Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, November 24, 1863

BEAUFORT, S. C. November 24.

Today our companies E and K have proved themselves worthy, in a skirmish over the river, of all the praises that have been showered upon them. The facts which I am not strong enough to write out, will appear in the Northern journals. Fancy the rebel cavalry sending their pack of blood-hounds in advance and our men receiving them on their bayonets and then repulsing the cavalry with buck and ball. Two of our men drowned, several wounded.

A cheerful letter from our Chaplain, dated Columbia Jail, S. C. October 23rd. He was treated the same as other officers, and we infer that our colored soldiers were not subjected to any peculiar hardships. Of course he was not permitted to criticize. We will give him a big reception if ever he comes back to the regiment.¹

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¹ "In spite of an agreement at Washington to the contrary, our chaplain was held as prisoner of war, the only spiritual adviser in uniform, so far as I know, who had that honor."

—Higginson, Army Life in a Black Regiment, 231.

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 396

Dr. Seth Rogers to his daughter Dolly, March 13, 1863—Evening

March 13, Evening.

The night was not a very quiet one for our sentinels at the barricades, firing enough to keep all on the qui vive, though no one was wounded on our side and I cannot learn that anybody but a secesh dog was found dead on the other side. . . .

SOURCE: Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Volume 43, October, 1909—June, 1910: February 1910. p. 373

Diary of Laura M. Towne: Sunday, May 4, 1862

My thirty-seventh birthday yesterday. Never thought I would spend it in South Carolina, on a plantation too, and there by right as occupant.

It was beautiful this morning at church. The live-oaks were more mossy and gray than ever and the spot more lovely. The crowd was greater, and the dresses cleaner and more picturesque too. The man with the carpet poncho did not have it on to-day, probably as it was so warm. But the turbans were grand. Mr. Horton conducted the services finely, with plenty of old-fashioned doctrine, to be sure, but with good sense, especially when he told them how much greater men are than the beasts of the field. One old negro made a fine prayer after the service, just what it should be, in which he prayed that God would guide and bless the good folks who had come down to help them. He did not dare to mention General Hunter's call for black soldiers, and all the superintendents fear it will not be responded to. Will Capers has enlisted, however, and others talk of it. Will is a fine fellow in every respect.

After church, groups formed outside. It was a beautiful scene. The church overflowed; there were over three hundred inside and many out — seven hundred and thirty-eight in all, Mr. Horton says. The children behaved well and I think the Sunday School was a success. I talked of Christ's love for children and how He would take them to Heaven if they were kind to each other. I had between twenty and thirty in my class. I also taught them their letters and a card of words. There were several black teachers. After church the superintendents gathered around and had a little talk. Their ration bread was taken in the carriage with us and distributed after church. That is the time for getting letters, too, for those poor, out-of-the-way fellows on some plantations.

It was amusing to see the vehicles by which some of the gentlemen came. Mr. Philbrick rode on a skin-and-bone horse with rope for bridle, and a side saddle. Mrs. Philbrick accompanied him in a sulky, holding the ropes and an umbrella, while the little negro clung on the “tree” between the wheels with the whip and used it when directed by Mrs. P. Behind was tied a square box for bread. As we left the church, the long line of negroes going slowly home was very pretty. Some of them carried shoes to church in their hands and kept them so, to show they owned a pair, I suppose. Decidedly they were more cleanly and better clothed to-day than before, and happier too. Paying them even a little has reassured them. They are very eager to believe we are their friends, but have had some things to make them doubt. At the paying-off on this plantation the other night they seemed all thankful, though some objected to the bank bills. Mr. Pierce was very sorry they had not specie to give them. It was a strange looking spectacle, all those black faces peering in at door and window, for they assembled on the front porch and answered when Mr. Pierce called their names. Mr. Hooper had the money and handed it over to Mr. Pierce, who gave it to each. The earnings were from seventy-five cents to three dollars each. Cotton only is paid for, not corn. Each man took his money with a scrape backwards of his foot, each woman with a curtsey. Rina says that they never had anything but ground for floors to their cabins, and they had no lofts. But after massa left, they took his boards, floored their own cabins and put in lofts. This does not seem as if they preferred to live in their present style.

Mr. Boutwell, of the Coast Survey, was here to-day. He says the St. Helena people were hard, and not considered well educated or good specimens of planters. Certainly they were hard to their negroes, especially on this place. It was being prepared for Mr. Fuller's residence when the flight occurred.

Yesterday Mrs. French, Mrs. Nicholson, and Miss Curtis were here with Lieutenant Gregory and Lieutenant Belcher, of the Michigan regiment. They have some special care of the ladies at Mr. French's. Lieutenant Gregory said we have but 4000 soldiers here; 15,000 in all Port Royal; and the enemy are concentrating around us. They have already 20,000 surrounding us and may take it into their heads to rout us. Their approach would be in three directions, one through this island.

We have heard to-day that there is a mail to Beaufort, a late one, the earlier having been detained at Hampton Roads — why, we know not. It is over three weeks since a mail came in. I expect Ellen to-night. I have often expected her before; but to-night she must come, and Mr. Hooper has gone for her and the letters.

I heard a story of a negro the other day who was saying all manner of hard things of the old masters and his own in particular. “Well,” said an officer, standing by, “we have caught him and now what shall we do with him?” “Hang him, hang him — hanging is too good for him,” cried the negro, in great excitement. “Well,” said the officer, “he shall be hung, boy, and since he injured you so much, you shall have a chance now to pay him back. You shall hang him yourself, and we'll protect you and see it done.” “Oh, no, can't do it — can't do it — can't see massa suffer. Don't want to see him suffer.” . . .

One of the most touching of all songs I have heard is that “croon” in a minor key —

“Poor Rome — poor gal —

(is to)

Heaven (will) be my home."

I never heard anything so sad. I will get the words and tune some day.

My housekeeping experiences are very funny. No milk — and breakfast. I send Lucy to send Aleck to find Robert and bring the milk. Aleck comes back, saying, “Can't get no milk, ma’am. Calf run away. Cow won't give milk if the calf don’t suck, ma’am.” Two hours or so after, milk comes. The cow will give no milk except while the calf is having its supper, and so it is a race between old Robert and the calf to see which will get the most or enough.

There are sometimes six negroes in the dining-room at once during meal-times — the other day Aleck making his appearance with two huge fish, which he held up triumphantly, raw and fresh from the water. On the other hand, often at meal-times not a negro can be found; the table is not set, for Lucy has gone; the fire cannot be kindled, for there is no wood and Aleck has gone; the milk has not come, etc., etc.

A sad thing here is the treatment of animals. The other day one of the oxen came home almost flayed, with great skinless welts, and a piece of skin (and flesh, too, I think), taken out over the tail. This afternoon Miss Winsor and I stopped Joe, who had taken Mr. Whiting's little colt and harnessed him without any permission. Then he drove him at a gallop, with negroes hanging on, through the deep sand, so that he came home all of a tremble. All the gentlemen being gone, and nearly all the ladies, they thought they could do as they pleased; but Miss Winsor, with admirable tact and authority, made Joe dismount, unharness, and care for the horse after his return from a first trip. The dogs are all starved, and the horses are too wretched.

Last night we heard the negroes singing till daylight. Rina said they thought as they had Sunday to rest they would keep up their meeting all night. It was a religious meeting.

Mr. Hooper has returned with letters — none from home for me; one from Sophie, fortunately. The other two were with supplies from Philadelphia — $2000 worth to be distributed by me. They speak of having read my letters to committees, etc., and that frightens me.

New Orleans is ours — has capitulated. Mr. Hooper, Mr. Ruggles, and Mr. Horton, the Baptist minister, were sitting in the parlor this Sunday afternoon. Suddenly we heard three lusty cheers. I ran in, little bird in hand, and heard the joyful announcement of this news.

Miss W. has been sick and I have taught her school. Did very well, but once heard a slash and found Betty with a long switch whipping two of the girls. I soon stopped that and told them I had come here to stop whipping, not to inflict it. Aleck, that “limb,” stopped in front of the desk and harangued me in orator style to prove that Betty was authorized by Miss Nelly. Mr. Severance drove me there and back, with a rabble of negroes hanging on behind. We rode to church to-day with nearly half a dozen somewhere about the carriage.

Lieutenant Belcher, who was Provost Marshal of Port Royal, is a stanch homoeopathist, and we have promised to doctor each other should occasion require. I have a great many patients on hand — “Too many,” as the negroes say.

SOURCE: Rupert Sargent Holland, Editor, Letters and Diary of Laura M. Towne: Written from the Sea Islands of South Carolina 1862-1864, p. 32-7

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: December 16, 1864

Another adventure, and a red hot one. Started down the river in our dug-out boat somewhere near midnight. Ran down all right for an hour, frequently seeing rebel pickets and camp fires. Saw we were going right into the lion's mouth, as the farther down the more rebels. All at once our boat gave a lurch and landed in a tree top which was sticking out of the water, and there we were, swaying around in the cold water in the middle or near the middle of the Ogechee. Dave went ashore and to a negro hut, woke up the inmates, and narrated our troubles. A negro got up, and with another boat came to the rescue. Were about froze with the cold and wet Said not more than a mile farther down we would have run right into a chain boat, with pickets posted on it. It really seems as if a Divine providence were guiding us. After getting a breakfast of good things started off toward the Big Ogechee River, and have traveled three or four miles. Are now encamped, or rather laying down, on a little hillock waiting for evening, to get out of this vicinity which is a dangerous one. In our river escapade lost many of our things, but still hang to my coverlid and diary. There are three or four houses in view, and principally white residences, those of the poor white trash order, and they are the very ones we must avoid. Have caught cold and am fearfully out of traveling condition, but must go it now. A mistake in coming down the river  Am resting up, preparatory to traveling all night up the country. No chance of getting out by the coast. Have enough food to last all day and night, and that is a good deal. Can't carry more than a day's supply. Have now been out in the woods, this is the fourth day, and every day has been fresh adventures thick and fast. If I could only travel like my comrades, would get along. Bucks praise me up and encourage me to work away, and I do. For breakfast had more of those imported sardines. Storm brewing of some sort and quite chilly. Saw rebel infantry marching along the highway not more than eighty rods off. Hugged the ground very close. Dogs came very near us, and if they had seen us would have attracted the rebels' attention. Am writing with a pencil less than an inch long. Shall print this diary and make my everlasting fortune, and when wealthy will visit this country and make every negro who has helped us millionaires. Could not move from here half a mile by daylight without being seen, and as a consequence we are feeling very sore on the situation Don't know but I shall be so lame to-night that I cannot walk at all, and then the boys must leave me and go ahead for themselves. However, they say I am worth a hundred dead men yet, and will prod me along like a tired ox. Dave goes now bareheaded, or not quite so bad as that, as he has a handkerchief tied over his head. The programme now is to go as straight to Mr. Kimball's as we can. He is probably twenty miles away; is a white Union man I spoke of a day or so ago in this same diary. Wil stick to him like a brother. Can hear wagons go along the road toward Savannah, which is only thirteen or fourteen miles away.  Later — Most dark enough to travel and I have straightened up and am taking an inventory of myself. Find I can walk with the greatest difficulty. The boys argue that after I get warmed up I will go like a top, and we will see.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 143-4

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: February 27, 1864

Organizing the militia; hauling artillery past the prison Have a good view of all that is going on. Bought a compass from one of the guards for seven dollars, greenbacks; worth half a dollar at home. It is already rumored among the men that we have a compass, a map of Virginia, a preparation to put on our feet to prevent dogs from tracking us, and we are looked up to as if we were sons of Irish lords in disguise, and are quite noted personages. Cold last night, and we suffer much in not having blankets enough, to keep us warm. The walls are cold and damp, making it disagreeable, and the stench nearly makes us sick. It is impossible for a person to imagine prison life until he has seen and realized it. No news of importance. Time passes much more drearily than when on Belle Isle. Were all searched again to-day but still keep my diary, although expecting to lose it every day; would be quite a loss, as the longer I write and remain a prisoner the more attached am I to my record of passing events. A man shot for putting his head out of the window. Men all say it served him right, for he had no business to thus expose himself against strict orders to the contrary. We are nearly opposite and not more than twenty rods from Libby Prison, which is a large tobacco warehouse Can see plenty of union officers, which it is a treat to look at. Hendryx had a fight with the raiders — got licked. He ain't so pretty as he was before, but knows more. I am very wise about such matters, consequently retain my beauty.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 36

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant George G. Smith: November 18, 1864

Col. Fisk seized the freight house at the depot. It was about 200 feet long and was stowed just as full of hard bread as it could be packed; so he had a good large force of men detailed to clear the house and myself to take charge of it. Our occupation was changed from killing men to killing rats. We soon discovered that some of the boxes had rat holes gnawed in them and the bread most all eaten out. By and by we began to see rats. There were two or three little rat terriers running around and they began to see them too. Then they caught two or three. That nearly set them wild, so that every box that was moved they stood ready for the rats. Other dogs came, so that we had ten or a dozen dogs before we got through: but as we proceeded the rats would retreat, so that by the time we got half way through they began to be pretty plentiful. The dogs would not eat them, but as fast as they would kill one they would snatch up another; then the boys would pile them up, and at the final wind up it became a circus. The dogs had all they could do. Of course we did not count them, but the number ran into the hundreds. As the men had slept the night before in wet clothes, I went to the quartermaster and told him I wanted some whiskey for the men; he told me to get what I wanted, and said there was a pail. I got a pail full, and had the men fall in, in one rank, and carried the pail along and told them to drink all they wanted. Some of them would fill their cup pretty full, but they were equal to the occasion. Then I marched them back to their quarters, and broke ranks before the medicine began to take effect. However, I did not see any one any the worse for it. Sheetiron ranges were put in for each company, and they had good comfortable quarters. Most of the officers found accommodations at the hotel.

SOURCE: Abstracted from George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 137-8

Major Wilder Dwight: February 2, 1862

Cantonment Hicks, February 2, 1862.

A Sunday-morning inspection of your letter, received last evening, prompts me to answer; though it must come out of the blank which is now my book of chronicles. I might write to you, it is true, out of myself. In this case, I should probably exaggerate the thoughts and feelings which spring naturally from the experiences of this new, and, in some sort, intense life. Not that it is now a life of even mental, much less moral or emotional, activity; but I choose the word for its derivative, rather than its acquired significance. The life is tense, in the sense of keeping one on the stretch. All the chords seem to be kept at their highest vibratory capacity. With occasional lapses of depressional laxity, this is true; and it gives the meaning to our seemingly dull existence. Action would be a great relief. You good people, who sit at home and ask for a battle with such impatience for result, can only feebly guess at the temper of the army itself. I do not agree at all with some who speak of our being demoralized. I think we are becoming restive, eager, sore; but, I trust, all the more ready and willing for sacrifice, effort, suffering. I can imagine McClellan himself chafing “to himself within himself” while his hand is on the curb.

But bother reflection; and of all spections the foolishest is introspection. I do not care to analyze my present state; but I do pray that Heaven has not three months more of this kind of life in store for me.

“Aut cita mors, aut victoria lata.”

You may conjecture, from the above, it has been particularly rainy and muddy this week I can call up your coasting scene, not without envy. There is youth in it, and everything young I like. Our snow here is so undecided and capricious that it gives no such hope of enjoyment. And Tug,* too, you say he is depressed. I can well understand the serious concern with which he must regard his country's trial. I hope he will not be doomed to close his eyes, after a last look at the dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union. You must guard his old age till my return. His life has been one of constant struggle and inquiry; he should have an old age of ease and contemplation. I know not what fate is in store for him, but few of us can look back on a life of so many purposes and so much attainment.

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* A favorite old dog, who survived his master but one year.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 193-4