January 3rd, 1863.—My dear, dear Grandpa is dead. I loved him so well and now I will never see him again. Mother was all ready to start to North Carolina today but a telegram came telling the sad news.
Mary Eliza died in the night and she will be buried here tomorrow. There is trouble and sorrow on every side. It proved to be whooping cough poor little Mary Eliza had and Mattie and I have taken it. I thought it was a baby disease but it seems grown people can have it.
Our men in camp are suffering for blankets. Mother has sent all of hers and she has several of the women on the place at work washing and carding wool, to make comforts to take the place of the covering she has sent to the army. She has already sent all the linen sheets to the Reid Hospital in Richmond; not as sheets but rolled in bandages for dressing wounds. We have used most of the table cloths to scrape lint, for this blockade cuts us off from any supplies for the sick or the wounded.
Father has taught Nan to make salve and we ship it every week. She keeps the pot of salve going all the time for our poor soldiers. They need so much and we can do so little.
Susan Bradford is 16 years old when this entry was made.