Night cold. ice 2 inches off. at 7. road bad 4 miles slow. rest of march fast. 1 pris. taken. 25 Rebs seen by scout. Make 12 miles. troops from Pine Bluffs with us 106th & 126th Ill. Inft & 1 sec of Negro battery
SOURCE: “Diary of John S. Morgan, Company G, Thirty-Third Iowa Infantry,” Annals of Iowa, Vol. XIII, No. 8, Third Series, Des Moines, April 1923, p. 572
Nashville, Tenn., Thursday Evening, April 7.
The present week, thus far, has been to me, full of new and thrilling experiences.
On Sabbath, the day after our arrival, I entered an ambulance and visited a camp for the first time. The company consisted of three, besides myself—Rev. Dr. D., a young theological student who is passing vacation here, and Miss T. The day was warm and springlike; the hyacinths, crocuses, and peach trees in blossom. It was the camp of the 7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and situated upon one of the hights overlooking the City. The tents were white, the soldiers well-dressed, the uniform bright and everything tidy. A new and gaily painted banner pointed out the tent of the Colonel. As we entered the grounds, that gentleman, with the Major, met us cordially, a seat was prepared for the ladies at the opening of the Colonel's tent, while a huge box in front served for a speaker's stand. The bugle then summoned such as wished to listen, and service was held by the two gentlemen of our party. Books and papers were afterward distributed, for which the soldiers seemed eager. The Colonel informed us that the Regiment had just been reorganized, and new recruits filled the vacant places in the ranks, made so by the heroes, who fell at such battles as Lookout Mountain, Mission Ridge, and Chickamauga. There is a long list of such inscribed upon this banner, of which they are justly proud.
On Monday, visited a hospital for the first time. Was accompanied by Mrs. E. P. Smith, Mrs. Dr. F. and my travelling companion Miss O, beside the driver. As the ambulance halted, we saw through the open door and windows the homesick, pallid faces raised from the sick beds to greet us with a look of pleasure. Upon entering, almost the first object was that of a dying boy. His name was John Camplin, of Co. G. 49th Illinois Vols. He was a new recruit of only seventeen, and the victim of measles. He "did'nt want to die," but, after the singing of such hymns as "Rock of Ages," and "Jesus lover of my soul," he grew more resigned. I took the card which hung in a little tin case at the head of his bed, and copied the name and address of his father. The dying boy had been watching, and he then with difficult speech asked me to write to his people and tell them "good bye,” and that he was "going home." I tried to obtain a more lengthy message to comfort them, but speech was soon denied nd reason wandered. He died a few hours after, and the sad tidings was sent next day.
Found another poor boy quite low, with pneumonia. He knew his condition, but with an heroic smile upon his wasted features said, that "if" his "life would do his dear country any good" he was "willing to give it."
The Masonic Hall and First Presbyterian Church constitute Hospital, No. 8. We visited that on Tuesday.
As we enter the Hall, past the guard, we find a broad flight of stairs before us, and while ascending, perceive this caution inscribed upon the wall in evergreen.
"Remember you are in a hospital and make no noise." Up this flight, and other cautions meet us, such as "No smoking here"—" Keep away from the wall," &c. We here pause at a door, and are introduced to the matron who is fortunately just now going through the wards. It is Miss J-tt, of Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Ascending another broad flight, and asking in the meantime of her duties, she throws open the door of the linen room where are two clerks, and says:
"This department comprises all the work assigned to me whatever else I do is voluntary and gratuitous. "But today," she adds laughingly, "it would be difficult to define my duties. I think I might properly be called 'Commandant of the Black Squad,' or Chief of the Dirty Brigade;" and she explained by saying that she had seven negro women and two men, subject to her orders, who were cleaning the building. She next throws open the door of a ward which contains but a few patients, and has a smoky appearance. She tells us, they are fumigating it, having had some cases of small pox, most of which have been sent to the proper Hospital.
We pass to another, where she tells us, previous to entering, is one very sick boy. He is of a slight form, only fifteen, and with delicate girlish features. His disease is typhoid fever, from the effects of which he is now quite deaf. As we approach, he says to her faintly, "Sit down here, mother, on the side of my bed.”
She does so, when he asks her to "to bend her head down so he can tell her something." This she does, when he says, quite loud, but with difficulty;—“There's some money under my pillow, I want you to get it, and buy me some dried peaches."
"I don't want your money," she says, "but you shall have the peaches if I can get them," and she writes a note and dispatches it to the sanitary rooms for them." "This boy always calls me mother," she says, "and the first day he was brought here, he sent his nurse to ask if I would come up and kiss him. He has always been his mother's pet, and I now correspond with her on his account."
His fever is very high, and we pass our cold hand soothingly over his forehead and essay to speak words of cheer, and as we turn to leave, he looks up pleadingly and says:
"Can't you kiss me?"
"Yes, indeed, I can—am glad to do so," and we press our own to his burning lips and receive his feverish, unpleasant breath, not a disagreeable task though, for all, when we remember that he is the pet of his mother, who misses him so very much, and who may never look upon her boy again.
Of one-a middle-aged, despondent looking man we ask cheerily, how he is to-day.
"About the same," he replies coldly, but with a look which is the index of a thought like this:
Oh, you don't care for us or our comfort,—you are well, and have friends, and home, probably near you, and you cannot appreciate our suffering, and only come here to satisfy an idle curiosity."
He does not say this, but he thinks it, and we read the thought in the voice, manner, and countenance. We determine to convince him of his mistake, if possible, notwithstanding he looks as if he prefers we should walk along and leave him alone.
"Were you wounded?" we ask.
"No-sick," was the short gruff answer.
"Your disease was fever was'nt it?" we persist," your countenance looks like it."
"Yes, fever and pneumonia,” he replies in the same cold, but despairing tone.
"Ah-but you're getting better now."
"Don't know about it—reckon not."
"Well, how is it about getting letters from home?"
His countenance, voice and manner undergo a sudden change now, and his eyes overrun with tears, at the simple words "letters from home."
And as he raises his hand to his mouth, to conceal its quivering, he tells us with tremulous voice that he has sent three letters to his wife and can get no answer. She has left the place where they used to live, and he does not know certainly where to direct. We ask who we can write to, to find out, and learn that a sister would know. We take the probable address of the wife, and that of the sister, and after some farther conversation leave him looking quite like another man as we promise to write to each in the evening. (Subsequently, we learned that he received a reply to both, and was comparatively cheerful and very grateful.)
Down stairs, and we enter a ward on the first floor. Here is a thin sallow visage, the owner of which piteously asks if we "have any oranges," "No," but we provide means, by which he can purchase.
"I'm from North Carolina," he says, "I hid in the woods and mountains and lived on roots and berries for weeks, before I could get away."
In reply to our query as to whether he would like a letter written home, he informs us that his wife and father arrived in town only a few days ago,
"Then you have seen them," we say.
"Yes, they both visit me, but my wife comes oftenest."
Just now, his nurse, a young man who should know better, interrupts him by telling us that "it isn't so, and his family are all in North Carolina."
"That's just the way," said the sick man, turning to me with a flushed and angry look, "that they're talking to me all the time, and trying to make everybody think I'm crazy. I reckon I know whether I've seen my wife or not!"
"Of course you do," we say quietingly; "does she bring you anything nice to eat?" and we add that we wish she would come while we were there, so we could see her.
"Well, she don't bring me much to eat," he says in a weak, hollow voice, but earnestly, "she don't understand fixin' up things nice for sick folks, and then she's weakly like, but she does all she can, for she's a right gude heart. She doesn't fix up, and look like you folks do, you know," he added, “for she's sort o' torn to pieces like by this war."
“Yes, we can understand it."
Upon inquiring about this man a few moments after of the Ward-Master, we find that he is really a monomaniac upon this subject, persisting in the declaration that his wife and father visit him often though no one sees them.
"He can't live," said the Ward-Master, "he has lost all heart and is worn out. The chance of a Southerner to live after going to a hospital is not over a fourth as good as for one of our Northern boys. They can do more fighting with less food while in the field, but when the excitement is over they lose heart and die.”
We find upon several subsequent visits that he is growing weaker, and at the last when his countenance indicates that death is near, we are thankful that he is still comforted by these imaginary visits from father and wife.
We crossed the street and entered the First Presbyterian Church, which constitutes a part of the hospital. This place is notable for the promulgation of secession sentiments from its pulpit in other days. A specimen of the style was given here a short time before the entrance of our troops, by Prof. Elliott of the Seminary, who in a prayer besought the Almighty that he would so prosper the arms of the Confederates and bring to naught the plans of the Federals, that every hill-top, plain and valley around Nashville should be white with the bones of the hated Yankees!”
“After hearing this it was doubly a pleasure, in company with Miss J., another "Northern vandal," to make the walls of the old church echo to the words of "The Star Spangled Banner," with an accompaniment from the organ; and it would have done any loyal heart good to see how much pleasure it gave to the sick and wounded soldiers.
SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 13-19
Left Natchitoches at 9 o'clock p. m. on Tuesday and had a very disagreeable ride, taking all night to get to Dutchman Cumberlando to breakfast; ate a strip of bacon and a piece of corn bread for which he charged me a dollar, and that on the heels of an invective against extortions and speculators. I saw on the road to-day large numbers of negroes from the lower parishes of Louisiana whose masters were retreating from the Yankee vandals; saw the tracks of several severe whirlwinds, which have occurred in the last three weeks; was quite sick for a while this afternoon and was not improved by hearing that all stragglers and recruits belonging across the Mississippi were to be detained on this side of Red river; reached Mansfield about 4:30 this afternoon; saw two young ladies riding on horseback; they worked very hard and their arms seemed to be in their way, dangled about very ungracefully; they, however, appeared to enjoy the ride very much.
SOURCE: John Camden West, A Texan in Search of a Fight: Being the Diary and Letters of a Private Soldier in Hood’s Texas Brigade, p. 28
WASHINGTON, Jan. 6, 1851.
MY DEAR MR. COMBE, — . . . I have nothing to write on political subjects that can afford any gratification to a humanity-loving man. In 1848, there was a great inflowing of the sentiment of liberty, both in Europe and in this country. You have already experienced the ebbing of that tide in Europe, and it has receded as much relatively in this hemisphere as in yours. Notwithstanding the inherent and radical wickedness of some of the compromise measures, as they were called, yet the most strenuous efforts are making by the Administration to force the Whig party to their adoption and support. It is a concerted movement between those who are ready to sacrifice liberty for office and those who are ready to make the same sacrifice for money. From the day of Mr. Webster's open treachery and apostasy (if indeed he had political virtue enough to be an apostate), he has been urging the idea upon New England Whigs, that, if they could give up freedom, they might have a tariff. This has wrought numberless conversions among those who think it a sin not to be rich. They say in their hearts, "The South wants cotton to sell, and must have negroes to produce it; we want cotton to manufacture, and so we must have negroes to raise it: slavery is equally indispensable to us both." So both are combining to uphold it. Before Texas was annexed, the whole Democratic party at the North denounced it. As soon as that was done, they wheeled round like a company of well-drilled soldiers at the word of command, and supported it. I fear the great body of the Whig party will do no better as regards these infamous proslavery measures. Party allegiance here has very much the effect of loyalty with you. It has the power to change the nature of right and wrong. I profess to belong to none of the parties. I have given in my adherence to certain great principles; and by them I stand, not only in independence, but in defiance of parties. I should like to send you a copy of my letters. I will do so as soon as I can find an opportunity. . . .
SOURCE: Mary Tyler Peabody Mann, Life of Horace Mann, p. 346
Near Jackson, Miss., July 11th, 1863.
On the 6th of July,
at about 3 o'clock p. m., we fell into line and started for the Big Black
River, distant about two miles. The Rebels had shown themselves in considerable
force on the opposite bank, and had engaged our skirmishers from rifle pits,
which were dug close to the river bank, and were concealed by a thick growth of
small cane, killing and wounding several of our men. Their force was unknown to
us, the river fifteen to twenty feet deep, the banks level, and, on the other
side, covered with a heavy growth of timber.
Bridges must be
built, and the hazardous task was assigned to the First Brigade. In crossing a
level stretch of cleared land, by looking back, I could see the whole brigade
in motion, winding along like a huge serpent and extending nearly a mile in
length, and a feeling of pride and exultation surged over me as I saw, once
more, the grand old Ninth Corps advancing on our country's foe, and led, too,
by the glorious Seventeenth.
On arriving at the
river we formed in line behind a bank, thickly covered with brush, and awaited
the darkness of night before beginning our task.
At dusk each
regiment was formed into reliefs, for fatigue duty, and the work of building
began.
Contrary to our
expectations, no opposition was offered. A raft was built on which skirmishers
were carried over, but they found no enemy. As soon as they discovered our
determination to cross, they fell back toward Jackson. We built our bridge, and
crossed the next day, July 7th, at 12 m. A deserter told us they had heard of
the surrender of Vicksburg, and had left in haste. Quite a number of mules and
beef cattle were left behind, and were taken in charge by our Quartermaster.
Here our advance assumed somewhat the nature of a forced march. We halted but a
few minutes at a time, and continued, until nearly midnight, to feel our way.
Our first day's march, after crossing the river, was over a rough, broken
country, covered by a thick growth of timber, which afforded a grateful shade,
alternated by open stretches of cleared land, where the sun beat down upon us
in all its fierceness. Many of our men fell out; several were sunstruck, two of
whom died in a few minutes. On our previous short marches we had been greatly
inconvenienced by the scarcity of water, but we had now to travel thirty miles
through a country almost destitute of springs or streams, the inhabitants
depending on cisterns and artificial ponds for themselves and stock. I have not
seen a well of water in Mississippi. The negroes tell us we will not find a
drop of water for thirteen miles for man or beast. The long-continued drought
has nearly exhausted cisterns and dried up most of the artificial ponds. We
could only push ahead and trust in providence. But we were not left to perish, for
that very night we marched into camp in the midst of one of the heaviest
thunder showers I ever witnessed. It seems to me as much a miracle as the
"Smiting of the rock for the Children of Israel." And I thanked God
and took courage. That, and the frequent showers that followed, saved thousands
of men and horses from perishing of thirst. As often happens when large bodies
of troops are in motion, our supply train did not come up, and the second
morning from the river found us with empty haversacks. Unlike Virginia, this
part of Mississippi abounds in cattle and hogs, and the ravines around our camp
were soon converted into slaughter houses, from which our men supplied
themselves with meat. We stayed here until 2 o'clock p. m. for the train to
came up; half rations were issued, and we resumed our march, and kept it up
until midnight. This was a hard day for men and horses, owing to the scarcity
of water and the excessive heat. A number of men died of sunstroke, anl
twenty-five horses were found dead. Not a man of the Seventeenth has died,
although several were compelled to fall out. As for myself, I marched near the
head of the regiment all day, and was ready for a like excursion the next
morning. We camped that night within five miles of Jackson, and our advance had
already skirmished with their pickets, who had slowly fallen back. We were
aroused at 4 in the morning, drew four days' rations, and a little after 5 were
on the move, cautiously feeling our way to avoid surprise. We marched in this
way about two miles, when the enemy was discovered about three-fourths of a
mile ahead, in a cornfield, drawn up in line of battle. Smith's division formed
quickly to oppose them, artillery was ordered to the front, and every
preparation was made for an engagement, but, before our artillery could be
brought to bear, they fell back to the left of the city and took up a position
in a piece of timber.
About a mile from
that place we halted and prepared again for battle. Rebel cavalry could be seen
hovering near our left, while a strong force of infantry could plainly be seen
in the woods in front of us. Our brigade the First—was ordered to the front,
and formed in line of battle, supported by the Third Brigade. The Forty-fifth
Pennsylvania and Second Michigan deployed as skirmishers about forty rods in
advance of us. They moved cautiously about one hundred yards, when the enemy
fired on them, wounding four. This was a signal for an advance. We had formed
in a cornfield, and advanced at 2:30 p. m. The sky was cloudless; not a breath
of air was stirring. Our course, after emerging from the cornfield, lay across
a level pasture. We advanced steadily, but the Rebels fell back as we
approached, firing occasionally, until dark, when we halted in the wood until
morning, sleeping on our arms. Soon after daylight we were up and after them,
keeping, all this time, our line of battle. As we emerged into an open field we
were saluted by a volley that passed harmlessly over our heads. This was their
parting salute, for they immediately retired behind their fortifications, and
we took up the position assigned us on the left of the city.
I have written these
sketches as I could snatch a moment here and there, a few lines at a time.
SOURCE: David Lane,
A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 64-8
WE are nearly out of
sight of land. Wild ducks and geese cover the water. The sun is just coming up,
and seems to me I never saw such a lovely morning. Besides the ducks and geese
on the water, the air is full of them, some alighting on the water and others
rising from it. They are so tame they only get out of the way of the boat, and
if shooting was allowed, hundreds could be shot from where I stand. I am sore
and stiff from my run to catch the boat, but I am thankful to be here and take
in these new sights on this glorious morning. Chaplain Parker is on board and
is pointing out places and vessels, and helping us to enjoy it all.
11 a. m. We are
sailing over the spot where the Monitor and Merrimac fought. An eye-witness who
is on board has been giving a vivid description of it, to which I listened with
the deepest interest.
Noon. We have landed
at Newport News; so they call it, but there are only a few shanties in sight,
and beside each one is a huge pile of oyster shells. The boys are here, having
been brought off from the Arago, which lies off shore. Oysters are plenty and
cheap, and I am full of them, the best I ever tasted, fresh from the water, and
so large many of them make two good mouthfuls. The Monitor, which saved the day
when the Merrimac came out of the James River, lies near by, and the wrecks of
the Cumberland and Congress which were sunk, show above the water. The Arago
lies just outside and at 2 P. M. we go on board. The only white men I have seen
are soldiers. The negroes and their shanties are all I can see of Newport News.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 61-2
Reached the
"City of the Falls" in the night. Left the boat about six this
morning, took a hasty breakfast at the “National,” then a hack for the depot,
calling at the office of Provost Marshal to secure passes on train to
Nashville. Am pleasantly impressed with Louisville. A pretty green plot in
front of private residences, even if quite small, with linden, ailanthus and
magnolia trees, are peculiarities of the city. It is too early for the foliage
of the trees to be seen, but the deep green, thick grass and the blossoms of
the daffodil are in striking contrast to the snow I saw in the latitude of
Chicago and Buffalo only day before yesterday.
The cars are now so
crowded with soldiers en route for "the front," that it is quite
difficult for citizens to find passage. Some have to wait several days before
they can find an opportunity. Only one car is appropriated for this use, and
ladies with their escort always have the preference. Thus gentlemen who are
alone are liable to be left, As we were leaving the "National" this
morning a gentleman rushed out and inquired if we were going to take the
Southern train, and if there was only one gentleman to the two ladies. He
"begged pardon—knew he was a stranger—wished to go to Bowling Green his
wife was sick and he had written her he would be home to-day. If the ladies
would be so kind as to pass him along, and if the gentleman would step with him
into the office he could convince him, through the keeper of the
"National," that he was a man of honor,” Mr. R. referred the matter
to the ladies. They decided to take under their protecting wing the lone
gentleman and see him safe home if the interview with the landlord, with whom
Mr. R. was fortunately acquainted, should prove satisfactory. It was so, and
Mr. Moseby—not the guerilla as himself informed us—entered the hack. He had
"taken the oath of allegiance," he said, and "lived up to it,
but had a right to his own thoughts."
Upon arriving at the
depot found the ladies' car locked, and we were left standing by it while the
two gentleman looked after the baggage. Mr. R. was not to accompany us farther.
Soon an elderly, pale-looking man, with a white neck-tie, came up, who asked if
we each had a gentleman travelling with us. We hesitated and evaded the
question. This was being in too great demand altogether. It was not even
included in Mr. R.'s list of our duties. He "was really hoping we had not,
and that one of us would take pity on an old man and pass him along."
His fatherly look
and manner banished selfishness, and he was told to wait until the gentlemen
returned, and we would see about it. As they did so Mr. Moseby stepped up and
cordially shook hands with the old man, calling him “Judge." But all
Southerners are styled judges, captains, colonels or generals, thought I, and
this one is an honest old farmer nevertheless. As Mr. M. assured us that he was
"all right," and a "man of honor," I told him he might
occupy half of my seat in the car. But it was not long before I found that my
poor old farmer was no less a personage than Judge Joseph R. Underwood, one of
the most noted men and pioneers of Kentucky. He has been Judge of the Supreme
Court of that State six years, a United States Representative for ten years and
a Senator for six.
A spruce little
Captain came through to examine military passes before the cars started. Quite
a number of citizens were left as usual, and as we were moving off I heard one
young man exclaim in desperation that he would "go right back to the city
and marry." The gentlemen congratulated themselves upon their good fortune,
and the subject elicited the following incidents:
A gentleman of Mr.
M.'s acquaintance could get no admission to the cars, no lady would take him
under her care, and he asked the baggage agent if he might get in the baggage
car. That functionary said he had orders to admit no one. "Then you'll not
give me permission, but if I get in will you put me out?"
No answer was made,
but the agent walked away, and the man, thinking like children, that
"silence gives consent," entered the baggage car and remained.
Another gentleman, a
merchant of Bowling Green, by name F—— C——, could get no chance to ride. But
fortunately having on a blue coat, in desperation he stepped up to a man with
the two bars on his shoulder who was putting his soldiers aboard, and said with
a pleading look and tone:
"Captain, can't
you lengthen out my furlough just two days longer?"
"No," said
the Captain, in a quick authoritative tone, "you've been loafing 'round
these streets long enough, in with you," and he made a motion as if he
would materially assist his entrance if he didn't hurry.
“Well, if I must I
must, but its hard, Captain."
"No more
words," was the short reply, "in with you.” Another was related by an
eye witness. A lady who was travelling alone was about stepping into the car,
when a gentleman, who was trembling with anxiety lest he should be left,
stepped up and offered to take her box. He did so, and stepping in behind was
allowed a seat by her side, cautiously retaining the box. He had two comrades
equally desirous of securing a passage, who had seen his success. One of them
stepped to the car window and whispered him to pass out the box. It was slyly
done, and the gentleman marched solemnly in with the weighty responsibility.
The box went through the window again, and again walked in at the door, until
it must have been thoroughly "taken in" as well as the guard.
Just out of the city
we passed a camp and saw soldiers lying under the little low "dog
tents" as they are called, and in the deep,
clay mud, while only a few rods distant was a plenty of green sward. Any
officer who would compel his men to pitch tents where those were ought to be
levelled to the ranks.
I saw for the first
time to-day, fortifications, stockades, riflepits, and mounted cannon at the
bridges. We passed over the battle-ground of Mumfordsville, and saw the burnt
fences and the levelled trees which were to obstruct the march of our troops,
and the building which was used by them as a hospital. In the deep cut passes
one sees suddenly the picturesque figure of a negro soldier, far above upon the
heights, who with shining uniform and glittering bayonet stands like a statue,
guarding the portals of liberty. At the fortifications are sign-boards upon
which are printed in large letters, "Please a drop a paper," while perhaps
half a dozen hands point to it as the train whirls past. Some papers were
thrown out. There were other things which had for our Northern eyes the charm
of novelty. A half respectable or squalid farm-house, with a huge chimney upon
the outside, and with a huddle of negro quarters. Also negro women with turbans
upon their heads, working out of doors, and driving teams—in one case on a load
of tobacco, while driving a yoke of oxen. The total absence of country
school-houses, and the squalid and shiftless appearance of the buildings and
people at the depots, are in striking contrast to the neat little towns of the
Northern and Eastern States. The scenery is fine, much of the soil good, and
the water-power extensive. Nature has dealt bountifully with Tennessee and
Kentucky, but the accursed system of slavery has blasted and desolated the
land, and both races, black and white, are reaping the mildewed harvest.
I find my honorable
companion very entertaining and instructive. I am indebted to him for many
items of interest, both concerning the early settlers, and also the modern
history of the places we pass. His personal history is full of interest, and is
one more proof that early poverty is not necessarily a barrier to honor and
position. The Judge was given away by his parents to an uncle, who educated
him, gave him five dollars and told him he must then make his own way in the
world. Another uncle lent him a horse, and he set out to seek his fortune as
lawyer and politician. He has in trust the fortune of an eccentric old
bachelor, which is known in Warren County as the Craddock fund. Three-fourths
of this is used to educate charity children, while the other fourth pays the
Judge for his care of the fund. His friend Captain C., while upon his
death-bed, sent for the drummer and fifer to play tunes in the yard, and from
those selected such as he wished played at his funeral. He was buried with military
honors.
“Muldroughs-Hill"
which we saw, is a long ridge extending about one hundred miles from the mouth
of Salt-River to the head of Rolling-Fork. It was named from an early settler
who lived twenty miles from the others, and was farthest west. Rolling-Fork is
a tributary of Salt-River. The origin of the term "going up
Salt-River" originated at a little place we passed, now called
Shepherdsville. It has only four or five hundred inhabitants. But in its early
days its salt licks supplied all the Western country with salt, and was a
growing aspirant for popularity, as it invited so much trade. It was a rival of
Louisville, but unlike that, made no provision for its future well-being, but
depended on its present worth alone. "Thus," moralized the Judge, “do we often see two young
men start out with equal advantages, and find afterward that one became a
Shepherdsville, and the other a Louisville." Now there is a bridge at
Shepherdsville guarded by cannon, then there was no bridge and ferry-boats were
used. It was not a smooth stream, and to cross, one must row up the river some
one hundred rods before heading the boat to the opposite shore. Owing to the
rapidity of the current, it was hard rowing, and great strength was needed.
There were those engaged in the making of salt who were called kettle-tenders,
and who for the most part were a low, rough set, being often intoxicated and
quarrelsome. Two of these having a fight, the victor finished with the
triumphant exclamation of There, I've rowed you up Salt River!"
Lincoln's
birth-place is near this, in the adjoining County of Larue—although this was
not the name at the time of his birth. And how little did the mother of Lincoln
think, as she taught him the little she knew of books, that the people in the
vicinity would ever have cause to exclaim of him, in relation to his rival for
the Presidency, as they do of the successful politician—" he has rowed him
up Salt River !"
There is a little
river called "Nolin," which waters his birth-place. It was so named
from the fact that in the early settlement upon its banks a man named Linn was
lost in the woods, and never found. He was probably killed by the Indians. But
the neighbors searched for several days, and at night met at a place upon its
banks, calling to each other as they came in, "No Linn"—" No
Linn, yet."
The Judge has
carried lead in his body for over fifty years, received in the war of 1812. He
was in the battle on the Maumee river called Dudley's defeat. The regiment,
under Dudley, had crossed the river to take cannon of the enemy, which they
succeeded in doing, but instead of returning they pursued them two or three
miles, leaving a few behind to protect the captures. But a detachment of the
enemy passed around in their rear, retook the cannon, and when the regiment
returned, their retreat was cut off, and all were taken prisoners and obliged
to run the gauntlet. About forty were killed in running the gauntlet. The Judge
saw that the line of men which had formed at a little distance from, and
parallel with the river, had a bend in it, and that if he ran close to the guns
they would not dare fire for fear of hitting their own men. The Indians were
armed with guns, tomahawks, and war clubs. In that day the gun was accompanied
with what was called the "wiping-stick," which was a rod made of hickory
notched, and wound with tow, and used to clean the gun. He escaped by receiving
a whipping with some of those sticks. It was the last gauntlet ever run in the
United States. During the trip I had quite a spirited but good-natured
discussion upon the condition of the country, with Mr. M., who I found is
really a strong rebel sympathizer. He worships Morgan since his late raid into
Ohio, and secretly cherishes his picture in his vest pocket. Just before
reaching Bowling Green, where we were to separate, the fatherly old Judge took
a hand of each in his own, and with moisture in his eyes and a tremor in his
voice, said:
"My children,
you represent the two antagonistic positions of the country, and like those, do
not rightly understand each other, on account of sectional prejudices. And now
let an old man who has watched the growth of both sections, who has, as he
trusts, fought for their good in the field, the desk, and senate, join your
hands in the grasp of good fellowship, and oh, how sincerely I wish that I
could bring also together the North and South in one lasting peace!"
Soon after, he
pointed out his residence—the cars stopped, and we parted with our pleasant
friends.
Reached the
"City of the Rocks" about five, this P. M. Shall wait to see more of
it, before making note of impressions.
SOURCE: Elvira J.
Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a
Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at
Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 5-12
During the latter
part of February we were ordered with the Fourteenth Virginia Infantry
to fall back to the left flank of Mulberry Island, some four or five miles in
rear of our former position.
Mulberry Island is
the nearest water battery on the north side of the James River to Newport News,
and mounts seven or eight heavy guns. It is supported by the Day's Point
battery, on the south side of the James, mounting seventeen guns. Magruder, as
soon as we reached this place, sent us six hundred negroes to throw up heavy
fortifications. Our position here is quite a strong one; on our left flank is
the Warwick River, on our right is a deep marsh and the heavy battery at
Mulberry Island; in our front is a broad, open field, our guns commanding it.
Reinforced by the Fifth Louisiana Infantry.
SOURCE: William S.
White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 111
Awakened by the guard
at 4 a. m.; at daylight go on the street receiving a small day's ration, the
fourth issue since our capture. Rain is over; we are delighted to get out-door.
I shall not soon forget the morning. We are starting on a long, tedious journey
southward dependent on the mercies of enemies whom we had justly counted
barbarous in respect to the motives of the war they precipitated and are
needlessly waring. The fates of many seem desperate. How many of this long line
of Unionists will return to their Northern homes! How many and who of us will
sleep the last sleep in the far South!
We pass two large
buildings used as hospitals which appear filled. It was an hour and a half
before we reach the cars, a long train of flat and box. I take a seat on the
bottom of a flat. At 10 a. m. we start on a new road from Danville, Va., to
Greenboro, N. C., 48 miles. A guard near me, a man about 55 years old, ventured
to say that he believed the South missed it in going to war; it was not true
that they were forced to it. He believed President Lincoln just such a man as
Henry Clay in his principles, and he was a Clay man all his life.
"That is so,
the South can settle with Abraham Lincoln as easily as with any living
man," I replied. He said:
"I believe
it."
"Then why do we
find you with your gun in the Rebel service?"
"Because I had
to be somewhere; I enlisted in the militia, rather be here than fighting. Had I
not gone in they'd 'scripted me and sent me to the front; but being pretty old
and willing, they have me to do such duty as this."
"How do you
expect to come out with this war and how long will it last?"
"There's no
telling, not right away; there will be some right smart fights before you get
Richmond."
"Will they give
up then?"
"Well, no; I
reckon— it's the hardest place we've got; I reckon it can't be taken."
"Clinging to
Richmond will only continue the war until we completely besiege it; the
shortest way to end it, unless the whole South lay down their arms."
"You are
divided in the North; we think you will get sick of fighting. Heaps o' people
believe you to be a hard race; they want to get rid of you. This is what we
people are told."
"If the South
wants to settle as it is claimed they do, why don't they lay down their arms
and ask for terms?"
"That's it;
they no more want peace than they did when they commenced."
Looking about him,
he said: "Plenty of men have been put in prison and hung for saying what
they believed, they'd send me to the front sure for what I have said."
"We must have
Union and liberty as the ultimate result of this war, or there is no salvation
for North or South. The triumph of the South would be the greatest calamity
that could befall; our triumph the blessing of both."
"You're
right."
"Then as a
Union man whose election do you prefer this fall?” "I think Lincoln is a
good man."
This was an
interesting conversation; I am really in the Confederacy in conversation with a
Union man but a Rebel soldier. After going 25 miles we were ordered off the
train, there being a piece of road six miles not completed. We moved off across
the plantation till we came to a road. Long trains loaded with army supplies
driven by the raggedest negroes I ever saw, began to meet us as we went on the
road. It was amusing to hear their answers as to the distance to the railroad, which
the men were frequently asking. It was very hot several men died on this short
march. We reached the road about 4 p. m. and waited for the train. I was here
introduced to James B. Hawks of the 7th Michigan, by Thompson, which was the
beginning of a new friendship. Hawks had the advantage of a collegiate
education, and pleased us with several declamations still fresh in his memory
although he had endured the hardships of the peninsular campaign. A pile of
supplies lay beside the road. A group of ladies and men came to look at us
though there was few houses in sight. Just dark the train backed up with
several hundred soldiers for Lee's army. Here as at Charlotteville a few
contemplated escape if possible, should we remain after dark. But by dark we
were all driven on board. The order was "Shoot every man that tries to get
out," so Boodger and I were again flanked. It was midnight before we
started. As to the mode of our lodging we were like the Dutchman's hen that
stood up and set.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 49-50
As it grew daylight
we arrived at Greenboro, N. C., a pleasant place, appropriately named, I judge,
for the beauty of the scene cheered and made me forget I was not on a pleasure
trip. The village is full of green trees and flower gardens, splendidly located
in a slightly undulating, but not hilly region. Away to the west the Blue Ridge
appeared like a panorama. We stopped near a large, thickly wooded park charming
as the original forest. The wide streets, rows of green trees glistening with
dew as the sun shone on them, the morning songs of birds, and the people on the
street and those that came to look at us as though we were a caravan of strange
animals again made us think of lost liberty. The people appeared anxious to
talk but were prevented. The soldiers said a strong Union feeling existed. I
judge they are tolerable compromisers. We left Greenboro at 8 p. m.; while
there I traded by hat cord for three biscuits with a Rebel soldier going to the
front. Thompson and I call it breakfast. From here to Salisbury we halted at
three stations; the people appeared kindly disposed, mannerly, our folks like.
At one station a citizen gave the boys a few cakes. I find human nature is the
same everywhere. Men may differ widely in opinion, still they are alike. Today
we can forgive or embrace what yesterday we fought. Whoever we meet and
wherever we meet them, we see something of ourselves reflected. This is
consoling in circumstances like these; so if we love ourselves we must love our
enemies. Man is a curious compound of many animate beings with an additional
quality higher and better.
"His nature none can o'errate, and none
Can under rate his merit."
At Salisbury we
stopped two hours. Men and women came out to talk but were not freely allowed.
One family inquired for Pennsylvanians, stated that they formerly lived in that
State, and sent two little negro girls to bring us water, but were finally
forbidden intercourse. Here is a prison where many Union officers and Union
citizens and newspaper correspondents are confined. At 6:30 p. m. we reach
Charlotte, 93 miles south of Greenboro and were marched a mile and camped.
After dark we drew a day's ration of hard bread and bacon; had had nothing for
36 hours.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 50-1
Another night
cramped up on the cars; another night of painful nipping at napping amidst the
roar, the heat and jogging of the train. Everybody wanted to lie down, but
everybody was in the way; everybody wanted to straighten out, but no one could.
Once in a while one lifts his aching legs over heads and bodies, or stands up
to straighten them. Oh, the weary night, the sweat, the heated air of the car,
wherein were jammed 80 men till no more could get in, with the doors closed. It
is sickening to endure! Not a drop of water to cool thirst, not a moment of
ease for weary bodies; no rest for aching heads; not an overdose of patience
for one another. Morning came and we were still rolling on through the pine,
the barren waste, the plantation, with its mansion aloof, and slave huts; the
thatched roof shanty of poor white, and now and then halting at small stations
"to feed the hoss."
Villages of any
account are far apart. At all these places the negro is chief; Nig does the
work, eats the poorest victuals, is an all around man. At every depot, every
shed, wood pile and water tank, the darky "am de man." He engineers,
fires, he brakes. This animal runs the Confederacy. Everything is very unlike
our Northern routes, in wood, in field, in civilization. It appears to me like
"Reducing the white man to the level of the negro “—indeed it does, Jeff!”
These motley crowds, these black white faces, these white black faces, look
like amalgamation, you conservators of an oligarchial, doomed institution upon
which you seek to rear an oligarchy!
At 6 a. m. the
whistle blows at Macon, Ga., and we stop. The doors open and a few slide to the
ground to straighten out, to limber up and to try and get a drink; but few
succeeded in getting out, however. A citizen told me the population of Macon
was 20,500. It is located in a basin formed by sloping hills around it, near
the Ocmulgee River. At 7:30 a. m. we start southward towards Americus about 70
miles south. The country is more thickly inhabited, is a richer region. Fort
Valley is 30 miles south of Macon. Here were plenty of customers for anything
we had to sell. Men came out with corn bread to exchange for wallets and it
didn't take them long to "get shut on't"; both sexes, all colors, all
grades. We were not the first load of "hyenas" that had gone down, so
they did not come out to see the show, but wanted to know "Whar you'ns all
from" and to traffic. It began to be hinted that we were not going to
Americus, where the guard had told us our prisoners are; that it is a splendid
camp, greensward, beautiful shade trees, nice tents and a right smart river,
those that had "been thar a heep o' times with you'ns fellers." We
had hoped that such might be our lot; but now everyone was wonderfully
ignorant. When asked they would say, "can't tell you sar." At
Oglethorpe I asked a citizen how far it was to Americus.
"Oh, right
smart, I reckon; you'ns not going thar though."
"Where are we
going?" I asked another.
"Oh, just down
thar where all o' you'ns fellers goes."
"How far?"
"Right smart
bit, I reckon."
"Well, how many
miles?"
"Good bit, fo'
mile, reckon—you'ns got any rings?"
"What
place?"
"Andersonville,
they call it I reckon."
"How do they
fare?"
"Right good—don't
know; die mighty fast, I har."
A gentleman of
leisure said, "You bet they do.”
"It is a hard
place, is it?"
"You will see
all you want to see before long"
"Have shelter,
of course?"
"Guess
so-you'll see, pretty soon.”
Heaving a long sigh
we cursed their blasted Confederacy and black infamous cause, then took it
cool. In 30 minutes the train halted again. There was a newly built storehouse
consisting of pine slabs set up on end, and appearances of a hastlily constructed
military station. Preparations were made to disimbark. I looked out, saw but
one house in the place, country looked barren, uninviting. About half a mile
east was a large pen filled with men. At a glance I caught a view of thousands
of prisoners; ragged, rusty blankets put up in all conceivable modes to break
the blistering sun rays. It was a great mass of grim visages, a multitude of
untold miseries. It reminded me first of a lately seared fallow, then a foul
ulcer on the face of nature, then of a vast ant hill alive with thousands of
degraded insects. The degradation that pervades the lowest and meanest beings
in nature struck me as beneficent compared with the desperately barbarous
conditions imposed upon the inmates of those roofless walls. Not a shed or a
sheltering tree was in the place. Some whose senses were not benumbed,
exclaimed, "My God that is the place, see the prisoners; they will not put
us in there, there is no room! By this time men were getting off and straggling
along the sandy road to the prison. About half way we halted to form and an
officer on horseback met us heading a new guard. "Git into fo's
thar," was the order. We moved to the right near the south side of the
prison near Captain Wirz's headquarters, and formed into detachments of 270 in
charge of sergeants. We were suffering from thirst, heat, hunger, fatigue.
Presently the commandant of the prison with a lieutenant and sergeant came down
the line. I asked to go to the creek and fill some canteens, pleading our
suffering condition. In a passion, pistol in hand, the officer turned with a
ferocious oath, putting the pistol to my nose saying, “I'll shoot you if you
say dot again." Stepping back he yelled:
"If another man
ask for water I shoot him."
To the left a poor
fellow had squat in the ranks. This officer whom I found to be Captain Wirz,
rushed upon him with an oath, kicking him severely and yelled savagely,
"Standt up in ter ranks!"
The ground was
covered with small bushes. While waiting some worked industriously pulling and
packing in bundles to carry in for shelter. After two hours we started, but all
were forced by bayonets to drop the bushes. As the column was pouring through
the gate, a comrade said "Take a long breath North; it is the last free
air we shall breath soon." Oh, how many lingering looks and despondent
sighs were cast, as we were driven like brutes into a worse than brutish pen!
We entered the south
gate. A narrow street runs nearly through the prison from east to west, the
narrowest way. I had reached nearly midway when the column halted. Old
prisoners gathered frantically about, begging for hardtack, or something else.
The air was suffocating, the sights beheld are not to be described. The outside
view was appalling; contact a thousand times more horrible!
On my right, as we
entered, I saw men without a thread of clothing upon their dirty skeletons,
some panting under old rags, or blankets raised above them. One was trying to
raise himself; getting upon his hands and feet, his joints gave way; he pitched
like a lifeless thing in a heap, uttering the most wailful cry I ever heard.
Such things are frequent. The simile strikes me that they are like beings
scarce conscious of life, moved by a low instinct, wallowing in the filth and
garbage where they happen to be. On the left the scene was equally sickening.
The ground for several yards from the gate was wet with excrement, diarrhoea
being the disease wasting the bodies of men scarce able to move. Need I speak
of the odor? Then the wounds of eight months were visible and disgusting! We
dare not look around! At a halt we asked where are we to go? Why do they not
take us on?
"You can't get
no further; as much room here as anywhere,” said an Ohio man.
"For God's
sake," I said to the anxious gazers that thronged around asking to be
given something—"Give me just one hardtack," begged starved creatures—"stand
back and give us a chance! We have no hardtack."
Finding a spot eight
of us deposited our luggage and claimed it by right of [“]squatter
sovereignty." Eight of us are so fortunate as to have five woolen
blankets, our party consisting of Orderly Sergeant G. W. Mattison, Second
Sergeant O. W. Burton, W. Boodger, Stephen Axtel, Waldo Pinchen, H. B.
Griffith, Lloyd G, Thompson and myself. Here we took up our abode together. I
obtained three sticks split from pine, saved at the time the stockade was
opened, four and six feet long, upon which we erected three of the blankets in
the form of a tent. For these I paid 50c, each.
Nothing of the rules
and regulations of the prison were announced by the authorities, in consequence
of which, I learned after, many a man lost his life by being shot. Soon after
arriving I went to the stream to drink and wash. Being ignorant of the supposed
existence of a dead line, and, to escape the crowd, I stepped over where it was
supposed to be. Immediately I was caught by a man who drew me back shouting:
"Come out, they will shoot you!" Looking up I saw the sentries, one
on each side with their pieces fixed upon me. I then learned that the order was
to shoot any man, without a word, who steps beyond the line, or where it should
be. I was partly forced, by the crowding, into that vacancy, and partly tempted
by the clear water which was pouring through the stockade a few feet to the
west, the water in the stream appearing very filthy. With feelings of
thankfulness towards the strangers who frightened that rule into me, I shall
ever remember. I thought of the maxim in Seneca, "Let every man make the
best of his lot," and prepare for the worst. So I determined to do what I
could to inform new men of the danger at this point, for I soon learned that
nearly every day, since new prisoners had been coming in, men had been shot at
this place under the same circumstances.
After being settled
Thompson and I took a stroll to find, if possible, a better place, without
avail. Passing down the older settled and thickly crowded part where there are
small dirt huts which were early erected, I observed a man sitting under an old
tent with a book. This was unexpected. "Here is a book of poems," I
said to Thompson, halting.
"Yes, sir,
Milton's 'Paradise Lost," said he, handing it to me. He was an old
prisoner from Rosecrans army, having wintered at Danville, Va., a prisoner
since Chickamauga. He told us freely all he knew about our new world, appeared
a perfect gentleman, manifested very friendly feeling, urged us to accept his
book and call often. The mellow beam of a genial nature shone in his face.
Although we did not learn his name that day, we felt him to be a friend. I had
a paper, purchased at Augusta, having accounts of Johnston's run before
Sherman, how one of Johnston's men cried, "General, we are marching too
fast; we don't want to retreat, had rather fight." "We are not
retreating, boys, we are only falling back so Sherman won't get round our
flank," said Johnston, which I gave him.
The stockade is made
from pine trees cut, from the prison ground, into 25 feet lengthts, feet of
which is set into the ground, and the timbers are strongly pinned together.
Until last winter this was primeval forest, heavily timbered with pine. The
sentry boxes are six to eight rods apart near the top of the wall, each box
having a roof, the platform being reached by stairs. The ground is said to
contain 13 acres, including the lagoon of about two acres, which cannot be
occupied except a few islands
in the midst. A
small stream runs through from west to east. The water is nearly as black as
the mud of its mirey banks, and tastes of it, and nearly divides the camp
equally, both the north and south parts sloping towards it. There are some log
huts built by the first prisoners when the stockade was opened, from the waste
timber left on the ground. Now even the stumps have been dug up for wood. Two
large tall pines are left standing in the southeast corner; otherwise there is
not a green thing in sight. The dead line is a board laid and nailed on tops of
posts, four feet high, about six yards from the stockade. There are two gates
on the west side, north and south of the brook. Sinks are dug on the bank near
the swamp on the east side, but not sufficient to accommodate a tenth part of
the persons on the south side to which it alone is accessible; so the north
edge of the swamp, parallel with the stream, is used for the same purpose. Just
at dark two mule teams were driven with rations, to be delivered to sergeants
in charge of detachments for distribution to their men. We get two ounces of
bacon, a piece of corn bread 2x4 inches for one day. There are over 14,000 men
here, mostly old prisoners from Belle Isle, Libby and Danville prisons. The
bacon is so stale, that a light stroke from the finger knocks it to pieces,
leaving the rind in the hand.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 55-60
At 7 o'clock,
another man had been shot, lay near the creek. Brisk showers in the night; the
day is steadily hot. Rumor that 4,000 are to be sent to Cahawba, Ala. Some of
Siegel's men arrived reporting a fight with Breckenridge, in the Shenandoah
Valley, in which we got the worst. Another sentinel fires into camp this
morning with what effect I do not learn.
About 125 negroes
are here who were taken in the battle of Oolustee, Fla. When brought here there
were 200, 75 of whom have died since March. Five hundred white Union soldiers
were taken at the same time. The white officers commanding the negroes were not
allowed the usual courtesies of war and were turned in here. The most prominent
of these was Albert Bogle, a major in the 8th U. S. colored regiment to which
they belonged. He was severely wounded. No attention was paid to the wound by
Confederate surgeons who claimed to be acting under military orders. While on
his way, between here and Macon in a box car, suffering from his wound, at one
of the stations a Confederate officer fired two shots into the car seemingly
designed for him. He is an intelligent young man and bears these abuses with a
dignified composure; is still suffering from his wound, but is now improving.
He regards their attitude towards him as a fair exhibition of the insane
vindicativeness of some Southerners and their extreme rashness on the negro
question. These 200 colored men were put into squads and put under charge of
white Unionists taken at the same time and had been doing Rebel work outside,
which, it is claimed, was to keep up the prison, but some of which is said to
be on fortifications. Major Oberly says that none of the negroes who were
wounded when taken, received medical attention, and died rapidly after being
put in. The Confederates boast a fine rifle battery planted on the ridge
commanding this prison, captured at the same time. A few days ago a white
sergeant, while waiting at the gate to go out with a squad of negroes on Rebel
detail, was shot by the guard, and immediately killed, the guard pressing his
gun against his victim's breast, there being no apparent provocation for the
outrage.
This Southern
insanity on the color question is their sole reason for refusing exchange of
prisoners. These negroes appear to have an intelligent understanding of the
issues involved in this contest, often more so than some of our own people; for
I must confess that here are men of every type of ignorance, vicious and
innocent, that can exist under Northern civilization, as well as the better
class; some of the meanest outlaws found in our cities, renegades from Canada,
a plenty who are fit tools in the hands of scoundrels at the head of raiding
gangs who seek to perpetuate damnable careers; some who are naturally good but
are easily duped, under existing conditions, to join in evil pursuits. In an
assemblage like this, promiscuously drawn from a large country, if all were
honest men it would be strange indeed. But as I have thus spoken I will say
that in no community of like number is there more patriotic zeal, manhood,
virtue and intelligence than exist here.
The raiders are out
tonight before dark; assaulted a man near the gate and robbed him, it is said,
of a $100. Others interfere in his behalf and a desperate fight ensues which is
checked by the guard who threatened to fire into the crowd and the thieves got
away with the cash. Another hub-bub soon occurs.
A fellow is caught
stealing a pair of shoes and after a squabble, is tied up. No rations today.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 62-4
ATLANTA, GA., Nov.
7th, 1864.
The last train for
the North leaves here to-morrow morning. Our soldiers are scattered along the
railroad a hundred miles north, and as soon as that train passes the work of
destruction will commence. The railroad will be completely destroyed and every
bridge burned. Then both armies (the Armies of the Tennessee and the
Cumberland) will assemble here, and after destroying this city will commence
the march. I fear their track will be one of desolation.
I have been to the
R. R. depot for the past three days several times, and have witnessed many sad
and some ludicrous scenes. All citizens (white and black) begin to apprehend
that something is about to happen. The whites are alarmed, and many are leaving
the city, giving up houses, lands, furniture, negroes, and all. The blacks want
to go North, and the Car House is surrounded by them. Hundreds of cars are
literally packed with them and their dirty bundles, inside and out. Old
toothless hags, little pickaninnies, fat wenches of all shades, from light
brown to jet black, are piled up together with their old bags, bundles, broken
chairs, etc. Some are gnawing old bones, some squatted by the cars making
hoe-cakes, some crying for food. Many of the whites are as anxious to get North
as the darkies, and gladly accept a place in a car reeking with the odor
peculiar to "the American of African descent." It is a sad sight, but
I anticipate seeing many such before spring.
I wish for
humanity's sake that this sad war could be brought to a close. While laboring
to make it successful, I shall do all in my power to mitigate its horrors.
SOURCE: New York
(State). Monuments Commission for the Battlefields of Gettysburg and
Chattanooga, In Memoriam: Henry Warner
Slocum, 1826-1894, p. 98
I have just received
your letter of August twenty-seventh. Since I wrote you, Charley Ewing has gone
down, and must now be with you. I have read all your orders and of course
approve beforehand, as you, on the spot, are the competent judge. Sooner or
later the people South must resume the management of their own affairs, even if
they commit felo-de-se; for the North cannot long afford to keep armies there
for local police. Still as long as you do have the force, and the State none,
you must of necessity control. My own opinion is that self interest will soon
induce the present people of Mississippi to invite and encourage a kind of
emigration that will, like in Maryland and Missouri, change the whole public
opinion. They certainly will not again tempt the resistance of the United
States; nor will they ever reinstate the negro. The only question is when will
the change occur.
I agree with you
that if you see your way ahead in civil life, it is to your permanent interest
to resign; it don't make much difference when. You have all the military fame
you can expect in this epoch. All know your rank and appreciate you, and I
would not submit to the scrambling for position next winter if I were in your
place, unless you have resolved to stay in the army for life.
I shall be delighted
to meet you as you come up. I am now boarding at the Lindell Hotel, but expect
to go to housekeeping in a few days on Garrison Avenue, near Franklin Avenue, a
fine property, presented to me, on the outskirts of the city, where I shall be
delighted to receive you. My office is on Walnut Street, between five and six,
near the Southern Hotel.
SOURCE: New York
(State). Monuments Commission for the Battlefields of Gettysburg and
Chattanooga, In Memoriam: Henry Warner
Slocum, 1826-1894, p. 105-3
The Colonel left for Ohio to-day, to be gone two weeks.
I came from the quarters of Brigadier-General Schleich a few minutes ago. He is a three-months' brigadier, and a rampant demagogue. Schleich said that slaves who accompanied their masters to the field, when captured, should be sent to Cuba and sold to pay the expenses of the war. I suggested that it would be better to take them to Canada and liberate them, and that so soon as the Government began to sell negroes to pay the expenses of the war I would throw up my commission and go home. Schleich was a State Senator when the war began. He is what might be called a tremendous little man, swears terribly, and imagines that he thereby shows his snap. Snap, in his opinion, is indispensable to a military man. If snap is the only thing a soldier needs, and profanity is snap, Schleich is a second Napoleon. This General Snap will go home, at the expiration of his three-months' term, unregretted by officers and men. Major Hugh Ewing will return with him. Last night the Major became thoroughly elevated, and he is not quite sober yet. He thinks, when in his cups, that our generals are too careful of their men. "What are a th-thousand men," said he, "when (hic) principle is at stake? Men's lives (hic) shouldn't be thought of at such a time (hic). Amount to nothing (hic). Our generals are too d----d slow" (hic). The Major is a man of excellent natural capacity, the son of Hon. Thomas Ewing, of Lancaster, and brother-in-law of W. T. Sherman, now a colonel or brigadier-general in the army. W. T. Sherman is the brother of John Sherman.
The news from Manassas is very bad. The disgraceful flight of our troops will do us more injury, and is more to be regretted, than the loss of fifty thousand men. It will impart new life, courage, and confidence to our enemies. They will say to their troops: "You see how these scoundrels run when you stand up to them."
SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 35-6
Started before day
for Fort Donelson. Had to walk to keep from freezing. Got to the Fort about
three hours by sun. Our Regiment sent on Fort H. road to prevent reinforcements
from coming to D.
Reached our position
and the fight commenced and continued till dark. We cut the telegraph at all
points, fight resulted in capture of about 100 prisoners, 50 negroes and same
number of horses, one twelve-pound brass rifled cannon. Gun Boats came up after
dark and commenced shelling and we had to get. Came back to the Forge, two and
a half miles, and camped.
SOURCE: Ephraim
Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's
Texas Rangers, p. 6-7
As a description of
the appearance of the country in which we were settled, I here introduce a
letter written at this date to a friend:
CAMP ADVANCE, Sept. 23, 1861.
A
short time since I undertook, from a single feature in the marred and distorted
face of this country, to give you some idea of the effects of the war on
Virginia, and of how dearly she is paying for her privilege of being shamefully
servile to South Carolina. It may not be uninteresting for you, now, to know,
to know something of its general appearance as it is, and as it was; and yet
when I tell you that my attempt to describe one scene fell far short of the
reality, you may imagine something of the difficulty of undertaking, in a
single letter, to convey any adequate idea of the whole. When Gov. Pickens said
last spring to the Carolinians: "You may plant your seeds in peace, for
Virginia will have to bear the brunt of the war," he cast a shadow of the
events which were coming on the head of this superannuated "mother of
States and of statesmen."
Chain
Bridge is about seven miles from the Capitol in Washington, and crosses the
Potomac at the head of all navigation; even skiffs and canoes cannot pass for
any distance above it, though a small steam tug runs up to the bridge, towing
scows loaded, principally, with stone for the city. The river runs through a
gorge in a mountainous region, and from here to Georgetown, a suburb of
Washington, is unapproachable on the Virginia side. There are very few places
where even a single footman can, with safety, get down the precipitous banks to
the water. The river then is a perfect barrier to any advance by the enemy from
this side, except at Georgetown, Chain Bridge, and Long Bridge, at the lower
end of Washington City. On the Columbia side is a narrow plateau of land, along
which runs the Ohio and Chesapeake Canal, and a public road. These occupy the
entire plateau till you come near Georgetown, where the country opens out,
making room for fine rolling farms of exceeding fertility, with here and there
a stately mansion overlooking road, city, canal and river, making some of the
most beautiful residences I ever beheld. On Meridian Hill, a little north of
the road from Washington to Georgetown, stands the old Porter Mansion, from
which one of the most aristocratic families in America were wont to overlook
the social, political, and physical movements of our National Capital; from
which, too, they habitually dispensed those hospitalities which made it the
resort, not only of the citizens of Columbia and Maryland, but also of the F.
F. V.'s, for whom it had especial attractions. All around it speaks in
unmistakable language of the social and pecuniary condition of those who
occupied the grounds. Even the evidences of death there speak of the wealth of
the family. The tombstone which marks the place of repose of one of its
members, and on which is summed up the short historical record of her who
sleeps within, tells of former affluence and comfort.
A
little further on we pass the Kalorama House—the name of the owner or the
former occupant I have not learned, but it is one of the most magnificent
places that imagination can picture. You enter the large gate, guarded by a beautiful
white cottage for the janitor, and by a circuitous route through a dense grove
of deciduous and evergreen forest, you rise, rise, rise, by easy and gradual
ascent, the great swell of ground on which stands the beautiful mansion, shut
out from the view of the visitor till he is almost on the threshold, but
overlooking even its whole growth of forest, and the whole country for miles
around.
You
next pass Georgetown. The plateau begins to narrow, and the dimensions of the
houses grow correspondingly less, but they are distributed at shorter intervals
till you reach the bridge.
This
is what it was. What is it? In passing the Porter mansion, the stately
building, with its large piazza shaded by the badly damaged evergreens, and
covered more closely by the intermingling branches of every variety of climbing
rose, of the clamatis and the honeysuckle, invite you to enter, but the seedy
hat and thread-bare coat appearance of the old mansion, give notice that the
day of its prosperity is passing away. You would cool yourself in the shade of
its clumps of evergreens, but at every tree stands tied a war horse, ready
caparisoned for the "long roll" to call him into action at any
moment, and, lest you be trampled, you withdraw, and seek shelter in the arbor
or summer house. Here, too, "grim-visaged war presents his wrinkled
front," and under those beautiful vines where fashion once held her levees,
the commissary and the soldiers now parley over the distribution of pork and
beef and beans. In the sadness, inspired by scenes like these, you naturally
withdraw, to a small enclosure of white palings, over the top of which is seen
rising a square marble column. As you approach, large letters tell you that
ELIZABETH PORTER lies there, and the same engraving also tells you that she is
deaf to the surrounding turmoil, and has ceased to know of the passions which
caused it. That marble rises from a broad pedestal, on one side of which are
two soldiers with a pack of cards, and the little pile of money which they
received a few days ago, is rapidly changing hands. On the opposite side are
two others busily engaged in writing, perhaps of the glories and laurels they
are to win in this war; but I venture the opinion, never once to express an
idea of the misery and despair of the widows and orphans at whose expense their
glories are to be won! On the third side of the pedestal stand a tin canteen,
two tin cups, and a black bottle! The fourth awaits a tenant. Again, for quiet,
you approach the mansion. As you step on the threshold, half lost, no doubt, in
musing over what you have witnessed, instead of the hospitable hand extended
with a cordial "Walk in, sir," you are startled by the presented
bayonet, and the stern command to "halt; who are you and your
busines?" A good account of yourself will admit you to spacious rooms with
black and broken walls, soiled floors, window sills, sash and moulding, all
disfigured or destroyed by the busy knife of the universal Yankee. This room is
occupied by the staff of some regiment or brigade. The next is a store room for
corn, oats, hay, and various kinds of forage. The house has been left
unoccupied by its owners, and is now taken possession of by any regiment or
detachment which happens to be stationed near.
Tired
of this desolation in the midst of a crowd, you pass through long rows of white
tents, across the little valley which separates you from the hill of Kalorama.
Your stop here will be short, for after having climbed the long ascent and
reached the house, you find the windows all raised, and anxious lookers-out at
every opening. From the first is presented to your view a face of singular
appearance, thickly studded with large, roundish, ash-colored postules,
slightly sunken in the center. The next presents one of different aspect—a
bloody redness, covered here and there with scaly excrescences, ready to be
rubbed off, and show the same blood redness underneath. In the next, you find
another change—the redness paling, the scales dropping, and revealing deep,
dotted pits, and you at once discover that the beautiful house of Kalorama is
converted into a pest house for soldiers. Shrinking away from this, you pass
through a corner of Georgetown, and then enter the narrow valley between the
high bluffs and the Potomac. Onward you travel towards the bridge, never out of
the sight of houses, the fences unbroken, the crops but little molested, the
country in the peace and quietness of death almost; for the houses, farms,
crops, are all deserted, in consequence of the war which is raging on the
opposite side of that unapproachable river; and you travel from our National
Capital through seven miles of fine country, inviting, by its location and
surroundings, civilization and refinement in the highest tone, without passing
a house—save in Georgetown—in which the traveler would find it safe to pass a
night—indeed I can recall but one which is inhabited by whites. On all these
farms scarcely a living thing is to be seen, except the few miserably-ragged
and woebegone—looking negroes, or some more miserable—looking white dispensers
of bad whisky, who seem to have taken possession of them because they had been
abandoned by their proper occupants. The lowing of herds is no longer heard
here; the bleating of flocks has ceased, and even Chanticleer has yielded his
right of morning call to the bugle's reveille. "If such things are done in
the green tree, what may we expect in the dry?" Cross the bridge into
Virginia, and you will see.
Gloomy
as is the prospect just passed, it saddens immeasurably from the moment you
cross the Virginia line. In addition to the abandonment and desolation of the
other side, destruction here stares you in the face. Save in the soldier and
his appendants, no sign of life in animal larger than the cricket or katy-did,
greets you as you pass. Herds, flocks, swine, and even fowls, both wild and
domestic, have abandoned this country, in which scenes of civil life are no
longer known. Houses are torn down, fences no longer impede the progress of the
cavalier, and where, two months ago, were flourishing growths of grain and
grass, the surface is now bare and trodden as the highway. Even the fine
growths of timber do not escape, but are literally mowed down before the march
of the armies, lest they impede the messengers of death from man to man. And
this is in the nineteenth century of Christianity—and these the results of the
unchristian passions of fathers, sons and brothers, striving against the lives
and happiness of each other. Alas! Poor Virginia! Your revenues are cut off,
your industry paralysed, your soil desecrated, your families in exile, your
prestige gone forever.
But
as so many others are writing of exciting scenes, I fear you will grow
impatient for my description of the last battles for my account of
anthropophagi—of men who have their heads beneath their shoulders—but I have no
tact for describing unfought battles, or for proclaiming imperishable glories
won to-day, never to be heard of after to-morrow. When we have a fight worth
describing, I shall tell you of it. In the meantime I am "taking
notes," and "faith I'll print 'em." If the rebels will not give
us a fight to make a letter of, I will, at my first leisure, for fear my men
forget their Hardee and Scott, have a graphic dress parade, in which our
different regiments shall contribute at least a battalion, to pass review
before you. Then let him who loses laugh, for he who wins is sure to. Till then
good night.
Lebanon, April 13th, 1863.
We have lost our
favorite commander, Brigadier General Poe. He is promoted to captain in the
regular service, and delivered his farewell address early yesterday morning. He
has won the confidence and esteem of every man in the brigade, and they deeply
regret his loss. It was his disobedience of orders that saved the First Brigade
from slaughter at Fredericksburg. His disobedience led to his promotion. In
appearance he is just the man I would select from among a thousand for a bandit
chief.
We had a riffle of
excitement yesterday in camp. Early in the morning the Eighteenth and Twenty-second
Michigan Regiments were ordered to leave for Murfreesboro, Tennessee. The
officers of these regiments, in common with others, have employed negroes as
servants. Kentucky is violently opposed to the President's Emancipation
Proclamation. Here was a fine opportunity for a Kentucky General to show the
"Abolitionists" that his state was not included in that
pronunciamento. As the Eighteenth was about to board the cars, General Manson,
commander of this post, ordered them to halt and deliver up all negroes in the
regiment. Upon inquiry it was found that all, except one, were Kentucky
negroes, and were given up. This did not satisfy; he must have the free man
also. The Sixteenth Kentucky Infantry and the Twelfth Kentucky Cavalry are
doing post duty here. These General Manson ordered to form in line of battle,
and again demanded the surrender of the negro. But Michigan was not to be
intimidated. Colonel Doolittle resolutely refused, formed his men for battle
with loaded guns and fixed bayonets, and defiantly bade the Kentuckian to
"come and take him." Not caring to attack with only two to one,
General Manson sent for the Seventy-ninth New York to come and help him, but
the gallant Colonel of that regiment replied: "I am not fighting Michigan
men." In the meantime General Burnside had been telegraphed for orders. He
replied: "I have nothing to do with it." Colonel Doolittle then
telegraphed the War Department, and is now awaiting orders. The Eighteenth lay
with their arms beside them all last night, apprehensive of an attack. They
kept the negro.
We have a fine
camping ground, nearly as good as at Newport News. The brigade is encamped in
the form of a square. There is a spring of water in the center. In our front is
the City of Lebanon, a place nearly as large as Jackson, and old enough in
appearance to have been built in the middle ages. On our right and left are
splendid farms, on which negro slaves are busily engaged plowing and planting.
In our rear is a piece of timber from which we supply ourselves with fuel. We
have thickly planted the borders of our streets with evergreen trees, which not
only gives our camp a picturesque appearance, but affords a comfortable shade
these hot, sultry days.
Our stay here
depends entirely on the movements of the Rebels. We are here to protect the
loyal people of Kentucky from guerillas; also to support Rosencrans should his
rear be threatened by way of Cumberland Gap. The Ninth Corps is separated into
fragments; the Third Division is in Virginia; the First and Second are in
Kentucky, a brigade in a place, but so situated they can be quickly
concentrated at a given point. Doubtless it is pleasant, this lying in camp
with nothing to do but drill and play ball, which is all the rage just now, but
it is not satisfying. It may do for regulars, who have so long a time to serve,
but for volunteers who enlisted to do a given amount of work, would like to do
that work and go home to their families.
SOURCE: David Lane,
A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 39-41
