Diary of Elvira J. Powers, April 14, 1864

A woman and boy died in my division last night. The woman left a little child, eighteen months old, which is inconsolable. The father, a soldier, wishes to take the child away, but was not permitted to do so or to see it, for fear of contagion. It is to be kept to see if the child has the disease. [It did not, and had no scar from vaccination, such queer freaks the disease takes.]

The boy, an Alabamian, told me yesterday he was getting better. He had been sent here with measles, recovered from those, but the small pox did not break out. He died easy, and said he was "going to Heaven." I write his people today, via Fortress Monroe. His name was G. B. Allen, of Rockford, Cousa Co., Alabama. One man died yesterday, to whose people I have written to-day. Another died to-day. The mortality here is great. Said one patient to me: "People die mighty easy here."

I asked in what way, he meant.

"Oh," he replied, "they'll be mighty peart-like, one minute, an' the next you know, they're dead!"

This is true, and I find so many who were sent here with measles, recover from those, and die of small pox. Sixty cases of measles were sent to this hospital in one month, as I learn from the lips of the surgeon in charge himself, Dr. F. These are sent by the several physicians of Nashville. The fact itself speaks volumes, but to stay here and see its effects day after day in the poor victims of such ignorance, impress one with a sense of the importance by the medical faculty of distinguishing between the two diseases.

SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, pp. 42-3

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Saturday, April 16, 1864

I find many very interesting cases here, some of which shall wait to see the finale before making note of them.

What seems to me a strange feature, as I become more familiar with death-bed scenes, is the fact that so few know they are dying or are even dangerous, but persist with the last breath, or until the last struggle, that they are "getting better."

One poor young boy from Georgia, by the name of Ashman, who must die, although he eats nothing except a few canned peaches and milk, which I carry to him, will tell me sometimes when I go into the tent, that he is expecting a can of peaches every minute from home, and at another that he has just heard that his mother is in town, and that if he really knew she was, he would'nt lie there a great while before he'd be hunting her up. At another, he asked my name and State, and whether I took him to be a man or only a little boy. He is a slight little fellow of about 18, but in answer to the question I told him that of course I considered one really a man who could be a soldier and fight for our country, and who could be so good and patient while sick. To-day he called me to him, as soon as I entered the tent, and asked if I "could'nt discharge him to-day—that the doctor had told him to ask me about it, and that whatever I said he might do."

I told him that I would discharge him just as soon as that limb of his got well, and reminded him that he would want to be able to walk to the cars before starting home. He has a bad abscess on his limb, from which the doctor says the flesh is sloughing, and he does not expect him to live through tonight. And yet the boy wants me to "write to his mother in Atlanta, Georgia, and tell her to write to his aunt Shady, in Butler," that he "has been sick, but is getting better."

One man—G. W. Crane, of 3d Missouri Infantry, and who is called Major, was given up the day before yesterday by Dr. R.

He complained greatly of his throat, and I have since kept wet bandages on it, greatly to his relief. I asked permission of the doctor to do this, and advice as to telling him of his danger. He thought it would be well to do so, as he might wish to make some business arrangements. It was a most unwelcome task, but I believed it best; and first, asked him if he would like a letter written to his people.

"Oh no," was the reply, I shall be able to write myself in a few days."

"Perhaps you may," I said, "but we are all in more or less danger when sick." Adding as gently as possible, "How would you feel about it, if you thought you were not going to get well?"

The queries seemed cruel, but I knew he had loaned a gold watch and money to a man, and thought he might wish to at tend to that and other matters. But he said decidedly "I do not think anything about it, as I have no doubt I shall soon be up again. And Madam," he added politely, "it would afford me great pleasure to talk with you, if I were feeling well and in good spirits you know, but my throat is so bad it hurts me to talk”

After this rebuff, and being really undecided as to duty in the matter, I left him. Yesterday I found him living, but evidently near his end, and I felt that I ought to let him know his condition. First, I asked as before about writing letters, when he said with great difficulty that he did'nt wish to talk with me as it distressed him to speak. I then said I would only ask him one or two questions and then leave him, and I said:

If the doctor and all thought you could not live, would you wish to know it?"

He said "No," decidedly.

"Well then," I said "I will not trouble you any more, but if at any time you wish letters written, you can send me word by the nurse.”

I left him and he died in about an hour. He called for water, but as the nurse raised him to give it, he exclaimed "I am dying," and then gave some incoherent charge, in which the nurse distinguished the words; "the lady" and "a letter."

His request has been complied with.

Mrs. F. was relating a similar incident to me the other evening. Dr. F. was at the depot in Nashville, when an old acquaintance was found there, who had been ill, had received a sick furlough, and was to take the cars for home. He was so feeble, he was persuaded to go to a hospital to remain over night, and take the train next day. In the course of the evening there was a change, and the physician knew he could live but a short time. He knew also that were he aware of the truth he would wish to send some message to his family. The man was speaking of his home and laying plans for the future, when the physician asked if he should'nt write a letter for him to his wife.

"Why no," he replied, "what need of that when I'm to start home tomorrow?"

"You may not go then," said the doctor.

"Oh, yes," I must start tomorrow," was the reply.

The surgeon did not answer immediately, but was sadly thinking how to do so, and regarding the countenance of his friend, when the patient, who was about talking more of his plans, suddenly paused upon observing the expression of the surgeon's face, and earnestly asked:

"Doctor—you do not think me very sick, do you?"

"I do," was the sad reply.

"But doctor you don't think me dangerous?"

"I think you a very sick man."

He lay silent for a few moments while thought was busy, and then asked:

"Am I about to cross the lines, doctor?"

Tears, and the simple "I think you are," was the answer.

Then was business arranged, messages given, and they were alone again. Then he said:

"Why, doctor is this all that death is? It's nothing at all to die."

And thus he "crossed the lines."

SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, pp. 43-7

Diary of Elvira J. Powers, Monday, April 25, 1864

The ambulance and driver were placed at my disposal this P.M., and I visited Hospital No. 1. I find changes here, but mostly for the better. Some have recovered sufficiently to be sent North. The "Alabamian," as he was called, who together with "William" was placed in my care, I am grieved to learn has "crossed the lines." He was getting better I was told, until one night he died suddenly of an ulcer on his lungs. William is dressed and walks around is surely getting well, and talking of going home. Has had a letter written to his father and received a reply. Seems very grateful. The German suffered no more pain from the amputation, and is hopeful. The Norwegian has no gangrene in his arm now, and it is fast healing.

I find two or three new cases of interest. One is a middle-aged man who is suffering greatly from ulcers caused by scurvy. It is thought that he cannot live long; and he tells me that he isn't ready to die that he has "been a bad man, that if the Lord will only spare him this time, he will live a different life." Another, a young man with fair skin, red cheeks and bright eyes, the victim of consumption, was moaning,

"Only to die at home with mother!"

SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 60

Diary of Private William S. White, August 22, 1862

We returned to Richmond yesterday morning, but as I did not care to march twenty-five miles I "ran the blockade" and came over on the cars, for which act of insubordination I will have the pleasure of "standing guard" six hours every other night for about a month. Petersburg always gets me into some scrape with my company officers. Since we left Richmond the last time one of my comrades, George K. Carlton, has been stricken down by the hand of death. He was a noble, generous soul, and possessed the happiest disposition I ever came in contact with; was greatly beloved by his fellow-soldiers. With the exception of Captain R. C. Stanard he is the only member of my company we have lost since the commencement of the war, nearly sixteen months ago. Certainly we have great reason to be thankful that our loss has been so small.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, pp. 126-7

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant Benjamin F. Pearson, January 13, 1863

Rained moderately untill 12 Oc night, when it commenced to pour it down in torrants & continued incessantly all the night long At 9½ Oc morning I was required to report with 10 men & a Corporal at head quarters for Picket duty & at the hour we started out I stationed my pickets & placed my videtts I then took a little exploring ramble beyont to see if I could make any discovery but discovered no enemy & returned by the way of my post on Sunday night & found my watch kee that I then had lost the last time I was on picket At 10 Ос night Lieut Stanton & one of his men of the 3rd Iowa Cavelry came to apprize me that there was a squad of rebble cavelry had aproched his videtts but their horses had neighed & the rebbles put back my man & I was in anxious expectation from that till day but they came not at 3 Oc afternoon I was at the burrying of Thos W Coddington private from near Hillsborough Iowa Chaplain Ingalls informed me that he died verry happy

SOURCE: Edgar R. Harlan, Currator, Annals of Iowa, 3rd Series, Vol. 15, No. 2, October 1925, p. 104

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, January 1, 1863

The Arago did call for our mail and the body of Lieutenant Sterling was put on board to go to his family in Poughkeepsie. We gave the old ship three cheers, and then some one sang out three cheers for the lice you gave us. John Van Hoovenburg died last night. We made a box for him out of such boards as we could find. Though we did our best, his bare feet showed through the cracks. But that made no difference to poor Johnnie. The chaplain was with him to the end, says he was happy and ready to go. This is how we spend our New Year's day. We wish each other a happy New Year though just as if we were home and had a good prospect of one. After the funeral Walter Loucks and I went up the river quite a distance, so far it seemed as if our legs would not carry us back. Negro huts are scattered along. I suppose white people cannot live here and so the darkeys have it all. Some cultivate patches of ground and in one garden we saw peas in bloom. We bought a loaf of bread and a bottle of molasses of an old woman, and though the bread was not what it might have been, it tasted good. There are some orange trees, but no oranges. The darkies say they will blossom in about a month. A man in Company E, a sort of poet, who was always writing songs for the boys to sing, was cutting wood to-day and the axe flew off the handle and cut the whole four fingers from the right hand. There were no witnesses and some there are who say he did it so as to get a discharge. The doctor has dressed the hand and he is going about in great pain just now.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 78

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, January 2, 1863

Peter Carlo, the one who went through the medical examination at Hudson with me, died last night. He was found dead this morning and appeared to have suffered terribly. His eyes and mouth were staring wide open and his face looked as if he had been tortured to death. Companies A and B keep in advance on the sick list.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 79

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, January 3, 1863

Two more men died last night, but not from Company B. We sent off another mail to-day. I wish we might get some letters. We ought to have a lot of them when they do come.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 79

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, Monday, January 5, 1863

CHALMETTE.  Said to be just below the city of New Orleans. We left quarantine about 11 P. M. and reached here about 8 this morning. Many were left behind, too sick to be moved. We have put up our tents, and have been looking about. It is a large camp ground and from all signs was lately occupied and was left in a hurry. Odds and ends of camp furniture are scattered about, and there are many signs of a hasty leave-taking. A few of us went back across the country to a large woods, where we found many trees covered with long gray moss, hanging down in great bunches from the branches. We took all we could carry to make a bed of, for it is soft as feathers.

Later. The doctor won't allow us to use our bed of moss. Says it would make us sick to sleep on it, and much worse than the ground. This is said to be the very ground where General Jackson fought the battle of New Orleans and a large tree is pointed out as the one under which General Packenham was killed. Ancient-looking breastworks are in sight and a building near our tents has a big ragged hole in the gable which has been patched over on the inside so as to leave the mark as it was made, which a native tells me was made by a cannon ball during the battle of New Orleans. The ground is level and for this country is dry. The high bank, or breastworks, cuts off the view on one side and a board fence cuts off a view of the river. Towards the city are enough trees to cut off an extended view in that direction, so we have only the swamp back of us to look at. But this beats quarantine and I wish the poor fellows left there were well enough to get here. There are several buildings on the ground, which the officers are settling themselves in, while a long shed-like building is being cleared out for a hospital. It has been used for that, I judge, and is far better than the one at quarantine. We brought along all that were not desperately sick and have enough to fill up a good part of the new hospital. Walter Loucks has rheumatism in his arms and suffers all the time. He and James Story are my tent mates. We have confiscated some pieces of board to keep us off the ground. Company B has been hard hit. We left seven men at Baltimore, seven at Fortress Munroe and seven at our last stopping-place. It seems to go by sevens, as I find we have seven here in our new hospital. This with the four that have died makes thirty-two short at this time.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 80-2

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, January 19, 1863

It rained hard last night and before the tents got soaked up enough water sifted through to wet our blankets and we hardly slept at all for the cold. Not being called on for anything I lay all day and dosed, trying to make up for the miserable night. Isaac Brownell, of Company B, who has done more to keep up the spirits of the men than anything else, is down and very sick. He is a mimic and could mimic anyone or anything. His antics have made us laugh when we felt more like crying, and we are all anxious about him. A case of smallpox was discovered yesterday and the man put in an outbuilding, where he died this morning. Dr. Andrus so far has been alone, and he looks like death.

Later. He has given out and another doctor from the hospital is coming to take his place. The sick list grows all the time.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 84

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, January 27, 1863

Two doctors came to take the place of Dr. Andrus and they have had plenty to do. For several days the weather has been hot, which opens the pores in our tents so the first rain sifts right through. Last night it rained and we had another night of twisting and turning and trying to sleep and with very poor success. I cough so when I lie down that I keep up and going all I can, for then I seem to feel the best. Dr. Andrus still looks after us. He is getting better and we are glad, for he is the mainstay in the family. Brownell died this forenoon and I shall never forget the scene. He was conscious and able to talk and the last he said was for us to stick and hang. "But boys," said he, "if I had the power, I would start north with all who wanted to go and as soon as we passed over four feet of ground I would sink it."

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 84

Diary of Private William S. White, July 5, 1862

One year ago to-day the lamented Dreux fell at the head of his battalion. He was the first officer of high rank that fell on our side. Alas! how many kindred spirits have joined him ere this!

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

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, July 21, 1864

A weak and disagreeable state of body since last date has waived my practice of noting; but everything has been as now—"hell upon earth." We have a few dottings of this kind: the Rebel quartermaster is from Baltimore, and to counteract some suspicions of his speculating in rations, makes lots of promises when he comes in of late. One of our fellows got thick with him and told him where to find a tunnel, for a plug of tobacco. Soon after he came with a squad of negroes armed with feeling rods and spades, found and filled it. It had baffled their scrutiny for three days. The man who revealed the secret betrayed himself and that evening was hunted out, given a clean shave of his head and on his forehead was tattooed the word. "Traitor." Next day rations were ordered withheld till those who did the job reported at the gate. I don't know that anyone reported but rations came the day after leaving us a vacuum of one day.

Petitions have been circulating praying our government for relief. I did not sign. They are sanctioned by Rebel authority, intended to produce political effect and to leave the impression in the North that the prisoners condemn government policy in reference to exchange, therefore to serve a purpose of its enemies. It abounds in dictation and censure, suppressing facts.

Reports of movements in north Virginia are true. Sherman is up to Atlanta; Johnston relieved by Hood. They think Johnston, fights on the principle that "He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day." Federal cavalry at Montgomery and Taladega, Ala., and at Macon, Ga., only 60 miles away, which causes great excitement here. The Rebels are fortifying. Droves of negroes are brought here from plantations and put to work. Troops and citizens, all sexes and sizes, flock in and quarters are being built, making a ville of the place. We look over to it from high ground and reflect that it is one of the new born of Secessia. A man near the stream cut his own throat today. Several hundred Rebel soldiers are shipped by rail for Macon. Three men brought in whom the Rebels suspect were scouts. They were put in the stocks several hours, but gave no information. James English of our company, of New York City, died July 17th.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 92

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop, Thursday, July 24, 1864

Before day the dog horn and the yelping of hounds was heard. Men on parole about the depot had attempted to escape. Two trains of wounded from Hood's army passed here. Rebels report a victory, then admit a loss. Frederick, of my Company, died this afternoon. He has been ailing but we did not think him dangerously ill. He was carried out at 5 o'clock and is the 51st man who has died since 7 a. m. in prison.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 93

Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne: December 18, 1862

The officers gave a dance in the upper part of the storehouse last night and the iron floor was fine for dancing. All hands were invited to join in and all that felt able did. Two men died yesterday, and last night another, all fever patients. Two were from Company A, and the other from Company I. They were buried just back of the quarters on hard ground, for this place. A catfish was caught by one of Company A's men to-day, that looked just like our bullheads, only bigger. As he was pulling him in over the mud the line broke, and I got the head for hitting him with an axe before he got to the water. The head weighed 14½ lbs, and the whole fish 52 lbs. A native that saw him said he was a big one, but not as big as they sometimes grow. My family had a meal from the head and Company A had fish for all their sick and part of the well ones.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 74

Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne: December 19, 1862

Fifteen cases of fever reported this morning. A dead man was taken out very early and buried in a hurry. This has given rise to the story that small-pox has come, too. It looks as if it might be so, for it's about the only thing we haven't got. Those that seemed strongest are as likely to be taken now as the weakest. I have been half sick through it all and yet I hold my own, and only for my sore throat and this racking cough would enjoy every minute.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, pp. 74-5

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne: December 25, 1862

Nothing much out of the ordinary has happened since I wrote last. A man went out hunting and got lost in the tall weeds. He shouted until some others found him and then had great stories to tell of narrow escapes, etc. Harrison Leroy died this morning. He was half sick all the way here and did not rally after coming ashore. Dr. Andrus poked a swab down my throat with something on it that burned and strangled me terribly. But I am much the better for it. We have all been vaccinated, and there is a marked improvement in the condition of those not in the hospital. The chaplain preached a sermon and Colonel Cowles made a speech. He thanked us for being such good soldiers under what he called the most trying circumstances war can bring. Loads of soldiers go up the river nearly every day. As the doctor allows them to pass the quarantine, I take it they are not in the fix we are.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 76

Diary of Lucy Larcom, May 6, 1861

Through the dark and lurid atmosphere of war the light of "Nature's own exceeding peace" still softly falls on the earth. The violets have opened their blue eyes by the roadside; the saxifrage fringes the ledges with white; and the arbutus, the Pilgrim's mayflower, blossoms on the hills away from here; we have no hillsides for it to grow upon, but I had some on May-day, from the hills of Taunton. How strange the contrast between these delicate blossoms and the flaring red flower of war that has burst into bloom with the opening of spring!

Every day brings something to stir the deep places of the soul, and in the general awakening of life and liberty it may be that every heart feels its own peculiar sorrow and happiness more keenly. There is a deeper life in every breath I draw; and messages from distant friends seem more near and touching. One day, from one of the most beloved and honored, comes a kind word for my poor efforts at poetry; almost a prophecy of some blessed days of summer life among the mountains by and by, — and a holy benediction, "God bless thee, and keep thee!" that fell upon my heart like the first ray of some new and unknown morning. All life seemed green and glowing with a freshened trust.—God is, and goodness is; and true hearts are, forever! There is nothing to doubt, even in these dark days!

Then, the next day, a message from dear Esther (she could not write it herself) to say that she is dying, and wants to hear from me again. And to think that she had been drooping all these spring days, while I have been too full of occupation with the stir of the times to write! But she says my words have always been good for her, and surely few have blessed me by life and thought as she has. Heaven will have one bond for my heart, closer than any yet. I am glad that she can lie down in peace, before the horrible scenes of bloodshed, which only a miracle can now avert, shall be enacted.

SOURCE: Daniel Dulany Addison, “Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary,” pp. 90-1

Diary of Lucy Larcom, May 20, 1861

Esther dead! Gone home two days before I heard or dreamed of it! But since she has gone home, — since it is only a glorious release for her, — I will not let a thought of repining sully the gladness I ought to share with her. It is only that one who has always lived near the Holiest One is now called nearer still. I have known her only in Him, and there I know her and love her still.

SOURCE: Daniel Dulany Addison, “Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary,” p. 92

Diary of Private Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Monday, November 10, 1862

Corinth. We were again disappointed, the train leaving us behind and nothing to do but wait another twenty-four hours. In the afternoon E. W. Evans and I went to the hospital where we learned that our comrade E. R. Hungerford had died at about 2 P. M. Sunday, and was to be buried in the evening.

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 12