1862

Well, now, I must congratulate myself on a good deed! On Wednesday at the corner just below my office I chanced to hear the sound of a small brass band. Upon going below I found four young men, three playing saxhorns and one a decorated bass drum. Their style was quite lively and they had succeeded in drawing a small crowd. They were dressed in civilian garb, and rather drabby at that, but they exhibited an energy and panache not seen among our own military bands.

One of them had laid open his horn case in an effort to attract coins from the listeners. This proved to be their undoing because a constable appeared and asked the musicians for their permit to collect revenue on the street. They had none and professed ignorance of the need for such. For this they were summarily marched away to the offices of the very magistrate that I had my dealings with last year. I followed at a discreet distance, hoping to be of some service.

Once in custody the band found itself in greater difficulty as it quickly became apparent that they were not local men and could not give a good account of where they were from or how they came to be in Richmond. Their accents certainly were peculiar and the magistrate eyed them narrowly.

The spokesperson for the band, one of the horn players, explained that they were in essence marooned in Richmond without means of income and had been quartered in rear of one of the theaters on Broad Street in exchange for playing during intermissions. While providing shelter, this arrangement provided no other remuneration and they had quickly run out of money.

None of this impressed the magistrate and he sent them speedily to a jail cell, setting their bond at $10 apiece. Something about these fellows and their plight aroused my sympathies and I paid their bond.

Upon their release the four bandsmen were effusive in their gratitude to me but with their instruments also confiscated they were quite without an idea as to what to do. Noticing a nearby tavern I took them inside and got them fed. I was quickly spellbound by their wit and enthusiasm. Their accent proved to be from the north part of England, a seaport, the name of which I did not catch. Each of them had taken up an instrument early on and, once joining up, became proficient enough to warrant a trip to London to try their luck there. Their scruffy appearance and rough manners limited their appeal to only some youngsters but their potential seemed undeniable.

While playing in a park they attracted the attention of a retired sergeant major who had been the drum major of his regiment’s band. This man, an Edward Packer by name, had an ear for music and was impressed with the band’s talent. He sensed that with some guidance in proper presentation these lads might rise in the trade.

After his retirement from the army the good sergeant major had invested his savings in purchasing a London public house. At this enterprise Packer had been quite successful and the pub had a loyal clientele. He offered the four musicians room and board – both badly needed – in exchange for their becoming in essence the house band, performing at lunch and again in the evening six days per week with Sundays off.

Under his guidance the band honed away some rough edges and gained a level of professionalism as well as a style more broadly appealing, such that they quickly became very popular. Now Packer’s establishment was itself already a popular place noted not only for its good fare but especially for a beautifully crafted fireplace in the main room. People came from around London to marvel at the beautiful stonemasonry. When Packer bought the place he named it for its famous feature and as the house ensemble the lads took on the name Sgt. Packer’s Lovely Hearth Pub Band, which they continue to go by here in Richmond.

Before a year was out the band had gained such a following that the pub was packed to overflowing night after night. The kindly Sgt. Packer knew that his charges were destined for something greater and through an acquaintance made while serving in India he secured the boys the opportunity to come to America via an engagement with a New York impresario.  Boarding a boat from their home port, the boys set sail westward.

The lads were only able to afford passage in the hold of the vessel and here they soon found that the ship was carrying several barrels of grog. From that point, the only thing certain is that they did not reach New York. One of the lads thinks they may have been impressed into the British navy. Another recalls seeing dark-skinned islanders, thatched huts and exotic fruits. Another remembers only angry seas and gale winds while the fourth remembers nothing at all.

They seem to have washed up, almost literally, in Charleston harbor with only their instruments and the clothes on their backs. They took to playing at the public market and were soon adopted as mascots by the Palmetto Sharpshooters. It was with that noble group of soldiers that they came to Richmond – staying here as the company went to the front.

After I heard their story I resolved to help them as best I could and straight away went to the manager of the Spotswood who, in exchange for a bottle of good brandy, agreed to audition them. He was as taken as I was by their talent and charm and hired them on the spot. They are all quartered together in a rather shabby room on the first floor but they are being charged no rent for it. The manager is paying them well enough that they can afford their own meals, thankfully. We have been able to obtain their instruments from the magistrate after he was informed that the band was indeed off the street and had secured employment. They will entertain guests in the lounge beginning tomorrow night. I shall enjoy getting to know these lads, since we are all under the same roof at least at present.

The only known wartime photograph of Sgt. Packer's band, taken while in camp with the Palmetto Sharpshooters in Richmond.

Editor’s note: To the legion of dedicated readers of this blog, I hope that neither of you have been alarmed by the absence of entries from the journal over the past few weeks. With apologies to all, it is time to play catch-up with Col. Moss, who has seen some interesting times since our last visit.

You’ll recall that the redoubtable Col. Moss has been swept into the vortex of a theatrical production that bends to the will of no director or producer but which rather has taken on a life of its own. As if carried away in the paw of a monster, Moss is powerless to stop the beast. Without the guiding hand of Gen. Magruder, whose mysterious orders to the front has precluded his participation, Moss has placed himself at the mercy of a dissolute sergeant from Louisiana … and disaster follows. His entry for December 4th is in an uncharacteristically shaky hand:
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December 4, 1861

For once my pen fails me, for there are no words in our noble language to describe the agonies that have accompanied me over the past week. Yea, such tortures have never been known to me and it may be that I shall never recover from this horror – and I should rue the day that I ever met Sgt. Jean-Batiste or for that matter Mr. Dillon!

With General Magruder gone to the front it was with some reluctance that I decided that the only possible replacement for the lead role of Don Quixote was the very man who was in the act of translating the work of Cervantes from Spanish into English. Jean-Batiste received the news with some skepticism but soon a gleam came to his eye and he asked me how much he was to be paid. I had not thought of this and had no figure in mind. He suggested the outrageous sum of $500 and I assured him that was not possible, that I was unsure whether or not Mr. Dillon had sold that many tickets. Jean-Batiste then suggested that he would be happy to settle at one-fourth the amount of gate receipts from ticket sales and I quickly agreed to that sum.

It is just here that I cannot bring myself to expand on what followed except to say that I pray I should never again experience such a folly. In the presence of well over a thousand people we presented a play for which there had been no rehearsal and no script. The promised translation never appeared, though Jean-Batiste assured me that our familiarity with the story would enable us to perform impromptu and that if our acting was realistic enough the audience would believe our play had been rehearsed for months. After quickly fashining a costume from what I found in a storage closet here at the hotel I was thrust out onto the stage with no means of escape. The noble Don Quixote was never more degraded as Jean-Batiste, who had consumed a deplorable amount of drink, appeared on a borrowed or perhaps stolen artillery horse.

The performance itself, if it may be so styled, was mercifully short and the completely unexpected appearance of Sgt. Jean-Batiste’s regiment set the crowd to a panic. I was mistakenly identified by them as “the man with the money” and was set upon as wolves upon their prey. Mr. Dillon made a quick getaway with what I must presume was a large sum and has not been seen since. I have heard from Mr. Crabtree – who is equally vexed as I – that Dillon has left town.

I have been completely prostrated since this event and have sent my regrets to the cabinet for my absence. I must rally and rally quickly, for devoting myself to my work is the only way that this nightmarish event shall leave my thoughts.
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   Ed: The performance may have been terrifying for Col. Moss but it seems that the crowd was more than pleased by such a diversion. Sister Augusta Moss reveals such in her letter to Flora following the “play:”

My dear Flora,

It has taken me three attempts to begin this letter to you for each time I take pen in hand I become convulsed in tremors of hysterics. A nice cup of tea, furnished by Mrs. Smith Shepherd just now, has steadied me sufficiently, though I still feel a tingle in my toes. I must get on with this before it starts anew.

The cause of all this is the most wonderful comedy we were all treated to on Friday evening. At least one professional company, perhaps more, is at one of the theaters on Broad Street and the troupe has been playing to packed houses. Our interests were aroused by the news that some local actors would perform the clasic Don Quixote, and as a special treat it would be performed outdoors and at night not far from here.

Major Spradling obtained tickets for a group of us and we all bundled ourselves up, for the evening was chilly, and walked down to the venue. The troupe had constructed a kind of a set on a lot near the canal turning basin. It was enclosed on three sides, cleverly, by the wooden silhouettes of the humble cottages in a village in far off La Mancha. Behind them loomed the fabled windmill – a thrilling sight! Several roaring bonfires lit the scene and provided a welcome warmth. You would have thrilled at it all as I did, the light of the fires illuminating the towering flour mill opposite the basin and reflecting off the water as well as the windows of neaby buildings. It made one feel like singing the carols of our holy Christmastide.

Now I must say that the seating arrangement was far from ideal – wooden crates and hay bales arranged in a series of elliptical rows, but of course we are at war and much of our resourves are used for our dear soldiers in the field.

And what a throng! I should say that at least five hundred people were in attendance. Nearly every vantage point was occupied and many were the craning necks hoping to catch the first glimpse of the noble Quixote. A curious thing, though – as we made our way forward through the crowd I noticed a man standing behind a post with a sloch hat pulled low over his brow. This man I at once recognized as my friend Gen. Magruder. He was not dressed in his impeccable uniform but rather in civilian garb. he seemed quite starteled when I greeted him and after a polite bow he gathered his coat collar about his neck and scurried away into the milling mob.

Ah, but now for the grand performance, and my dear I begin to quake anew at the memory. A hush fell over the crowd as a Mr. Crabtree ascended grandly to the top of a ladder at the edge of the set. I believe I met this man some weeks ago at the hotel. He announced that we fortunate ones were about to see a performance we should not soon forget – and was he right! With a sweep of his arm he gestured towards the set while calling out in a comical attempt at Spanish, “Ee, ahora! El Engine-eoso Hidalgo Don Quick-So-Tee de la Mancha!” That was our first inkling that what we were about to witness would not be a faithful adaptation of Cervantes but rather a jolly farce.

As the applause died away nothing at all happened  for a few moments, which itself drew guffaws. Then a small, round little fellow – about Pipsie’s size – stepped out onto the stage. It was the lovable Sancho Panza. His very appearance was so comical. He wore a Mexican sarape, which for all the world looked like one of the rugs from the Spotswood, and an oversized hat perched on the back of his head. Someone had fashioned for him a moustache that could have been made from an old paint brush. He peered out at the audience wide-eyed for a few moments and then with his little legs tried to retreat through the door from whence he had come. Alas! It had been shut and locked behind him. The audience was convulsed with roaring laughter at this brilliant pantomime.

Bravely, this little tea kettle of a man strode to the front of the stage and peered up the hill in the direction of the Capitol as if looking for help. Presently he cleared his throat and called out, “Aye, aye aye! Where is the brave Don Quixote? Aye, aye, aye!” His plaintive lamentations echoed off the surrounding buildings and were piteous to the ear. “Aye, aye, aye!” he continued beseeching his master.

Suddenly, we heard off ot our right the shrill whinny of a horse, and there he was – the hero, the legendary Don Quixote mounted on his trusty steed Rocinante and holding a lance, which may have been simply a pole. He wore about him what appeared to be a small boiler with holes cut in it for his arms, and a sweeping straw hat. A hush fell over us, for we were spellbound! Quixote stood in his stirrups and at once teetered precipitously. Gaining his balance, he shrieked not anything at all from Cervantes but rather the immortal words of Caeser, “Veni! Vidi! Vici!” With that his charger bolted and I swear to you, Flora, it appeared he would ride pell-mell directly into the audience! The horse and its still-shrieking rider charged thunderously across in front of the stage, sending the little Sancho Panza diving behind a barrel. Hurdling one of the bonfires the horse continued straight toward the turning basin, at the edge of which he came to a quick stop sending the rider, now screaming French-sounding oaths, and his accoutrements over his head and out into the water with a resounding splash. Fortunately for Quixote, his suit of armor became detached in mid-flight, else he would have drowned!

The audience roared its approval and Major Spradling nearly fell off his hay bale as he shook with laughter as the gentleman from La Mancha was hauled sputtering from what must have been very cold waters. Then a most amazing thing happend – another group of actors, some thirty or forty, dressed as Arab warriors, with red fezzes, short, brown jackets and brightly striped billowing pantaloons, descended on the scene and bedlam ensued! They knocked over a portion of the set which fell into one of the bonfires, setting it ablaze. They plucked Sancho Panza out from behind his barrel, trussed him hand and foot to the pole that had been Quixote’s lance, and carried him away as one would a roasted pig! I was told that poor Sancho ended up in the fountain on Capitol Square.

The acting of this “mob” was so convincing that the audience quickly dispersed – that is to say, broke and ran. Such mayhem! We were all part of the performance by then, which I suppose is what the troupe intended, and my companions and I laughed ourselves hoarse as we returned to the Spotswood.

I remember that in the midst of it all I saw that beady-eyed man Pipsie introduced me to at the hotel some weeks ago. He was crouched over while clutching a metal box, scurrying like a cockroach, his brow knitted and determined, with a cunning look about him. He is a scoundrel of some sort and I took the liberty to shake my finger in his face and demanded that he keep his distance from my brother.

The play has been the talk of the Spotswood since then and hardly can any of us who attended even look at each other without breaking out anew in gales of laughter. I shall be sad to leave this place, which I must do in a few days, but I shall return again in the Spring.

And now, my dearest, please kiss your dear ones for me and remember me as yours truly.

Gussie

Editors note: Crisis has fallen hard upon the redoubtable colonel as the planned production of Don Quixote has nearly entirely de-railed. The show must go on, however, regardless of what obstacles may lie in the way. Meanwhile, his sister has learned of her brother’s ill-fated visit to “Madame Delilah’s School” – but an invitation to take in the novelty of an upcoming outdoor play has made her giddy with anticipation:
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November 26, 1861

Oh! Calamity! Infernal clouds have descended upon me! Just one week before the premier of our production of Don Quixote and everything has gone up! This has been cursed from the beginning. With nothing ready we were informed last week by Mr. Crabtree that the production would have to take place in two weeks – and, heaven help us, we need two months to have everything ready. When I suggested that we call it all off Mr. Dillon reminded us that he has already sold several hundred tickets and that we must proceed. That is when our gallant Gen. Magruder called for us to rally around him and make our stand – but now our leader is gone! Gen. Magruder has been ordered to go down river towards Newport News – he who was to play Quixote! – and now we have no actor to play the leading role. Dillon callously suggested that I ride onto stage in my character of Sanco Panza and “sing Spanish songs.” What a mockery of the great Cervantes! I shall do no such thing!

I had hoped to use my influence with Mr. Davis or within the cabinet to get Gen. Magruder’s orders countermanded but in going through the piles of incoming orders, reports and requisitions I have been able to find no such orders. Stepping out from my office at the Bell Tower I chanced to encounter Gen. Magruder as he rode down Ninth Street on his way to the Williamsburg Road and out of town. I explained to him that I was seeking to have his orders delayed by a week so that he could stay and take his part in our play. At once he silenced me with a firm but kind wave of the hand, explaining that his orders were of highly sensitive and confidential and that no one must know of them. Indeed, if the enemy learns that Gen. Magruder is on his way to the front they may seek to capture him. I nonetheless went to the Secretary of War later that afternoon and asked him about Magruder’s orders. He proclaimed that he knew nothing about such orders – so indeed this is highly shrouded in the deepest of secrecy.  Then enemy must not know!

But where does that leave us? The bills have been posted. Dillon is madly selling tickets. Crabtree has employed some idle laborers to construct what may or may not be a set (oh! that the Bard should see this!), and we have but one cast member, myself, and there is yet no script. I have enquired with Madame Delilah as to the whereabouts of Sgt. Jean Batiste but she professes not to know – though I could have sworn I saw him peek from a window as I spoke to her on the street. I can only trust that he and Castellon are hard at work. I must have their translation in hand by tomorrow!

But where will I find someone to play Quixote? A professional troupe is in town playing elsewhere but it will cost the entirety of our gate receipts to pay one of them, even if they could undertake the role. But now it has occurred to me – Sgt. Jean Batiste could himself play the noble crusader! He is tall like Quixote and swarthy as a Spaniard. And he is translating the text of the book! If he cannot memorize lines surely he can extemporize something to their effect. I shall present this offer to him tomorrow and will turn Richmond upside down until I find my friend from Louisiana!

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Letter from Eugenia Octavia Moss to “Flora” – undated but presumed to be from November, 1861

My dear Flora,

We are enjoying a beautiful autumn season here in Richmond. I have stayed long beyond my planned time here but am enjoying myself so immensely that I do not wish to leave quite yet. The Spotswood Hotel is simply alive with fascinating people and I have made so many new friends while here. I will have to return to Columbia soon enough but must make it a habit to come to Richmond.

I told you my concerns about Pipsie and a few certain men with whom he has been keeping company. Well, Flora, I now have something to tell you that will absolutely take your very breath from your being. I found out that my brother has been in jail since his arrival. On Thursday our old family friend Major Spradling called for me at the hotel and we enjoyed a lively chat. After catching up on family and old acquaintances the major cleared his throat, leaned in conspiratorially and asked me if I had heard from my brother about his adventures of this past July. I assured him I had not known of my brother to undertake adventures of any kind and to please proceed. He went on to tell me an astonishing tale – and Flora, my pen can hardly write some of these words, and please forgive me that these should find their way to your threshold. Pipsie was arrested and sent to jail with a mongrel hoard when the Richmond police raided a building here in which a number of female denizens of the street were … plying their trade!

When I heard that I nearly fainted. The room seemed to spin and the air became as thick as sorghum. The major took my hand and quickly assured me that the news was not as bad as it seemed – and here you may wish to make sure that you are seated. Pipsie, the major assured me, believed himself to be inspecting the facilities of a private women’s college! Can you imagine? Yes, with my brother you most decidedly can imagine. Pipsie apparently assumed that the madame of this operation was the headmistress and that her employees were students. He was in the room of one of them when the police came in. Pipsie did have the good judgment to call for Major Spradling the following morning and it was he who explained to the judge my brother’s mistake. He and this judge have shared many laughs over this ever since but I can assure you that my brother, having spent a night in jail with an assortment of hoodlums and urchins, cannot recall the matter with any degree of enjoyment. Please do not breathe a word of this to anyone at home. If father were to find out about this Pipsie, even in his perpetual innocence, may see the last penny he will receive from him.

Such a week I have before me. Many invitations to lunches, dinners and teas – far more than I can accept. The people here are so kind. But next Friday night there will be a special treat. Miss Eleanor Gilbreath and Miss Sophie Kilgore have asked me to accompany them to a play. A local troupe is presenting an adaptation of Don Quixote – and it will be performed outdoors! Oh, this shall be splendid and I cannot wait for it. You shall have a review of it from me, my dearest friend!

And now please kiss your little ones for me and accept from me my heartfelt prayers for your happiness.

Genny

Editor’s note: Sphagnum Moss’ deep gloom of November 1861 continues as his sister’s visit shows no sign of end. His journal entry of November 12th is simply a drawing of a woman hanging from a gallows. By November 19th his has gathered himself sufficiently to continue his journal writings – but a new disaster has knocked at his door:

November 19th, 1861

Two weeks! My nervous system is being tried as I have never experienced. Two weeks! Those infernal words ring in my ears like the horrid clang of the bells of doom. Two weeks! It is the looming shadow of disaster. Two weeks! Two weeks! I have been informed but today that our production of Don Quixote must take place two weeks from yesterday. Mr. Crabtree is selling his lot, the very lot on which our performance is to take place, and it must be cleared of all encumbrances before the sale – which takes place on the Monday following!

Oh! That I should have been drawn into this catastrophic folly! We have no script. We have no cast. We have no set, no costumes, no accoutrements! But we must have the play – in two weeks!

Gen. Magruder met me in the men’s parlor this morning to acquaint me with the news. A lightning bolt would have done no more harm to me. Gen. Magruder hurried to the bar and came back with two strong toddies, one of which he drank and I the other. My next memory is of the general standing over me fanning me with a towel. He helped me to my feet and sat me on an ottoman. Gen. Magruder has faced the guns of Chapultepec and of Bethel and he does not quake in the face of this calamity. “My little friend,” he said in his curious way, “we have but to rise to this challenge and defeat it!” Magnificent man! I can but imagine the effect he has on his troops as shot and shell fall about him.

But to die on the battlefield is a glorious thing. To die on the stage is something quite different. I begged the general tell me how we can create a production in two weeks that will not get us tarred, feathered and run out of town on a pair of rails. “Do not fear, colonel! Even now I am forming a strategy. Please meet me here on Tuesday and we shall begin our campaign.”

Again, our immortal Bard said it best, “I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one”

Editor’s note: The author of these journal pages seems to have been hard at work with his pen during the day but finding time in the evenings to try to lasso the swirling elements that must come together if he and his friend General John Bankhead Magruder are to present their stage production of Don Quixote.

But having a sister in town may not prove to be such a negative thing as Col. Moss perceives. Distant, though they are, they are still siblings – and sister Augusta has observed some things that cause her no small amount of worry. Social she is, but shrewd as well – a quality that may be of benefit to a brother innocent of such qualities. Her letter to Flora sheds some light on family history.

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November 5th, 1861

At last we are getting somewhere with our theatrical performance, and none too soon! After several weeks I was able to pin down Gen. Magruder along with messrs Crabtree and Dillon in the bar here at the hotel. Was much relieved to know that the site for the play is serviceable. Mr. Crabtree has had it cleared of debris and is as we speak in the process of erecting a fence around three sides of the plot. Mr. Dillon says that he has invested much time and some money into promoting our play throughout Richmond but I must say that I have not seen any notices or advertisements. Still, he seems to be well-known throughout the community and perhaps he is spreading the word in person.

Our meeting was interrupted, though, by the grand entrance of The Royal One and her fleet. I have hardly seen one thing of my sister since her arrival in Richmond. Have heard plenty. She seems to be at every social affair and I can hear her laughter pervading every corner of the hotel. I am gratified that she is having a good time but of course she chooses to come see me at the very time at which I am engaged in important discussion. Oh, she made a big fuss over Gen. Magruder who, with his impeccable good manners and winning ways returned her greeting in kind. Crabtree and Dillon rose
upon her arrival at our table and she nodded in their direction but maintained her focus on the general. Soon enough he invited her (but not me!) to join him for an inspection of the troops the next morning and of course she was only too delighted to accept.

I was also able to track down Sgt. Jean-Batiste with the help of Madame Delilah. On my daily walks I have on several occasions seen the sergeant in her company but have not been able to gain their attention. Today I almost literally ran into Madame Delilah – she did not see me – and after picking myself up asked where I could find my Louisiana friend. I was most surprised to find that he is staying in one of a set of rooms that she is renting and apparently sub-letting, for I have noticed a few of her students going in and out of the same building. So gratified to know that she is putting her school back together.  Hopefully soon she will have all the girls together back in one place. For now they are scattered here and there around the city.

Sgt. Jean-Batiste came out to meet me on the sidewalk and seemed a bit unhappy to have been disturbed. I did feel very bad, for this brave soldier continues to nurse a badly injured back. Such a constitution, for he evidences little or no pain, though I know it must be troubling him greatly. I brought up the subject of using his comrade Castellon as a translator and produced our Spanish copy of Don. Quixote. Sgt. Jean-Batiste’s eyes almost popped from his head and he muttered something in a dialect of French with which, thankfully, I was not familiar. He professed astonishment at the magnitude of the task, believing, he said, that I merely had some letters for him to translate. The sergeant stammered a bit and declared that this would take some time – time that is rapidly running out for us, I might add – and that Castellon, who was quite without funds, would be required to spend a goodly sum on paper and ink in order to take on this job.

While we were discussing a price we heard behind us a great noise which we took at first to be the parade of a newly arriving regiment but which turned out to be nothing more than my sister and her
entourage coming down the street. Sgt. Jean-Batiste sought to duck inside the doorway from whence he had come, for he was not in full uniform. My sister, however, hailed us before he could make good his getaway. I introduced them and to my surprise Sgt. Jean-Batiste spoke to her in his native tongue, whatever it is. This took my normally unflappable sister by surprise. She looked at me and I was only able to shrug my shoulders. Sgt. Jean-Batiste again spoke in this most foreign of tongues, sounding at once French but then again not. My sister peered at him intently. The sergeant then bowed and disappeared quickly inside.

She then gave me a quizzical look as I had not seen from her recently – a look of puzzlement mixed with a slight frosting of reproach. She backed away from me as if I were a skunk or other offensive woodland creature and soon enough she and her attendants were on their way back up the street. Whatever her displeasure with me it did not last for long for within the hour I could again hear her chortling away in the hotel courtyard in the midst of some revelry going on.

So now we finally have our book in the hands of a man who can translate it for us – and Gen. Magruder has at last made headway on our site and the promotion of our grand presentation. For me there has been very much work during the day and sometimes at night. I have hardly left my office in the old Bell Tower. Papers by the multitude continue to be delivered to me for copying and I have gone through what seems to be a gallon of ink and countless nibs. My hand suffers from cramping but I shall endure this and do my duty to its fullest.

The man who was supposed to come shut my window has not yet appeared and the evenings are very chilly. Thankfully I have two good thick blankets here and I sleep comfortably, but my morning ablution is quite a shock to the system. Oh, for some hot water!

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November 7, 1861

My dear Flora,

Richmond continues to be a delight. Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe Gilliam invited me to dinner last night with some of their friends from Raleigh who have come up and we had a gay time together. There are so many interesting people here and I have so enjoyed getting to know everyone.

But I am quite decidedly shocked by what has befallen my brother! You have known Pipsie since our childhood – and I trust that you have a stimulant at hand because what I have to tell you will shake you to your core. He has fallen in with some quite bad people here. That he has fallen in with anyone at all must come as a surprise. Mother’s smothering presence kept at bay anyone who would step between her and her precious boy. That she could be alive now to see this! Oh, that would have sent her into one of her infamous tizzies!

Several days ago I found my brother in the bar of our hotel in earnest conversation with three men, one of whom was attired resplendently in the full – and I mean full – dress uniform of a general. I was
amazed when Pipsie introduced him to me as none other than Gen. Magruder – our hero of Bethel! The general is tall and very handsome, though I was surprised to hear him speak with a curious curl of the letter “s.” He bowed graciously to me and I was much flattered by his attention. He at once invited me to accompany him the next morning on a review of some of his troops who are encamped outside the city, but more on that in another letter. 

The other two men with them were local men. I did not at all like the looks of one of them – I think his name is Dillon. His eyes are set too close together and he has a weak chin. There is something about him that is at once repulsive, like a slithering reptile. That my brother, of all persons, should associate with someone like that is quite without precedent! 

But my greatest shock was reserved for the following afternoon. I was making my way from our hotel to a shop in the next block when I again saw my brother ahead speaking to another stranger. As I approached this man turned as if to run from me but turned the wrong way and instead of going
through the door he instead fetched up rather hard against the door frame. Pipsie, looking none too pleased to see me, introduced this man as a Sergeant John Baptiste. Oh, Flora! If you could have seen him. For one thing, he was in his stocking feet – on the sidewalk – and seemed to have very carelessly dressed himself besides. He had on a pair of ridiculous pantaloons, white with blue stripes, or the other way round, and a fez perched precariously atop his head. His uniform coat was not present and I was instead treated to a rather wretched undershirt. He appeared as one might imagine a broken down genie from a magic lamp of dubious origin. The man was swarthy, as if from Algeria, and spoke to me in some kind of gibberish. I smelled liquor on this man and gave him a hard stare. From this he took flight after stammering out some other nonsense I could not understand. I was so shocked by this encounter that I was only able to stare at my brother before beating my own retreat back to the hotel where I was soon revived by good company and some marvelous port.

Flora, I have through the years kept myself quite distant from my brother – or had been kept distant by mother. Now that her domineering shadow has been removed I must now wonder whether he knows the importance of good associations. I will keep an eye on his movements over the next weeks.

I shall now leave you with special prayers for your continued happiness and for that of your precious household.                                                                                  
Genny

   Editor’s note: One of the few gaps in the journal of Col. Moss appears between October 15th and October 29th, 1861. It coincides with the arrival of his sister Eugenia who comes to visit for an intederminate period of time. It is clear by his language that Moss harbors a simmering disdain of long standing for his sister – and it is just as evident from her letters that the sister seems to hardly notice the presence of her younger brother. The differences between the two siblings are extraordinary and are brought quite vividly to light by her correspondence and his journal. Eugenia seems to have been immensely popular and socialble while Col. Moss is clearly one who exists comfortably within his own world with no apparent need for close companions, though he does appear amiable and not immune to friendships.

Perhaps the piece of information that reveals the most about the siblings’ relationship is a hand-drawn illustration in Moss’ journal entry for October 22nd. No words were written down that day. In their place is a characature-ish drawing of a woman in a fashionable dress but with an Indian’s arrow sticking in her back. It must be presumed that this is Col. Moss’ impression of his sister Eugenia. Presented below are his journal entry of October 29th, 1861 and a letter from her to “Flora,” a friend or perhaps cousin back in South Carolina.
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October 29, 1861

The train from the Infernal Regions arrived here on Saturday last and Her Highness descended with cloven foot to the platform. I had hired a buggy to take us to the hotel but after placing her considerable baggage in it there was no room for me, so I was forced to walk. By the time I got to the Spotswood my sister had already disappeared into the milling throng in one of the parlors, her shrill cackle rising high above the tumult. Her baggage had by that time been sent to her room, which I discovered is the very suite on the second floor into which I had hoped to move but which, I had been told by the desk clerk, was unavailable. My sister shows up and she gets the room! I shall have to speak to the manager about this outrage.

Since she alighted here in Richmond a week ago I have seen little of my sister, though I suppose I should not complain. I should not worry about her being unattended. One can easily trace her whereabouts by the great clouds of admirers that surround her. I attempted to gain her attention on Wednesday in the lobby but was nearly trampled by her entourage. That afternoon I left a
note for her at the desk and the clerk, with some difficulty, wedged it into her room’s cubby hole with what appeared to be many dozen other notes, letters and telegrams.

At night I can hear her voice coming from a multitude of functions being held by the residents of this hotel. Does she not sleep? Perhaps she is one of those mythological creatures of the night who require neither sleep nor sustenance but who rather live on the blood of others. I must banish such thoughts, though. My sister has been good enough to come visit her brother – though what has
transpired thus far can only be termed a visit as one might visit a lamp post while passing by in a carriage.

My own affairs keep me busy during the day and thank goodness I have managed to arrange a meeting with Crabtree, Dillon and Gen. Magruder for this Wednesday evening in the bar here. I saw at a distance on Friday Sgt. Jean-Batiste in conversation with Madame Delilah and I must confess it did not occur to me to ask her assistance with the translation of the book. The classic languages are always taught at the better schools and no doubt Madame Delilah’s students are fluent in a variety of tongues. Well, huzzah for the good sergeant from Louisiana that he did think of this and apparently has donated some money to the school for the girls’ troubles as I saw him hand Madame Delilah several bills.

So, here I sit in my small room attended by my books of Shakespeare that my sister brought from home (I had to ask the housekeeper to fetch it for me from her things). The evening is peaceful and cool, save for the commotion coming from one of the rooms below. No doubt she is in the middle of that – ah! Yes, I hear that laugh. Or perhaps someone has brought in a whooping crane for amusement. I shall have to ask tomorrow to have one of the staff come lower my
window as it is stuck open and too high for me to reach.
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Dear Flora.

Arrived here in Richmond today after a most enjoyable train ride. The trip seemed not so long as I had feared but perhaps it was because I was so busy visiting. Good conversation does make the time pass more quickly, does it not? Just on my car were Mr. and Mrs. Goodlowe, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Jepson, Mr. Walter Haskell, Mrs. Sophie Carmichael and her darling daughter Ella, the Gilbert sisters from Camden, Mr. and Mrs. Frank DeLaughter, Miss Agnes Reynolds and Stephen Lansing. We all had a delightful time together and indeed many of them are staying at the Spotswood Hotel, so we shall see each other often.

Pipsie met me at the station and for a moment I thought he was on his way to a costume ball. Somehow he has secured a sort-of-commission (though I think I know how) in the service and has obtained a uniform worthy of a circus ringmaster. He hired a conveyance to take me to the hotel and I checked in to a very nice suite here overlooking the courtyard.

Have only been here a few hours and already have more invitations than I can possibly accommodate. What’s that you say? Try? Oh, dear Flora, of course I shall try to fit them all in. I don’t wish to disappoint anyone. Tonight I am having dinner with Mrs. John Robinson and several of her friends including the Taylors along with Col. McVey and his wife. This evening Mr. and Mrs. Fitzhugh are hosting a social and I understand some of the children will conduct a pantomime for us.

Tomorrow morning I will have breakfast with Mrs. Taliaferro, Mrs. Burnell and Mrs. Thornhill Simpson and then we are all taking a carriage ride out to see the encampments of some of our regiments. I certainly do hope to find Major James Tunstall. His darling wife, Hettie, sent me with a lovely boxed cake for him, and I shall deliver it!

The hotel here is very nice and I have already made the acquaintance of some very lively Virginia folk who have invited me to take tea with them in the parlor tomorrow afternoon. Someone else who I have yet to meet has invited me to take dinner with them tomorrow night and I have accepted. Will bring Charlotte Evans with me so that I will have someone with whom to talk South Carolina things if the occasion suits.

And now my dear Flora I must close. Quite tired as I have been pulled in every direction but North since arriving. God bless you and your darling ones.

Ginny