Diary of Musician David Lane, August 30, 1863

Crab Orchard, Ky. We arrived at 10 a. m., making ten miles from Lancaster this morning. Crab Orchard is a lovely town of about one thousand inhabitants. We are encamped about one mile south of the village, in a lovely spot, shut in on all sides by high hills and forests. To the south, far in the distance, the Cumberland Mountains raise their blue peaks as landmarks to guide us on our course when next we move.

From what I see and hear of the surrounding country, the boys will have to depend on their rations for food.

Soldiers are strange beings. No sooner were our knapsacks unslung than every man of us went to work as though his very life depended on present exertions. We staked out streets, gathered stakes and poles with which to erect our tents, and now, at 3 p. m., behold! a city has arisen, like a mushroom, from the ground. Everything is done as though it were to be permanent, when no man knows how long we may remain or how soon we may move on.

Part of our route from Camp Parks lay through a country made historic by the chivalric deeds of Daniel Boone. We passed his old log fort, and the high bluff from which he hurled an Indian and dashed him in pieces on the rocks below. At the foot of the bluff is the cave in which he secreted himself when hard pressed by savages. His name is chiseled in the rock above the entrance. The place is now being strongly fortified.

We had a lively skirmish in Company G this morning. About a week ago the Brigade Surgeon ordered quinine and whiskey to be issued to every man in the brigade, twice daily. During our march the quinine had been omitted, but whiskey was dealt out freely.

Solon Crandall—the boy who picked the peaches while under fire at South Mountain—is naturally pugnacious, and whiskey makes him more so. This morning, while under the influence of his "ration," he undertook the difficult task of "running" Company G.

Captain Tyler, hearing the "racket," emerged from his tent and inquired the cause. At this Solon, being a firm believer in "non-intervention," waxed wroth. In reply he told the Captain, "It's none of your business. Understand, I am running this company, and if you don't go back to your tent and mind your own business, I'll have you arrested and sent to the bull pen. At this the Captain "closed" with his rival in a rough-and-tumble fight, in which the Captain, supported by a Sergeant, gained the day.

I have the most comfortable quarters now I have ever had. Our tent is composed of five pieces of canvas, each piece the size of our small tents—two for the top, or roof, the eaves three feet from the ground. The sides and ends are made to open one at a time or all at once, according to the weather. Three of us tent together, and we have plenty of room. We have bunks made of boards, raised two feet from the ground. This, with plenty of straw, makes a voluptuous bed. I received a letter from home last evening, dated August 13th. Oh, these vexatious postal delays; they are the bane of my life. I wonder if postmasters are human beings, with live hearts inside their jackets, beating in sympathetic unison with other hearts. I wonder did they ever watch and wait, day after day, until hope was well-nigh dead, conscious that love had sped its message and was anxiously awaiting a return. A letter from home! What thrilling emotions of pleasure; what unfathomable depths of joy it brings the recipient. It is not altogether the words, be they many or few, but the remembrances they call forth; the recognition of the well-known handwriting; old associations and past scenes are brought forth from the storehouse of the memory and held up to view. The joy of meeting—the agony of parting—all are lived over again.

We are having brigade inspection today, which is suggestive of a move, but our artillery has not turned up yet, and we will not take the field without it.

The health of our men has improved wonderfully since we reached Kentucky. A more rugged, hearty set of men I never saw than the few who are left. But, as I look around upon the noble fellows, now drawn up in line for inspection, a feeling of sadness steals over me. One short year ago nine hundred ninety-eight as brave, true men as ever shouldered gun marched forth to battle in their country's cause. Of all that noble band, only two hundred in line today. Where are the absent ones? Some, it is true, are home on furlough, but not all. They have left a bloody track from South Mountain's gory height through Antietam, Fredericksburg and Vicksburg to Jackson, Mississippi.

Oh, how I miss familiar faces!

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 86-89

Diary of Private John J. Wyeth, February 11, 1863

Drill, drill, all day, for a change. Our band has received the new pieces from Boston, and is now expected to shine. Among our many visitors from home is ex-Sergeant Wheelwright who came out on the schooner "Fry." He went on the Plymouth or "Ham Fat" tramp, and took to foraging naturally. He stole a mule the first thing, but had to give it up to an officer. Next we saw him on a horse, which he managed to keep. He does not take kindly to quinine or hard-tack; he likes the colonel's fare better. It is a mere matter of taste, though! There is not much doing, except drilling and trying each day to be the cleanest company, as then we get off guard for twenty-four hours, the greatest inducement that could be offered us. We have succeeded in being both the dirtiest and cleanest. At the first inspection we thought we were clean, but a mouldy milk-can condemned us, and we had to furnish double guard, but since then have carried off the honors once or twice.

SOURCE: John Jasper Wyeth, Leaves from a Diary Written While Serving in Co. E, 44 Mass. Dep’t of North Carolina from September 1862 to June 1863, p. 39

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Saturday Evening, April 9, 1864

Last Wednesday Miss O. and myself visited Hospital No. 1, for the second time.

They were just robing one young boy in his soldier's suit of blue for the last time. He was then borne to the deadhouse. His name was Hickman Nutter, of the 31st Ohio. I secured the Post Office address of his people and that of several others who had died and had no message sent home. I passed the whole of the next day in writing soldiers' letters, and in my journal. My fortitude was sorely tried and really broke down after getting back, to find that in ward 1 alone from two to four boys are dying daily, while the Chaplain has not been in to speak to a single sick or dying boy for two weeks. Wards 2 and 3 have fared little if any better, as is the testimony of ward-masters and nurses. It is his duty also to write to the relatives of those who die, and common humanity would dictate that it be done, and every comforting message sent to them. I was told by the clerk, whose duty it was to collect the names for report in the public prints, that in no single instance had he known the Chaplain to attend to that duty. I was indignant and determined to report him, but was given to understand by more than one Christian minister, that the expression of indignation was considered a bad omen for my future success in hospitals.

"People here," said one, kindly in explanation, "must learn to see and hear of all manner of evil and wickedness going on around them, and be as though they saw and heard not."

Being by nature and birth an outspoken New Englander, and having inhaled freedom of speech from the breezes which blow from the hills of the "Old Bay State," I fancy it will not be very easy becoming initiated into this phase of military service.

We found several interesting cases on passing through wards 1, 2 and 3.

In the first, saw one man in a dying condition, who was brought the night before. He was lifted from the ambulance and brought in by two men, who immediately left without being questioned or saying anything about him. The attendants were busy and expected to find all needed information in the medical papers, which it is rulable and customary to send, but which were not to be found. No one had observed the ambulance or men sufficiently to identify either. The disease could not be determined. There were no wounds and the lungs were in a healthy condition, but he was dying and insensible. A letter was fortunately found in his pocket, from his wife, which gave his name, company and regiment, as being Henry Clymer, Co. K., 128th Indiana.

In passing through ward 2 we came to a handsome young man, who was looking so well compared with others that we were passing without speaking. But the nurse said to us:

"This man is blind!"

Could it be possible! His eyes to a casual observer were perfectly good, but upon a closer examination one saw that the pupil was greatly enlarged and the expression staring and vacant. Questions revealed the fact that he could see nothing except a faint light when looking towards the window. I asked the cause.

"Medicine, the Surgeon here says," was the reply. "I had chills and fever while at the front, and the physician gave me large quantities of quinine, which made me blind. I have the ague now, but the Doctor dare not give any more quinine. I have been blind two weeks."

"Doesn't the Surgeon think the medicine will leave your system, and that you may recover your sight?"

"Well, he doesn't speak very encouragingly says he doesn't know."

And we now see that although the eyes cannot do duty in one way they can in another, for they absolutely rain tears, as he tells us with quivering lips, that his wife does not know anything about it; that he is dreading to send her word by stranger hands, he cannot bear to think that may be he can never write again,—never see her or other friends in this world. He is yet young and life has looked so pleasant; he is a professing Christian, but finds it so hard to bear this affliction. And he sobs like a whipped child, as, kneeling by the head of his low bed, with hand upon his forehead, we listen to this recital and strive to comfort him. We tell him of others afflicted in the same way who have not passed a life of idleness in consequence, but of mental or physical activity. Of those who have risen superior even to this calamity, and in the battle of life have learned

"How sublime a thing it is

To suffer and grow strong."

He says our words have been a blessing, as we take his hand in a good-bye, and with a promise to break the news to his wife, as gently and hopefully as possible. [We do so subsequently and upon the last visit find that he has been gaining his sight so that he can distinguish forms, though not features. Again we stand by his vacant bed and learn that he with many others have been sent North to make room for more sufferers from the front. But he was still gaining his sight.]

In the same ward we find one slight young boy, who looks as if he ought to be at home with his mother, and we sincerely believe is crying because he isn't—though he'd be bayonetted sooner than own it. He draws his sleeve across his red eyes as we approach, and upon our questioning informs us that he is "almost seventeen," and furthermore that he is "nearly half a head taller and two pounds heavier than another boy in his regiment;" but confesses that he is "right tired a' laying this way day after day—fact is I'd a heap sight rather be at home if I could get to go there, for I enlisted to fight, not to be sick!" Now we ask him if he ever thought while lying there that he is suffering in the service of his country, and a quick flash of the eye, a smile and an emphatic "no," tell us that it is entirely a new thought. Then we beg him not to forget that he is, and assure him that it requires a much braver soldier to suffer day after day in a hospital than on the hardest battle-field, and we leave him with a look of heroic endurance on his childish brow.

Here is a good-faced German, who is moaning with pain from an amputation. It is twenty days since the operation, but he suffers terribly every few moments from a spasmodic contraction of the muscles. And we also find upon conversing, that the fact of the amputation hurts his feelings in more ways than one, and we must needs tell him to bear the pain like a good brave soldier, and that it will grow less and less each day, and really last but a few days more altogether, and that as to being without a limb he will not be the only one capable of exhibiting such a proof of the service rendered his country, that it is an honor rather than a disgrace to lose limbs while battling for the right; and now the hero's look of determination settles over his features also. But just as we turn to leave, he expresses his opinion that two or three more such "cookies" as we brought him the other day wouldn't hurt him, indeed,

"Dey was mosht as goot vot my moder used to make."

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. 19-23

Diary of Private John J. Wyeth, January 8, 1863

We have had several cases of fever lately, occasioned, it is said, by malaria from the lower swamps in the neighborhood. We have one slough close by us, between our barracks and the river. At first we tried to fill it up, but finding it apparently had no bottom, gave it up, and now use it to empty our swill into, keeping it constantly stirred up, of course. Our camp is on as high and dry ground as any in the neighborhood, but there is evidently something about it which is wrong.

We are now also having the benefit of the rainy season, consequently most of our drill is in-doors. We like it for a change, as it gives us more leisure to write; and I fear we are getting fearfully lazy, as we do a great deal of sleeping. It is about time to give us another march or we will get rusty. The rain still reigns, and we probably will not move till it is over.

Just about this time look out for quinine. We are ordered to take it every night to kill the fever. Our captain looks out for us, that we do not lose our share. Generally, Sergeant Thayer goes round with the big bottle, giving each man his dose, the captain following close by. Several have tried various ways to dodge it, but they were too sharp for us, and when they caught us we had to take a second glass of it. We would give ours up if we thought there was not enough to go through the officers' tents; but they say they take their dose after us. We are afraid it is a long time after.

SOURCE: John Jasper Wyeth, Leaves from a Diary Written While Serving in Co. E, 44 Mass. Dep’t of North Carolina from September 1862 to June 1863, p. 32

Diary of Private William S. White, October 28, 1861

Our Captain, Robert C. Stanard, died to-day at Camp Deep Creek, of disease contracted in the army. He was a man of warm impulses and generous heart.

Remained in Williamsburg about ten days, when I concluded to call on my Gloucester friends once more, as it would be worse than folly to return to my command in such ill health.

Hired a buggy in Williamsburg and went to "Bigler's Wharf," on the York River; there hired a boat and crossed over the river to Cappahoosic Wharf. At this place I found a member of my company who lived some half a mile from the wharf.

Remained at his father's, Captain Andrews, (a Captain of artillery in the war of 1812) for several days, eating oysters and rolling ten-pins.

Captain Andrews is a jolly specimen of an old Virginia gentleman, whose motto seems to be Dum Vivimus Vivamus.

From Captain Andrews's I went to "Waverly," where I most pleasantly spent ten days, after having been joined by my brother, Rev. Thomas W. White, who insisted on my getting a discharge from the army. Concluded to return to my command, he and I going to Cappahoosic Wharf, he taking the up boat for West Point and I waiting for the down boat for Yorktown. Whilst on the wharf, I was again taken with a severe chill, and remembering my friend, Captain Andrews, I crawled, rather than walked, to his house. I was then seriously ill, but had every attention possible; my physician being Dr. Francis Jones, brother of the owner of Waverly. Dr. Frank, seeming to take a fancy to me, told me if I would come to his house, where he could pay me especial attention, he would promise to get me all right in a week. As soon as I could sit up, I took him at his word, and he put me through a regular course of medicine, watching carefully everything I eat. Kind hearted old Virginian; I wonder if it will ever be in my power to repay him and other dear friends in this good old county for kindnesses to me? When I commenced improving, I felt a longing desire to get back to camp, and accordingly returned to Yorktown in the latter part of November. My company officers now are: Captain, Edgar F. Moseley; First Lieutenant, John M. West; Senior Second Lieutenant, Benjamin H. Smith; Junior Second Lieutenant, Henry C. Carter.

Found they were stationed some twenty miles from Yorktown, and next day started to hunt them up. Hearing they were at Young's Mill, I went to that place, but found the First and Second detachments had returned to their camp, at Deep Creek, on the east side of Warwick River, whilst the Third and Fourth detachments were on picket duty at Watt's Creek, six miles from Newport News. Joined them at that place, having been absent three months. None of the boys ever expected to see me again, and they wondered but the more when I told them that since I had left them I had swallowed enough quinine pills to reach from Newport News to Bristol, Tennessee, were they to catch hold hands.

We remained at Watt's Creek very quietly for a few days, but one night the Yankees brought up a gun-boat and gave us a terrific shelling; when we got up and "dusted."

My mess, composed of Andrew, Dick and Mac. Venable, Gordon McCabe, Clifford Gordon, Kit Chandler, and myself, owned a stubborn mule and a good cart, driven by a little black "Cuffee" whose appellative distinction was "Bob." Now, "Bob" and the mule came into our possession under peculiar circumstances in fact, we "pressed" them into service on some of our trips and kept them to haul our plunder. Bob was as black as the boots of the Duke of Inferno and as sharp as a steel-trap; consequently, we endeavored to give his youthful mind a religious tendency: yet Bob would gamble. Not that he cared for the intricacies of rouge et noir, ecarté, German Hazard, or King Faro, or even that subtlest of all games, "Old Sledge." No, no; he de voted his leisure time to swindling the city camp cooks out of their spare change at the noble game of "Five Corns."

George Washington (Todd) had never heard of that little game, or there would have been a Corn Exchange in Richmond long before the war.

It seems that they shuffled the corns up in their capacious paws and threw them on a table or blanket, betting on the smooth side or pithy side coming uppermost.

Night reigned—so did "Bob," surrounded by his sable satellites, making night hideous with their wrangling.

Say dar, nigger, wha' you take dem corns for? My bet. I win'd dat."

Boom!-boom!—and two nail-keg gunboat shells come screaming over our heads, disappearing into the woods, crashing down forest oaks and leaving a fiery trail behind them.

"Hi -what dat? Golly!" and up jumped Bob, leaving his bank and running into our tent. "Say, Marse Andrew, time to git, ain't it?"

"We must wait for orders, Bob.”

"I woodd'n wate for no orders, I woodd'n; I'd go now," said Bob, as he tremblingly slunk back into his house. But the Demon of Play had left Bob and grim Terror held high carnival within his woolly head.

Boom! Boom!! Boom!!! and as many shells came searching through the midnight air in quest of mischief.

And Bob knelt him down and prayed long and loud: "O-h! Lord, Marse, God'l Mity, lem me orf dis hear one time, an' I'll play dem five corns no more. Mity sorry I dun it now." And Robert ever afterward eschewed the alluring game. Returned to our camp at Land's End, on the west side of Warwick river.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 107-10

,Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: October 4, 1864

Am now living splendid; vegetable diet is driving off the scurvy and dropsy, in fact the dropsy has dropped out but the effect remains. Set up now part of the time and talk like a runaway horse until tired out and then collapse. Heard that all the prisoners are going to be sent to Millen, Ga. Wrote a few lines directed to my father in Michigan. Am now given more food but not much at a time. Two poor fellows in our tent do not get along as well as I do, although Land is doing well and is going to be a nurse. The hospital is not guarded very close and Mike Hoare cannot resist the temptation to escape. Well, joy go with him. Dosed with quinine and beastly to take. Battese on his last visit to me left the two first books of my diary which he had in his possession. There is no doubt but he has saved my life, although he will take no credit for it. It is said all were moved from Andersonville to different points; ten thousand went to Florence, ten thousand to Charleston and ten thousand to Savannah; but the dead stay there and will for all time to come. What a terrible place and what a narrow escape I had of it Seems to me that fifteen thousand died while I was there; an army almost and as many men as inhabit a city of fifty thousand population.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 100

Diary of 1st Sergeant John L. Ransom: September 30, 1864

Am decidedly better and getting quite an appetite but can get nothing but broth, gruel, &c. Mouth very bad. Two or three teeth have come out, and can't eat any hard food any way. They give me quinine, at least I think it is quinine. Good many visitors come here to see the sick, and they look like union people. Savannah is a fine place from all accounts of it, Mike is getting entirely over his troubles and talks continually of getting away, there are a great many Irish about here, and they are principally union men. Mike wishes I was able to go with him. Nurses are mostly marines who have been sick and are convalescent. As a class they are good fellows, but some are rough ones. Are very profane. The cords in my legs loosening up a little. Whiskey and water given me to-day, also weakened vinegar and salt. Am all the time getting better. Later — My faithful friend came to see me to-day. Was awful glad to see him. He is well. A guard came with him. Battese is quite a curiosity among the Savannah rebels Is a very large, broad shouldered Indian, rather ignorant, but full of common sense and very kind hearted. Is allowed many favors.

SOURCE: John L. Ransom, Andersonville Diary, p. 98-9

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, July 12, 1862

Headquarters, 

U. S. Forces En Route To F. Monroe,

July 12th, 1862.

My dear Mother:

When I wrote you a few hurried, peevish lines, by the last steamer, I then had little thought we were so soon to be summoned to a different sphere of action, and that, had my longing to see you at home been really gratified, I would have returned only to be mortified by being absent from duty at a time when every man should be standing steadily at his post. So you see my lucky star is always dominant. Just when I thought my fate intolerable, I was merely being providentially detained that nothing might prevent me from the fulfilment of my duty. Ten Regiments from the Department of the South, six under Stevens and four under Wright, are ordered to Fortress Monroe, we know not yet whether to reinforce Pope or McClellan. Few of us regret to leave this unholy soil and wretchedly mismanaged department, where we have been sure only of mismanagement and disgrace. I am sorry Rockwell could not go with us. He would have liked to have done so, but a demand was made for infantry alone.

It is a good thing for me that I have escaped from the Southern climate, having been long enough exposed to feel as though every fibre of my body was involved in a malarious atmosphere. A change of climate and a persistent employment of quinine, the Doctor says, are all I need, though were times less stirring, he would probably prescribe in addition a few days at home. I shall probably lose the letters you will write relative to Lilly's wedding, but you must not forget to let me know all about it in whatever new sphere I may be placed. I suppose you had better address the first letter to the care of General Stevens near Fortress Monroe, and so soon as may be, I will let you know a more definite address.

I enclose the $25.00 for Lilly's bridal gift. I could not enclose it in my last, as it was then some time since I had seen the paymaster. I hope I may have an opportunity to see you all this summer, but it looks dubious. Next to Lilly's wedding, I was very anxious to be present at my class meeting, which takes place the end of this month. Hall will be there and many old friends. It will seem strange enough to get among civilized people once more, and there will be so many changes too. Walter, an aged paterfamilias. Lilly and Hall, both old domestic bodies. Hunt in a new house. Horace alone will be left unchanged.

Are any of my friends desirous of making a profitable speculation? A sure and magnificent fortune may be realized from the sale of ginger-pop at Hilton Head. Blind Dennis is doing a flourishing business in the lemonade line, and will certainly before long be putting up a superb house on Washington Street, in Burdick's best style. The ginger-pop trade, I predict, will be one of the most remunerative branches of business ever opened at Port Royal. It even bids fair to prove as handsome a thing as negro-philanthropy, which in shrewd hands has proved a most capital paying business, and then the sale of ginger-pop is eminently more respectable. At any rate it is a pet idea of mine, and I would like to see the experiment tried.

Well, good-bye. I hope to hear good news on arriving at Fortress Monroe. Love to all.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 163-5

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, July 14, 1862

14th. Still on shipboard but near Fortress Monroe.

Lilly's wedding day. Miles of friends — little children's voices — church bells — sweet thoughts. I shall feast to-day for all that though, on hard tack and salt horse with a quinine pill by way of dessert. So goes the world.

Good-bye, my dear Mother. Blessings on you all.

Lovingly,

Will.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 165

Diary of Sergeant Major Luman Harris Tenney: Saturday, November 22, 1862

Took a blue pill and three quinine powders during the day. Kept very quiet. Went to bed early and rested well. Still did my usual duties. Letter from home.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 44

Diary of Sergeant Major Luman Harris Tenney: Wednesday, November 19, 1862

Wrote short letters home and to Fannie. Cleared up about noon. Bought a pack of envelopes and a little Candy. Moved camp up on the hill to the Masonic Hall. In the evening had a chill, took some quinine.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 44

Diary of Brigadier-General William F. Bartlett: Friday, September 9, 1864

Have been a little feverish (typhoid) for a day or two; took dose of quinine last night. Arthur came down to-day. He is pretty well.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 135

Diary of Colonel William F. Bartlett: May 12, 1864

Pretty miserable this morning Left at twenty minutes past five for Baltimore Good night's sleep. Plenty of quinine has kept off fever so far.

SOURCE: Francis Winthrop Palfrey, Memoir of William Francis Bartlett, p. 102

Major Wilder Dwight: November 19, 1861

Camp Near Seneca, November 19, 1861.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 30, 1864

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

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

_______________

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

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

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

Camp E. Of Capitol, May 23, 1863.

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

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

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

_______________

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

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

Brigadier-General Thomas Kilby Smith to Elizabeth Budd Smith, May 26, 1865

Headquarters District Of South Alabama,

Fort Gaines, Ala., May 26, 1865.

You had received my recountal of our narrow escape from perishing at sea. The varied experience of the past few years has showed me the uncertainty of human life. “We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” I often wish you were with me here, that you might have leisure for reflection, and opportunity to study the wonders of the deep, the great sea, fitting emblem of eternity. To watch with me the changes on its surface, now dimpled and glittering in the sunlight, then glassy as a mirror, reflecting the bright moon, or by starlight lambent with phosphorescent glare; and again maddened by the wind, tossing and roaring and foaming with rage. To see the sun rise from the ocean in the morning and set beneath its waters at eve; to see the sweet sight of “sunset sailing ships,” to wander by the shore and watch the graceful seabirds dip their wings. Nothing that poet has written or traveller described, can give to the mind an idea of the heart emotions awakened by the ocean, whether in repose or agitated by storm. I am never weary of it, or the southern gales that sweep its bosom. You remember old Governor Duval's description of the breeze at Pensacola. How its influence made one dream of “bathing in a sea of peacock's plumes.” Here you can realize how graphic was his description. The weather is perfectly delicious; you never saw so blue a sky. In the early morning it is hot, but about ten o'clock the sea breeze springs up and sitting in the shade you have nothing in the way of atmosphere to desire. My house is favorably situated close to the beach, or rather on the beach, close to the water's edge, so close that the spray of the waves sometimes falls in light mist on my brow, as I sit on the long and wide piazza, facing due east. Here I linger far into the night, sometimes till the early morning, watching the stars and chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, with nothing to break the silence but the tread of the sentry and the splash of the waves, drinking in deep draughts of night air that give no cold. They tell me the coming months are hot, and the mosquitoes troublesome. I know not how that may be; the present is the perfection of climate, and I wish you could enjoy it with me. My health is improving. I am taking iron and quinine, and within a few days my disease seems brought under subjection.

It is strange that as I have been writing and endeavoring to moralize upon the uncertainty of human life and the futility of human plans, another and terrible lesson has been read to me. Yesterday, while writing to Walter my house was shaken by a tremendous explosion, that I supposed to be a clap of thunder, though the sky was clear. I called to “J. L.” to know if any of the guns at the fort had been discharged; he said no, but thought one of the “men-of-war” in the offing had fired a gun. I thought it rather strange, it being about two o'clock in the afternoon. At night, I discovered a bright light in the north and feared for a while that a steamboat was on fire; but just at this moment the mystery has been solved by the intelligence brought me that the magazines at Mobile have been blown up, half the city destroyed, thousands of lives lost, and a scene of misery and destruction terrible to imagine. I shall cease writing now and close my letter by giving you full particulars, as they will be brought me by the next boat. Truly in life we are in death. Thousands of soldiers and refugees, women and children, have been hurried to eternity without warning, and many hundreds of mangled and wounded are craving death to relieve them from misery.

SOURCE: Walter George Smith, Life and letters of Thomas Kilby Smith, p. 401-3

Brigadier General Thomas Kilby Smith, April 9, 1865

Headquarters District Of South Alabama,

Fort Gaines, Ala., April 9, 1865.

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

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

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

General McClellan’s Advance – Balloon Reconnoissance

HEADQUARTERS ARMY POTOMAC,

May 21, P. M.

The encampment of the advance of the army under Gen. Stoneman, is still at Gains’ Mills, 18½ miles from the Chickahominy.  The pickets of the Rebels occupy the banks on the side and those of the Union on the other.

Gen. Stoneman, with Prof. Lowe, made a balloon reconnaissance this morning, from Gaines’ Mills, reaching an altitude of 400 feet.  An admirable view of Richmond was had and the surrounding country.  With a glass, the camps of the enemy within the limits of the corporation were seen also.  The arrival and departure of Railroad trains on the Railroad between New Bridge and Richmond and Buford and Richmond, and but few troops were visible – but to the left of the city, on the line of the mail coach road leading to Bottom Bridge, a large number of troops were seen.

Also smoke from numberless campfires coming up from the woods – in fact showing that they were occupied by a large force of the enemy.

Heavy firing was heard yesterday, P. M., and this morning, to the left of Richmond, which was probably caused by our gunboats endeavoring to force their way up the James river.

The weather is warm and pleasant, during the day, with heavy dews at night.

The health of the troops continue good.  Two rations of whisky and quinine are now daily issued to the troops.

– Published in The Burlington Weekly Hawk-Eye, Burlington, Iowa, Saturday, May 24, 1862, p. 3