Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty: August 2, 1861

Jerrolaman went out this afternoon and picked nearly a peck of blackberries. Berries of various kinds are very abundant. The fox-grape is also found in great plenty, and as big as one's thumb.

The Indianians are great ramblers. Lieutenant Bell says they can be traced all over the country, for they not only eat all the berries, but nibble the thorns off the bushes.

General Reynolds told me, this evening, he thought it probable we would be attacked soon. Have been distributing ammunition, forty rounds to the man.

My black horse was missing this morning. Conway looked for him the greater part of the day, and finally found him in possession of an Indiana captain. It happened in this way: Captain Rupp, Thirteenth Indiana, told his men he would give forty dollars for a sesesh horse, and they took my horse out of the pasture, delivered it to him, and got the money. He rode the horse up the valley to Colonel Wagner's station, and when he returned bragged considerably over his good luck; but about dark Conway interviewed him on the subject, when a change came o'er the spirit of his dream. Colonel Sullivan tells me the officers now talk to Rupp about the fine points of his horse, ask to borrow him, and desire to know when he proposes to ride again.

A little group of soldiers are sitting around a camp-fire, not far away, entertaining each other with stories and otherwise. Just now one of them lifts up his voice, and in a melancholly strain sings:

Somebody —— “is weeping

For Gallant Andy Gay,

Who now in death lies sleeping

On the field of Monterey.”

While I write he strikes into another air, and these are the words as I catch them:

“Come back, come back, my purty fair maid!

Then thousand of my jinture on you I will bestow

If you’ll consent to marry me;

Oh, do not say me no.”

But the maid is indifferent to jintures, and replies indignantly:

“Oh, hold your tongue, captain, your words are all in vain;

I have a handsome sweetheart now across the main,

And if I do not find him I’ll mourn continuali.”

More of this interesting dialogue between the captain and the pretty fair maid I can not catch.

The sky is clear, but the night very dark. I do not contemplate my ride to the picket posts with any great degree of pleasure. A cowardly sentinel is more likely to shoot at you than a brave one. The fears of the former do not give him time to consider whether the person advancing is friend or foe.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 41-3

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty: August 8, 1861

Major Wood, Fifteenth Indiana, thought he heard chopping last night, and imagined that the enemy was engaged in cutting a road to our rear.

Lieutenant Driscoll and party returned to-day. They slept on the mountains last night; were inside the enemy's picket lines; heard reveille sounded this morning, but could not obtain a view of the camp.

Have just returned from a sixteen-mile ride, visiting picket posts. The latter half of the ride was after nightfall. Found officers and men vigilant and ready to meet an attack.

Obtained some fine huckleberries and blackberries on the mountain to-day. Had a blackberry pie and pudding for dinner. Rather too much happiness for one day; but then the crust of the pudding was tolerably tough. The grass is a foot high in parts of my tent, where it has not been trodden down, and the gentle grasshopper makes music all the day, and likewise all the night.

Our fortifications are progressing slowly. If the enemy intends to attack at all, he will probably do so before they are complete; and if he does not, the fortifications will be of no use to us. But this is the philosophy of a lazy man, and very similar to that of the Irishman who did not put roof on his cabin: when it rained he could not, and in fair weather he did not need it.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 47-8

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 18, 1863

Haines Bluff, Miss. Once more on land, and glad are we of the change. We arrived at the mouth of the Yazoo at ten o'clock yesterday morning, six miles from Vicksburg, and, turning upstream, came to anchor at this place, fifteen miles from its mouth, at 12 m.

We had a perilous voyage down the river. It would seem, on looking back on the dangers through which we were safely carried, that a power higher than man's had been exerted in our behalf. To say nothing of the guerillas, three times were we in imminent danger of being "blown up." Once nothing but a miracle—men called it luck—saved us from capsizing; once we were driven on shore by a hurricane on the only spot, so said our pilot, where we could by any possibility have escaped being wrecked.

Part of our division, two days in advance of us, has reported at Vicksburg. Two divisions of the Ninth Corps are here, the other—the Third—is at Suffolk, Virginia. The place we now occupy was lately in possession of the Rebels. It is strong by nature, and has been made still stronger by man, but those terrible little gunboats made it too hot for secession, and they left in haste, leaving part of their baggage, a few horses and cattle, and even poultry, which our boys found skulking in the bushes. Of course, they arrested the cowardly creatures and brought them into camp.

The inhabitants have all left, driving their stock with them, and burning what furniture they could not carry.

The face of the country is rough and broken, quite as much so as Maryland and Virginia. Spite of Jeff. Davis' prohibition, I find much cotton planted in this part of Mississippi, but it will not come to much unless Uncle Sam soon gives it in charge of his colored children, who literally throng our camp. I wish I could describe the beauty and grandeur of these forests, but to be appreciated they must be seen. That which gives them their greatest charm is the long, wavy, gray moss which hangs suspended from every limb, from the smallest sapling to the mighty, towering oak. Wild plums and blackberries, large and luscious, abound and are now in season. Figs will soon be ripe. Among other things, good and bad, fleas and woodticks are in evidence.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 52-3

 

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 23, 1863

Once more we are on the wing. Yesterday morning we were ordered to be ready to march when called on. Of course, the men do not expect to stay anywhere, but it always comes a little tough to leave a pleasant camp just as they get comfortably settled. But military orders are inexorable, and, in spite of regrets, we "struck tents, slung knapsacks," and started on our winding way among the hills. This part of the country is made up of ranges of high hills separated by ravines down which the water has cut channels from ten to twenty feet deep. We marched about three miles on the road leading to Vicksburg and halted on the top of a high hill just large enough to hold our regiment. It was plowed last spring and planted to cotton. Colonel Luce looked indignant, the company officers grumbled, the men swore. General Welch regretted, but Major General Parks ordered the left to rest here, and it rested. But Colonel Luce could still do something. Ordering us in line, he said: "Men, you need not pitch your tents in line in this open field; go where you can make yourselves most comfortable, only be on hand when the bugle sounds." Three cheers and a tiger for Colonel Luce. then a wild break for trees, brush; anything to shelter us from the fierce rays of a Southern sun. We are now nine miles from Vicksburg by the road, six miles in a direct line. We can distinctly hear musketry at that place, which has been kept up almost incessantly the last three days. At intervals the cannonading is terrific. Our Orderly Sergeant rode over there yesterday, to see his brother. He says Grant's rifle pits are not more than twenty-five rods from the Rebels, and woe to the man on either side who exposes himself to the marksmanship of the other. As near as I can learn, matters remain about as they were three weeks ago. Unless General Grant succeeds in mining some of their works, thus affecting an entrance, he will be compelled to starve them out.

We would think, in Michigan, such land as this utterly unfit for cultivation. But the highest hills are cultivated and planted with corn or cotton. Corn, even on the highest hills, I have never seen excelled in growth of stalk. One would naturally suppose that in this hilly country water of good quality would abound. Such is not the fact. Soon as we broke ranks I started out in quest of water. I followed a ravine about half a mile, then crossed over to another, but found none. Blackberries being plentiful, I filled my cap and returned to camp. Some of the boys had been more successful, and after resting a few minutes I took another direction, for water we must have. This time I followed a ridge about half a mile, then began to descend—down, down, I went, seemingly into the very bowels of the earth, and when I reached the bottom found a stagnant pool of warm, muddy water. Making a virtue of necessity, I filled my canteen, returned to camp, made some coffee, ate my berries, with a very little hardtack, and went to bed to dream of "limpid streams and babbling brooks."

This morning my comrade and I arose with the early dawn and started out in search of berries, which we found in great abundance.

A strange stillness pervades our hitherto noisy and tumultous camp. The men are scattered in every direction, lounging listlessly in the shade, not caring even to play cards, so oppressive is the heat. I am sitting in the shade of a mulberry tree, Collier lying on the ground near by; we alternately write or lounge as the mood takes us. Most assuredly I never felt the heat in Michigan as I feel it here. Yet men can work in this climate, and northern men, too. The Eighth and Twentieth have been throwing up fortifications for several days.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 56-8

Dr. Spencer G. Welch to Cordelia Strother Welch, August 8, 1864

Near Chaffin's Bluff, on James River, Va.,        

August 8, 1864.

The weather for the last few days has been intensely hot. It is very dry, and I hope we shall soon have some rain. My health is excellent. We get plenty of blackberries, and all we need is plenty of sugar to go with them.

I expect we shall soon go back to Petersburg, but I am informed that Kershaw's Brigade and several thousand cavalry have left for the Valley. This indicates that the seat of war may soon be around Washington instead of Richmond. I hope we will not be sent to the Valley again, for I detest those tedious marches. However, I am willing to do anything to whip out the Yankees.

Matters are comparatively quiet at present, although we hear more or less cannonading somewhere every day. At this moment I hear the booming of cannon away down on the James River. We are so quiet now that we have nothing to think about but home and our loved ones.

Word was sent from the headquarters of Wilcox's Brigade to McGowan's that a negro was captured at Petersburg the day Grant's mine was sprung (July 30), who claims to belong to a medical officer of McGowan's Brigade. On the provost marshal's register is the name of "William Wilson of New York.” He always claimed that to be his name. I believe it may be my servant, Wilson. If so, the remarkable part of it is that he was captured charging on our breastworks. If I get him, I shall regard him as something of a curiosity in the future.

I received more pay on the 5th, and will send you one or two hundred dollars. I sent Bob the ten dollars for your catskin shoes. I bought an excellent pair of pants from the quartermaster for $12.50. They are made of merino wool. We shall soon have some fine gray cloth issued to the brigade for officers' uniforms. There will not be enough for all, so we will draw lots for it. If I am lucky enough to get any, I will send it to you.

I am very anxious to get a long letter from you giving me all the news. When I can hear from you regularly and know that you are safe and well, I feel satisfied.

SOURCE: Dr. Spencer G. Welch, A Confederate Surgeon's Letters to His Wife, p. 103-5

Diary of Private Daniel L. Ambrose: Tuesday, July 21, 1863

During the time we remain in camp, all seems monotonous and dull, scarcely anything happening to relieve it. Every day the boys are seen wending their way out of camp to gather blackberries, which are very plentiful around Corinth.

SOURCE: Daniel Leib Ambrose, History of the Seventh Regiment Illinois Volunteer Infantry, p. 180

Captain Charles Wright Wills: August 8, 1864

August 8, 1864.

Never was army better cared for than this. No part of it has been on short rations during the campaign. Extra issues of dessicated potatoes, mixed vegetables, etc., have bundled the advance guard of General Scurvy neck and heels outside the pickets. Extraordinary dreams of green corn, blackberries, new potatoes, etc., have done very much towards keeping up the health and morale of the army, and as much towards reconciling us to this summer sun, that ripens said goodies.

We draw supplies of clothing monthly as regularly as when in garrison, and a ragged soldier is a scarcity. At least 30 days' rations are safely stored in our rear, making us entirely unmindful of railroad raids, for, if necessary, we could build the whole road in that time. The heat has not troubled us much, save during a few days' marching.

We have had hardly three days without a rain for a month. We have done a great amount of work since our last battle, have constructed nine lines of works, and it will take at least two more before we get the position that I think Howard wants. We keep those poor Johnnies in a stew all the time. Our artillery is any amount better than theirs, and it plays on them from morning until night. Nothing worries troops so much, though compared with musketry it is almost harmless. I guess their ammunition is short, for they don't fire one shot to our 40. I think we'll like Howard first rate. If he is as good as McPherson, he'll do.

Four divisions are on their way to reenforce us. I don't think we need them, but the more, the merrier.

SOURCE: Charles Wright Wills, Army Life of an Illinois Soldier, p. 288-