Diary of Private Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Sunday, November 23, 1862

Moscow. Laid in tent all day. Mail arrived in the afternoon. Received two very welcome letters from home and Thomas L.

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 14

Diary of Private Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Tuesday, November 25, 1862

Moscow. Orders were sent to Captain to have two best non-commissioned officers to report at Colonel Powell's headquarters by 8 A. M. Sergt. A. J. Hood and Corporal Hauxhurst were sent, acting as orderlies. Tent moved back. The whole camp policed. 2 o'clock the howitzers (3rd and 5th pieces) were ordered out on picket duty without caissons, one extra horse.

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 14

Diary of Musician David Lane, September 14, 1863

We were aroused this morning at 3 o'clock and ordered to be ready to march at 5 o'clock. In a very few minutes hundreds of fires were brightly glowing, striving by their feeble rays to dispel the gloom of night. At the appointed hour we were up and away with hearts as light and buoyant as though privations, toil and danger were unknown. The morning was delightfully cool, and before the god of day had risen to scorch us with his burning rays, nearly half our day's march was done. The rest of the day was made easy by frequent halts, and when, at 2 o'clock p. m., we filed into line and stacked arms, all were agreeably surprised. We had marched twelve miles.

Today is the anniversary of our first battle—our baptism. The mind naturally reverts to that trying time, and all its scenes pass rapidly in review. Then, for the first time, we met face to face our country's foe. The chivalry of the South then met the mudsills of Michigan and learned to respect them. Today we met them again, but not in battle array. As we were starting, this morning, we came upon 2,300 prisoners taken at Cumberland Gap. They were free to talk, and a more ignorant lot of semi-savages I never met. We could not convince them that Vicksburg or Port Hudson were in our possession. They were very "frank," and indulged freely in epithets and pet names.

9 o'clock p. m.     Our camp is in a beautiful grove, on the banks of a "babbling brook." A cool, delicious breeze is gently blowing from the west. The sky is cloudless, and the bright, scintillating stars shine out in unwonted brilliancy, and the pale moon is pouring down upon the earth a flood of silvery light. It is an ideal night in which to rest after a fatiguing march-an ideal night, so seem to think our boys, in which to celebrate the anniversary of our first battle. The Sutler came up about sundown with the "accessories." The preliminaries have been gone through with, and the "celebration is in full blast." Pandemonium reigns. This quiet glen has been transformed, for the time being, into the council hall of demons. Men fall upon each other's necks and weep, and laugh, and drivel, and shout "’Rah for Seventeenth Michigan." It was an impressive ceremony, and one in which all allusions to the brave men who fell and sympathy for their bereaved families were considerately left out, lest they wound the tender sensibilities of the living.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 91-3

Diary of Private William S. White, July 11, 1862

Raining very hard all day; 'tis extremely dull in camp. As is the weather so is the spirit; the sombre clouds of a gloomy day often cast an equal gloom over our spirits. Though McClellan's army has been seriously defeated, and his vain boastings brought to naught, yet he has succeeded in gaining a very strong position on the James River, near Charles City Courthouse, where he may now safely reorganize his army. Beyond a doubt, he displayed great Generalship in extricating his army from the perilous situation in which it was placed after the battle of Gaines's Mill.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 125

Diary of Private John C. West, Thursday, May 25, 1863

While we are encamped life is so monotonous that I do not usually regard it as necessary to keep a diary, but occasionally we have a little variety and spice which is exciting and pleasant. Yesterday we received notice early in the morning to prepare to march five miles to attend a review of our division which was to take place about a mile beyond General Hood's headquarters. We left our camp about 8 o'clock a. m. and reached the muster ground about 10 o'clock. We found the artillery posted on the extreme right about three-quarters of a mile from our regiment.

The brigades, Anderson's, Laws', Robertson's and Benning's, were drawn up in line of battle, being over a mile long; our regiment a little to the left of the center. As we were properly formed General Hood and staff galloped down the entire length of the line in front and back again in the rear, after which he took his position about 300 yards in front of the center. The whole division was then formed into companies, preceded by the artillery of about twenty pieces; passed in review before the General, occupying about an hour and a march of over two miles and a half for each company before reaching its original position. The spectacle was quite imposing and grand, and I wish Mary and the children could see such a sight. After passing in review we rested awhile and were then again placed in line of battle, and the artillery divided into two batteries, came out on opposite hills in front of us, where they practiced half an hour or more with blank cartridges. This was the most exciting scene of the day except the one which immediately followed, viz: We were ordered to fix bayonets and the whole line to charge with a yell, and sure enough I heard and joined in the regular Texas war whoop. This was the closing scene of the day, after which we marched back to camp. There was an immense crowd of citizens out on the occasion as spectators, reminding me very much of an old time South Carolina review.

On our return to camp Companies E and F were ordered on picket guard about a mile and a half from camp. We packed up everything and were soon off and are now encamped on the bank of the Rapidan at Raccoon Ford. Last night was quite cool but I slept comfortably after the tramp of yesterday.

To-day Companies E and F are variously employed. There is one squad fishing, another has made a drag of brush and are attempting to catch fish by the wholesale. Two or three other squads are intensely interested in games of poker; some are engaged on the edge of the water washing divers soiled garments as well as their equally soiled skins. I belonged to this latter class for a while, and have spent the remainder of the morning watching the varying success or failure of the fishermen and poker-players, and in reading a few chapters and Psalms in the Old Testament and the history of the crucifixion in the New. I forgot to say that on yesterday I met on the parade ground Captain Wade and Major Cunningham, of San Antonio, and also John Darby and Captain Barker. Darby is the chief surgeon of Hood's Division. I went up to a house to-day about half a mile from our picket camp and found a negro woman with some corn bread and butter milk. A friend who was with me gave her a dollar for her dinner, which we enjoyed very much. The woman was a kind-hearted creature and looked at me very sympathetically, remarking that I did not look like I was used to hard work, and that I was a very nice looking man to be a soldier, etc., etc.

Here are the chapters I have read to-day: Deut., 23:14; II Chron., 32:8; Jeremiah, 49:2; Revelation, 21:14.

SOURCE: John Camden West, A Texan in Search of a Fight: Being the Diary and Letters of a Private Soldier in Hood’s Texas Brigade, pp. 54-6

Diary of Dr. Alfred L. Castleman, November 9, 1861

This morning, as I passed through the camp giving directions about cleaning and ventilating tents, whilst the regiment was on parade, my Colonel, seeing me so engaged, gave orders that no directions of mine need be obeyed till he sanctioned them. A very strange order; but as it releases me from responsibility for the health of the regiment, I shall henceforward leave the police regulations of the camp to him, and stay at the hospital. I think it will take but a short time to convince him of his mistake, and that he knows nothing of the sanitary wants of a camp.

SOURCE: Alfred L. Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B. McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day January, 1863, pp. 50-1

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 25, 1863

We are still in camp, where each day is like the preceding one. The same routine of "duty" is gone through with, which, to me, is exceedingly tiresome. Give me the variations; something new and startling every day. For this reason I prefer active service. Those who love fun, and have a natural penchant for mischief, have abundant opportunity to indulge. I have never heard Billy Dunham complain of ennui. So long as guards are to be "run," melons to be "cooned," peach orchards to be "raided" or a peddler to be harried, tormented and robbed, Billy is in his native element. Peddling to soldiers is not the most agreeable business in the world, especially if said soldiers happen to be, as is often the case, on mischief bent. I have seen a crowd of soldiers gather around an unsuspecting victim, a few shrewd, witty fellows attract his attention, while others pass out to their accomplices melons, peaches, tomatoes and vegetables, and when the poor fellow discovers the "game" and gathers up his "ropes" to drive away, the harness fall to the ground in a dozen pieces, the unguided mule walks off amazed, the cart performs a somersault and the poor peddler picks himself up and gazes on the wreck in silent grief. At sight of his helpless misery the wretches seemingly relent; with indignant tones they swear vengeance on the "man who did it;" help him to gather up his "wares" while he secures his mule. This is soon done, for his "stock" has grown small and "beautifully less." He smothers his rage from prudential motives, throws the "toggle" on his mule and prepares to depart. Alas, the millennium has not yet come. His cart wheels, refusing to perform their accustomed revolutions, start off in opposite directions, while the air is rent by the screams and derisive yells of his tormenters. When once begun, the amusement continues until the stock is exhausted. Speaking of Billy, he has become reconciled to his fate, and takes to soldiering like a duck to water.

Lieutenant Chris. Rath has received a Captain's commission, and has been assigned to Company I. He has well earned his commission by his bravery and efficiency.

There was a sudden change of weather last night. The day had been hot and sultry. Toward night we had a light shower, preceded by a hurricane which cleared the atmosphere of heat most effectually. It is now uncomfortable sitting in my tent with my coat on. Uncle Sam seems inclined to make up to us, in some measure, for past neglect. We have soft bread and other rations more than we can use. Today we were surprised by an issue of tea and sugar, more than we can use. We sell our surplus at twenty-five cents a pound. The Brigade Surgeon has put a stop to drilling except as punishment. No signs of a move are in sight. My health is good. It is years since I was in possession of such buoyant, vigorous health.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 83-4

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 27, 1863

Nicholasville, Ky. We are again enjoying the quiet of camp life. Our miniature tents are pitched in regular order, streets are policed and brigade guards posted to keep our unruly boys within bounds.

Colonel Luce, five line officers and twenty privates have gone home on furlough—others to Cincinnati on leave of absence. Everything indicates a period of rest. Our boys are trying to make up for their privations "down below." Nearly every tent presents the appearance of a market for the sale of fruit or vegetables.

Potatoes, peaches, apples, cabbages, onions, watermelons and green corn are piled in heaps or lie around loose throughout the camp. Then we have artists, too. Two Daguerian cars are running full blast, where the boys get indifferent pictures at one dollar each. I saw a great curiosity today—a relic of bygone ages. About a mile from camp there is a shop where the old-fashioned spinning wheel is manufactured on quite an extensive scale, and they find a ready sale. This is a fair index to the progress of the people. Their manners, forms of speech and customs all point to past ages. They are very loyal and very friendly when sober, but when filled with corn whiskey, hypocrisy and self-interest take a back seat, and they speak their real sentiments with a frankness and fluency that is not at all flattering to us "Yanks." From what I have seen, I conclude all Kentuckians drink whiskey. There are distilleries in every little town, where the "genuine article" is turned out. I called at a farm house one day for a drink of water. The good woman was catechising her son—a lad of ten or twelve years about ten cents she had given him with which to buy some little notion at the store. She gave me a drink of water, then, turning to the young hopeful, angrily inquired, "But where's that ten cents I gave you?" "I guv five cents to Bill." "Where's the other five?" "Bought my dram with it." The explanation appeared satisfactory.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 78-9

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 30, 1863

Crab Orchard, Ky. We arrived at 10 a. m., making ten miles from Lancaster this morning. Crab Orchard is a lovely town of about one thousand inhabitants. We are encamped about one mile south of the village, in a lovely spot, shut in on all sides by high hills and forests. To the south, far in the distance, the Cumberland Mountains raise their blue peaks as landmarks to guide us on our course when next we move.

From what I see and hear of the surrounding country, the boys will have to depend on their rations for food.

Soldiers are strange beings. No sooner were our knapsacks unslung than every man of us went to work as though his very life depended on present exertions. We staked out streets, gathered stakes and poles with which to erect our tents, and now, at 3 p. m., behold! a city has arisen, like a mushroom, from the ground. Everything is done as though it were to be permanent, when no man knows how long we may remain or how soon we may move on.

Part of our route from Camp Parks lay through a country made historic by the chivalric deeds of Daniel Boone. We passed his old log fort, and the high bluff from which he hurled an Indian and dashed him in pieces on the rocks below. At the foot of the bluff is the cave in which he secreted himself when hard pressed by savages. His name is chiseled in the rock above the entrance. The place is now being strongly fortified.

We had a lively skirmish in Company G this morning. About a week ago the Brigade Surgeon ordered quinine and whiskey to be issued to every man in the brigade, twice daily. During our march the quinine had been omitted, but whiskey was dealt out freely.

Solon Crandall—the boy who picked the peaches while under fire at South Mountain—is naturally pugnacious, and whiskey makes him more so. This morning, while under the influence of his "ration," he undertook the difficult task of "running" Company G.

Captain Tyler, hearing the "racket," emerged from his tent and inquired the cause. At this Solon, being a firm believer in "non-intervention," waxed wroth. In reply he told the Captain, "It's none of your business. Understand, I am running this company, and if you don't go back to your tent and mind your own business, I'll have you arrested and sent to the bull pen. At this the Captain "closed" with his rival in a rough-and-tumble fight, in which the Captain, supported by a Sergeant, gained the day.

I have the most comfortable quarters now I have ever had. Our tent is composed of five pieces of canvas, each piece the size of our small tents—two for the top, or roof, the eaves three feet from the ground. The sides and ends are made to open one at a time or all at once, according to the weather. Three of us tent together, and we have plenty of room. We have bunks made of boards, raised two feet from the ground. This, with plenty of straw, makes a voluptuous bed. I received a letter from home last evening, dated August 13th. Oh, these vexatious postal delays; they are the bane of my life. I wonder if postmasters are human beings, with live hearts inside their jackets, beating in sympathetic unison with other hearts. I wonder did they ever watch and wait, day after day, until hope was well-nigh dead, conscious that love had sped its message and was anxiously awaiting a return. A letter from home! What thrilling emotions of pleasure; what unfathomable depths of joy it brings the recipient. It is not altogether the words, be they many or few, but the remembrances they call forth; the recognition of the well-known handwriting; old associations and past scenes are brought forth from the storehouse of the memory and held up to view. The joy of meeting—the agony of parting—all are lived over again.

We are having brigade inspection today, which is suggestive of a move, but our artillery has not turned up yet, and we will not take the field without it.

The health of our men has improved wonderfully since we reached Kentucky. A more rugged, hearty set of men I never saw than the few who are left. But, as I look around upon the noble fellows, now drawn up in line for inspection, a feeling of sadness steals over me. One short year ago nine hundred ninety-eight as brave, true men as ever shouldered gun marched forth to battle in their country's cause. Of all that noble band, only two hundred in line today. Where are the absent ones? Some, it is true, are home on furlough, but not all. They have left a bloody track from South Mountain's gory height through Antietam, Fredericksburg and Vicksburg to Jackson, Mississippi.

Oh, how I miss familiar faces!

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 86-89

Diary of Private Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Sunday, March 22, 1863

Parson Bunting preached for us to-day. Nothing occured to change monotony of camp. Sick, and time drags slowly with me.

SOURCE: Ephraim Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's Texas Rangers, p. 10

Diary of Private Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Tuesday, March 24, 1863

In Camp—quiet.

SOURCE: Ephraim Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's Texas Rangers, p. 10

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant John S. Morgan, Thursday, February 2, 1865

Rained all night. train all day getting in. lie in camp. drizzly rain all day. to lighten the teams all the rations are issued 2 days bread, 4 days meat to last to the Rocks. 10 wagons sent to Bluffs. Could not cross a stream which was swolen. Rain ceased at 9. P. M.

SOURCE: “Diary of John S. Morgan, Company G, Thirty-Third Iowa Infantry,” Annals of Iowa, Vol. XIII, No. 8, Third Series, Des Moines, April 1923, p. 572

Diary of Private Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Thursday, October 16, 1862

Corinth. I joined my Platoon, went into tent with E. W. Evans and T. J. Hungerford as before. Owing to my weakness I was not put on full duty immediately, being excused from mounted drill, etc.

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 9

Diary of Private Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Saturday, October 25, 1862

Corinth. We were moved from the tent this morning to an old deserted house a quarter of a mile from camp. In the afternoon it snowed and by night the earth was clothed in white.

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 10-11

Diary of Dr. Alfred L. Castleman, October 21, 1861

Our camp here was made without consulting the Surgeons. It was laid out without order, and the tents are so close together that teams cannot pass through to remove its rubbish, its offal, and its filth. My Colonel, too, has interfered much with my sanitary orders, particularly those in reference to ventilation. The result is the largest sick list we have had, I have succeeded, however, in getting consent to move the camp to other ground, high and dry, where I am now engaged in ditching the streets, and staking out the ground preparatory to a move, where I hope we shall be able to reduce the list of sick. I believe I omitted in the proper place the record of the first death in our regiment. It occurred on the 3d of this month. The poor fellow died of Nostalgia (home-sickness), raving to the last breath about wife and children. It seems strange that such an affection of the mind should kill strong, healthy men; but deaths from this cause are very frequent in the army; the sufferer, towards the last showing evidences of broken down nervous system, accompanied by most of the symptoms of typhoid fever.

A little incident to-day. A reconnoitering party went out this morning towards Vienna and Flint Hill. At noon, a courier came in with a report that they were fighting. I was ordered to take an ambulance and join my regiment "in the direction of Vienna" immediately. On starting, I met with Surgeon Thompson, of the 43d N. York Vols., told him I was going in search of an adventure, and invited him to go with me. He accepted. We reached our outer lines "in the direction of Vienna," but had not found my regiment. To Surgeon T.'s question, "What now!" I replied that my orders were to "go till I found my regiment." "But are you going to cross the lines into the enemy's country?" My orders are unconditional; will you go with me further?" "Certainly," said the Doctor. Shortly after leaving head-quarters, we met the 1st Regt. Regular Cavalry, who told us they had left one man badly wounded between Flint Hill and Vienna. This man we determined to rescue, if possible. We found him in a house in Vienna. I had now obeyed my order, though I had not found my regiment, and I determined to take this man back with me, though the enemy were all around us. One ball had passed between his ear and skull, a second had passed through the leg, a third had entered the back, just below the shoulder blade, but had made no exit. He was suffering severely from pain and difficult respiration. He could not ride in an ambulance, so Doctor T. volunteered to return to our lines for litter-bearers and an escort, whilst I should remain with our newly made friend. I confess that as I caught the last glimpse of the Doctor's fine black horse dashing over the hill, there was at the ends of my fingers and toes a sensation very much akin to the "oozing out of courage." I was alone in the enemy's country. But there was no other way now, so I dressed the wounds, and waited his return, with what patience I could. He soon returned. We started the man in the direction of our lines, under an escort of eight men.

We mounted our horses, and paying but little attention, got some mile ahead of our escort, when suddenly, eight horsemen, well mounted and armed, came bearing down on us, evidently intending to surround us. They were about a quarter of a mile off when first discovered. "We are in for a trip to Richmond," said Doctor T. "Is it not safer," replied I, "to fight than to be taken prisoners by these fellows?" "I'm in," said the Doctor. We drew our revolvers and waited, one of us, I am certain, in considerable trepidation. By this time they were in hailing distance. We called them to halt, when, to our mutual disgust, we found that we were friends—they were cheated of the capture of two very fine looking rebel officers," and we of a short road to "that borne whence no traveller returns.” A little after dark we reached camp with our man. In civil life, it will hardly be credited that the commanding officer of this regiment, when he found his man so badly wounded, ordered him to be taken from his horse and left, whilst the horse was to be taken away; yet the man states that such is the fact, and that he saved himself from such a fate by drawing his revolver and threatening to shoot the first man who should approach him for that purpose. After the regiment left him, he managed to sit on his horse till he reached Vienna, about three miles from where he was shot.

Since last date, we have had an opportunity of learning something of the military qualities of our brigade officers. We have not been before on ground where we could have our brigade drills; but here we have them.

General Smith, who commands the Division, is a stout, short man, rather under size, from Vermont, I think. He is taciturn, but exceedingly courteous and gentlemanly, and firm and decided. Of his mental calibre, we have not yet had an opportunity to judge. It is a strange paradox of human nature, that whilst we acknowledge that a vast majority of our mentally big men are quiet and reserved, yet when we meet a stranger, if he says little, we fall at once into the opinion that he knows little. How this is with General Smith, I do not know. I am much disposed to construe his quiet and courteous manner favorably; but I confess that whispers from the grove have rather prejudiced me against him.

Brigadier General Winfield Scott Hancock is the very antipode of General Smith. He is fully as long as his name, with title perfixed, and as for quiet and courtesy—Oh, fie! I saw him come on to the field one morning this week, to brigade drill. He was perfectly sober. He is one of those paradoxes who believe that one man, at least, is to be known by his much talking. He became excited, or wished to appear so, at some little mistake in the maneuvering of his Brigade, and the volleys of oaths that rolled and thundered down the line, startled the men with suspicion that they were under command of some Quarter Master lately made General, who mistook the men for mules, and their officers for drivers. He must be a facetious chap, that General, to wish to excite such suspicions. I think he hails from Pennsylvania, but nobody seems to know much about him, except from his statement that he has been seventeen years in the service, and knows all about it." Wherever he has been, he has certainly acquired a perfect intimacy with the whole gamut of profanity.

SOURCE: Alfred L. Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B. McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day January, 1863, p. 44-7

Diary of Dr. Alfred L. Castleman, October 25, 1861

We have moved our camp about one hundred rods, are out of the mud, on high dry ground, where the tents can be ventilated and the streets kept clean. I look for a great improvement in the health of the regiment from this.

SOURCE: Alfred L. Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B. McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day January, 1863, p. 48

Diary of Major Joseph Stockton, March 23, 1863

Reached as far as we can go today, our progress being stopped by a large rebel fortification called Fort Pemberton, which is about two miles off. We disembarked and were assigned camping ground by General Sanborn, our brigade commander. It is on a clearing—our tents are pitched among decayed pine trees, which have been girdled for the purpose of clearing the ground.

SOURCE: Joseph Stockton, War Diary (1862-5) of Brevet Brigadier General Joseph Stockton, p. 10

Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne: November 29, 1862

Hurrah for camp once more! Our tents are being sent ashore and a detail from each company goes to put them up. This began just at night and lasted all night. Nobody slept, for some were working and the rest were thinking of living outdoors again.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 66

Diary of Private Edward W. Crippin, Tuesday Morning, October 29, 1861

Cool. Routine of Drilling as usual—Battalion Drill superintended by the Lieut. Col. Nothing new as usual—The same dull monotony seems to pervade the camp as usual.

SOURCE: Transactions of the Illinois State Historical Society for the Year 1909, p. 230

Diary of Private Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Saturday, September 20, 1862

Rienzi. There was nothing to break the monotony of camp life. Wrote two letters. Washed clothes. In the evening news of another battle at Iuka. They cleaned Price out and chased him four miles; 400 killed on both sides.

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 6