Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, February 16, 1863

In the hospital after all. Dr. Andrus came last night to our tent and ordered me into the house I spoke of. I had a warm, dry bed and a good night's rest and feel much better to-day. The doctor has his office downstairs and the upstairs part is crammed full of sick men. A big tent is being put up and cot beds put in to put the fever patients in. Captain Bostwick was married last night, so it is said. Corporal Knox died in a fit this afternoon. It tires me to write so I must stop. Good-night.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 88

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, February 20, 1863

Captain Bostwick came to see me to-day. Two men died last night, one in the hospital and the other in his tent. I don't feel as well to-day.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 88

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, March 5, 1863

Am very weak yet. A little tires me out. A letter from Herman just a month old. Coon died last night, but we none of us knew it till we saw him carried out.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 89

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, March 18, 1863

Too much excitement yesterday and I feel like two weeks ago. The doctor says I will have these setbacks though and it is only a part of the process of getting well. A man named Kipp died to-day. I don't know how many die out in the tent.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 91

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

Poor Crowthers died very peacefully about noon to-day. His cot is next mine and he seemed like one of the family to me. The company has undertaken to raise money to send his body home.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 91

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, Thursday, March 26, 1863

The finest morning yet. The air is just right. The birds are singing, the sun shining bright and everything seems just right for getting well. A man named Barker died last night about midnight. He has seemed to be dying for a week and we have watched to see him breathe his last any minute. Orderly Holmes is better and may get well after all. Some of the boys killed an alligator to-day and cooked and ate his tail. They say it is just as good as fish and looked like fish.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, pp    . 91-2

Diary of 5th Sergeant Lawrence Van Alstyne, March 28, 1863

Another fine day, and another trip downstairs. My legs behaved better this time. Am not near so tired. Now that I can write without getting tired I must put down some things I remember, but which I could not write at the time. I shall always remember them of course, but I want to see how near I can describe them on paper. First I want to say how very kind my comrades have been all through. I can think of many acts of kindness now that I paid little attention to then, but they kept coming along just the same. Whatever else I think of, the thought of their care for me and how they got passes and tramped miles to get me something to eat, always taking it to Dr. Andrus first to see if it would do for me these thoughts keep coming up and my load of gratitude keeps getting heavier. Can I ever repay them? God has been good to me, better than I deserve. I was first taken to the room where I am now writing. I remember but little of what happened before I was taken out and put in the big hospital tent. It is a large affair, made up of several tents joined together endwise and wide enough for two rows of cots along the side, with an alley through the middle, towards which our feet all pointed.

I remember the head medical man coming through every day or so and the doctors would take him to certain cots, where they would look on the fellows lying there and put down something in a book. I soon noticed that most always such a one died in a short time, and I watched for their coming to my cot. One day they did, and I remember how it made me feel. Dr. Andrus was so worked down that a strange doctor was in charge, but under Dr. Andrus, who had charge over all. When he came through I motioned to him and he came and sat on the next cot, when I told him I would get well if I could get something good to eat. "All right," said he, "what will you have?" I told him a small piece of beefsteak. He sent one of the nurses to his mess cook and he soon came back with a plate and on it a little piece of steak which he prepared to feed me. But the smell was enough and I could not even taste it. The doctor then proceeded to eat it, asking if I could think of anything else. I thought a bottle of beer would surely taste good and so he sent to the sutler's for it. But he had to drink that too, for I could not. He laughed at me and though I was disappointed, it cheered me up more than anything else had done for a long time. When I got so I could eat, I surely thought he would starve me to death.

A poor fellow across the tent opposite me got crazy and it took several men to hold him on his cot. The doctor came and injected something in his breast which quieted him for the night, but when it wore off he was just as bad and he finally died in one of them. On my right lay a man sick unto death, while on my left lay another whose appetite had come and who was begging everybody for something to eat. His company boys brought him some bread and milk which he ate as if famished. The next morning when I awoke and looked about to see how many faces were covered up I found both my right and left hand neighbors had died in the night and their blankets were drawn up over their faces. The sights I saw while I was able to realize what was going on were not calculated to cheer me up and how I acted when I was out of my head I don't know. At any rate I got better and was brought back to this room, where I have since been.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, pp. 92-4

John A. Quitman to His Sister, May 21, 1833

Monmouth, May 21st, 1833.

But a few days ago, my beloved sister, your now wretched brother was the happy father of four blooming children. The hand of Providence has fallen heavily upon me in these last three days. Our beloved little Edward, who had never before had a moment's illness, was for about a week affected with derangement of the bowels, which at length resulted in cholera, and his pure spirit left this world for a better on the morning of the 18th. Oh! this was a severe blow to his fond parents, but a heavier yet was in store. On the night before last, my beloved, my beautiful, noble, and affectionate little John was seized with the fatal scourge, without any premonitory symptoms, and in six hours the little angel left this world for a better one. He had no pain, and was resigned, fond, and affectionate to the last expiring sigh. His poor mother is almost inconsolable at the loss of her two darlings. His sister, the constant, inseparable companion of his studies and his sports, looks as if she was deserted by all the world. His father's hopes, his high expectations, where are they? Oh! there is a void in my heart, a burden on my breast; yet I have strength, and will resign myself to this hard, hard dispensation; but Eliza, my dearest Eliza, with all her firmness, is nearly broken-hearted. Who shall describe a mother's sorrow? Two sweet children, upon whom her soul doted -around whom were twined the very tendrils of her heart-torn from her bosom so suddenly! The pestilence fell upon our house with unexampled fury. My German gardener died the day poor little Edward was buried. A servant-maid was attacked the same day, and still lies very low. We are now at Woodlands. A storm passed over last night, and physicians say the pestilence will cease. Its peculiarity has been to fall upon the most healthy localities and avoid others. Its sweep was short, but, merciful Heaven, what a blow! Eliza and I have determined to be resigned to our hard lot. Our poor little son appeared uncommonly beautiful and intelligent the day before his death. He breathed affection for all, and, though perfectly well, he seemed to have some presentiment of his fate. I saw its shadow along my path for weeks. Two hours after the first symptom of his disease, he said, “Father, I will never get well.” He was at the grave when his infant brother was buried, observed every thing with attention, and gave his mother an account of all. Their little graves are side by side, under a beautiful tree, below the garden. We had two of the best physicians, but no human skill could save them. Their heavenly Father had selected their pure spirits to surround His throne.

SOURCE: John F. H. Claiborne, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Vol. 1, pp. 132-3

Felix Huston to John A. Quitman, June 16, 1833

June 16th, 1833.

MY DEAR FRIEND, — I have heard with feelings of great sorrow the severe visitation of Providence which you have suffered in the loss of your dear children. When I reflect what they were when I saw them, how much of promise they evidenced, how healthy, intelligent, and beautiful they were all that could warm with hope the breast of a parent—I think, with tears in my eyes, of my own dear Joseph, and that he, like them, was, by untimely fate, taken from the arms of those who had too much of their happiness, too much of their hopes dependent on him. Oh, my friend, how much of all our fondest anticipations, of our warmest affections and dearest hopes, may be buried in these little tombs! I have suffered more while thinking and deploring the loss of my boy, who was so promising, so much intertwined with all my plans, all my hopes, and with my very heart-strings — more than I thought my stubborn nature would submit to. Often have I shed tears on the midnight pillow, and my heart would swell as though it would suffocate me. Such was the shock, that I felt as though it would madden me; and even now I sometimes lose that self-control and equanimity which I had fancied I possessed. These are afflictions to which stoicism must yield, for nature is stronger than all the consolations of philosophy.

Accept, my friend, my sincere sympathy with you; consolation I can not offer; but the tears which I have shed over the grave of my child have again flowed over the remembrance of yours, who are fresh to my mind as beautiful flowers that have been crushed by the ravages of a dreadful tornado. Assure Mrs. Quitman of my regret for her bereavement, and may Heaven preserve you and her.

Your friend,

FELIX HUSTON.

SOURCE: John F. H. Claiborne, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Vol. 1, pp. 133-4

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