Diary of Musician David Lane, January 15, 1863

Our shanties are completed, and we moved in yesterday. They are warm and dry, and cannot but affect the health of the men favorably. I received a letter from home last night, and great was my astonishment to see, on reading it, an indictment against one dearer to me than life, and in whose behalf I plead "Not guilty."

My poor, wounded, suffering wife; what could have put such thoughts into your mind? Have you not always been the most tender, the most loving, of wives? Have you not always been by my side to advise, assist, uphold and sustain me? Have you not watched over me, in sickness and in health, and nursed me with more than a mother's tenderness? Have you not borne poverty without a murmur for my sake; and still, as a wife, you are a failure? Oh, banish such thoughts from your mind, for, I do assure you, they come of an over-sensitive imagination. You say you have always been a clog to my feet. No, no! I have been my own clog. The error was in the start. Youthful ignorance and folly added to the advice of men in whom I confided, but whose council proved a snare started me in the wrong direction, and I have continued to float downward with the tide. But, dear, I have no regrets. My life has been happy beyond the lot of most men, and what, my beloved, has made it so? Certainly not the pleasures of wealth or honors conferred by man. What, then, but the never-failing, self-sacrificing power of love which you have always lavished on your husband that has bound him to you with cords stronger than bands of steel? The only things I craved when I was sick were the tender accents of your voice and your dear hand upon my brow.

There seems to be a bond of sympathy between us that knows no bounds—is not confined by space. Many times since I left home have I visited you, or received your visits, and the impression left was that of reality. Last night, after I retired to rest—before I went to sleep, for the boys were gathered around the fire and I could hear their jests and laughter—I held your hands in both of mine, trying to comfort and console you, and it was real as reality itself. There is so much hollow-heartedness and deceit practiced here by men who, under the false guise of patriotism, seek wealth and position, that, had I all the world can bestow, I would give it all to enjoy with you one hour of social intercourse.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 25-7

Diary of Musician David Lane, February 2, 1863

Camp Pittman, Va. Our camp has been christened at last. We are building a huge oven, large enough to supply our brigade with soft bread. Furloughs are being granted to a limited number of officers and men. This will entitle our company to eight privates. In our company the lot fell between Wait Wright, of Eaton Rapids, and myself. Our cases were so similar the Colonel would not decide between us. He said we must talk it over and agree which should go first, and that, as soon as one returned, the other should go. I heard Mr. Wright's story and volunteered to remain until his return, which will be fifteen days from the date of his furlough. The past week has been very cold. It has snowed all day, and now—about four o'clock is turning to rain, and bids fair to be a rainy night.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 28

Diary of Musician David Lane, February 8, 1863

We are under marching orders again—ready to move at a minute's notice. The Ninth Army Corps is detached from the Army of the Potomac and is ordered to report to General Dix, at Fortress Monroe. The supposition is we go on an expedition somewhere—rumor says Vicksburg. The first detachment has gone, and we are awaiting the return of the transports. The men are well pleased with the idea of going farther south. For myself, I say any place but this. When we came here the country was a wilderness, covered with a heavy growth of scrub pine. Now it is a desert with scarcely a tree, and not a fence rail for miles in any direction.

It seems that Richmond has lost its strategic importance, and the "decisive blow" which was to have fallen there has been transferred to five other points, viz: Vicksburg, Port Hudson, Rosa's and Foster's expeditions, and Charleston. "If these prove successful," say the Washington papers, "the rebellion will end in thirty days." God grant them all success. When I survey the past history of the war I can see but little in the immediate future to encourage hope. The conviction is forced upon me that if the North subdue the South, the war has but just begun. It can and will be done, but time and persevering effort only will accomplish it. The people are too impatient. They demand important victories now, while fortified some place—Vicksburg, for instance—can only be taken by siege, and siege means weeks and months of waiting.

Government, urged on by the people, acts as if the salvation of the country depends on all this being accomplished before the fourth of March. But I see nothing but failure in haste.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 28-9

Diary of Musician David Lane, February 15, 1863

We are now on the “heaving sea and the bounding wave.” We were aroused yesterday morning at four o'clock, ordered to prepare breakfast and be ready to march at a minute's notice. At five-thirty the bugle sounded "fall in." We slung our accoutrements, the first time since the battle of Fredericksburg, and in fifteen minutes were en route to the depot, distance about two miles. After some delay we took cars for Aquia Creek, where we arrived at 10 o'clock a. m., and were immediately transferred to transports, bound for Fortress Monroe. The Seventy-ninth New York and Seventeenth Michigan were crowded on the North America, an old Hudson River propeller. There was hardly standing room, much less room to walk about. The day is fine, and the bay, unruffled by a breeze, presents a lively and picturesque appearance. Steamers are continually arriving and departing, sailboats of all sorts and sizes spread their white wings and glide leisurely through the still waters, while the active little tugs go whisking and snorting here and there, assisting larger and more unwieldly vessels. We left Aquia Creek at 10:30 o'clock a. m., expecting to reach the Fortress by nine o'clock next morning. I love the sea in all its forms and phases, and it was with a thrill of joy I took my seat on deck, prepared to enjoy whatever of interest might present itself. The Potomac, at Aquia Creek, is truly a noble stream, if stream it may be called, for there is no perceptible current, being, I judge, one and one-half miles wide, gradually broadening out as it nears the bay, until at its mouth it is nine miles wide. There is a striking contrast between the Maryland and Virginia shores. The Virginia side, nearly the entire distance, presents a rugged, mountainous aspect, with very few buildings in view, while the Maryland shore is level, dotted with farm buildings, and, at frequent intervals a village with its church spires glittering in the sun. In contemplating these peaceful scenes of rural life, the quiet farm houses surrounded by groves of trees, the well-tilled fields, outbuildings and fences undisturbed by war's desolating hand, the genial air of quiet repose that pervades the scene calls up emotions that have long lain dormant. For many long months, which seems as many years, my eyes have become inured to scenes of blood, of desolation and of ruin; to cities and villages laid waste and pillaged; private residences destroyed; homes made desolate; in fact, the whole country through which we have passed, except part of Maryland, has become through war's desolating touch, a desert waste. As I gazed on these peaceful scenes and my thirsty soul drank in their beauty, how hateful did war appear, and I prayed the time might soon come when “Nations shall learn war no more.”

Gradually the wind freshened, increasing in force as we neared the bay, until it became so rough the captain thought it unsafe to venture out, and cast anchor about five miles from the mouth of the river to await the coming of day. I spread my blanket on the floor of one of the little cabins and slept soundly until morning. When I awoke in the morning the first gray streaks of early dawn were illuminating the eastern horizon.

The gale having subsided, we were soon under way, and in about half an hour entered the broad Chesapeake. And here a most grand and imposing scene met my enraptured gaze. Not a breath of air disturbed its unruffled surface. Numerous vessels, floating upon its bosom, were reflected as by a mirror. A delegation of porpoises met us at the entrance to welcome us to their domain; they were twenty-two in number, were from six to eight feet in length; in color, dark brown. It was truly amusing to witness their sportive antics as they seemed to roll themselves along. They would throw themselves head foremost from the water half their length, turning as on a pivot, perform what seemed to be a somersault, and disappear.

A flock of sea gulls fell into our wake, sagely picking up any crumbs of bread that might be thrown them. They are a strange bird, a little larger than a dove, closely resembling them in color and gracefulness of motion. They followed us the whole distance, and as I watched their continuous, ceaseless flight, the effect on the mind was a sense of weariness at thought of the long-continued exertion.

Soon after we entered the bay I observed what I thought to be a light fog arising in the southeast. We had not proceeded far, however, before I discovered my mistake, for that which seemed to be a fog was a shower of rain. I was taken wholly by surprise, for I had been accustomed to see some preparation and ceremony on similar occasions. But now no gathering clouds darkened the distant sky, warning me of its approach, but the very storm itself seemed to float upon the waves and become part of it, and before I was aware, enfolded us in its watery embrace. The storm soon passed, but the wind continued through the day, and, as we neared the old Atlantic and met his heavy swells, they produced a feeling of buoyancy that was, to me, truly exhilerating.

Some of the boys were seasick, and a number "cast up their accounts" in earnest. We entered the harbor about sundown and cast anchor for the night under the frowning guns of Fortress Monroe.

Vessels of war of every class, monitors included, and sailing vessels of all sizes, crowded the harbor. It was a magnificent scene, and one on which I had always longed to gaze.

In the morning we learned our destination was Newport News, distant about five miles. We arrived about eight o'clock, marched two miles to Hampton Roads, our camping ground, pitched tents and, at noon, were ready for our dinner of coffee and hardtack.

We have a pleasant camping ground, lying on the beach, where we can watch the vessels as they pass and can pick up oysters by the bushel when the tide is out.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 30-3

Diary of Musician David Lane, February 28, 1863

Newport News is a military post, and is of no importance in any other sense. There were no villages or cities here previous to the war. Now there are quite a number of temporary buildings, and barracks to accommodate 60,000 men. It is an ideal camping ground, lying on the north bank of Hampton Roads and inclining gently to the northeast. The soil is light sand, which absorbs the rain as fast as it falls and is never muddy. The Ninth Corps, composed of forty-eight regiments, is extended in a direct line along the beach, covering about two miles in length. Stringent rules have been adopted, which, if carried out, will greatly enhance the efficiency of the men in field operations. We are to have revielle at six, when every man must turn out to roll call; breakfast call at seven, when we fall in line, march to the cook's quarters and receive our allowance of "grub.” Immediately after breakfast we are marched to the creek, where every man is required to wash hands, face and neck. From eight to half-past, police duty, or cleaning up in front of tents; from eight-thirty to ten-thirty, company drill; from this time until noon, clean guns, brasses and do any little jobs we may have on hand; dinner at twelve; from one-thirty to two thirty, skirmish drill; from three to four, battalion drill, after which is dress parade; at eight-thirty, tattoo, or go to bed; at nine, taps, or lights out.

Saturday is set apart for washing and cleaning up generally. Sunday morning at eight o'clock is inspection of arms, and at two o'clock divine service.

Some of the boys think the regular routine is reversed in our case—fighting first and drill afterward. Poor fellows; I expect they will see fighting enough yet. I have not seen a newspaper since our arrival, and know as little of what is going on in the world as did Cruso on his desert island.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 34-5

Diary of Musician David Lane, March 17, 1863

We have just received orders to be ready to march at a minute's notice, with two days' rations in our haversacks. The quiet of repose is suddenly disturbed by war's alarms; the Rebels attacked our forces today at Suffolk, about twenty miles from Norfolk. The supposition is we go to support our forces at that place. Our men are excited to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. As I write I hear their shouts and joyful exclamations. The Seventeenth has recovered its old-time energy, and is eager for the fray.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 35

Diary of Musician David Lane, March 27, 1863

Louisville, Ky. We did not go to Suffolk as I anticipated. Third Division went in our stead, while we took another direction, and in eight days, by water and rail, landed in Louisville. We broke camp at Newport News on the 19th inst., marched on board a fleet of transports, went to Norfolk, where we took in coal. While lying there a heavy storm of snow set in, which lasted several hours. It was bitterly cold, or so it seemed to us, and we suffered severely. Toward night the storm abated and we sailed for Baltimore. There we were transferred to cars and came by the way of the B. & O. R. R. to Parkersburg, W. Va. From Harper's Ferry our route followed the course of the Potomac River to Columbia, a lovely city far up among the mountains, and near the head of that river. The country from Harper's Ferry is mountainous, and Columbia is near the dividing line, from which point the water flows in opposite directions. We were three days and three nights on the cars, winding around or darting through the rocky barriers that opposed us. For, where they could not be evaded, the energy and power of man pierced their huge forms and ran his fiery engines beneath their towering summits. There are twenty-seven tunnels on this road, twenty-five of which we passed through in the daytime. Some of the shorter ones are arched with brick, others with heavy timbers, while some are cut through solid rock and need no support. At Parkersburg our three regiments were crowded into one vessel, and away we went "down the Ohio." We made a short stop at Cincinnati, where we received orders to report at once to Louisville, as an attack at that place was apprehended. We halted on our way through Louisville and partook of a free dinner, prepared for us by the loyal ladies of that city. Soft bread, potatoes, boiled ham, cakes and hot coffee were served us till all were filled (and many a haversack was also filled), when we gave three cheers and a tiger for the generous donors.

We found much excitement, as bands of guerillas came within six miles of the city the night before, conscripting men and confiscating horses and other supplies.

We stole a march on the Johnnies in coming here, they having notified the citizens that they would breakfast with them on the morning of our arrival, and when they—the citizens—saw their streets filled with soldiers, they thought the promise about to be fulfilled, but the Stars and Stripes soon undeceived them. Here our brigade was divided, the Eighth Michigan and Seventy-ninth New York going to Lebanon, the Seventeenth and Twentieth Michigan remaining at this place.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 35-7

Diary of Musician David Lane, March 31, 1863

Bardstown, where we are now encamped, is an old city of about six thousand inhabitants. The Seminary, which we now occupy as a hospital, was built when there were but three houses in Cincinnati. The majority of the people, I am told, are secessionists. We are encamped on the farm of Senator Wycliff, just outside of the city, in a fine grove of beech and maple; a beautiful stream runs through our camp, while a spring of pure water, enough to supply a brigade, bursts from a crevice in the rocks.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 37

Diary of Musician David Lane, October 3, 1862

October 3d, 1862.

We have moved camp three miles, and are now five miles above Harper's Ferry, on the banks of the Potomac. The days are extremely hot; the evenings deliciously cool, and mornings cold. We had a grand division review this morning, in honor of the President, who favored us with his presence. My curiosity was gratified by seeing a "live President," and, above all, "Old Abe." He looks much better than the likenesses we see of him—younger, and not so long and lank.

Strange rumors have been in circulation for several days—rumors of compromise; of almost unconditional surrender. What does it all mean? Is there a bare possibility the Rebels have had enough of it? That "chivalry" will acknowledge itself whipped by "mudsills," and ask for peace, while they have six hundred thousand men in the field? As far as the rank and file of this army is concerned, we would like to see them "line up" in front of us and fight it out, and have done with it.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 14-5

Diary of Musician David Lane, October 9, 1862

Pleasant Valley, October 9th, 1862.

We moved from Antietam day before yesterday, in order, as reported, to be nearer our supplies. However, as soldiers know nothing of movements until after they are made, we may leave here today. As I was writing the last sentence, I learned we are to move this afternoon, about two miles, where we will have more room and better accommodations. The order to march is always welcome to me. I hate the monotony of camp life. The same is true of nearly all our regiment. We want to finish up our work and go home to our families—for nearly all have families. From our old camp to the present one is about twelve miles—the toughest twelve miles I ever traveled. Our route lay over the Elk Ridge Mountain, about six miles winding up its steep, rocky sides, the remaining half down the opposite side, the midday sun pouring his fierce rays against its rocky surface, making the heat well-nigh unbearable. There was not even a whispering breeze to cool our throbbing brows. Two men of our brigade melted down and died, while hundreds fell out by the way and came straggling into camp next morning. The movement was foolishly conducted on the principle of a forced march when there was no call for haste. I was quite lame at the time, having cut a deep gash in my heel a few days before, which compelled me to walk on the toe of that foot. This made walking over such a road and for so long a distance rather difficult. I fell behind the regiment for the first time, but came into camp about sundown. Some companies left nearly every man by the roadside.

On Friday Robert Covert and myself went down to the river to wash our clothing. The day was hot, and Robert went in to bathe. I was sitting on the shore, in company with others of my regiment, dreamily watching the sportive antics of the bathers, when my attention was attracted to Robert by what I thought to be a peal of laughter.

With an exclamation of horror I sprang to my feet. "My God, boys, he's sinking, drowning!" He had made but two or three strokes when taken with cramps and rendered helpless. I will long remember the pleading look, the agonized cry, as he rose to the surface. There was no time for thought; he was going down the second time; in a moment he will be beyond our reach. I cannot swim, but I seized a long pole and plunged in. It was not quite long enough to reach the place where he went down, but at that instant a man stripped for a swim rushed past me, and, holding to the end of my pole, threw his shirt to Robert as he came to the surface. He caught it, and we pulled him to the shore.

I am frequently asked how I like soldiering. For a wonder, I am not disappointed. If anything, it is more endurable than I expected to find it. There are hardships as a matter of fact, it is all hardship—but I was prepared for all that. I expected to suffer—to endure—and find myself the gainer by it. While others say: "If I had known, I would not have enlisted," I can say with truth I am glad I did. If I can be of service to my country, I will be satisfied. That which troubles and annoys me most, others do not seem to mind. It is the intolerable, nauseating stench that envelops a military camp. My olfactories have become SO acutely sensitive I can smell an encampment "afar off." Many complain of the strictness of military discipline. That does not trouble me. The law is a "terror to evil doers.” I am thankful for the many kind friends I have found here. I hail with delight the President's proclamation. I believe it is a step in the right direction.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 15-7

Diary of Musician David Lane, Sunday, October 12, 1862

October 12th.

It is now nine o'clock of a Sabbath evening, and as I pen these lines my wife and children, perhaps are listening to words of peace as they fall from the lips of their beloved pastor. How vividly memory recalls the past, and, as of old, we seem to walk the well-known path to the house of worship, to join with dear friends in singing hymns of praise, and to receive instruction from the Word of God. How great the contrast between past and present.

Instead of pursuing the peaceful avocations of life, surrounded by my loved family, I find myself separated from them by many a weary mile, and surrounded by the savage enginery of war. Even as I write I hear the booming of cannon in the direction of Harper's Ferry. Last evening, while mustering for dress parade we received orders for every able-bodied man to get ready to march with only their guns, ammunition and blankets, in the shortest possible time.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 17-8

Diary of Musician David Lane, October 17, 1862

Pleasant Valley, October 17th, 1862.

Being in a wakeful mood, I will try and compose my mind by writing a few lines in my diary, for we have become great friends—yes, confidantes—and tonight I need a confidante. Did I ever tell you, my silent friend, of my Northern home; of wife and children, loving and beloved? Then listen, while I whisper in your ear the sacred secret. I have a wife and four small children far off in Michigan. I love them with all the intensity and devotion of my nature. The thought of them is ever uppermost in my mind. In the daily, monotonous rounds of duty; in the long, dreary evenings, when folly reigns; in the stillness of the night; on the rugged, toilsome march, or in the tumult of battle, thoughts of the dear ones at home are ever present, inspiring me with hope, encouraging me to duty, a shield against temptation, a beacon light, shining out upon the stormy sea of strife on which my frail bark is launched, enabling me, thus far, to shun the rocks and quicksands that surround me.

Our regiment returned today from Frederic, where it has been guarding the railroad. We hear that General Wilcox, Colonel Fenton and Colonel Withington are to be promoted. We are heartily glad their eminent services are about to be rewarded by the Government. They are men of marked ability, and have well earned their honors. Although it will take from us our gallant Colonel, there is some compensation even in that. It will leave the regiment in command of Lieutenant Colonel Luce, who is beloved by all our men. We have heard heavy cannonading all day, but have not learned the result. It is rumored that we will move in a day or two-perhaps tomorrow. Where we go, even rumor sayeth not. Our men say it does not matter where, so they take us where work is to be done. Two men deserted from Co. G yesterday and two today. This splendid regiment that left Detroit two months ago nearly one thousand strong, mustered today, at inspection, two hundred and fifty-six men fit for duty. There are more sick than well, the result of insufficient supplies, and brutal, needless exposure of the men by officers high in rank.

The weather is delightful—cold and frosty nights, with warm sunshiny days and pure, fresh, mountain breezes that should strengthen and invigorate, and yet, of all who came from Blackman and Sandstone, I alone am well.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 19-20

Diary of Musician David Lane, October 28, 1862

Camp near Lovetsville, Va., Oct. 28th.

We bade farewell to Pleasant Valley, and started for the land of "Dixie" quite unexpectedly to us privates. Orders were issued on Saturday to the different companies to have their things packed and be ready to move at daybreak next morning. We were aroused at three o'clock, prepared and ate our breakfast, and at five o'clock were on the march. It had rained some during the night, and morning gave promise of a rainy day. Well did it fulfill its promise. About eight o'clock a drizzling rain set in, which continued until about one o'clock, when the wind changed to the north, increasing in violence until it blew a gale, which continued until morning, raining incessantly. The north winds here are very cold, and the poor soldiers, marching or standing all day in the rain, with sixty rounds of ammunition, three days' rations, knapsacks and blankets on their backs, passed a very uncomfortable day. But they bore it uncomplainingly, and when, about sundown, we pitched our little "dog tents" on the soaked and muddy ground with shouts and merry jests, we made a break for the nearest fence, and soon each company had a pile of dry chestnut rails, with which we kept a roaring fire until morning. Many of the men were wet to the skin, and, too cold to sleep, could be seen at any hour of the night in circles round their blazing campfires, talking over past scenes or future prospects. As I passed from group to group through the brigade, I noticed a feeling of discontent, caused by a lack of confidence in our leaders. The men seemed to feel we are being outgeneraled; that Lee's army, and not Richmond, should be the objective point; that the rebellion can never be put down until that army is annihilated. When I returned to our company the boys had arranged it all—the President is to retire all generals, select men from the ranks who will serve without pay, and will lead the army against Lee, strike him hard and follow him up until he fails to come to time. So passed this fearful night away.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 20-1

 

Diary of Musician David Lane, December 9, 1862

Camp near Fredericksburg, Dec. 9th, 1862.

It has been a long time—fully five weeks since I made the last entry in this journal. The forced marches, exposure, and insufficient food of the week preceding our arrival at this place had been too much even for me. It had rained or snowed almost continuously; we were out of reach of our supply train for seven days. Food gave out, but on we pressed. When we halted on the evening of our arrival, too utterly worn out to pitch a tent, I spread my blanket on the ground, threw myself upon it and slept the sleep of exhaustion. It rained during the night, and when I awoke I found myself lying in a pool of water that half covered me. My recollection of what occurred for several successive days is very vague; I knew I was being cared for by somebody, somewhere; I had no cares, no anxious doubts or perplexing fears. If in pain, I had not sense to realize it. One morning after, I do not know how many days, I awoke to consciousness; I heard a well-remembered step tripping across the floor and stop at my bedside, a soft, cool hand was pressed upon my brow; a sweet, familiar voice whispered in my ear: "You are better, dear; you will get well now." Nay, do not smile, thou unbelieving cynic, for from that hour—yes, from that instant—I began to mend. I learned afterward that I had been very low with some form of fever; that I was not taken to the hospital because my kind friend and comrade, Orville Collier, had begged the privilege of nursing me in his own tent. I can now sit up, can walk about a little, and hope soon to be well.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 22

Diary of Musician David Lane, December 28, 1862

Camp near Fredericksburg, Dec. 28th, 1862.

The battle of Fredericksburg has been fought and—lost. We are now engaged in the laudable occupation of making ourselves comfortable; building log huts to protect ourselves from the cold storms of winter. Our brigade the—First—was not engaged at Fredericksburg. We were commanded by Colonel Poe, a graduate of West Point, a man thoroughly versed in the art of war. He saw the utter hopelessness of the struggle, and, when the order came to advance, he flatly refused to sacrifice[e] his men in the unequal contest. Of course, he was put under arrest, and will be court-martialed, but he saved his men.

The eighteen thousand slaughtered husbands and sons who fell at Fredricksburg does not comprise our greatest loss. This whole army, for the time being, is thoroughly demoralized. It has lost all confidence in its leaders—a condition more fatal than defeat.

The leaders of the different corps do not work in unison. Our commander lacks the mental force to weld and bind these discordant, disintegrating elements into one solid, compact, adhesive mass, subject to his will and guided by his judgment; and herein lies the cause of our defeat.

Everything has the appearance of a protracted stay. We cannot advance; the enemy is too strongly fortified; if he were not, we would give him time to do so. And yet it is dangerous to stay. It is all Government can do, with the river open and all available transports, to furnish this great army with supplies. Should the river freeze, or the Rebels gain a position on its banks, we would be starved out in short order.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 23-4

Diary of Musician David Lane, December 29, 1862

December 29th, 1862.

As I was sitting by my cosy fire last evening—for we have evenings here, long, dreary ones—thinking of past events and trying, with my weak vision, to pierce the dark future, the thought occurred to me where is all the trust and confidence with which I started out, and which cheered and sustained me until our late defeat? Have we made no advance? Surely we have made blunders, but will we not profit by them? We are learning the art of war—time is required to change a citizen into a soldier. Our officers are being weighed the light weights cast aside or relegated to their class—and the good work will go on until one is found of size and weight to cope with Lee. 'Tis said, "Great generals are born, not made;" that true greatness is also modest, and does not vaunt itself; but our President is on the lookout for him and will find him—never fear—one who has the genius to plan, the will to do, the nerve to dare. As I pondered, hope returned and all my gloomy forebodings fled away.

As I was about to retire for the night, our door was thrown open and some letters were handed in. Among them was one for me. I recognized the well-known hand—tore open the envelope, and, after perusing the welcome contents over and over again, I went to bed and dreamed of home.

Inexpressibly dear, to the soldier, are letters from home. It is interesting to stand by as the mail is being distributed, and, as the names are called, witness the animated, joyful expression that illuminates the countenance of the happy recipients, while those less favored retire to their tents disappointed and sad.

Captain Goldsmith has returned, but will not stay long, as he has sent in his resignation. The regiment is hard at work building winter quarters. Our houses are all built after the same pattern-eight feet by ten in size, five feet high-rafters one-fourth pitch, covered with tent cloth. The different companies are separated by streets one rod wide. The men do not work with very good heart, as they expect orders to leave as soon as finished. They say this has been their experience in the past.

Contrary to expectations, the health of the men does not improve with frosty nights. Diarrhea, colds and rheumatism prevail, with now and then a case of fever.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 24-5

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 31, 1862

Fort Baker, D. C., Aug. 31st, 1862.

I have already learned that—finding much leisure time upon his hands, after all soldierly duties have been performed the private soldier naturally craves something to divert his mind, or, as he puts it, something to pass away the time. Το many men, so situated, a game of cards is peculiarly fascinating. Others spend all their leisure time in fun and mischief; telling outlandish stories, singing vile songs, or playing practical jokes upon their fellows.

Having neither taste or talent in either of these directions, I have deliberately resolved to keep a diary or memorandum of current events, and will transcribe, from day to day, the facts that interest me and the thoughts they may engender. I enlisted August 12th, 1862, was mustered into the service of the United States on the 18th, and was assigned to Company G, of the Seventeenth regiment of Michigan Volunteer Infantry, then in barracks at Detroit, Michigan. Of the ninety-three enlisted men enrolled in Company G, sixty-five were farmers, ten laborers, five carpenters, six shoemakers, three clerks, one baker, one miller, one tinner, and one professional soldier. They range in age from the smooth-faced boy of sixteen years to the fully-developed man of thirty-eight. I judge about the same ratio will apply to the other companies of the regiment, with the exception of Company E, which is composed largely of students from the State Normal School at Ypsilanti. The regiment is largely made up of men verging on middle life, who have left business, wife, and children, dearer to them than life, sternly resolved to meet death on the field of battle, rather than suffer rebellion to triumph and the Nation be torn asunder. We left the barracks at ten o'clock in the forenoon of August 27th, marched three miles to the wharf, where we left our baggage; then escorted General Wilcox around the city until five o'clock p. m., when we marched on board the steamer Cleveland, bound for the City of Cleveland.

The weather was fine, and we reached Cleveland at five o'clock the next morning, and immediately took cars for Washington, D. C., by way of Pittsburg and Baltimore. We arrived at Pittsburg at 7 p. m. of August 28th, and were most enthusiastically received, the whole population, seemingly, escorting us, with shouts, flags, and banners of various devices, to the City Hall, where a bountiful supper was spread for us. The hall was finely decorated. Among other mottoes was: "Pittsburg Welcomes Her Country's Defenders."

We left Pittsburg at nine o'clock in the evening and reached Harrisburg the next day at 10 a. m., where we took breakfast; then, "All aboard for Baltimore." We crossed the Alleghenies in the night, but when morning dawned I went out on the platform and could still see them in the distance, rearing their blue heads in solemn grandeur, forming a most charming back ground to the beautiful picture spread out before us. We were then running with lightning speed down the beautiful Juniata Valley, about sixty miles above Harrisburg, and a more picturesque spot I never beheld.

Hemmed in by long ranges of high hills, some running at right angles to the stream, others parallel with it, now rising in perpendicular bluffs with hardly room for the cars to pass, then receding, formed lovely valleys, dotted here and there with pleasant villages. We reached Baltimore about seven o'clock Friday evening, and were warmly greeted by the loyal citizens. After partaking of a hearty supper, we took cars for Washington at ten o'clock.

We had expected a row in Baltimore, and were prepared for it, but nothing transpired of a more serious nature than a few personal encounters. One hot-headed fellow jumped on board the officers' car and demanded to see their colors, cursing Unionists and swearing vengeance. Lieutenant Somers, stirred by righteous indignation, struck him a heavy blow in the face and knocked him headlong from the car. A crowd gathered, swords and pistols flashed in the gaslight, epithets were exchanged, and there the matter ended.

We reached Washington Saturday morning, and were assigned to Fort Baker, six miles south of the city.

Fort Baker is pleasantly situated on a high hill that overlooks the surrounding country for many miles. Fifty thousand troops are encamped in sight of us.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 5-7

Diary of Musician David Lane, September 4, 1862

We have been three days in camp, and have fully recovered from the fatigues of our long journey. Drill is the order of the day, as it is the necessity of the hour. Officers and men have yet to learn the rudiments of military maneuvering. There is not a company officer who can put his men through company drill without making one—or more—ludicrous blunders. Yesterday our First Lieutenant was drilling a squad of men. He was giving all his attention to "time," and did not notice a fence had planted itself directly across our path. Suddenly he shouted: "Who—who—who! Come this way, you fellows in front—don't you see you are running into that fence?"

On Monday morning one of the men had been cleaning his gun, and, wishing to know if it would burn a cap, laid it down for the purpose of getting one. When he returned, instead of picking up his own gun, he took a loaded one that belonged to a guard. As a result of his stupidity, the ball passed through two tents, entered a young man's heel and passed through his foot lengthwise, rendering him a cripple for life. Rumors were in circulation all day Tuesday of Rebel movements. At dusk twenty rounds of ammunition were distributed.

We were then sent to our quarters to await orders. A spirit of unrest pervaded the camp. Men gathered in groups and whispered their conviction of a night attack.

At nine o'clock a picket fired an alarm. The bugle sounded "To arms." Orderlies ran up and down the line of tents shouting. "Fall in! Fall in with your arms; the Rebels are upon us!"

For a moment there was some confusion, but in less than five minutes we were in line, eager to meet the foe. But no enemy appeared. It was a ruse gotten up by the officers as an emergency drill, and, as such, it was a decided success. There were some ludicrous incidents, but, as a rule, the men buckled on their arms with promptness and appeared as cool as on dress parade.

Yesterday morning, as we were forming for company drill, a courier rode into camp with dispatches from headquarters. Five companies from our regiment were ordered to repair at once to Fort Gaines, eight miles distant, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. We started off briskly, but before we had gone a mile the order was countermanded, and we returned to camp.

The news this morning is not encouraging. General Pope has been defeated and driven back upon the fortifications around Washington, and the Rebels are trying to force their way across the Potomac. We are under marching orders. Rumor says we are to join Burnside's forces at Frederic City.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 8-9

Diary of Musician David Lane, September 21, 1862

Maryland Heights, Va., September 21st, 1862.

Toward evening of the 13th we left Frederic City and marched out on the National Turnpike toward South Mountain, and halted for supper and a few hours rest near Middleton. It was nearly midnight. We had made a rapid march of several miles, and were tired, and hungry as wolves. Hardly had we stacked arms when Lieutenant Rath inquired: "Where's John Conley?" John could not be found; he was already off on an expedition of his own. "Well, then," said Rath, "send me the next best thief; I want a chicken for my supper."

Our foragers soon returned; the Lieutenant got his chicken, and we privates were fairly well supplied with the products of the country. It strikes me as a little strange, the facility with which a soldier learns to steal his grub. It must be the effect of heredity. Perhaps, in the dim past, when our ancestors went on "all fours," and roamed the forests in search of food; possibly at a more recent date, but before a name was given to the deed; they formed the habit of taking what they wanted wherever it could be found, provided they had the physical power, or mental cunning, to accomplish it, and this habit, thus formed, became instinct, and was transmitted to their descendants. At daylight we were on the move, headed for South Mountain. We had an inkling—how obtained I do not know; mental telepathy, perhaps, that occult, mysterious power that enables us to divine the most secret thoughts of men-that a mass meeting was to be held on that eminence to discuss the pros and cons of secession, and that we, the Seventeenth, had received a pressing invitation to be present. The Pike was in fine condition. Our men stepped off briskly, with long, swinging strides that carried them rapidly over the ground. We marched in four ranks, by companies, and were led by our gallant Colonel Withington. Company G was seventh from the front, which gave me a view of over half the regiment. And it was good to look upon. Only two weeks from home, our uniforms were untarnished. Dress coats buttoned to the chin; upon our heads a high-crowned hat with a feather stuck jauntily on one side. White gloves in our pockets; a wonder we did not put them on, so little know we of the etiquette of war.

As we neared the mountain, about nine o'clock in the morning, I scanned its rugged sides for indications of the presence of our friends, the enemy, and, as I looked, I saw a puff of smoke, and on the instant a shell sped howling above our heads, bursting some half a mile beyond.

Every man of us "bowed his acknowledgments;" then, as by one impulse, every spine became rigid; every head was tossed in air; as if we would say: "My Southern friend, we did the polite thing that time. No more concessions will you get from us and—may God have mercy on your souls." Of our exploits on South Mountain I will not write. They will be woven into history and will be within the reach of all. About thirty of our brave boys were killed, and over one hundred wounded. Captain Goldsmith was wounded in the shoulder and Lieutenant Somers in the side. A number of Company G boys were wounded, but none were killed in this battle.

Eli Sears, the best, the most universally beloved of the regiment, is dead. He died the second day after the battle. A rifle ball, early in the engagement, struck him in the left breast and passed entirely through him. When I saw him he was so low he could only speak in whispers. He gave me his hand, with a pleasant smile, and told me he had but a few more hours to live. Bitterly do I mourn his loss. So kind, so thoughtful, always preferring another to himself. He died as heroes die, as calm and peaceful as an infant on its mother's breast. Albert Allen, Carmi Boice and Charlie Goodall were in the thickest of the fight and escaped unhurt.

The Seventeenth has been baptised in blood and christened "Stonewall." The battle of Antietam was fought on Wednesday, September 17th, three days after South Mountain. The Seventeenth did not lose so many in killed—eighteen or twenty, I think, although the list is not yet made out—and eighty or ninety wounded. Company G lost three killed, among whom was Anson Darling. We crossed the Antietam River about 1 p. m., and about three o'clock charged up the heights, which we carried, and advanced to near Sharpsburg. Here, our ammunition giving out, we fell back behind the hill and quietly sat down ’mid bursting shells and hurtling balls until relieved. As we sat waiting, a spent ball—a six-pounder—struck a tree in front of us. Not having sufficient momentum to penetrate, it dropped back upon the toe of my comrade on my left. With a fierce oath he sprang to his feet and shouted, "Who the h--l? Oh!"

That night, while on picket, when all my comrades were wrapped in slumber, and silence reigned where, a few hours before, the tumult of battle raged, my willing thought turned to my Northern home. The most vivid pictures arose before me—so real—could they be imagination? And as I gazed upon these fancied visions and pressed them to my soul as a living reality, I asked myself the question, "Can this be homesickness?" The answer came, quick and decisive: No; I have never seen the time—even for one short moment—that I could say to myself, “If I had not enlisted, I would not." On the contrary, if, after the little experience I have had, and the little knowledge I have gained, I had not enlisted, I would do so within the hour.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 10-13

Diary of Musician David Lane, September 27, 1862

Antietam, September 27th, 1862.

We have had one week of rest; are encamped three miles from our last battlefields, with a prospect of staying here several weeks. There is much sickness, but nothing of a serious nature. As for myself, I have not seen an hour's sickness since I left Michigan. Our camp is pleasantly situated on a high hill, and the surrounding hills and valleys are white with tents. In the evening, when every tent is lighted up, they present a brilliant and beautiful appearance. Several regiments are supplied with brass bands, which delight us every evening with a "concord of sweet sounds." Last evening the Fiftieth Pennsylvania serenaded the "Bloody Seventeenth," as they call us.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 14