Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: December 21, 1863

Still cold. Have enough to eat myself, but am one of a thousand. The scurvy is appearing among some of the men, and is an awful disease — caused by want of vegetable diet, acids, &c. Two small pox cases taken to the hospital to-day A sutler has been established on the island and sells at the following rates: poor brown sugar, $8 per pound; butter, $11; cheese, $10; Sour milk $3 per quart and the only article I buy; eggs, $10 per dozen; oysters, $6 per quart and the cheapest food in market.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 20

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant John S. Morgan: Friday, March 17, 1865

Revelie at 2.45, breakfast at 3.30 Genl call at 5. Brigade forms on the Gulf beach at 6 column of the 3d Div moves out at 8.30; in a quandary about Corys valise; at 11. pass the camp of 1st Brig 2d Div which is ahead, all Kinds of supplies left in camp & no one to pick them up. road sandy & marching heavy, we camp at 2 P. M 10 miles from the Cove Miller & I take a stroll through the woods which we find full of Spanish moss flowers cactus &c find some families on the Bay Beach got some sweet milk to drink. Boys get plenty of Oysters in the slough near by where they have been planted hear that the Monitors and Gunboats all left the Cove soon after we did. We had a long talk with the women, brush so thick could hardly get back to camp. day has been warm.

SOURCE: “Diary of John S. Morgan, Company G, 33rd Iowa Infantry,” Annals of Iowa, 3rd Series, Vol. 13, No. 8, April 1923, p. 578

Diary of Brigadier-General William F. Bartlett: Thursday, August 18, 1864

Another long day, merely weary waiting; read a book on birds. I am improving still, gaining strength. Manage to get milk and eggs and apples. Wrote Agnes a few lines on scrap of paper. Rain every day now. Get no news from outside, know nothing of what is going on. I wish our government could see the suffering that their delay and quibbling about exchange is causing. Men dying every hour, reproving their government for forgetting them and letting them lie here. In Georgia it is worse.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 127

Diary of Luman Harris Tenney: Sunday, September 28, 1862

In the morning went to the creek and washed. 3rd Indian regiment came in. Chilly and misty. In the P. M. Archie, Chamberlain and I went out to hunt peaches. Went three miles, found no peaches. Plenty of good wild grapes. Got some milk from a minister. Written on house “Thou shalt not steal”— pretty lady. Read “Virginia” in Macaulay's Essays. In the evening Chamberlain read Horatius to us — lying under the oak and the fly cover of our tent. Enjoyed it.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 34

Brigadier-General William F. Bartlett: Wednesday, August 3, 1864

Hospital outside Danville. The past few days seem like a horrible dream which I can never forget. The misery that I have suffered is more than I can ever tell. I was brought here that night in a filthy cart from the prison. I could not have lived there much longer. I have a straw bed here and slept well last night. Got some milk this morning. Pain in my bowels very bad; very weak. Sent for tooth-brush this morn, by Doctor, $6. Milk, $1 pt. I suppose they are very anxious at home about me. I hope I shall be able to write soon; will try to write up the past few days. Wagon sent for me to go back to prison — said I could not go. Wrote a note to Major Morfit, commanding, telling I was too weak. He let me stay. Took the captain who was here.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 120-1

Diary of Corporal Charles H. Lynch: May 20, 1865

Our regular routine has been kept up for the past few days. Guard duty, drill, dress parade, Sunday morning inspection. When at liberty continue to take long walks out into the surrounding country. Call on the farmers. They laugh about the Yankee soldiers making friends with the cows. We tell them that's because we like milk. We found out the cows would eat hardtack. We fed and petted them while they were out to pasture. Women do the milking in this section. I heard a woman say that she was a good milker but the Yankees could beat her and milk into a canteen at that.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 152-3

Diary of Corporal Charles H. Lynch: May 20, 1865

As we have plenty of rations we trade with the farmers, coffee, sugar, hardtack, for butter, eggs, and vegetables, and some milk. The cows eat garlic which gives to the butter and milk a bad taste, but we manage to eat the stuff, if we don't really like the taste. We paid money for some things to the farmers. They were always anxious to get hold of a little ready cash. Some soft bread was furnished us in place of hardtack, but could most generally get hardtack. While we suffered much from hunger and thirst, we had good feed whenever near our base of supplies.

Detailed for guard duty in town. Charge of the third relief. When off duty could get excused for one hour. Visited a bookstore for something to read. Surprised to find a copy of the History of Connecticut. Paid one dollar for it. The Waverly magazine was quite a favorite with the boys. Much pleasure working out the enigmas, and reading the short stories and the poetry.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 153

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, January 26, 1862

Beaufort, S. C. Jan. 26th, 1862.

My dear Mother:

Another Sunday has come around, time slips quietly by — still nothing striking has taken place. We are all impatiently awaiting the advent of some steamer, bringing us news from the Burnside Expedition. Is our country really so prolific in great Commanders? Is there a Napoleon for each one of the dozen armies that compose the anaconda fold? Ay, ay, it would be a sad disappointment if the fold should happen to snap somewhere! Things look like action down here, and that not long hence. We have been gathering our troops gradually on the islands about the mouth of the Savannah river. Thither have gone our Connecticut friends, and yesterday three more steamers, loaded, took the remainder of Gen. Wright's Brigade with them. We are left here quite unnoticed on Port Royal Island, in seeming safety, though there are many troops around us. An army, boasting much, awaits us on the mainland, but an army having still a wholesome dread of Yankees. I made them a sort of visit the other night (25th), passing up Hospa Creek in a light canoe, hidden by the darkness and the long grass of the marshes. A negro guide paddled so lightly that, as we glided along, one might have heard the dropping of a pin. It was fine sport and as we passed close by the enemy's pickets we would place our thumbs to our noses, and gracefully wave our fingers toward the unsuspecting souls. This was by no means vulgarly intended, but as we could not speak, we thus symbolically expressed the thoughts that rose in our bosoms. We pushed on until coming to a point where a stream like a mere thread lay before us. Here we paused, for this was a stream we wished to examine. At the mouth of the stream stood the sentries of the enemy. We could hear their voices talking. We lay under the river grass, watching. Soon a boat pushed across the little stream to the opposite shore. We shoved our canoe far into the marsh, and lay there concealed. Then all was still and we thought it time to return, so back we went, and returned home unnoticed and in safety. Such little excursions give a zest to the dulness of camp. I have not yet been able to give Miss Mintzing's letter to any one who could send it to her friends, yet I hope such an opportunity will speedily come. What is Tom Reynolds now doing?

The paymaster has not visited us this long time, and I have but fifty cents in my pocket. However, when one has nothing to spend, he feels quite as happy down here, as money can buy but few luxuries in camp. We don't starve though. Secession cows give us milk, speculators bring us butter, and the negroes sell us chickens.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 118-9

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Monday, March 23, 1863

Raining. My bed being pretty comfortable I concluded to lie still until Jacques summoned, “Déjeuner tout prêt, Monsieur le Colonel,” at eight A. M. A nice one it was too. Dip toast, our regular morning dish (we get a pint of milk now twice a day, ten cents per pint), and fried pudding. Fletcher Abbott and Charley Sargent called in the afternoon. A heavy shower coming up drove them off, and nearly spoiled our dinner, which you know is cooked out doors, on three or four bricks, just back of our tent.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 81

Diary of John Beauchamp Jones: October 7, 1862

Nothing further has been heard from Corinth. A great battle is looked for in Kentucky. All is quiet in Northern Virginia.

Some 2500 Confederate prisoners arrived from the North last evening. They are on parole, and will doubtless be exchanged soon, as we have taken at least 40,000 more of the enemy's men than they have captured of ours.

Yesterday, Congress, which has prolonged the session until the 13th instant, passed a bill increasing the pay of soldiers four dollars per month. I hope they will increase our pay before they adjourn. Congress also, yesterday, voted down the proposition of a forced loan of one-fifth of all incomes. But the Committee of Ways and Means are instructed to bring forward another bill.

This evening Custis and I expect the arrival of my family from Raleigh, N. C. We have procured for them one pound of sugar, 80 cents; one quart of milk, 25 cents; one pound of sausage-meat, 37 cents; four loaves of bread, as large as my fist, 20 cents each; and we have a little coffee, which is selling at $2.50 per pound. In the morning, some one must go to market, else there will be short-commons. Washing is $2.50 per dozen pieces. Common soap is worth 75 cents per pound.

SOURCE: John Beauchamp Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate States Capital, Volume 1, p. 164-5

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: Monday, March 23, 1863

Raining. My bed being pretty comfortable I concluded to lie still until Jacques summoned, “Déjeuner tout prêt, Monsieur le Colonel,” at eight A. M. A nice one it was too. Dip toast, our regular morning dish (we get a pint of milk now twice a day, ten cents per pint), and fried pudding. Fletcher Abbott and Charley Sargent called in the afternoon. A heavy shower coming up drove them off, and nearly spoiled our dinner, which you know is cooked out doors, on three or four bricks, just back of our tent.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 81

Diary of Judith Brockenbrough McGuire: January 2, 1865

This bitter cold morning, when we entered the office, we found that our good “Major” had provided us a New Year's treat of hot coffee. Of course we all enjoyed it highly, and were very grateful to him; and when I returned home, the first thing that met my eye was a box sent from the express office. We opened it, and found it a Christmas box, filled with nice and substantial things from a friend now staying in Buckingham County, for whom I once had an opportunity of doing some trifling kindness. The Lord is certainly taking care of us through His people. The refugees in some of the villages are much worse off than we are. We hear amusing stories of a friend in an inland place, where nothing can possibly be bought, hiring a skillet from a servant for one dollar per month, and other cooking utensils, which are absolutely necessary, at the same rate; another in the same village, whose health seems to require that she should drink something hot at night, has been obliged to resort to hot water, as she has neither tea, coffee, sugar, nor milk. These ladies belong to wealthy Virginia families. Many persons have no meat on their tables for mouths at a time; and they are the real patriots, who submit patiently, and without murmuring, to any privation, provided the country is doing well. The flesh-pots of Egypt have no charms for them; they look forward hopefully to the time when their country shall be disenthralled, never caring for the trials of the past or the present, provided they can hope for the future.

SOURCE: Judith W. McGuire, Diary of a Southern Refugee, During the War, p. 327-8

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Sunday, November 2, 1862

Yesterday was a day of novel sensations to me. First came a letter from mother announcing her determination to return home, and telling us to be ready next week. Poor mother! she wrote drearily enough of the hardships we would be obliged to undergo in the dismantled house, and of the new experience that lay before us; but n’importe! I am ready to follow her to Yankeeland, or any other place she chooses to go. It is selfish for me to be so happy here while she leads such a distasteful life in Clinton. In her postscript, though, she said she would wait a few days longer to see about the grand battle which is supposed to be impending; so our stay will be indefinitely prolonged. How thankful I am that we will really get back, though! I hardly believe it possible, however; it is too good to be believed.

The nightmare of a probable stay in Clinton being removed, I got in what the boys call a “perfect gale,” and sang all my old songs with a greater relish than I have experienced for many a long month. My heart was open to every one. So forgiving and amiable did I feel that I went downstairs to see Will Carter! I made him so angry last Tuesday that he went home in a fit of sullen rage. It seems that some time ago, some one, he said, told him such a joke on me that he had laughed all night at it. Mortified beyond all expression at the thought of having had my name mentioned between two men, I, who have thus far fancied myself secure from all remarks good, bad, or indifferent (of men), I refused to have anything to say to him until he should either explain me the joke, or, in case it was not fit to be repeated to me, until he apologized for the insult. He took two minutes to make up a lie. This was the joke, he said. Our milkman had said that that Sarah Morgan was the proudest girl he ever saw; that she walked the streets as though the earth was not good enough for her. My milkman making his remarks! I confess I was perfectly aghast with surprise, and did not conceal my contempt for the remark, or his authority either. But one can't fight one's milkman! I did not care for what he or any of that class could say; I was surprised to find that they thought at all! But I resented it as an insult as coming from Mr. Carter, until with tears in his eyes fairly, and in all humility, he swore that, if it had been anything that could reflect on me in the slightest degree, he would thrash the next man who mentioned my name. I was not uneasy about a milkman's remarks, so I let it pass, after making him acknowledge that he had told me a falsehood concerning the remark which had been made. But I kept my revenge. I had but to cry “Milk!” in his hearing to make him turn crimson with rage. At last he told me that the less I said on the subject, the better it would be for me. I could not agree. “Milk” I insisted was a delightful beverage. I had always been under the impression that we owned a cow, until he had informed me it was a milkman, but was perfectly indifferent to the animal so I got the milk. With some such allusion, I could make him mad in an instant. Either a guilty conscience, or the real joke, grated harshly on him, and I possessed the power of making it still worse. Tuesday I pressed it too far. He was furious, and all the family warned me that I was making a dangerous enemy.

Yesterday he came back in a good humor, and found me in unimpaired spirits. I had not talked even of “curds,” though I had given him several hard cuts on other subjects, when an accident happened which frightened all malicious fun out of me. We were about going out after cane, and Miriam had already pulled on one of her buckskin gloves, dubbed “old sweety” from the quantity of cane-juice they contain, when Mr. Carter slipped on its mate, and held it tauntingly out to her. She tapped it with a case-knife she held, when a stream of blood shot up through the glove. A vein was cut and was bleeding profusely.

He laughed, but panic seized the women. Some brought a basin, some stood around. I ran after cobwebs, while Helen Carter held the vein and Miriam stood in silent horror, too frightened to move. It was, indeed, alarming, for no one seemed to know what to do, and the blood flowed rapidly. Presently he turned a dreadful color, and stopped laughing. I brought a chair, while the others thrust him into it. His face grew more deathlike, his mouth trembled, his eyes rolled, his head dropped. I comprehended that these must be symptoms of fainting, a phenomenon I had never beheld. I rushed after water, and Lydia after cologne. Between us, it passed away; but for those few moments I thought it was all over with him, and trembled for Miriam. Presently he laughed again and said, “Helen, if I die, take all my negroes and money and prosecute those two girls! Don't let them escape!” Then, seeing my long face, he commenced teasing me. “Don't ever pretend you don't care for me again! Here you have been unmerciful to me for months, hurting more than this cut, never sparing me once, and the moment I get scratched, it's ‘O Mr. Carter!’ and you fly around like wild and wait on me!” In vain I represented that I would have done the same for his old lame dog, and that I did not like him a bit better; he would not believe it, but persisted that I was a humbug and that I liked him in spite of my protestations. As long as he was in danger of bleeding to death, I let him have his way; and, frightened out of teasing, spared him for the rest of the evening.

Just at what would have been twilight but for the moonshine, when he went home after the blood was stanched and the hand tightly bound, a carriage drove up to the house, and Colonel Allen was announced. I can't say I was ever more disappointed. I had fancied him tall, handsome, and elegant; I had heard of him as a perfect fascinator, a woman-killer. Lo! a wee little man is carried in, in the arms of two others, — wounded in both legs at Baton Rouge, he has never yet been able to stand. . . . He was accompanied by a Mr. Bradford, whose assiduous attentions and boundless admiration for the Colonel struck me as unusual.  . . . I had not observed him otherwise, until the General whispered, “Do you know that that is the brother of your old sweetheart?” Though the appellation was by no means merited, I recognized the one he meant. Brother to our Mr. Bradford of eighteen months ago! My astonishment was unbounded, and I alluded to it immediately. He said it was so; that his brother had often spoken to him of us, and the pleasant evenings he had spent at home.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 266-70