Diary of Dr. Alfred L. Castleman, December 21, 1861

Did ever husband and father need the comforting aid of the help-meets of home as I need them this evening? See my table. Six full foolscap sheets of letters from home—read, re-read, studied, spelled, and now to be answered. I wonder if any body ever imagines the value of a letter to a soldier. His power of estimating must be large indeed, if he can appreciate it. Were it not for this value I should never have the courage to attempt answering all this pile. But then, I have no room to arrange all these with a view to replies, for my whole tent is as crowded as my table, full of evidences of the kindness—I will dare to say, of the affection of so many of my kind lady-friends. The dictates of kindness and benevolence may crowd upon you articles of comfort and utility, but it requires the affections to indicate the numerous little tokens which peep from the packages of useful things now piled around my tent. They strengthen and they cheer me. I shall endeavor, right here, to make myself worthy of all this confidence. What a field this is for the exercise of the "unseen heroism" of life!

But how in the name of Legerdemain do our friends contrive to get so many things into a little box? Why, my 10x10 tent is absolutely full. It is well, too, that the box was opened just to-day, for things in it were getting considerably "mixed." Two or three preserve and jelly jars, and a bottle of pickles had been broken. The contents had escaped, and to make amends for their long confinement, like colts let loose, they ran considerably. The pickles had "pitched into" the sugar. The jelly had made a dash at the tea. The nutmegs were luxuriating in a mixture of preserves and coffee. There seemed to be an inclination amongst these belligerents to get into "a muss" generally; but I "offered mediation." After two or three hours of back-ache work, I got the conglomerates restored to their original elements, and gave the men a look at them. They were gratified and thankful. I do not think one man looked on one of these evidences of home rememberance but felt strengthened in his resolves to perform manfully the duties which he had undertaken.

Yesterday we had the first fight worthy the name, since we joined the army. General McCall sent out a Brigade (about 4,000 men) to reconnoitre. They came upon an equal number of the enemy, and after taking a good look at each other, concluded to "go in." In this fight we gained a decided victory. No mistake this time. We fought and won.

We lost a few men—about ten killed and some thirty wounded. Amongst the latter is Lieutenant Colonel Kane of the Pennsylvania "Buck Tails." He is a brother of the late Doctor Kane, of the Arctic Expedition.*

Yesterday a few Surgeons met in my tent and gave expressions to their feelings against a self-constituted organization calling itself the "U. S. Sanitary Commission." I have had very little acquaintance with its members, or with its mode of doing business. From the almost universal prejudice which the Surgeons have against it, I infer that it must possess many bad or troublesome traits of character. I have naturally enough imbibed impressions which are anything but favorable in regard to it. At our little talk, yesterday, it was determined amongst us that the Commission must be "written down." I am selected to do the writing, my professional brothers to furnish the data. This morning I commenced my first article, but before it was finished, the roar of cannon and the bursting of shells arrested my attention, and I left my writing to watch the progress of the battle of Drainesville [sic]. In a little while, the wounded began to be brought in, and the whole being new to us, the Surgeons, now, for the first, began to examine their stores and appliances for wounded men. We had very few things which we needed, and whilst mourning over the delay necessary to procure them from Washington (some 9 miles distant) the agents of this Commission, having got wind of the progressing fight, had loaded up light wagons with their sanitary stores and rushed to the scene of suffering with the very things most needed. I confess that I feel a little ashamed to have been caught in the act of writing such an article, under such ci[r]cumstances. Something good may come out of Nazareth yet. I think I shall wait and see, rather than be induced by the prejudices or opinions of others, to commit an act, perhaps a wrong, which I may be sorry for.

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* Battle of Dranesville.

SOURCE: Alfred L. Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B. McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day January, 1863, p. 66-9

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Sunday Evening, April 10, 1864

Attended church to-day at the Second Presbyterian, or "Union Church" as it is called. It is the only one in the city, I am told, where one is sure of hearing sentiments of loyalty. Rev. Mr. Allen is pastor. He does not fear now, under the shadow of Fort Negley, and with so many "blue coats" about, to "Lift up his voice like a trumpet, and show the people their transgressions and the house of Jacob their sins." I believe, however, that he was obliged to leave the place previous to the entrance of our troops.

I saw a pomegranate flower for the first time, to-day. It is of a dark red color, single, about the size of a plum blossom. It is of the same family I think, though cannot analyze it, for want of a botanical work.

In passing through ward 1 of the hospital last Wednesday, and asking advice of the chief nurse—who, by the by, is soon to complete his studies as surgeon—as to what we could do for the benefit of the invalids, he said there were two cases who would die unless some one could by attention and cheerful conversation save them. That they had been sick a long time, were very low, but the trouble now was nervous debility from homesickness and despair of life. Had himself done what he could for them, but was worn out with care of the ward and loss of sleep. And he added:

"The Surgeon has given them up, and I will give them into your charge, and if they live it will be your care which saves them."

"Would anything be injurious for them to eat?"

"No, if you can get them to eat anything you will do better than I can."

Upon inquiring which they were, he pointed them out, when I told him that I had spoken to both only a few moments before, and that one would scarcely notice me enough to tell me his disease, while the other would not answer at all, but drew the sheet over his face.

"Oh, yes," he replied, "they think no one cares for them, that they're going to die, and the worst one is in a half stupor much of the time. But pass your hand gently over his forehead to arouse him, and then you know how to interest him."

He then directed the nurse of this one to go with me and see that everything was done which I directed. The nurse and patient were both from Indiana, and the former going to the side of the bed toward which the face of the sick man was turned, said in a peculiarly pleasant and sympathizing tone:

"William, there's a lady come to see you and she wants to make you well if she can."

Passing my hand over his forehead, as directed, I added as cheerily as possible :

"Yes, William, I've come to see if I can't do something for you; if I shall write some letters for you, or bring you something to eat to make you better."

He roused up and I knew he was listening, but not wishing to excite him too much I then commenced asking of the nurse about his company and regiment, and the length of time he had been sick in that hospital. But I had scarcely done so, when the sick man turned his face down into the pillow, burst into tears and grieved and sobbed like a child, fairly shaking the bed with the violence of his emotion. The nurse bent down to him, and said as if pacifying a sick child:

"Don't fret so, William, this lady loves you, and she's going to try to make you well."

I knew the tears would do him good, but I spoke low and slowly, and the sobs grew less as he listened:

"You've been sick a long time, I know, and have grown discouraged and have thought you were never going to get well, but the Doctor says there is nothing to hinder if you will only try. I was once sick myself with a low nervous fever, and felt just as you do for a long time. And the physician told me at last that I wouldn't live unless I made up my mind to try to live. And I did try and worked hard for it for a long time else I should never have got well. And now if you will do the same and think all the time of what you are going to do when you get well, I will come and see you as often as I can, and bring you anything you wish to eat. Wouldn't you like to have me write for you to ask your wife, mother, or sister, to come and take care of you?

Just then the nurse tells me he is "single" and I repeat the question of his mother and sisters.

"No," he replied, in a sad, grieved, hollow voice, "they wouldn't come."

"Shouldn't I write to his father to tell him how he was." "No," he didn't "want any letters written."

"Could he think of something he could eat."

He said he could not, but the nurse exclaimed:—"Why, William, don't you remember you said the other day you could eat some pickles, if you could get them?" "Yes, I could eat some pickles," said the slow, hollow voice. A little inquiry found that it was possible he could eat a cookie also, so it was arranged that the nurse should call at the home of the Christian Commission, where I was stopping, for the articles.

I also learned that the sick man had not been bathed since having the fever, and his face looked like dried parchment. I made a prescription of castile soap and warm water for his benefit, to be applied to the whole surface of his body—the application to take place immediately after my departure. After the bath, the nurse called and I sent some cookies and a small jar of pickles.

The other patient to whom I was referred, was scarcely less interesting, but have not time to note the particulars. I visited them again yesterday, and found my directions with regard to each had been carried out, and both were better and glad this time to see me. William rejoiced in the jar of pickles upon his stand, out of which he had gained sufficient appetite to "reckon," he "could eat a few dried peaches, if he could get them." A small jar of those was prepared and sent to him, with a second edition of cookies.

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, pp. 23-6

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty: July 18, 1861

This afternoon, when riding down to Huttonville, I met three or four hundred sorry-looking soldiers. They were without arms. On inquiry, I found they were a part of the secession army, who, finding no way of escape, had come into our lines and surrendered. They were badly dressed, and a hard, dissolute-looking lot of men. To use the language of one of the soldiers, they were "a milk-sickly set of fellows," and would have died off probably without any help from us if they had been kept in the mountains a little longer. They were on their way to Staunton. General McClellan had very generously provided them with provisions for three days, and wagons to carry the sick and wounded; and so, footsore, weary, and chopfallen, they go over the hills.

An unpleasant rumor is in camp to-night, to the effect that General Patterson has been defeated at Williamsport. This, if true, will counterbalance our successes in Western Virginia, and make the game an even one.

The Southern soldiers mentioned above are encamped for the night a little over a mile from here. About dusk I walked over to their camp. They were gathered around their fires preparing supper.

Many of them say they were deceived, and entered the service because they were led to believe that the Northern army would confiscate their property, liberate their slaves, and play the devil generally. As they thought this was true, there was nothing left for them to do but to take up arms and defend themselves. While we were at Buckhannon, an old farmer-looking man visited us daily, bringing tobacco, cornbread, and cucumber pickles. This innocent old gen[tle]man proves to have been a spy, and obtained his reward in the loss of a leg at Rich mountain.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 30-1

Diary of 5th Sergeant Osborn H. Oldroyd: May 8, 1863

We were ready to continue our march, but were not ordered out. Some white citizens came into camp to see the "Yankees," as they call us. Of course they do not know the meaning of the term, but apply it to all Union soldiers. They will think there are plenty of Yankees on this road if they watch it. The country here looks desolate. The owners of the plantations are "dun gone," and the fortunes of war have cleared away the fences. One of the boys foraged to-day and brought into camp, in his blanket, a variety of vegetables—and nothing is so palatable to us now as a vegetable meal, for we have been living a little too long on nothing but bacon. Pickles taste first-rate. I always write home for pickles, and I've a lady friend who makes and sends me, when she can, the best kind of "ketchup." There is nothing else I eat that makes me catch up so quick. There is another article we learn to appreciate in camp, and that is newspapers—something fresh to read. The boys frequently bring in reading matter with their forage. Almost anything in print is better than nothing. A novel was brought in to-day, and as soon as it was caught sight of a score or more had engaged in turn the reading of it. It will soon be read to pieces, though handled as carefully as possible, under the circumstances. We can not get reading supplies from home down here. I know papers have been sent to me, but I never got them. The health of our boys is good, and they are brimful of spirits (not "commissary"). We are generally better on the march than in camp, where we are too apt to get lazy, and grumble; but when moving we digest almost anything. When soldiers get bilious, they can not be satisfied until they are set in motion.

SOURCE: Osborn Hamiline Oldroyd, A Soldier's Story of the Siege of Vicksburg, p. 10-11