At 2 a. m. went on deck, fearful sight, thunder, lightning
and rain, wind blowing almost a hurricane, sea roaring and waves running nearly
mountain high. At 3 a. m. Michael Dobson died, it was said, of delirium
tremens. His berth being near mine, of course I tried to compose his limbs and
features for burial, but while doing so the ship gave a tremendous lurch almost
sending her on to her beam ends. The dead body of poor Dobson was flung out of
his berth, and I found myself lodged against a row of berths in the center of
the deck. I got the body back with the assistance of another soldier, and at
daylight the wind ceased. Dobson's funeral was at 9 o'clock. The body was sewed
up in sail cloth with bags of sand at the feet, placed on a plank shrouded in
the U. S. flag and balanced across the rail. The chaplain read the beautiful
burial service of the Episcopal church, the inner end of the plank was raised,
and the body slid off into the deep. I remembered the words in Revelations, “And
the sea gave up the dead that were in it.” From this time on nothing of
importance occurred worth relating for several days. We were south of the
latitude of Charleston going round the peninsula of Florida, and much of the
time we were becalmed, the sea being smooth as a mill pond. One evening there
was an alarm of a privateer. Somebody said they saw a dim light in the
distance. I did not see any and did not believe anybody else did. To meet an
armed vessel of the enemy it is plain would be no joke. All we had was two
small smooth bore four-inch guns, worth about as much as toy pistols against
modern rifled cannon, so that to meet such a craft everybody knew that our
destination would be Andersonville or the bottom of the ocean instead of Ship
Island. Off Bermuda, John Haywood died and was buried in the deep.
SOURCE: George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's
Diary, p. 3-5
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