Some Observations by Alexander G. Downing

BROTHERS IN COMPANY E.

Twelve families are represented in Company E by two brothers each, and one by three brothers. John W. and Samuel Albin — John W. slightly wounded June 15, 1864, on the skirmish line on Noon-day creek, Kenesaw Mountain in Georgia. Robert and William Alexander —William killed on the skirmish line June 15, 1864, on Noon-day creek at the foot of a spur of Kenesaw Mountain. John M. and Sylvester Daniels — John M. received a wound on one hand at Shiloh April 6, 1862, and was discharged for disability on October 13, 1862. John W. and William Dwiggans — William died of typhoid fever December 28, 1861, and John W. died from wounds received at Shiloh May 7, 1862. John W. and William Esher — John W. was severely wounded June 25, 1864, at Kenesaw Mountain and discharged for disability March 20, 1865. Allen and Carlton Frink — Carlton killed at Shiloh April 6, 1862. Dean and John Ford — John had his right thumb shot off at Vicksburg and then slightly wounded on the skirmish line June 15, 1864, on Noon-day creek, Kenesaw Mountain. Ezra and Samuel McLoney — Ezra killed at Shiloh April 6, 1862. Francis and Reuben Niese — Reuben died March 2, 1865, in McDougal's Hospital near New York City. Ebenezer and James Rankin. Burtis H. and James K. Rumsey — James K. died at Chattanooga, Tennessee, February 2, 1865. George W. and Wilson Simmons — George W. wounded at Shiloh April 6, 1862, and died of his wounds May 12, 1862; Wilson died of lung fever April 15, 1862. Daniel, George and Henry Sweet — George killed in battle July 22, 1864, near Atlanta, Georgia; Henry L. died of fever in the Division Hospital in Tennessee, May 4, 1862.

CASUALTIES IN COMPANY E.

Killed in action, 11. Died of wounds, 4. Died of disease, 14. Discharged for disability, 15. Taken prisoners, 6. Deserters, 4. Absent on account of sickness for short periods, 52. Absent on account of slight wounds, 31. Total casualties, 117, or a fraction over 82 per cent of the 142 men in the company during the four years' service. There were those who were sick and marked not fit for duty, yet who did not leave the company, and there were others slightly wounded who likewise did not leave the company. Then, there were those, who for the same causes, had to go to the hospitals and be absent from the company for weeks at a time. The regimental surgeon would examine all cases, and it was left to his decision as to what a man had to do.

CROCKER'S IOWA BRIGADE.

Crocker's Iowa Brigade was composed of the Eleventh, Thirteenth, Fifteenth and Sixteenth Infantry Regiments. The regiments enlisted in the months of September and October, 1861, and were organized into a brigade April 27, 1862. There were in all 6289 enlisted men in the brigade.

The regiments had the following numbers, rank and file:

Eleventh	1297
Thirteenth	1788
Fifteenth	1767
Sixteenth	1441

The record of re-enlistments in the different regiments at Vicksburg, Mississippi, January, 1864, is as follows:

Eleventh	420
Thirteenth	450
Fifteenth	440
Sixteenth	415

The casualties numbered 4773, or seventy-six per cent of the strength of the brigade. The record of the officers and men who died during the war is as follows:

	Killed in battle	Wounded	Died of wounds and disease	Total dead
Eleventh	90	234	148	238
Thirteenth	117	313	176	293
Fifteenth	140	416	231	371
Sixteenth	101	311	217	318
	448	1274	772	1220

The miles traveled in marching during the war are, by years:

	By land	By boat and railroad
1862	495	581
1863	470	651
1864	1979	1660
1865 (to July 24)	1622	440

This makes a total of 4566 miles traveled by land and 3332 miles by boat and railroad, with a grand total of 7898 miles.

BATTLES ENGAGED IN BY CROCKER'S BRIGADE.

1862.

Shiloh, Tenn., April 6th.

Advance on Corinth, Miss., April 28th to May 30th.

Iuka, Miss., September 19th, 20th.

Corinth, Miss., October 3d, 4th.

Waterford, Miss., November 29th.

1863.

Lafayette, Tenn., January 2d.

Richmond, La., January 30th.

Siege of Vicksburg, May 20th to July 4th.

Oakridgetown, La., August 27th.

Monroe, La., August 29th.

1864.

Meridian, Miss., February 24th.

Big Shanty, Ga., June 10th.

Noon-Day Creek, Ga., June 15th.

Brushy Mountain, Ga., June 19th.

Kenesaw Mountain, Ga., June 27th to July 1st.

Second Advance on Nick-a-Jack Creek, Ga., July 3d, 4th, 5th.

Advance on Atlanta, Ga., July 20th.

Charge on Bald Hill, Ga., July 21st.

Battle of Atlanta, Ga., July 22d.

Ezra Church, Ga., July 28th.

Advance on Atlanta, Ga., August 3d.

Before Atlanta, Ga., August 3d to August 16th.

Atlanta & Montgomery R. R., Ga., August 28th.

Jonesboro, Ga., August 31st to September 1st.

Flynt Creek, Ga., September 1st.

Lovejoy Station, Ga., September 2d.

Fairburn, Ga., October 2d.

Snake Creek Gap, Ga., October 15th.

Savannah, Ga., December 10th to 21st.

The battles from June to September are known as the Siege of Atlanta. During this period of eighty-seven days Crocker's Brigade was under fire eighty-one days.

1865.

Garden Corners, S. C, January 14th.

River Bridge, Salkahatchie Swamp, S. C, February 2d.

Big Salkahatchie Swamp, S. C, February 3d.

North Edisto River, S C, February 9th.

Columbia, S. C, March 3d.

Fayetteville, N. C, March 11th.

Bentonville, N. C, March 20th, 21st.

Raleigh, N. C, April 13th.

INTEMPERANCE IN THE ARMY.

Intemperance in the army during the war was the cause of much disturbance, and, to the men using intoxicating liquors, it was a curse. Men who were good men when sober, became, when intoxicated, regular demons. There were more men ordered bucked and gagged by officers for drunkenness than any other cause, and that just for the reason that a drunk man will talk or fight.

The only trouble I had with any of the boys in my company was at Louisville, Kentucky, just before we were mustered out. One of the boys came back to camp from the city so drunk that he could hardly walk. I was out in front of my “ranch,” cleaning my rifle and accouterments, and, as I was the first man he happened to see upon his return, he was ready for a fight at once. I, of course, kept out of his way and soon a number of other boys came out, captured him, took him to his “ranch” and tied him to a post. There he remained till he “cooled off.”

HARDSHIPS OF WAR.

Some people think that being in a battle is all there is to war. While experience in battle is a dreadful thing, it is by no means the only hardship in war. Here are some of the hardships and dangers aside from being under fire: in a field hospital; suffering from wounds or from any of the many diseases to which a soldier is subject; on long marches, sometimes for days and even nights at a time, or on picket line for a day and a night without sleep; in rain or snow, and that without protection, or perhaps in digging trenches all night for protection the next day, or in remaining in the rifle pits for days and nights at a time, and in addition, drinking stagnant water, thus causing fevers; then for days and weeks at work, building heavy fortifications, and besides all at times on short rations, when an ear of corn would be a Godsend — these are some of the many hardships. But above all things, starving to death in a Southern prison required more courage than going into any battle fought during the Civil war.

MY PAY FROM THE GOVERNMENT.

While in the army, I received as my pay, $700.00, as bounty money, $500.00, and for clothing, $40.00, making a total of $1,240.00. Besides this I received from the State of Iowa, $24.00.

Privates received $13.00 per month to May 1, 1864, after which time they received $16.00. Sergeants received $22.00 per month.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 298-302

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: July 3, 1862

Our wounded are now coming in fast, under the direction of the Ambulance Committee. I give passports to no one not having legitimate business on the field to pass the pickets of the army. There is no pilfering on this field of battle; no “Plug Ugly” detectives stripping dead colonels, and, Falstaff like, claiming to be made “either Earl or Duke” for killing them.

So great is the demand for vehicles that the brother of a North Carolina major, reported mortally wounded, paid $100 for a hack to bring his brother into the city. He returned with him a few hours after, and, fortunately, found him to be not even dangerously wounded.

I suffer no physicians not belonging to the army to go upon the battle-field without taking amputating instruments with them, and no private vehicle without binding the drivers to bring in two or more of the wounded.

There are fifty hospitals in the city, fast filling with the sick and wounded. I have seen men in my office and walking in the streets, whose arms have been amputated within the last three days. The realization of a great victory seems to give them strength.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 140-1

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: October 28, 1864

Very much interested lately in the hospitals; not only in our own, “the Robertson hospital,” but in Mr. –––’s, the officers’ hospital.”

He has just told me of a case which has interested me deeply. An officer from the far South was brought in mortally wounded. He had lost both legs in a fight below Petersburg. The poor fellow suffered excessively; could not be still a moment; and was evidently near his end. His brother, who was with him, exhibited the bitterest grief, watching and waiting on him with silent tenderness and flowing tears. Mr. ––– was glad to find that he was not unprepared to die. He had been a professor of religion for some years, and told him that he was suffering too much to think on that or any other subject, but he constantly tried to look to God for mercy. Mr. ––– then recognized him, for the first time, as a patient who had been in the hospital last spring, and whose admirable character had then much impressed him. He was a gallant and brave officer, yet so kind and gentle to those under his control that his men were deeply attached to him, and the soldier who nursed him showed his love by his anxious care of his beloved captain. After saying to him a few words about Christ and his free salvation, offering up a fervent prayer in which he seemed to join, and watching the sad scene for a short time, Mr. ––– left him for the night. The surgeons apprehended that he would die before morning, and so it turned out; at the chaplain's early call there was nothing in his room but the chilling signal of the empty “hospital bunk.” He was buried that day, and we trust will be found among the redeemed in the day of the Lord. This, it was thought, would be the last of this good man; but in the dead of night came hurriedly a single carriage to the gate of the hospital. A lone woman, tall, straight, and dressed in deep mourning, got quickly out, and moved rapidly up the steps into the large hall, where, meeting the guard, she asked anxiously, “Where's Captain T.?” Taken by surprise, the man answered hesitatingly, “Captain T. is dead, madam, and was buried to-day.” This terrible announcement was as a thunderbolt at the very feet of the poor lady, who fell to the floor as one dead. Starting up, oh, how she made that immense building ring with her bitter lamentations! Worn down with apprehension and weary with travelling over a thousand miles by day and night, without stopping for a moment's rest, and wild with grief, she could hear no voice of sympathy — she regarded not the presence of one or many; she told the story of her married life, as if she were alone — how her husband was the best man that ever lived; how everybody loved him; how kind he was to all; how devoted to herself; how he loved his children, took care of, and did every thing for them; how, from her earliest years almost, she had loved him as herself; how tender he was of her, watching over her in sickness, never seeming to weary of it, never to be unwilling to make any sacrifice for her comfort and happiness; how that, when the telegraph brought the dreadful news that he was dangerously wounded, she never waited an instant nor stopped a moment by the way, day nor night, and now “I drove as fast as the horses could come from the depot to this place, and he is dead and buried! — I never shall see his face again!” “What shall I do?” — “But where is he buried?” They told her where. “I must go there; he must be taken up; I must see him!” “But, madam, you can't see him; he has been buried some hours.” “But I must see him; I can't live without seeing him; I must hire some one to go and take him up; can't you get some one to take him up? I'll pay him well ; just get some men to takt him up. I must take him home; he must go home with me. The last thing I said to his children was, that they must be good children, and I would bring their father home, and they are waiting for him now! He must go; I can't go without him; I can't meet his children without him!” and so, with her woman's heart, she could not be turned aside — nothing could alter her purpose. The next day she had his body taken up and embalmed. She watched by it until every thing was ready, and then carried him back to his own house and his children, only to seek a grave for the dead father close by those he loved, among kindred and friends in the fair sunny land he died to defend. Many painfully interesting scenes occur, which I would like so much to write in my diary, but time fails me at night, and my hours of daylight are very closely occupied.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 311-4

Captain Charles Fessenden Morse, September 26, 1862

Maryland Heights, September 26, 1862.

In my last letter, I wrote that we had orders to march the next morning. Our whole corps was routed out before daylight; our division, under command of General Gordon, marched to Maryland Heights, our brigade occupying our old last year's camping ground. Green's division crossed the Potomac and now occupies London Heights, the other side of the Shenandoah. Sumner's corps is encamped on Bolivar Heights. I think at last we are going to have a little rest; I can't tell. Everything seems about as it did last year up here; we have as splendid views and fine sunsets as ever. We have been very busy making up our pay rolls for the last two days. They are now a month behind time; there is any quantity of other papers which have been accumulating for the last six weeks, which will keep us hard at work for a week at least.

One of the men of my company killed at Sharpsburgh, the other day, lived in Brookline, and had been out here only about six weeks; his name was Thomas Dillon, and he was a good, faithful fellow. He was buried by two men in my company who volunteered to do it. A letter came for him two days after his death, which I think, under the circumstances, was one of the most affecting things I ever read, and yet it is only one instance among thousands. I do not know of anything that has brought the horrors of the war more plainly before me than this letter. I have written to the father of Dillon, telling him of his son's death.

You remember, don't you, of my speaking of a young boy named Stephens, who was killed at Winchester; his brother was wounded at Cedar Mountain, and has since died; they were their poor father's and mother's only sons; it is one of the hardest cases I have known.

I have talked with a number of the rebel prisoners. You have no idea what innocent, inoffensive men most of them seem to be; a great many are mere boys; there are some old men, too, with humped backs. Scarcely any of them seem to have any idea of what they are fighting for, and they were almost all forced into the army. I talked with one -poor little fellow from Georgia who had received a severe wound; he could not have been more than sixteen years old. He said that all he wanted was to get into one of the hospitals at the North; that he had been abused and knocked around ever since he had been in the army, and that the first kind treatment he had received and the first kind words he had heard were from our men. He expected to be bayoneted as soon as we came up. The more I see of battle fields convinces me that instances of cruelty to the wounded are extremely rare, and that they are treated, almost universally, with kindness by the men of both sides. When we crossed the field, we drove the rebels from where their wounded were lying everywhere; but our men took the greatest pains not to touch them or hurt them in any way, although sometimes it was almost impossible to avoid it. And when we halted, the men gave almost every drop from their canteens to the poor rebels. The idea that a soldier could ever bring himself to bayoneting a wounded man, strikes me now as almost absurd; it may have been done during this war, but I don't believe it.

Our wounded at Cedar Mountain were treated with the greatest kindness by the rebels; they gave them plenty of water and built shelters to protect them from the sun in many cases. This making out the Southerners to be a lot of cut throats is perfect nonsense; their leaders give a great many harsh orders, but the soldiers are not responsible for them.

I wonder if R. knows that his class-mate and friend, Breck Parkman, was killed at the battle of Sharpsburgh, the other day. He was on some general's staff and was probably killed by the fire of our brigade. Charley Horton saw a rebel surgeon who told him of it.

I believe that we are in quite a permanent camp now. It must be so, I think, for the whole army has endured a hard campaign of six months and must have rest; neither men nor horses can hold out forever. Then we have our recruits to make soldiers of, and the new regiments need any amount of drill. But there is another thing also true, that we have only got two months more in which any work can be done before we go into winter quarters.

The best news that we have heard lately is that Harry Russell is at liberty and exchanged; we hope soon to have him back here with us. There is no one I feel more pity for than Major Savage; we heard that he had lost a leg and would probably lose one arm; I don't believe he can live through it. He is one of the finest men I ever knew; nothing coarse or rough about him. He had a very delicate constitution, but was so plucky that he would do his work when a great many in his situation would have been on the sick list. He was one of my intimate friends, and had been particularly so during the last few months before Cedar Mountain.

Captain Quincy is at last heard from, it seems, badly wounded and a prisoner at Staunton. I doubt whether he or Major Savage ever will rejoin the regiment again to do duty with it; if that is the case, Captain Cogswell will become Lieutenant-Colonel, and Mudge will be Major. I shall be third Captain and shall have the colors. No one in our regiment can complain that he has not had promotion enough to satisfy him during the last few months. You will be pleased, I think, to know that a few of us have now got a first-rate “mess” in working order. It consists of Bob Shaw, Lieutenants Oakey, John Fox, Tom Fox, Abbott and myself. We have a really good cook, who can make good coffee, cook eggs in any way very nicely, and also make pies and puddings; to roast and broil or stew is child's play to him, and although our cooking materials are of the most limited description, we have not, since we have been this side of the Potomac, had a poor meal.

We found it, in our last campaign, to be an unmistakable fact, that a horse couldn't stand as much marching as a man; it got to be a common remark among the men on our march from Culpepper here, as we passed the dead or dying animals which had been abandoned, “There, we've killed one more horse; bring on some fresh ones, we're good for a few more yet.”

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 90

Diary of Mary Boykin Chesnut: November 6, 1864

Sally Hampton went to Richmond with the Rev. Mr. Martin. She arrived there on Wednesday. On Thursday her father, Wade Hampton, fought a great battle, but just did not win it — a victory narrowly missed. Darkness supervened and impenetrable woods prevented that longed-for consummation. Preston Hampton rode recklessly into the hottest fire. His father sent his brother, Wade, to bring him back. Wade saw him reel in the saddle and galloped up to him, General Hampton following. As young Wade reached him, Preston fell from his horse, and the one brother, stooping to raise the other, was himself shot down. Preston recognized his father, but died without speaking a word. Young Wade, though wounded, held his brother's head up. Tom Taylor and others hurried up. The General took his dead son in his arms, kissed him, and handed his body to Tom Taylor and his friends, bade them take care of Wade, and then rode back to his post. At the head of his troops in the thickest of the fray he directed the fight for the rest of the day. Until night he did not know young Wade's fate; that boy might be dead, too! Now, he says, no son of his must be in his command. When Wade recovers, he must join some other division. The agony of such a day, and the anxiety and the duties of the battle-field — it is all more than a mere man can bear.

Another letter from Mrs. Davis. She says: “I was dreadfully shocked at Preston Hampton's fate — his untimely fate. I know nothing more touching in history than General Hampton's situation at the supremest moment of his misery, when he sent one son to save the other and saw both fall; and could not know for some moments whether both were not killed.'”

A thousand dollars have slipped through my fingers already this week. At the Commissary's I spent five hundred to-day for candles, sugar, and a lamp, etc. Tallow candles are bad enough, but of them there seems to be an end, too. Now we are restricted to smoky, terrabine lamps —  terrabine is a preparation of turpentine. When the chimney of the lamp cracks, as crack it will, we plaster up the place with paper, thick old letter-paper, preferring the highly glazed kind. In the hunt for paper queer old letters come to light.

Sherman, in Atlanta, has left Thomas to take care of Hood. Hood has thirty thousand men, Thomas forty thousand, and as many more to be had as he wants; he has only to ring the bell and call for them. Grant can get all that he wants, both for himself and for Thomas. All the world is open to them, while we are shut up in a bastile. We are at sea, and our boat has sprung a leak.

SOURCES: Mary Boykin Chesnut, Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary, A Diary From Dixie, p. 332-3

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, November 9, 1861

Headquarters 2nd Brigade,

Hilton Head, Nov. 9TH, 1861.

My dear Mother:

It is a long, long time since I have heard from home — nearly three weeks I think since we have been blessed with news by mail, and all this time I am wondering how you are all faring in New-York. Well, when a mail bag does come, may it be crowded with all sorts of good news. Now we have good news to report, for we are now enjoying ourselves in the pleasant climate of South Carolina.

We have been many days on shipboard, 1700 of us all together, on board the good ship “Vanderbilt” which bravely rode the storm, while other good ships foundered in the sea. But the storm abated, and the winds went down, and we were lying off the coast of South Carolina. Then we thought that a death struggle was about to commence, for were we not to lock arms, and wrestle, with traitors at the very headquarters of rebellion? We lay off Beaufort Harbor some sixty hours in idleness, waiting for the ball to open. That navy though is a slow affair, and we abused it mightily, being impatient to decide the fate of the expedition. Our naval commanders — Commodore Dupont and Secretary of Navy Welles — received most unflattering notices. Why would they not begin? Finally the old concern got a working — the “Wabash” led off, and was followed by a whole fleet of minor vessels. They sailed into line, and soon were sharply engaged with the forts protecting the entrance to the Harbor. For four hours shot were poured thickly into the defenses of the besieged, and nearly as long a time the besiegers sent destruction among our ships. But the terrible explosions of our shell, the steady broadsides poured from the Frigate “Wabash,” and the sure-aimed missiles sent from the little gunboats that would run up close to the shore, ensuring thus accuracy of aim — all these things were terrible in their effect upon the foe. At last a white flag floated from the parapet of their fortification, and quickly a white flag was despatched from the “Wabash” to the shore. Hip, Hip, Hurrah! We see — ay —  we rub our eyes — is it really true? We see the American banner once more floating on the soil of South Carolina. All this time we were looking on, silent spectators of the scene. But now the harbor rings with the shouts of applause, with which we greeted the great naval victory. We forgot for a moment how slow Secretary Welles is, and how dreadfully slow are all the operations of the Navy. And now we vile Yankee hordes are overrunning the pleasant islands about Beaufort, rioting upon sweet potatoes and Southern sunshine. Hilton Head is a sandy island but beautiful with palmetto leaves, cotton fields, magnolia and orange groves, and plantations of sugar cane. Here lived the Pinckneys, the Draytons, and other high-blooded Hidalgos, whose effervescing exuberance of gentlemanly spirit have done so much to cause our present troubles. Alas! Yankee hordes, ruthless invaders — the vile Hessians — infest their splendid plantations. One poor fellow was taken prisoner; afterward we learned there was in our hospital a brother of his, dying from disease, a young man who was too ill to retreat when his comrades fled precipitately. The brother first mentioned ventured to request that they two might remain together. To his surprise the request was willingly granted, and they seemed to feel that we had shown them a great kindness. The effects left by the South Carolinians in their flight show that there were many young men of wealth among them, who, feeling obliged probably, to do their duty as soldiers, selected the neighborhood of Beaufort, which is a kind of Southern Saratoga. But if the flower of South Carolina youth, it is to be regretted that the flower never paid more attention to the spelling-book. A letter written them from a friend exhorts them to remember that they are “of gentilmanly blud.” As a sort of memento I send you enclosed a “poem,” the brilliancy of which will make it pay for the perusal. I saw William Ely yesterday. It is long since I've seen him before, and he has changed so that I did not recognize him until he gave me his name. If I had time I would write pages more, but I am full of business now. Oh a thousand times love and oceans of kisses for sisters and little ones, with less demonstrative but very warm regards for all friends.

I remain Affec'y.,

Will.

Can't stop to correct what I've written so excuse mistakes.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 95-8