Diary of 1st Lieutenant Lemuel A. Abbott: Sunday, August 28, 1864

Received marching orders for to-morrow morning at 10 o'clock last evening. We were up at 3 o'clock a. m. and ready to march at daylight, but did not until near 8 o'clock. The Nineteenth Corps marched on our left in three different columns and the Sixth Corps moved on the right in the same order. We took dinner about two miles from Charlestown, and marched again about 1 o'clock p. m.; went through Charlestown about 3 o'clock p. m., with the bands playing “Old John Brown” to the accompanying chorus of the entire column. It was grand! We camped on our old ground just outside the city; no signs of any enemy yet.*

_______________

* It is a fact that General Crook's Corps, when forming line near Berryville, was “blundered” into by General Kershaw's Division of infantry and artillery en route to Petersburg via Ashby's Gap. After a little brush in which Kershaw got the worst of it, he fell back. This was a great disappointment to General Sheridan, as Kershaw was detained fifteen days longer.

SOURCE: Lemuel Abijah Abbott, Personal Recollections and Civil War Diary, 1864, p. 140-1

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: February 9, 1864

Great news this morning. A raid is being made on Richmond by Kilpatrick, Rebels manning their forts in sight of us. All are at work, women, children, in fact everybody who can shovel. No cars running over the big bridge. Double guards placed over us and the greatest activity prevails among them. It is really amusing to see them flying around and many are the jokes at their expense. All business is suspended in Richmond; no papers issued, and everybody with their guns or working utensils. Brass bands are playing their best to encourage the broken down Confederacy. A portion of the congress came over this afternoon to take a look at us, among whom were Davis, Benjamin and Howell Cobb. They are a substantial looking set of men and of the regular southern cut The broad brim hats, gold headed canes and aristocratic toss of the head, alone would tell who they were. They are a proud, stern set of men and look as if they would like to brush us out of existence. Still we are not going to be brushed out so easy and they found men among us who were not afraid to stare, or hold our heads as high as their lordships. A band accompanied them and played the Bonnie Blue Flag, which was hissed and groaned at by the Yankees, and in return a thousand voices sang Yankee Doodle, very much to their discomfiture.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 31

Diary of Sergeant Major Luman Harris Tenney, Wednesday, December 17, 1862

In the morning took the prisoners to the fort and hurried over to Col. Burris. Rode up to south part of town and found Cousin Austin's. Stayed to dinner. Had a good visit. Made me promise to call in the evening if we stayed in town. Went over in the evening. Lost my way. Found Mr. Buckingham of the Bulletin there. Read some of his letters for Augusta for the Baptist benefit. Augusta played on her guitar and sang, also on the piano. Enjoyed the evening very much indeed. Leona a very pretty girl. Had a lunch and apples, good feather bed. Had nice peach sauce.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 50

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: January 10, 1864

A brass band over to-day giving us a tune. Looks more like a wandering tribe of vagabonds than musicians. Discoursed sweet music, such as "Bonnie Blue Flag," "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and for their pains got three groans from their enemies in limbo. Dying off very fast on the island.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 25

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes: Friday, June 27, 1862

Camp Jones, Flat Top Mountain . — Took the men to Glade Creek to wash. Water getting scarce in this quarter. The men danced to the fiddle, marched to music, and had a good time generally. Rode, walked, and read "Seven Sons of Mammon."

Read the account of the disaster on White River, Arkansas, to the gunboat, Mound City. The enemy sent a forty-two-pound ball through her boiler and a horrible slaughter followed, scalding and drowning one hundred and fifty men!

General Pope appointed to "the Army of Virginia" — being the combined forces of Fremont, Shields, Banks, and McDowell, now in the Valley of Virginia. Sorry to see Fremont passed over but glad the concentration under one man has taken place. General Pope is impulsive and hasty, but energetic, and, what is of most importance, patriotic and sound — perfectly sound. I look for good results. — Rained in the evening.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 293-4

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant John S. Morgan: Thursday, March 23, 1865

Revelie late, the Genl had blown in the 50th Ind & 7th Vermont before our revelie. Our Brigade gets up before our breakfast is over this was unexpected. Genl blows before the men have breakfast We are on the move at 7 hear the troops at Fish river are in line of battle expecting an attack move very slowly first 2 miles cording nearly all the road. latter part of the road pretty good & move right along. At 1. P. M. cross the river on the pontoons to the tune. “Out of the wilderness” or “Johny stole a ham.” Was until 4. A. M. getting camped were on 3 different grounds before we got settled, one time tents were being pitched & supper preparing, several boats & gunboats lie in the river. This morning the pickets were driven in by a force variously estimated from 600 to 1000. 3 rebs killed 3 of ours wounded, the 4th Iowa & 32d Iowa are here with Smith 25000 men here now

SOURCE: “Diary of John S. Morgan, Company G, 33rd Iowa Infantry,” Annals of Iowa, 3rd Series, Vol. 13, No. 8, April 1923, p. 579

Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes to Lucy Webb Hayes, June 12, 1862

Camp On Flat Top, Virginia, June 12, 1862.

Dearest: — I began a letter to you yesterday intending to finish it after the mail came in; I can't find it. No loss. I recollect I told you to [give] Mrs. Sergeant McKinley ten dollars on account of the sergeant, which please to do. I probably also said that up on this mountain the weather is colder than Nova Zembla, and that since the enemy left us we have been in a state of preparation to go ahead — which means do-nothingness, so far as soldiers are concerned. I have now an expedition out under Major Comly, not important enough for a regimental commander, so I am here in inglorious idleness.

A day's life runs about thus: — At 5 A. M., one or the other of our two Giles County contrabands, Calvin or Samuel, comes in hesitatingly and in a modest tone suggests, “Gentlemen, it is ’most breakfast time.” About ten minutes later, finding no results from his first summons, he repeats, perhaps with some slight variation. This is kept up until we get up to breakfast, that is to say, sometimes cold biscuits, cooked at the hospital, sometimes army bread, tea and coffee, sugar, sometimes milk, fried pork, sometimes beef, and any “pison” or fraudulent truck in the way of sauce or pickles or preserves (!) (good peaches sometimes), which the sutler may chance to have. After breakfast there is a little to be done; then a visit of half an hour to brigade headquarters, Colonel Scammon's; then a visit to division ditto, General Cox's, where we gossip over the news, foreign and domestic (all outside of our camps being foreign, the residue domestic), then home again, and novel reading is the chief thing till dinner. I have read "Ivanhoe," "Bride of Lammermoor," and [one] of Dickens' and one of Fielding's the last ten days.

P. M., generally ride with Avery from five to ten miles; and as my high-spirited horse has no other exercise, and as Carrington (Company C boy) is a good forager and feeds him tip-top, the way we go it is locomotive-like in speed. After this, more novel reading until the telegraphic news and mails, both of which come about the same hour, 5:30 P. M. Then gossip on the news and reading newspapers until bedtime — early bedtime, 9 P. M. We have music, company drills, — no room for battalion drills in these mountains, — and target practice with other little diversions and excitements, and so “wags the world away.”

We get Cincinnati papers in from four to six days. My Commercial is running again. Keep it going. Write as often as you can. I think of you often and with so much happiness; then I run over the boys in my mind — Birt, Webb, Ruddy. The other little fellow I hardly feel acquainted with yet, but the other three fill a large place in my heart.

Keep up good heart. It is all coming out right. There will be checks and disappointments, no doubt, but the work goes forwards. We are much better off than I thought a year ago we should be. — A year ago! Then we were swearing the men in at Camp Chase. Well, we think better of each other than we did then, and are very jolly and friendly.

“I love you s'much.” Love to all.

Affectionately,

R.

Since writing this we have heard of Fremont's battle the other side of the Alleghanies in the Valley of Virginia. It will probably set us a-going again southward. — R.

Mrs. Hayes.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 288-90

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes: Sunday, May 25, 1862

Camp Flat Top Mountain. — Bright, clear, and bracing. My cold no better yet, but no worse. I hope it has reached the turning-point. All suspense in military matters, awaiting result at Corinth and Richmond. The three Companies, A, E, and K of Twenty-third, sent to Packs Ferry were ordered in yesterday, as if much needed. They marched in the rain and darkness seventeen miles last night and six this morning; the severest trial they have had. It was too bad, too bad.

Sacred music by the band at sundown. Captain Evans, a Cincinnati boy of [the] Thirty-fourth Zouaves, called to see me. Queer people meet here. The Thirty-seventh and the Thirty-fourth (Zouaves) suffered badly in the skirmishing about Princeton. About sixty wounded (of ours) came up tonight, having been exchanged, from Princeton.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 278

Diary of Sergeant George G. Smith: June 22, 1863

Back to our camping ground again. Major W. O. Fisk returned from New Orleans and took command of the regiment in place of Col. Holcomb, who was killed May 14th. Major Fisk was wounded in the fight at Franklin, April 12th, and had been in the hospital ever since that time.

My position as acting-lieutenant admitted me to the society of the commissioned officers of our regiment. I cannot say that I can point to a period of greater enjoyment, than the four weeks spent before Port Hudson. Several causes combined to bring this about. The principal one, perhaps, was the consciousness that my name had gone in from the battle field “recommended for promotion.” This was more satisfactory to me than if I had been recommended for meritorious conduct on “dress parade.” And then, too, the beauty of the scenery: the deep foliage of the gigantic Magnolia and birch trees, whose broad branches shut out the rays of a burning sun, and the immense blossoms of the former, loaded with their fragrance, the gentle breezes which stole through the trees. This naturally inspired a corresponding spirit of romance and poetry among the officers and men; so we made the forest vocal with patriotic songs and pleasant ballads touching our dear old homes and the loved ones in dear old New England. But the Magnolia leaves dropped and the flowers faded. So, too, we must pass away.

SOURCE: Abstracted from George G. Smith, Leaves from a Soldier's Diary, p. 78-9

Diary of Corporal Charles H. Lynch: January 31, 1865

When off duty read, write letters, wash and mend my clothes. Try to keep clean and in good condition. Do my part handling an axe. We use up a whole lot of wood during this extreme cold weather. Try to keep as comfortable as we can. All sorts of questions come up for discussion. The close of the war is the most important. All companies do much singing during the evening. There are some violins and banjos in camp.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 140

Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes to Lucy Webb Hayes, Sunday, April 20, 1862

Camp Near Beckley's, Easter Sunday, April 20, 1862.

Dearest: — We left Raleigh the day before yesterday and came here intending to continue our march at least as far south as Flat Top Mountain. But just as we had got our tents up the rain began to fall and by morning all movement was out of the question. It has rained ever since. The streets of the camp are trodden into mortar-beds, the weather is getting cold, and you would naturally think that a gloomier set of fellows could hardly be found. But we are jolly enough. A year ago we used to read of these things and sympathize with the suffering soldiers. But a year of use has changed all that. Like sailors in a storm, the soldiers seem stimulated to unnatural mirth by the gloomy circumstances. We are guessing as to when it will stop. We hope this is the last day of the storm, but there is no trusting to experience in the Virginia mountains. Every new storm has a new set of phenomena. The men sing a great deal, play fiddle, banjo, etc. At the stated calls, the fifer, buglers, and band exert themselves to play their liveliest airs, and so we manage to get on.

I (when alone) get out your two pictures and have a quiet talk with you. Joe is in the next tent with Major Comly and Dr. McCurdy singing sacred music. I am alone in a tall Sibley tent writing this on a book on my knee, my ink on my trunk. The mess-chest open is before me; next to it, saddle, etc., then India-rubber cloth and leggings, old hat, haversack, glass, and saddle-bags; by my side, trunk; behind me cot with overcoat and duds, and on the other side of the tent Avery's truck in similar disorder. We have a sheet-iron stove in the centre — no fire now. So you see us on a muddy sidehill. I can't find time to write often now. If we are resting I don't feel like writing; when going, of course I can't.

Send this to Mother Hayes. She is seventy years old this month, about these days. She will think I am forgetting her if I don't send her some “scrabble” (western Virginia for "scribbling") of mine. — Love to all at home.

Affectionately, your

R.

Mrs. Hayes.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 232-3

Major Wilder Dwight: February 28, 1862

Charlestown, VirgiNia, February 28, 1862.

A story to tell, and no time to tell it in. That is my record. After tedious waiting in Frederick, with constant threatenings of movement, at last, in the pouring rain of Wednesday night, came the order to be at the depot in Frederick at daylight, to take the cars for Harper's Ferry. So, in the dark, damp fog of Thursday morning, the line was formed, and on we splashed and paddled to the turnpike. Just at sunrise we entered Frederick. The band played, “The girl I left behind me,” and tearful maidens looked a sad farewell. When we got to the depot, we found no cars. At twelve, M., we got off.

Only six hours' delay, caused by the crowding of troops on the road coming from Poolesville. The day broke clear and cold. Our Frederick friends saw the last of us, and we were off. At four o'clock we reached Sandy Hook, and were soon crossing the bridge to Harper's Ferry. As we entered the town the music swelled out, the men closed up, and on we went, by the Shenandoah road, to the upper part of the town. We crowded into a few buildings. An old negro woman gave the Colonel and myself shelter, and we spent the night. This old woman gave us her political sentiments briefly, thus: “De Union is broderly love. Dat's what de Union is. Dese yere secesshnists ain't got no sich principle. In de Union dey do good to one another; but dese yere secesshnists dey don't do no good to you. Dey won't help yer out when yer's in trouble. Lord bress yer! dey can't help derselves out, let alone other folks. I's for de Union and love; dat's what I's for.”

At three in the morning we were roused up by an order for the regiment to move, “soon after sunrise,” in a reconnoissance to Charlestown. In the sharp, windy morning we took up the march. At Bolivar Heights the force assembled. It consisted of four squadrons of cavalry, two sections of artillery, our regiment, and the Third Wisconsin.

Colonel Gordon, as the ranking colonel, was in command. Colonel Andrews had been detailed as Provost Marshal of Harper's Ferry. This left me in immediate command of the regiment. We moved on, over the road by which we had eight months before advanced (!) to Harper's Ferry.

When we got near Charlestown, Colonel Gordon hurried on with his cavalry, and all four squadrons whirled down the main street rattlingly. Half a dozen cavalry scampered out at the other end of the town, on the road to Winchester, and the place was in our grasp.

The artillery was posted, commanding the two roads toward Winchester, and our regiment was drawn up in support; the Third Wisconsin in rear. We had been there half an hour. The cavalry had divided itself, and gone out over the various roads. We then heard that McClellan was coming. So I drew up the regiment, and he rode the length of it with his staff. I then joined them, for a moment, to answer General Banks's inquiries, and those of General McClellan. Colonel Gordon soon came back. After a consultation, it was determined to remain in the town and hold it. Our reconnoissance changed to an advance. I put the bulk of the regiment in the courthouse,— John Brown's court-house. I was immediately appointed Acting Provost Marshal, and had my hands full all day, attending to the quartering of troops, feeding them (for we were without rations), preventing marauding, posting pickets, &c., &c. It was an awful blustering day. At evening General Hamilton came in and took command. I was in the saddle the first part of the night, on duty, but had comfortable quarters for sleeping.

At two in the morning, however, there was an alarm. I had to go and get the regiment under arms, also to organize a party for the purpose of obstructing the railway.

And now, this bright morning (March 1; I wrote only a few lines last night), we are busy with a thousand and one affairs. How soon we shall advance I do not know. We are in large force, and shall take no steps backwards.

McClellan has gone back to Washington, we hear. We know little of our future. The force at Harper's Ferry is increasing. A permanent bridge is going up.

It takes a little time to organize supplies, but, as the men are fond of singing, “we are marching on.” The regiment is in fine condition.

To-day the rest of our brigade, from which we have been detached since the reconnoissance, has marched up.

We have been mustering the regiment; and used, for that purpose, the court-room. It was an odd capsize of events that brought about the muster of a Yankee regiment in Charlestown court-house.

The newspapers, I see, are silent about our movements, or nearly so. I suppose this is under the order of the President checking the telegraph and mail. This order is a sound and healthy one.

I have had several amusing experiences in this hot secession town in my provost-marshalship. One good lady told me this morning, “Well! I hope you'll be beaten in your next battle; but you can have the rooms, and I’ll have a fire built directly, as they are rather damp for you.” I thought this charming feminine consistency.

I think we under-estimate the strength of the secession sentiment and overestimate the Union feeling. Still, I may speak from the fresh impressions of my recent experience. At any rate, there is a long battle to come after the bayonet has done its work. Troops have been coming in all day.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 199-202

Major Wilder Dwight: February 9, 1862

Cantonment Hicks, February 9, 1862, near Frederick.

If I could take the wings of this brisk, sunny morning, I would certainly fold them on our front-door steps in Brookline. Nor would I then proceed to hide my head under the wings, but, having flapped them cheerfully, I would thereupon crow!

But, as the wings and a furlough are both wanting, I must content myself with a web-footed, amphibious existence in the mud of Maryland.

There is a secession song which enjoys a surreptitious parlor popularity here. It is called, “Maryland, — my Maryland!” and rehearses, among other things, that “the despot's heel is on thy breast!” If that be so, all I have got to say is, that, just now, the heel has the worst of it. Yet there is a just satisfaction in this morning's inspection of men, tents, and kitchens, — to see how, by discipline, method, and fidelity, there is a successful contest maintained with all the elements. The neatness and order of our camp, in spite of mud, is a “volunteer miracle.”

You will be glad to know that the regiment is now in fine health. We already begin to count the days till spring. Of course, it is unsafe to predict the climate. I remember very well, however, that last February was quite dry, and that early in March dust, and not mud, was the enemy I found in Washington. It may well be, therefore, that there is a good time coming.

Indeed, has it not, in one sense, already come? Can you blind yourself to the omens and the tendencies? What shall we say of those statesmen of a budding empire, a new State, which is to give the law to the commerce and industry of the world through a single monopoly? What shall we say of the statesmen (Cobb, Toombs, etc.) who counsel their happy and chivalrous people to a general bonfire of house, home, and product? There's a new industry for a new State. King Cotton is a rare potentate. He proposes to be, himself, his own circulating medium, among other eccentricities.

Then, too, what admirable inferiority of fortification they succeed in erecting! Will our fleet of gunboats have as easy victories over all their river defences? and, if so, how far are we from Memphis? and where is Porter going with his “Mortar Fleet.” Among the ablest of our naval commanders, he is not bent on a fool's errand. When Jeff Davis sleeps o’ nights, does he dream of power?

But I've given you too many questions. In the midst of all this jubilant interrogatory, when will our time come? Just as soon as the mud dries, without a doubt.

Our life jogs on here without variety. For the most part, we spend our time in reading military books and talking military talk.

I am just now a good deal disturbed by the prospect of disbanding the bands. A greater mistake could not be made. The man with so little music in his soul as to vote for it is fit for — a Secessionist. Marshal Saxe, in introducing the cadenced step in the French infantry, says, “Music exerts a great and secret power over us. It disposes ‘nos organes aux exercises du corps, les soulagent dans ces exercises. On danse toute une nuit au son des instruments mais personne ne resterait à danser pendant un quart d’heure, seulement, sans musique.’” I have seen many a practical verification of this in the gathering freshness and quickness with which jaded men went on their march when the music called and cheered them.

Besides, we want the Star Spangled Banner, and its melody, as allies against the Rebel seductions.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 194-6

Major Charles Fessenden Morse: November 28, 1863

Tullahoma, Tenn., November 28, 1863.

We are in the midst of exciting news from the front, yet we have had no particulars. It is evident, however, that we have taken several thousand prisoners and a large quantity of artillery.*

Since the fight at Wauhatchie, there has been no slurring of the Army of the Potomac men. That little affair was a great thing for us. By our own and rebel accounts, there is no doubt that our men fought most gallantly there against superior numbers of their old antagonists.

Every train that comes from the South brings a load of prisoners or wounded men, and rumors that fighting is still going on at the front. It seems to me, now, for the first time since the war began, that the rebellion is nearly crushed. They have not met with any very decisive success for nearly six months, and are now contracted into the smallest territory they have ever occupied.

Atlanta is our important point now; get that, and we have again cut the Confederacy in two, and in a vital place What a glorious thing it would be if we could wind up this rebellion before our original three years are out! It would exceed all my expectations to do this.

Thanksgiving Day was a very pleasant one, warm and bright as May. I took an escort of half a dozen cavalry and rode down to the regiment, which is about ten miles from here. I found them camped very comfortably just outside strong earthworks built to command the railroad bridge over the Elk river. Colonel Coggswell is in command of the post and has a battery in addition to his regiment. lie has made himself very strong, and could defend the place against a large force.

I took a very quiet dinner with the field and staff. Of course we could not help thinking of our other Thanksgiving Days in the regiment, and it brought up many sad memories. At our first dinner at Seneca, Maryland, all our old officers were present; last year there had been many changes, but there were still left a goodly number of the old stock, and we were knit closer together by our losses. This year I couldn't help a feeling of desolation as I remembered that, of all my friends in the regiment, very few were left. How little I thought, when we left Camp Andrews, that we should have such a sad experience!

In looking over his trunks for a photograph, Colonel Coggswell found a letter that had come for me while I was in Massachusetts; he gave it to me, and I found the address was in Bob Shaw's writing. You can imagine how glad I was to get it. I always thought it a little strange that he had not answered my last letter. I opened it the first chance I got. It was mostly a description of his movements to Darien and other places; but at the close he spoke in a very feeling way of our friendship and intimacy, and of his happiness since his marriage. It was written on the 3rd of July; in it he asked to be remembered to Robeson, Mudge, and Tom Fox; little did he think that, at the moment he wrote, one of them was lying dead on the field of battle, and the other two suffering with mortal wounds.

The men of the regiment had a very pleasant day; they had plenty of geese and turkeys for dinner, and in the evening the brigade band came down from Tullahoma, and gave them some music. I am glad that our men have each been able to keep this day somewhat as if they had been at home.

I stayed next morning and saw guard mounting done as it is done nowhere else, and then rode back here again.

_______________

* The battles of Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain.

SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 158-60

Lieutenant-Colonel Rutherford B. Hayes to Lucy Webb Hayes, Sunday Night, March 30, 1862

Raleigh, March 30, 1862. Sunday night.

Dearest: — I received your good letters tonight. I will recollect Will De Charmes and do what I can properly, and more too. I wish you and the boys and Grandma were here tonight to enjoy the sacred music of our band. They are now full (eighteen) and better than ever. The regiment is also strong and looks big and effective. Eight companies on dress parade looked bigger than the regiment has ever seemed since we left Camp Chase. The service performed the last ten days, breaking up bushwhackers and Governor Letcher's militia musters, is prodigious. They have marched in snow four to six inches deep on the mountains sixty-five miles in three days, and look all the better for it. — Much love to Grandma and the dear boys.

Ever so lovingly yours,

R.

I hear of Lippett's arrest and Whitcomb's death; both sad for families, but Lippett better have gone into the army and been killed.

Mrs. Hayes.

SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 219-20

Major Wilder Dwight: December 25, 1861

camp Hicks, December 25, 1861, Christmas Morning.

Dear Mother, —  “A merry Christmas,” said I to myself, for want of a larger family-circle, as I put my head out into the morning while reveillé was rousing the camp. And into a brisk, crisp morning did I walk as I stepped from my tent. The moon had not yet lost its flame, though the east was warming to receive the coming sun. A light fall of snow, sent by Heaven to gladden the day, had whitened tents and ground alike. Soon the sun kindled it into a Christmas glisten and sparkle. Yes, the scene was the traditional holiday dress of the season. And now, as I sit and write, my ears are full of the mellow music of Auld Lang Syne from the band at guard-mounting. I believe I am somewhat sensitive to the aspects and influences of air and sky and landscape. This out-door life serves only to quicken and confirm such tendency. I am always apt to thank God for a fine day, through which everything is bright and promising. And Nature having put on her gayest winter merriment, I share her gladness. So I give you all at home a Merry Christmas in this missive, and here's a health to next Christmas with the war over.

Yet, even on this merry morning, I have a shadow, which, I hope, is a mere distemper of the fancy. It comes from the sullen aspect of the English news. I start with the faith which I cherish, that there can be no war with England unless she is obstinately bent thereon. There is no adequate cause. But all this preparation, all this arming and bluster, really gives an air of probability to the suggestion that she madly desires to seize the pretext and provoke a contest. I do hope not; for, with fair play, we are sure, in the opening spring, of rapid, inspiriting, honorable success. Witness McCall's cleverly managed affair at Drainsville. Its conception and execution alike skilful. It contains proof, too, that our superior armament and equipment will tell on every fair field

The incidents of the last year have frightened me out of what little tendency to prophecy I may have had; but nothing save this cloud from England could dispirit the hope with which I look forward to our coming contest with the Rebellion

Will not our day come for a chance at the enemy? Again I hope. There is no news. I am busy about the Examining Board; I am assailed by several perplexities within the regiment; I am ennuied with inaction. But I am well, and, on the whole, content. I am glad you should have a visit from Colonel William.

My sergeant says : “I saw your brother, Colonel Dwight, at the office, sir! He's a splendid officer, sir!” So echo I. Love and good wishes to all.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 180-1

Diary of Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle: Sunday, April 26, 1863

At 11.30 A.M., M'Carthy drove me in his buggy to see the San Pedro spring, which is inferior in beauty to the San Antonio spring. A troop of Texan cavalry was bivouacked there.

We afterwards drove to the “missions” of San José and San Juan, six and nine miles from the town. These were fortified convents for the conversion of the Indians, and were built by the Jesuits about one hundred and seventy years ago. They are now ruins, and the architecture is of the heavy Castilian style, elaborately ornamented. These missions are very interesting, and there are two more of them, which I did not see.

In the afternoon I saw many negroes and negresses parading about in their Sunday clothes — silks and crinolines — much smarter than their mistresses.

At 5 P.M. I dined with Colonel Bankhead, who gave an entertainment, which in these hard times must have cost a mint of money. About fourteen of the principal officers were invited; one of them was Captain Mason (cousin to the London commissioner), who had served under Stonewall Jackson in Virginia. He said that officer was by no means popular at first. I spent a very agreeable evening, and heard many anecdotes of the war. One of the officers sang the Abolition song, “John Brown,” together with its parody, “I'm bound to be a soldier in the army of the South,” a Confederate marching – song, and another parody, which is a Yankee marching-song, “We'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour-apple tree.”

Whenever I have dined with Confederate officers they have nearly always proposed the Queen's health, and never failed to pass the highest eulogiums upon Her Majesty.

SOURCE: Sir Arthur James Lyon Fremantle, Three months in the southern states: April-June, 1863, p. 52-3

Diary of Sarah Morgan: July 10, 1863

Shall I cry, faint, scream, or go off in hysterics? Tell me which, quickly; for to doubt this news is fine and imprisonment, and if I really believe it I would certainly give way to my feelings and commit some vagaries of the kind. My resolution is formed! I will do neither; I won't gratify the Yankees so much. I have been banging at the piano until my fingers are weary, and singing “The Secret through Life to be Happy” until my voice is cracked; I’ll stand on my head if necessary, to prove my indifference; but I’ll never believe this is true until it is confirmed by stronger authority.

Day before yesterday came tidings that Vicksburg had fallen on the 4th inst. The “Era” poured out extras, and sundry little popguns fizzled out salutes. All who doubted the truth of the report and were brave enough to say so were fined or imprisoned; it has become a penal offense to doubt what the “Era” says; so quite a number of arrests were made. This morning it was followed up by the announcement of the capture of Port Hudson. The guns are pealing for true, and the Yankees at headquarters may be seen skipping like lambs, for very joy. And I still disbelieve! Skeptic! The first thing I know that “Era” man will be coming here to convert me! But I don't, can't, won't believe it! If it is true, — but I find consolation in this faith: it is either true, or not true, — if it is true, it is all for the best, and if it is not true, it is better still. Whichever it is, is for some wise purpose; so it does not matter, so we wait, pray, and believe.

5 o'clock, P.M. I don't believe it? What am I crying about then? It seems so hard! How the mighty are fallen! Port Hudson gone! Brother believes it. That is enough for me. God bless him! I cry hourly. He is so good and considerate. He told me, “Name your friends, and what can be done for them shall be attended to. The prisoners will be sent here. Maybe I cannot do much; but food and clothing you shall have in abundance for them when they arrive.” God bless him for his kindness!

O dear, noble men! I am afraid to meet them; I should do something foolish; best take my cry out in private now. May the Lord look down in pity on us! Port Hudson does not matter so much; but these brave, noble creatures! The “Era” says they had devoured their last mule before they surrendered.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 394-5

Diary of William Howard Russell: May 10, 1861

The cabin of one of these steamers, in the month of May, is not favorable to sleep. The wooden beams of the engines creak and scream “consumedly,” and the great engines themselves throb as if they would break through their  thin, pulse covers of pine, — and the whistle sounds, and the calliope shrieks out “Dixie” incessantly. So, when I was up and dressed, breakfast was over, and I had an opportunity of seeing the slaves on board, male and female, acting as stewards and stewardesses, at their morning meal, which they took with much good spirits and decorum. They were nicely dressed — clean and neat. I was forced to admit to myself that their Ashantee grandsires and grandmothers, or their Kroo and Dahomey progenitors were certainly less comfortable and well clad, and that these slaves had other social advantages, though I could not recognize the force of the Bishop of Georgia's assertion, that from slavery must come the sole hope of, and machinery for, the evangelization of Africa. I confess I would not give much for the influence of the stewards and stewardesses in Christianizing the blacks.

The river, the scenery, and the scenes were just the same as yesterday's — high banks, cotton-slides, wooding stations, cane brakes, —and a very miserable negro population, if the specimens of women and children at the landings fairly represented the mass of the slaves. They were in strong contrast to the comfortable, well-dressed domestic slaves on board, and it can well be imagined there is a wide difference between the classes, and that those condemned to work in the open fields must suffer exceedingly.

A passenger told us the captain's story. A number of planters, the narrator among them, subscribed a thousand dollars each to get up a vessel for the purpose of running a cargo of slaves, with the understanding they were to pay so much for the vessel, and so much per head if she succeeded, and so much if she was taken or lost. The vessel made her voyage to the coast, was laden with native Africans, and in due time made her appearance off Mobile. The collector heard of her, but, oddly enough, the sheriff was not about at the time, the United States Marshal was away, and as the vessel could no[t] be seen next morning, it was fair to suppose she had gone up the river, or somewhere or another. But it so happened that Captain Maher, then commanding a river steamer called the Czar (a name once very appropriate for the work, but since the serf emancipation rather out of place), found himself in the neighborhood of the brig about nightfall; next morning, indeed, the Czar was at her moorings in the river; but Captain Maher began to grow rich, he had fine negroes fresh run on his land, and bought fresh acres, and finally built the “Southern Republic.” The planters asked him for their share of the slaves. Captain Maher laughed pleasantly; he did not understand what they meant. If he had done anything wrong, they had their legal remedy. They wrere completely beaten; for they could not have recourse to the tribunals in a case which rendered them liable to capital punishment. And so Captain Maher, as an act of grace, gave them a few old niggers, and kept the rest of the cargo.

It was worth while to see the leer with which he listened to this story about himself. “Wall now! You think them niggers I’ve abord came, from Africa! I'll show you. Jist come up here, Bully!" A boy of some twelve years of age, stout, fat, nearly naked, came up to us; his color was jet black, his wool close as felt, his cheeks were marked with regular parallel scars, and his teeth very white, looked as if they had been filed to a point, his belly was slightly protuberant, and his chest was marked with tracings of tattoo marks.

“What's your name, sir?”

“My name Bully.”

"Where were you born?"

"Me born Sout Karliner, sar!'

“There, you see he wasn't taken from Africa," exclaimed the Captain, knowingly. "I've a lot of these black South Caroliny niggers abord, haven't I, Bully?”

“Yas, sar.”

“Are you happy, Bully?”

“Yas, sar.”

"Show how you're happy."

Here the boy rubbed his stomach, and grinning with delight, said, “Yummy! yummy! plenty belly full.”

“That's what I call a real happy feelosophical chap,” quoth the Captain. “I guess you've got a lot in your country can't at their stomachs and say, ‘yummy, yummy, plenty belly full!’”

“Where did he get those marks on his face?”

“Oh, them? Wall, it's a way them nigger women has of marking their children to know them; isn't it, Bully?”

“Yas, sar! me 'spose so!”

“And on his chest?”

“Wall, r'ally I do b'l'eve them's marks agin the smallpox.”

“Why are his teeth filed?”

“Ah, there now! You'd never have guessed it; Bully done that himself, for the greater ease of biting his vittels.”

In fact, the lad, and a good many of the hands, were the results of Captain Maher's little sail in the Czar.

“We're obleeged to let 'em in some times to keep up the balance agin the niggers you run into Canaydy.”

From 1848 to 1852 there were no slaves run; but since the migrations to Canada and the personal liberty laws, it has been found profitable to run them. There is a bucolic ferocity about these Southern people which will stand them good stead in the shock of battle. How the Spartans would have fought against any barbarians who came to emancipate their slaves, or the Romans have smitten those who would manumit slave and creditor together!

To-night, on the lower deck, amid wood fagots, and barrels, a dance of negroes was arranged by an enthusiast, who desired to show how “happy they were.” That is the favorite theme of the Southerners; the gallant Captain Maher becomes quite eloquent when he points to Bully's prominent “yummy,” and descants on the misery of his condition if he had been left to the precarious chances of obtaining such developments in his native land; then turns a quid, and, as if uttering some sacred refrain to the universal hymn of the South, says, ‘Yes, sir, they're the happiest people on the face of the airth!”

There was a fiddler, and also a banjo-player, who played uncouth music to the clumsiest of dances, which it would be insulting to compare to the worst Irish jig; and the men with immense gravity and great effusion of sudor, shuffled and cut and heeled and buckled to each other with an overwhelming solemnity, till the rum-bottle warmed them up to the lighter graces of the dance, when they became quite overpowering. “Yes, sir, jist look at them, how they're enjoying it; they're the happiest people on the face of the earth.” When “wooding” and firing up, they don't seem to be in the possession of the same exquisite felicity.

SOURCE: William Howard Russell, My Diary North and South, p. 186-9

Diary of Sarah Morgan: Thursday, April 16, 1863

Mr. Halsey brought us each a little tortoise-shell ring he had made for us by his camp-fire, as a keepsake, and of course we promised to wear them for him, particularly as they make our hands look as white as possible. Towards sunset, in spite of prayers and entreaties from Miriam, who insisted that I was too feeble to attempt it, I insisted on walking out to the bench by the river to enjoy the cool breeze; and was rather glad I had come, when soon after Dr. Capdevielle made his appearance, with two beautiful bouquets which he presented with his French bow to us; and introducing his friend, Mr. Miltonberger, entered into one of those lively discussions about nothing which Frenchmen know how to make so interesting. . . .

No sooner had they left than, to our infinite surprise, the immortal seven of Saturday night walked in. Wonder what fun they find in coming? I see none. For we rarely trouble ourselves about their presence; there are but two I have addressed as yet; one because I am forced to say yes or no to his remarks, and the other because I like his banjo, which he brought again, and feel obliged to talk occasionally since he is so accommodating, and affords me the greatest amusement with his comic songs. I was about retiring unceremoniously about twelve o'clock, completely worn out, when they finally bethought themselves of saying good-night, and saved me the necessity of being rude. Wonder if that is all the fun they have? I should say it was rather dry. It is mean to laugh at them, though; their obliging dispositions should save them from our ridicule. Last evening Mr. Halsey succeeded in procuring a large skiff, whereupon four or five of them offered to row, and took us 'way down the Tchefuncta through the most charming scenery to a spot where Echo answered us in the most remarkable way; her distinct utterance was really charming. Not being aware of the secret, I thought the first answer to the halloo was from pickets. Mr. Halsey has a magnificent voice; and the echoes came back so full and rich that soon we appointed him speaker by mutual consent, and were more than repaid by the delightful sounds that came from the woods. The last ray of the sun on the smooth waters; the soldiers resting on their oars while we tuned the guitar and sang in the still evening, until twilight, slowly closing over, warned us to return, forms another of those pictures indescribable though never to be forgotten.

SOURCE: Sarah Morgan Dawson, A Confederate Girl's Diary, p. 364-6