Diary of Private Daniel L. Ambrose: Tuesday, September 29, 1863

This morning the fallen soldier's comrades bury him in a lonely place. Thus is this land being dotted all over with the Union's noble defenders. As we stand by this soldier's last resting place we are tempted to pray to heaven that some blighting and dread malaria would settle on the godless traitors—that their widows might weep until their eyes are weary, waiting for the return of their husbands-murderers from the field of strife. The command soon moves. We are now following winding paths through the woods and swamps, hunting for the marauding bands that are infesting West Tennessee. The regiment is now divided, moving in different directions. About noon we enter Jack Creek and capture three guerrillas. We remain here waiting for the different companies and detachments to come in. The junction formed, we move in the direction of Saultilla Landing, Tennessee river. All day we have been on the trail of Colonel Newsom; at one time the scouts fired upon him fifteen or twenty shots, but they failed in their object. To-night we camp six miles from the Tennessee river.

SOURCE: Daniel Leib Ambrose, History of the Seventh Regiment Illinois Volunteer Infantry, p. 195

Diary of Sergeant David L. Day: January 18, 1864

The order has arrived and we are under heavy marching orders for Yorktown, which is 30 miles distant and where, it is said, we shall probably all die of malarial fever or other contagious diseases. But there is one redeeming feature to the order; that is, if we will enlist, or three-fourths of those reported for duty will enlist, then they can all go home together as a regiment, while those not enlisting will be sent into banishment, the non-coms reduced to the ranks and permanently assigned to other organizations during their terms of enlistment.

SOURCE: David L. Day, My Diary of Rambles with the 25th Mass. Volunteer Infantry, p. 111

Diary of Sergeant David L. Day: July 10, 1863

WHISKEY RATIONS.

This being an isolated post and several miles from any commissary or sutler, the officers feared it would be terribly infected with malaria; having regard for the health and welfare of the men, they prevailed on our assistant surgeon, Doctor Flagg, to order whiskey rations. Up went the order and down came the whiskey, and now the order is to drink no more river water, but take a little whiskey as a preventive. This will prove a terrible hardship to the boys, but the surgeon's orders are imperative. The boys in camp get their whiskey at night, and the pickets in the morning when they come in. After a barrel of whiskey has stood out all day in the sun and got about milk warm, it is curious to observe the boys while drinking it. Some of them with rather tender gullets will make up all manner of contortions of face trying to swallow it, but will manage to get it down and then run about fifteen rods to catch their breath. Commanders of companies deal out the whiskey to their men, consequently I deal out to mine, and when I wish to reward any of my braves for gallant and meritorious conduct, I manage to slop a little extra into their cups. That keeps them vigilant and interested and gallant. Meritorious conduct consists in bringing in watermelons, peaches and other subsistence, of which they somehow become possessed.

SOURCE: David L. Day, My Diary of Rambles with the 25th Mass. Volunteer Infantry, p. 95-6

Diary of William Howard Russell: June 5, 1861

The smart negro who waited on me this morning spoke English, I asked him if he knew how to read and write. — “We must not do that, sir.” “Where were you born?” — “I were raised on the plantation, Massa, but I have been to New Orleans;” and then he added, with an air of pride, “I s'pose, sir, Massa Burnside not take less than 1500 dollars for me.” Down-stairs to breakfast, the luxuries of which are fish, prawns, and red meat which has been sent for to Donaldsonville by boat rowed by an old negro. Breakfast over, I walked down to the yard, where the horses were waiting, and proceeded to visit the saccharine principality. Mr. Seal, the overseer of this portion of the estate, was my guide, if not philosopher and friend. Our road lay through a lane formed by a cart track, between fields of Indian corn just beginning to flower — as it is called technically, to “tassel” — and sugar-cane. There were stalks of the former twelve or fifteen feet in height, with three or four ears each, round which the pea twined in leafy masses. The maize affords food to the negro, and the husks are eaten by the horses and mules, which also fatten on the peas in rolling time.

The wealth of the land is inexhaustible: all the soil requires is an alternation of maize and cane; and the latter, when cut in the stalk, called “ratoons,” at the end of the year, produces a fresh crop, yielding excellent sugar. The cane is grown from stalks which are laid in pits during the winter till the ground has been ploughed, when 'each piece of cane is laid longitudinally on the ridge and covered with earth, and from each joint of the stalk springs forth a separate sprout when the crop begins to grow. At present the sugar-cane is waiting for its full development, but the negro labor around its' stem has ceased. It is planted in long continuous furrows, and although the palm-like tops have not yet united in a uniform arch over the six feet which separates row from row, the stalks are higher than a man. The plantation is pierced with wagon roads, for the purpose of conveying the cane to the sugar-mills, and these again are intersected by and run parallel with drains and ditches, portions of the great system of irrigation and drainage, in connection with a canal to carry off the surplus water to a bayou. The extent of these works may be estimated by the fact that there are thirty miles of road and twenty miles of open deep drainage through the estate, and that the main canal is fifteen feet wide, and at present four feet deep; but in the midst of this waste of plenty and wealth, where are the human beings who produce both? One must go far to discover them; they are buried in sugar and in maize, or hidden in negro quarters. In truth, there is no trace of them, over all this expanse of land, unless one knows where to seek; no “ploughboy whistles o'er the lea;” no rustic stands to do his own work; but the gang is moved off in silence from point to point, like a corps d’armée of some despotic emperor manoeuvring in the battle-field.

Admitting everything that can be said, I am the more persuaded from what I see, that the real foundation of slavery in the Southern States lies in the power of obtaining labor at will at a rate which cannot be controlled by any combination of the laborers. Granting the heat and the malaria, it is not for a moment to be argued that planters could not find white men to do their work if they would pay them for the risk. A negro, it is true, bears heat well, and can toil under the blazing sun of Louisiana, in the stifling air between the thick-set sugar-canes; but the Irishman who is employed in the stokehole of a steamer is exposed to a higher temperature and physical exertion even more arduous. The Irish laborer can, however, set a value on his work; the African slave can only determine the amount of work to be got from him by the exhaustion of his powers. Again, the indigo planter in India, out from morn till night amidst his ryots, or the sportsman toiling under the midday sun through swamp and jungle, proves that the white man can endure the utmost power of the hottest sun in the world as well as the native. More than that, the white man seems to be exempt from the inflammatory disease, pneumonia, and attacks of the mucous membrane and respiratory organs to which the blacks are subject; and if the statistics of negro mortality were rigidly examined, I doubt that they would exhibit as large a proportion of mortality and sickness as would be found amongst gangs of white men under similar circumstances. But the slave is subjected to rigid control; he is deprived of stimulating drinks in which the free white laborer would indulge; and he is obliged to support life upon an antiphlogistic diet, which gives him, however, sufficient strength to execute his daily task.

It is in the supposed cheapness of slave labor and its profitable adaptation in the production of Southern crops, that the whole gist and essence of the question really lie. The planter can get from the labor of a slave for whom he has paid £200, a sum of money which will enable him to use up that slave in comparatively a few years of his life, whilst he would have to pay to the white laborer a sum that would be a great apparent diminution of his profits, for the same amount of work. It is calculated that each field-hand, as an able-bodied negro is called, yields seven hogsheads of sugar a year, which, at the rate of fourpence a pound, at an average of a hogshead an acre, would produce to the planter £140 for every slave. This is wonderful interest on the planter's money; but he sometimes gets two hogsheads an acre, and even as many as three hogsheads have been produced in good years on the best lands; in other words, two and a quarter tons of sugar and refuse stuff, called “bagasse,” have been obtained from an acre of cane. Not one planter of the many I have asked has ever given an estimate of the annual cost of a slave's maintenance; the idea of calculating it never comes into their heads.

Much depends upon the period at which frost sets in; and if the planters can escape till January without any cold to nip the juices and the cane, their crop is increased in value each day; but it is not till October they can begin to send cane to the mill, in average seasons; and if the frost does not come till December, they may count upon the fair average of a hogshead of 1200 pounds of sugar to every acre.

The labor of ditching, trenching, cleaning the waste lands, and hewing down the forests, is generally done by Irish laborers, who travel about the country under contractors, or are engaged by resident gangsmen for the task. Mr. Seal lamented the high prices of this work; but then, as he said, “It was much better to have Irish to do it, who cost nothing to the planter, if they died, than to use up good field-hands in such severe employment.” There is a wonderful mine of truth in this observation. Heaven knows how many poor Hibernians have been consumed and buried in these Louisianian swamps, leaving their earnings to the dramshop-keeper and the contractor, and the results of their toil to the planter. This estate derives its name from an Indian tribe called Houmas; and when Mr. Burnside purchased it for £300,000, he received in the first year £63,000 as the clear value of the crops on his investment.

The first place I visited with the overseer was a new sugarhouse, which negro carpenters and masons were engaged in erecting. It would have been amusing, had not the subject been so grave, to hear the overseer's praises of the intelligence and skill of these workmen, and his boast that they did all the work of skilled laborers on the estate, and then to listen to him, in a few minutes, expatiating on the utter helplessness and ignorance of the black race, their incapacity to do any good, or even to take care of themselves.

There are four sugar-houses on this portion of Mr. Burnside's estate, consisting of grinding-mills, boiling-houses, and crystallizing sheds.

The sugar-house is the capital of the negro quarters, and to each of them is attached an enclosure, in which there is a double row of single-storied wooden cottages, divided into two or four rooms. An avenue of trees runs down the centre of the negro street, and behind each hut are rude poultry-hutches, which, with geese and turkeys, and a few pigs, form the perquisites of the slaves, and the sole source from which they derive their acquaintance with currency. Their terms are strictly cash. An old negro brought up some ducks to Mr. Burnside last night, and offered the lot of six for three dollars. “Very well, Louis; if you come to-morrow, I'll pay you.” “No, massa; me want de money now.” “But won't you give me credit, Louis? Don't you think I'll pay the three dollars?” “Oh, pay some day, massa, sure enough. Massa good to pay de tree dollar; but this nigger want money now to buy food and things for him leetle family. They will trust massa at Donaldsville, but they won't trust this nigger.” I was told that a thrifty negro will sometimes make ten or twelve pounds a year from his corn and poultry; but he can have no inducement to hoard; for whatever is his, as well as himself, belongs to his master.

Mr. Seal conducted me to a kind of forcing-house, where the young negroes are kept in charge of certain old crones too old for work, whilst their parents are away in the cane and Indian corn. A host of children of both sexes were seated in the veranda of a large wooden shed, or playing around it, very happily and noisily. I was glad to see the boys and girls of nine, ten, and eleven years of age were at this season, at all events, exempted from the cruel fate which befalls poor children of their age in the mining and manufacturing districts of England. At the sight of the overseer, the little ones came forward in tumultuous glee, babbling out, “Massa Seal,” and evidently pleased to see him.

As a jolly agriculturist looks at his yearlings or young beeves, the kindly overseer, lolling in his saddle, pointed with his whip to the glistening fat ribs and corpulent paunches of his woolly-headed flock. “There's not a plantation in the State,” quoth he, “can show such a lot of young niggers. The way to get them right is not to work the mothers too hard when they are near their time; to give them plenty to eat, and not to send them to the fields too soon.” He told me the increase was about five per cent, per annum. The children were quite sufficiently clad, ran about round us, patted the horses, felt our legs, tried to climb up on the stirrup, and twinkled their black and ochrey eyes at Massa Seal. Some were exceedingly fair; and Mr. Seal, observing that my eye followed these, murmured something about the overseers before Mr. Burnside's time being rather a bad lot. He talked about their color and complexion quite openly; nor did it seem to strike him that there was any particular turpitude in the white man who had left his offspring as slaves on the plantation.

A tall, well-built lad of some nine or ten years stood by me, looking curiously into my face, “What is your name?” said I. “George,” he replied. “Do you know how to read or write?” He evidently did not understand the question. “Do you go to church or chapel?” A dubious shake of the head. “Did you ever hear of our Saviour?” At this point Mr. Seal interposed, and said, “I think we had better go on, as the sun is getting hot,” and so we rode gently through the little ones; and when we had got some distance he said, rather apologetically, “We don't think it right to put these things into their heads so young, it only disturbs their minds, and leads them astray.”

Now, in this one quarter there were no less than eighty children, some twelve and some even fourteen years of age. No education — no God — their whole life — food and play, to strengthen their muscles and fit them for the work of a slave. “And when they die?” “Well,” said Mr. Seal, “they are buried in that field there by their own people, and some of them have a sort of prayers over them, I believe.” The overseer, it is certain, had no fastidious notions about slavery; it was to him the right thing in the right place, and his summum bonum was a high price for sugar, a good crop, and a healthy plantation. Nay, I am sure I would not wrong him if I said he could see no impropriety in running a good cargo of regular black slaves, who might clear the great back wood and swampy undergrowth, which was now exhausting the energies of his field-hands, in the absence of Irish navvies.

Each negro gets five pounds of pork a week, and as much Indian corn bread as he can eat, with a portion of molasses, and occasionally they have fish for breakfast. All the carpenters’ and smiths’ work, the erection of sheds, repairing of carts and ploughs, and the baking of bricks for the farm buildings, are done on the estate by the slaves. The machinery comes from the manufacturing cities of the North; but great efforts are made to procure it from New Orleans, where factories have been already established. On the borders of the forest the negroes are allowed to plant corn for their own use, and sometimes they have an overplus, which they sell to their masters. Except when there is any harvest pressure on their hands, they have from noon on Saturday till dawn on Monday morning to do as they please, but they must not stir off the plantation on the road, unless with special permit, which is rarely granted.

There is an hospital on the estate, and even shrewd Mr. Seal did not perceive the conclusion that was to be drawn from his testimony to its excellent arrangements. “Once a nigger gets in there, he'd like to live there for the rest of his life.” But are they not the happiest, most contented people in the world — at any rate, when they are in hospital? I declare that to me the more orderly, methodical, and perfect the arrangements for economizing slave labor — regulating slaves — are, the more hateful and odious does slavery become. I would much rather be the animated human chattel of a Turk, Egyptian, Spaniard, or French Creole, than the laboring beast of a Yankee or of a New England capitalist.

When I returned back to the house I found my friends enjoying a quiet siesta, and the rest of the afternoon was devoted to idleness, not at all disagreeable with a thermometer worthy of Agra. Even the mocking-birds were roasted into silence, and the bird which answers to our rook or crow sat on the under branches of the trees, gaping for air with his bill wide open. It must be hot indeed when the mocking-bird loses his activity. There, is one, with its nest in a rose-bush trailed along the veranda under my window, which now sits over its young ones with outspread wings, as if to protect them from being baked; and it is so courageous and affectionate, that when I approach quite close, it merely turns round its head, dilates its beautiful dark eye, and opens its beak, within which the tiny sharp tongue is saying, I am sure, “Don't for goodness' sake disturb me, for if you force me to leave, the children will be burned to death.”

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, p. 270-6

Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: September 30, 1862

At sunrise we were on the march for Camp Kearney. After we had marched about a mile Col Holcomb ordered me back to look after the convalescents or those who were unable to carry their guns and knapsacks. These were all put in army wagon and the men got in line. There was about one hundred of them. We started about one o'clock and arrived in Camp Kearney at dark. This place was drier ground and being near the river was much healthier than Camp Williams but the men had imbibed so much malaria at the latter place that there was not much improvement in the health of the men until the middle of October.

SOURCE: Abstracted from George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 29

Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: September 29, 1862

Received marching orders, and at sunrise next morning we were on the march for Camp Kearney. After we had marched about a mile Col Holcomb ordered me back to look after the convalescents or those who were unable to carry their guns and knapsacks. These were all put in army wagon and the men got in line. There was about one hundred of them. We started about one o'clock and arrived in Camp Kearney at dark. This place was drier ground and being near the river was much healthier than Camp Williams but the men had imbibed so much malaria at the latter place that there was not much improvement in the health of the men until the middle of October.

SOURCE: George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 29

Major Wilder Dwight: November 19, 1861

Camp Near Seneca, November 19, 1861.

By every rule of gratitude, after receiving father's long and cheerful letter this morning, this letter should be written to him. But, as the countryman said of his wife, that what was her'n was his'n, and what was his'n was his own, so I fancy I shall talk as freely to both, though I write to only one. Did I not get a letter off on Sunday? I think so. That was a day of bright-blue cold. I gave up church because I had not the heart to keep the men even in a devout shiver for an hour. Yesterday I got a little pull back again. I had fully made up my mind to be perfectly well, so it shook my confidence a trifle. I had to keep busy in order to regain it. The day looked rather gloomy. The Adjutant was taken sick, and the Sergeant-Major. So I had to detail raw hands. Three captains were on their backs. The infernal malaria seemed to have wilted every one. Drills were dull, and the hospital over busy. There was a general cheerlessness overhanging every one.

Just at this moment what does the perverse generalship of our inapposite brigadier but send me an order: “There will be a review and inspection of this brigade in the large field hitherto known as a division review-ground near Darnestown.” There was hopelessness. Colonel and Lieutenant-Colonel both away; Adjutant and half the captains off duty; myself just between wind and water; every one dumpish. It never rains without pouring. The band leader and the drum-major reported themselves sick at parade. Whew-w-w-w-w! I think it all had a tonic and astringent effect on me. ––– sympathized with me in my efforts to repair disasters in season for a grand review. I told her that, though things didn't look very bright, yet I had always noticed one thing, a dark morning kept growing better, and I was going to get up with that faith. I made my arrangements busily last evening.

This morning was jolly cold. I was busy about all the little formalities and precisions which belong to such occasions, settling them with the various officers to whom the duties belonged. The Acting Adjutant had a little delay which bothered me, but at about ten o'clock the line was formed, — the men all in overcoats, — with full equipment. The morning had mellowed into Indian-summer. After all, the Massachusetts Second did look finely. We marched off briskly to Darnestown, about a mile and a half. The regiment arrived at the large field a few moments late, — the fault of a green adjutant. No great matter, but an annoyance. The rest of the brigade was in line, — my place was on the right. I formed the regiment a little in rear of the line, then rode up to General Abercrombie, who said he wished the whole brigade line changed. This gave me a chance to move our regiment right out in line of battle. I advanced them, and they moved with excellent precision, keeping their line exactly. It was a refreshing turn. The regiment saluted, and then marched round in review, passing round the whole field, and saluting the General, who was at the centre, opposite the front of our line. The regiment marched well, — the distances all well kept, — and wheeled into line again finely. So far, well. Then an inspection, which is a tedious process. The General noticed, what is certainly true, that the men looked peaked, dwindled, pined. But their soldierly appearance was undeniable. As if to cap the climax of our day's work, the General turns to me and says, “Put the battalion through a short drill, and then you can take them home.” I might have mentioned that I rose this morning pretty well except a raging headache, and, on the whole, felt brisk. I did not much feel like shouting through a battalion-drill, however. Still, I did it. We did it pretty well, too, on the whole. Shall I tell you what we did? You will understand it exactly. The battalion, as formed for inspection, was in open column of companies, right in front. I first threw them forward into line, which went well, then double-columned on the centre, countermarched and deployed, then repeated that movement at a double-quick, then broke the line to the left, and wheeled again to the right into line, then broke to the right by companies, closed in mass and formed divisions, then column forward and round by two wheels, closed in mass to their old front, then halted and deployed column on the first division at a double-quick, bringing them on their original line. Then, after a rest, broke by right of companies to the rear, and so marched home, having weathered the day. Now, isn't that a lucid story? Don't you like it? It's just what I did, anyway, and isn't a bad drill for the inexperience of a headachy major. I got home soon after two, having had a hard day for a regiment so much pulled down as ours. I put in several good words for us with the Brigadier, and I am in hopes to whiskey and quinine, or, better still, to transport our regiment into its old health and vigor. But certain it is, that hard work, exposure, and Potomac damp have wrought their perfect work, and we “need a change,” as the saying is. Besides, there is this constant picket duty on the river, watching through damp nights for enemies that haven't a purpose of coming. It is the hardest kind of duty, and the most useless, or rather the least obviously useful, and the least exhilarating. I was reading, this morning, an order from head-quarters about “amputations.” “Pshaw !” I exclaimed, to the edification of our surgeon. “If they want to be practically useful, let them pronounce about diarrhoea and chills: there are no amputations in civil war.” With such dismal pleasantries we relieve the depression of our sinking spirits. But I have the pleasure to know, or to feel sure, that we are only harvesting now the crop of an early sowing, and that things grow better. I am very well again this evening. Colonel Andrews now grows obviously better. The Adjutant will go to a house to-morrow for two or three days' rest, and I am inclined to hope that things have just got to their worst with us.

Perhaps I am giving you an over-dark view. Don't let your imagination run away with it. We are only debilitated, that's all. Nothing dangerous, but annoying. I am only thankful that I am so well, and only troubled that there is so little I can do for the regiment.

Send us your warm clothes as fast as they are ready in respectable quantities

Tell father I join in his hurrahs, except that I caution him to wait for exploit and achievement before he congratulates his boys, or canonizes their mother on their account. It is very humdrum duty they are doing now. It asks only willingness and endeavor, — a good, earnest disposition. If it shall turn out that they can have strength for better things by and by, sha'n't I be glad! To-day I am only tranquil and hopeful. Our Thanksgiving day will be a great success. I fancy nearly a hundred turkeys: a great many geese and chickens will smoke on our mess-pans! Then the plum-puddings! Already the cooks are rehearsing that delicacy in many forms, in anticipation of the grand and decisive movement on Thursday. I think that thankfulness of heart and generosity of good cheer will so exalt and inspirit the regiment that we shall know no more depression or invalidism. At all events, the preparation has a wholesome cheerfulness in it. General Abercrombie to-day said, “No winter-quarters.” This was direct from McClellan. He also intimated that we may go South. That rumor seems to gather and not fade, as most do. It has life in it still, and perhaps it may bring itself to pass pretty soon.

I am making a long story of my short experiences; but it is pleasant to write, and, but for a little consideration left for you, I might write on for an hour. As it is, I will write an affectionate good-night, and go to bed. Before I go, don't let me forget to admonish you to tell Mr. ––– that those drawers are as warm as the love of woman, and as constant as the love of man. Tell him they are my hope and faith in this great November tribulation. I will recollect him Thanksgiving day.

We have a bright Wednesday morning. I find a chance to send this by Lieutenant Choate, who goes home on a short “sick-leave,” so I must' close up promptly. What a joke the capture of Mason and Slidell is! There is fun in it. Whether there is, also, international law, or not, I don't know. The luck seems really to have turned lately, and to be going against rebels and traitors. I was very much pleased to read Howard's letter. It looks as if he were where he would have a good chance to make a soldier, and to be an active one too. What an oddity this whole life seems to me every now and then, when I think of it. Changes and chances are very rapid. Verily, to be an American is to be everything by turns, and nothing long.

Speaking of “nothing long,” what do you think of this letter? The camp looks white and frosty from my tent, as I look out this morning. I think I will go to breakfast and warm up a little. As to my health, it seems firm again to-day, and I have every reason for content. Love to all at home.

P. S. — I have reason to believe that the General was quite well pleased with the review. That is a comfort, under the circumstances.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 148-52

Brigadier-General John Sedgwick to his Sister, May 27, 1862

Camp Fourteen Miles From Richmond,

May 27, 1862.

My dear sister:

I did not expect to write again till after reaching Richmond unless we received some repulse. A few days now must tell the story. I think the presumption now is that no great battle will be fought before entering the city and that they are delaying us for the purpose of evacuating. Other persons are equally certain that a desperate fight must take place before they will give up the city. I cannot tell which rumour to favour. From the tone of their papers and the country proper, one cannot believe that the loss of Richmond and their other cities will have the least effect towards peace.

Yesterday we had strawberries and green peas, raised in gardens. They will be plentiful hereafter if the people will sell; if not, our men have a way of getting them.

There is a considerable sickness amongst us of a malarial nature, but it is decreasing as we approach higher ground. I wish you had some of the rain that we are having now.

With much love to all at Eliza's, believe me, as ever,

Your affectionate brother,

J. S.

SOURCE: George William Curtis, Correspondence of John Sedgwick, Major-General, Volume 2, p. 48-9

Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Lyman to Elizabeth Russell Lyman, August 14, 1864

August 14, 1864

. . . General Parke got back from his sick leave and took command of the 9th Corps. He is a very pleasant-looking man and liked apparently by everyone. He has been obliged twice to return to the North by reason of malarial attacks, which is a pity, as he acted usually as adviser to General Burnside and had an excellent effect on him. He cured himself twice of malarial fever by accidentally taking an overdose of medicine. The last time, he had been told to take one pill, containing something very strong; but made a mistake and took four. After which he was somewhat surprised to find his face making a great many involuntary grimaces, and his body feeling uncommonly uncomfortable. However, next day he was all well, and the doctor told him it was a good dose to take, provided it did not unfortunately happen to kill him. Captain Fay took out the cits to-day, in an ambulance, and showed them the lines. After which the youth Falls was seized with a noble ambition to ride on horseback in company of Captain Guzman. Being provided with a hard trotter, he came near tumbling off, at the first start, and was obliged to change horses and perform the rest of the journey at a mild pace.

SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness to Appomattox, p. 213-4

Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Lyman to Elizabeth Russell Lyman, July 30, 1864

July 30, 1864

My spirits to-night are not very high; our project of attack, which in the beginning promised well, has not been a success in the result. You must know that there has always been a point on Burnside's line that was quite near that of the enemy, say 250 feet. A mine was begun there over a month since, and has been quite finished for a week. It was at first rather an amateur affair, for the policy of the future operations had not then been fixed. However, it was steadily pushed, being in charge of Colonel Pleasants, who has a regiment of Pennsylvania coal-miners. He first ran a subterranean gallery, straight out to the enemy's bastion, where they had four guns. Then three lateral passages were made, each terminating in a chamber, to be filled with gunpowder. These chambers or magazines were about twenty feet underground. The final springing of the mine was delayed, in order to build heavy batteries and get the guns and mortars in. A couple of days ago orders were given to charge the chambers with 8000 pounds of gunpowder (four tons).¹ The powder was laboriously carried in in kegs (the gallery was so low, the men were forced to double themselves over in passing), and the kegs were packed in, after removing their heads. When a chamber was charged, loose powder was poured over the whole. The magazines were connected by a wooden casing filled with powder, and this was also run along the gallery for some distance, where it was connected to a fuse which ran to the mouth of the gallery.

To-morrow I will continue, but now it is rather late.

_______________

¹ “Duane had sent for the mining records before Sebastopol and got me to read them to learn the proper charge; for, what with malaria, and sunstroke, and quinine, whiskey, and arsenic, he can hardly see, but clings to duty to the last! Finding nothing there, he said the book was a humbug, and determined on 8000 lbs. The charge was tamped with twenty-five feet of sand bags.” —  Lyman's Journal.

SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness to Appomattox, p. 195-6

Colonel Charles Russell Lowell to Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, May 23, 1863

Camp E. Of Capitol, May 23, 1863.

E. wrote me an account of your flag presentation and sent the speeches: I suppose the responsibility of your own speech to follow prevented you from appreciating the Governor's speech as he was delivering it — but, as read, it seems full of feeling and sense, lofty sense and common sense — he is a trump.

Your regiment has proved such an entire success — has given such good promise of taking a very high place among our Massachusetts regiments — that it is easy to forget the circumstances under which you took hold of it: I feel like telling you now, old fellow (as an officer and outsider, and not as your friend and brother), how very manly I thought it of you then to undertake the experiment.

When the First Massachusetts Cavalry were at Hilton Head, they had far less illness (70 or 80 per cent less) than the regiments on the right and left of them. Dr. De Wolf attributes this in great measure to the liberal use of quinine — every morning from May 1st to August 30th every man who chose to come for it at sick-call got a couple of grains of quinine in a drink (quantum sufficit) of whiskey. I believe Mr. Forbes sent down at different times 60 pounds of quinine. I mention this for Dr. Stone's¹ benefit — though probably you and he have already heard it. I do not fancy the blacks will suffer much, but I advise you officers to take whiskey and quinine freely if you are in a malarial region — it is not to be taken beforehand to prepare the system against a time when you may be in an unhealthy camp; but when you go into a malarial camp, commence taking it at once as a specific and direct antidote to the malaria which you are taking.

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¹ Dr. Lincoln Ripley Stone, of Newton, Massachusetts, was the surgeon of the Fifty-Fourth.

SOURCE: Edward Waldo Emerson, Life and Letters of Charles Russell Lowell, p. 242-3, 418

Brigadier-General Thomas Kilby Smith to Elizabeth Budd Smith, April 29, 1865

HEADQUARTERS DISTRICT OF SOUTH ALABAMA,

Fort Gaines, April 29, 1865.

My Dear Wife:

Your very interesting and affectionate letter of 23d March, apprising me of your safe arrival at home and of your adventures by the way, was received.

Truly, you passed through great peril and vicissitude, and are now prepared to somewhat appreciate my life upon the road for the past four years. We feel called upon to thank God whenever we graze a great danger, that is visible and tangible, forgetful that the same care is constantly over us, in the unseen and impalpable peril in which we always move. But it is well with us occasionally to look danger in the face, that we may form the proper estimate of our weakness and frailty, eliminated from God's care, while we learn that without danger there is no greatness, that in the hazardous conflicts where life is ventured, high qualities only are developed.

What canting nonsense do we occasionally hear in certain quarters to disparage mere personal courage, “mere personal courage!” We are reminded that the ignoble quality is held in common with the bulldog, and that in this essential he is our master; we are reminded that it is a low and vulgar attribute, that neither elevates nor enlightens, that the meanest creatures are often gifted with it, and the noblest natures void of it. But we may be sure that without it, there is neither truth nor manliness. The self-reliance that makes a man maintain his word, be faithful to his friendship, and honorable in his dealings, has no root in a heart that shakes with craven fear. The life of a coward is the voyage of a ship with a leak, eternal contrivance, never-ceasing emergency. All thoughts dashed with a perpetual fear of death, what room is there for one generous emotion, one great or high-hearted ambition. I congratulate you that in the presence of danger, you were not frightened, that you did not lose your presence of mind, but felt able to put forth your best powers for the emergency that might have been near.

There is very little in my life here now, that is of sufficient importance to entertain you in detail. It is five days since I have had news from the outside world, and I hardly know whether we have war or peace in the land. My health is pretty good and I am perfectly comfortable, so far as shelter, food and raiment can make me comfortable. I have abundance of fish, flesh, and fowl, and plenty of whiskey, brandy, wine and ale, though I am making very sparing use of any kind of stimulants. I have had some fine birds, snipe, peep, plover, and a splendid shore bird, the “sickle billed curlew,” as large as a barnyard fowl. Mother will remember father's often speaking of them. I miss my family, and continually regret that I had not kept you and Walter with me, for up to this time I could have made life here for you very agreeable. Here I find myself using the word “regret” again, when I well know, humanly speaking, it is better as it is. Yet, philosophize as I will, comes that increasing, unwearied desire, that is with us in joy or sadness, that journeys with us and lives with us mingling with every action, blending with every thought, and presenting to our minds a constant picture of ourselves, under some wished-for aspect, different from all we have ever known, when we are surrounded by other impulses and swayed by other passions. “Man never is but always to be blessed.”

The weather has been delightfully pleasant, an occasional storm and one or two sultry days, but I have not been called upon to dispense with winter garments and sleep comfortably under two blankets. The sea breeze is always fresh, and it is charming in the evening to ride upon the hard and perfectly level beach and see the breakers dash in surf and foam on the shore. The air then becomes perfectly pure from the ocean and is wonderfully exhilarating. The horses become so much excited as to be difficult of control, and the Captain, the best broken horse of the times, has frequently become with me wholly unmanageable. You would be amused to see him capriole and play with the waves, dashing close to the brink as they recede and advance, and rejoicing in the cool spray. But everything about me is constantly damp. My arms always rusty, my buttons dimmed and black, and the paper on which I write almost as wet as if it had passed through the water. I believe this climate would be favorable to persons with pulmonary complaints. I have been a good deal exposed, but never take cold, or if I do, it does not make itself apparent by sore throat, cough, sneezing, or anything of that kind. At the same time I must say that the atmosphere is undoubtedly malarial and no science or skill can guard against malaria.

Intelligence now comes that the rebel General Dick Taylor has asked terms of surrender, and that General Canby has this day gone to arrange, also that General Hurlbut has gone on a mission to Kirby Smith. So that this department is fast winding up the rebellion in this quarter.

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 392-5

Brigadier General Thomas Kilby Smith, April 9, 1865

Headquarters District Of South Alabama,

Fort Gaines, Ala., April 9, 1865.

I have this moment received news that Petersburg has fallen, Richmond evacuated, and Grant in hot pursuit of Lee's retreating army. It comes to me vaguely; still, there are good grounds for the rumor. Our own siege drags slowly. I miss Sherman and Grant and my lamented friend McPherson. I don't find the old spirit down here; still we shall succeed; that is beyond all peradventure, our troops are in good spirits and there is no possibility of the enemy's escaping us.

The weather has been cool here and generally pleasant. My health is not very good, and I have not been able to enjoy it. I think the malarial influence of my last summer's campaign is still upon me, and I doubt whether the sea air agrees with me; but I keep about and attend to business. I am taking quinine in pretty large and frequent doses. I shall take all possible care of myself; but I fear my old powers will never return to me. I ought not to complain, and strive to be contented; but I am made conscious that the days are drawing near when the “grasshopper will be a burthen.”

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 385-6

Brigadier-General Thomas Kilby Smith to Elizabeth Budd Smith, April 4, 1865

Headquarters District Of South Alabama,

Fort Gaines, Ala., April 4, 1865.

My Dear Wife:

As to Mobile, in my judgment, it is going to be a long siege. The general impression was that there would be a speedy evacuation, but the attack has been so long delayed, that the enemy have had full opportunity to fortify and are making a most obstinate resistance. They have filled all the approaches by land and water, with torpedoes ingeniously contrived, and concealed in every channel and avenue; so thickly strewn, that though we have picked up a large number, three fine gunboats and many lives have already been lost by them. The torpedo is made of wood, thickly coated on the outside with pitch and tar so as to be quite waterproof, is somewhat in the shape of a cigar, and eighteen inches thick, tapering at both ends, in which there is a vacuum, the middle portion being filled with from fifty to one hundred pounds of gunpowder, which is ignited through brass tubes with copper ends, by means of friction and percussion powder. They are anchored just below the surface of the water, and sometimes several are attached by strings or wire. A vessel in passing over them produces the necessary friction, and the explosion, if immediately underneath the vessel is generally sufficient to blow a hole through the bottom and sink her. These I have described, are the water torpedoes; those used upon the land are generally an eight-inch shell, that is, a cannon ball, hollow, eight inches in diameter, filled with powder and the fuse so arranged that a pressure of ten pounds will explode them. They are concealed in the sand just below the surface, and the tread of a horse's foot, or the passage of a wheel, is sufficient to explode them, or even the pressure of a man's foot if put down hard. A staff officer, riding the other day, woke up from a state of insensibility to discover himself fifteen feet from the roadway, and the mangled remains of his horse that had been blown to atoms, he, by strange chance, escaping with the temporary loss of his senses and the bruises of his fall. The immense number of these shells and torpedoes scattered in every possible place on land or in water, renders the approaches to Spanish Fort, that at present is the key to the position, most difficult, and has made the navy timid and wary in the management of their ships, while our troops on shore have found a secret foe hard to combat. Every man feels that he is literally walking on the thin crust of a volcano. We have, however, thoroughly invested the fort, the garrison of which now is supposed to number some six or seven thousand men, and will soon be able to cut it off entirely from Mobile. We shall then, I think, resort to sapping and mining, and it will become a question of time as at Vicksburg. Meanwhile, our forces under Wilson, will attack from the other side, and the result, in my mind, though far off, is not doubtful. Still, we may have trouble from another quarter. As you know, I am not one of those who have been sanguine as to the speedy termination of the war, and have doubtless, by free expression of opinion in that regard, sacrificed a reputation I might have had for a wiseacre. I think before long we shall have something from Kirby Smith, and that when Richmond is evacuated, the war will have to be begun anew. The obstinate resistance they are making at Mobile, fortifies my preconceived opinions, that are of no great value, for all is in the hands of God, who will bring these troubles to a close in His own good time. Still, you must be patient, and not expect an early raising of the siege.

I am comfortably situated at this time. I have a great deal of responsibility and a highly honorable position, if I have rank enough to hold it. All the time, or nearly all the time I was a colonel, in fact, I may say all the time I was a lieutenant-colonel, I exercised the rank of colonel; all the time, or nearly all the time I was colonel, I exercised the rank, duties, and responsibilities of a brigadier-general. And all the time I have been brigadier-general, the duties of a major-general have been thrust upon me. I have recently, as you perceive by the copies of orders I sent you, relieved Major-General Granger, and the labor, expense, and responsibility devolved upon him, now rests with me, with this difference — he had more staff and $1,200 per annum more pay. But I shall never get any more rank because I am a volunteer officer. The brevet I would not give a fig for; they are so common that they do not confer honor, and they do not, under any circumstance, the old rule in that regard being changed, give more pay.

Although in April, the weather is not yet unpleasantly warm, except in the sun; indeed, I make it a point to keep a little fire, that is a good guard against malaria. The birds, among them my old friend the mocking-bird, have come and I send you blossoms that will fade before they reach you, but will carry some fragrance from the little island by the sea that is now my home.

I have just been called from writing to receive a visit from Capt. J. R. Madison Mullany, an old officer of the navy now commanding the U. S. S. Bienville, and commanding the squadron here. He is a very gallant officer and lost an arm, amputated close at the shoulder, in the capture of these forts. A recommendation of him to you will be the fact of his being a sincere and devout Catholic, and I was pleased to find him a courteous and finished gentleman, as most officers of the old navy were.

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 383-5