Diary of Private John J. Wyeth, November 29, 1862

We had a fine time for a change last night. There was one solitary pudding left over from our Thanksgiving dinner. The boys found out that the sergeants had appropriated it, and after taps went for them. We had hardly turned in, when a tall man (name commencing with R) in the left wing of the barracks, but right wing of the company, tuned up with "Pudding, pudding, who's got the pudding?" A sergeant immediately popped his head out of his room, with "Stop that noise" The man would not stop, and, to make matters worse, others picked it up, and soon the entire lot were yelling for pudding. While we were at it strong, in came Col. Lee; but we did not subside worth a cent. So Capt. Richardson came in, and the men, excepting those who had crawled out the ventilators and through the cook-room, were drawn up in line, and the question put to each and all, “Did you say pudding?" Not being able to find out who started the game, the company was ordered out and drilled a while, while the few who shirked their duty by running, crawled back and went to bed. It was short-lived, but fun while it lasted; but we never found that pudding!

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. 23

Diary of Musician David Lane, February 28, 1863

Newport News is a military post, and is of no importance in any other sense. There were no villages or cities here previous to the war. Now there are quite a number of temporary buildings, and barracks to accommodate 60,000 men. It is an ideal camping ground, lying on the north bank of Hampton Roads and inclining gently to the northeast. The soil is light sand, which absorbs the rain as fast as it falls and is never muddy. The Ninth Corps, composed of forty-eight regiments, is extended in a direct line along the beach, covering about two miles in length. Stringent rules have been adopted, which, if carried out, will greatly enhance the efficiency of the men in field operations. We are to have revielle at six, when every man must turn out to roll call; breakfast call at seven, when we fall in line, march to the cook's quarters and receive our allowance of "grub.” Immediately after breakfast we are marched to the creek, where every man is required to wash hands, face and neck. From eight to half-past, police duty, or cleaning up in front of tents; from eight-thirty to ten-thirty, company drill; from this time until noon, clean guns, brasses and do any little jobs we may have on hand; dinner at twelve; from one-thirty to two thirty, skirmish drill; from three to four, battalion drill, after which is dress parade; at eight-thirty, tattoo, or go to bed; at nine, taps, or lights out.

Saturday is set apart for washing and cleaning up generally. Sunday morning at eight o'clock is inspection of arms, and at two o'clock divine service.

Some of the boys think the regular routine is reversed in our case—fighting first and drill afterward. Poor fellows; I expect they will see fighting enough yet. I have not seen a newspaper since our arrival, and know as little of what is going on in the world as did Cruso on his desert island.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 34-5

Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne, Saturday, September 27, 1862

We are looking for the Dutchess County regiment as if their coming was an assured fact, yet it is only a rumor, and even that cannot be traced very far. Aside from our daily drill, which is not much fun, we manage to get some amusement out of everything that comes along. We visit each other and play all sorts of games. Fiddling and dancing take the lead just now. The company streets, now that the ground has been smoothed off, make a good ballroom. A partner has just been swung clear off the floor into a tent, onto a man who was writing a letter, and from the sound is going to end up in a fight. "Taps" are sounded at 9 P. M., which is a signal for lights out and quiet in the camp.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 39

3rd Sergeant Charles Wright Wills: October 27, 1861

Bird's Point, October 27, 1861.

I haven't written for a full week because I really had nothing to write and in fact I have not now. Although soldiering is a hugely lazy life, yet these short days we seem to have but little spare time. We are up nearly an hour before sun up, have breakfast about sunrise, drill (company) from about 8 to 10. Cards until dinner time, 12; lounge or read until 2; battalion drill untill 4:30 or 5, supper, and then dress parade at 4:45; from candle lighting untill bedtime (taps), 10, we have cards mixed with singing or some awful noises from Sam Nutt and Fred Norcott. Those two boys can make more noise than three threshing machines. Our boys are all in excellent health and prime spirits. Fred and Sam and Sid are fatter than the Canton folk ever saw them. There are but four regiments at the Point now, so we have to work on the entrenchments every fourth day two hours or cut down trees the same length of time. We are clearing away the timber within 500 yards of the earthworks. It is mostly Cottonwood and very heavy. They stand so thick that if we notch a dozen or so pretty deep and then fell one it will knock three or four down. Lin Coldwell and I are going to get a set of chess to-morrow. That gunboat, “New Era,” that the papers blow so much about is of no account as a gunboat. She is laid up at Mound City for a battery. The men on her have told me that she wouldn't half stand before a land battery that amounted to anything. We are beginning to have some frost here, but I don't believe we'd suffer a bit lying in these tents all winter. The sickly season is over now and the health is improving very much. We had 18 on the sick list in our company three weeks ago and now we have but three, and they are only diarrhoea or the like. I tell you I feel as strong as two mules and am improving. I haven't been the least unwell yet. Our boys are perfectly sick for a fight so they can be even with the 17th. We are sure that the 17th doesn't deserve to be named the same day with us for drill or discipline, with all their bragging. They are an awful set of blowhards. Sid., Theo., Ben Rockhold and John Wallace are on picket out of our mess to-night. The picket was fired on last night where they are posted to-night.

SOURCE: Charles Wright Wills, Army Life of an Illinois Soldier, p. 38-9

Diary of Luman Harris Tenney: Saturday, September 6, 1862

Hugh White cooked for us. Sandy got out of the guardhouse. Hugh cooked first rate. Read and rested. In the evening received a letter from Melissa and a Herald from Uncle Albert announcing the marriage of Sister Minnie and giving an account of the Oberlin Commencement. He commended Will Hudson's “The Heroic Age,” eloquent, earnest, and good. Read a little after “taps.” Two Independents.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 30

Diary of Corporal Charles H. Lynch: June 27, 1865

Taps sounded later than usual last night. When the lights were put out we could not sleep for joy, as we were all so happy over the prospect of going home. I cannot write and do justice to those happy hours. Will remain with me as long as memory lasts. The hymns heard mostly last night were “Oh Happy Day” and “We are going home, to die no more.” Everybody can sing at this time if they never can again. Reveille sounded very early this morning, for the last time at Martinsburg. Broke camp very early this morning. In line, waiting for orders to march. This is a fine morning. We shall soon be homeward bound. When orders were given to march great excitement prevailed. Cheers and shouting as we marched along, on through the town. The waving of flags, handkerchiefs, and “Good-bye boys” from the towns-people. On reaching the depot it did not take us very long to board the train, a gay and happy crowd. I was soon on top of a car, where I enjoyed riding when the weather would permit. In this section we always rode in box cars. The train left about 7 A. M., with cheers and shouting to and from old Martinsburg friends. The train soon rounded a curve and that scene was closed forever. We knew this railroad and country, having been over it a number of times by rail, and marching through it, during our service in the Shenandoah Valley. About 10 A. M. we arrived at Harper's Ferry. Soon out of the cars and in line ready to march. Passed through Shenandoah Street. Entering an open lot, close in town, came to a halt, stacked arms. Must remain here until we are mustered out of the United States service. When we first entered Virginia, near three years ago, at Harper's Ferry, our first stopping place was this very same place, or lot, where we are now waiting to be mustered out. Late this afternoon we were mustered out. Expect to go on board of train tonight, homeward bound.

SOURCE: Charles H. Lynch, The Civil War Diary, 1862-1865, of Charles H. Lynch 18th Conn. Vol's, p. 156-7

Diary of Luman Harris Tenney: June 5, 1862

Learned and ordered the number of pounds of beef needed, also issued it. Issued rations for the five days' expedition under Doubleday. Took us till “taps.” Orders came from Col. Wier, Tenth Kansas, to delay further movements. The Colonel (Doubleday) resolves to resign immediately, so enraged at the intrigue and rascality of Kansas officers and politicians in making Wier rank him. Officers sent a paper to him begging him not to do it. Seemed to regret the idea very much. Concluded to go on with the expedition anyway.

SOURCE: Frances Andrews Tenney, War Diary Of Luman Harris Tenney, p. 17

Major Wilder Dwight: November 26, 1861

camp Near Seneca, November 26, 1861.

If you are to have another letter from a major commanding, I suppose it had better be written to-night. Tomorrow, I feel sure, will bring back Colonel Gordon, and I shall very gladly shift that burden to his shoulders. There are some objections to holding the reins, very long, of power that you are not to continue in the exercise of; and, though I must say the Colonel has got a very easily managed regiment, and I have had no difficulty in my path, yet the temptation to mould things to your own will is a strong one, not to be indulged in temporary command. On the whole, this is probably better for the regiment, — it is certainly safer for me. The month of November, though we have spent it quietly in camp, has been the most trying one to the regiment in its whole history. I am glad to be able to persuade myself that we stand firmer than we did three weeks since. I hope we shall steadily improve. There is a hopeless desperation chilling one when engaged in a contest with disease. The unseen malaria has such an advantage in the fight. I had rather meet anything for the regiment than the enemy who surprised us in our former camping-ground, and who seems hardly yet to have given up beat. Two weeks ago I had something as much like depression as I ever allow myself the indulgence of. Now I feel quite glad again. This afternoon, for example, a blue, overcast November sky, but a keen, bracing air, we bad a lively battalion drill, which went quite well. The regiment turned out full companies, and, altogether, looked its old self — There, I was just in the midst of this last exultant sentence, when what should happen but a knock at my tent. Enter Captain . “Major, two men of my company are very sick in quarters, and ought to be in hospital, but there is not room.” “Well, sir, I can't make room.” Then the same complaint from another captain. I send for the Doctor. He is abed, having been sick for the past three days. I send for the Assistant Surgeon. He says, “Yes, it is so; but the Brigade Surgeon promises a tent soon. The measles cases have increased within two days.”

I require from him a report of every case in quarters, and a statement of how many sick men ought to be in hospital. This is the nature of the work to be done. To make bricks without straw. Our sick officers have not yet returned to duty. The Adjutant is still away. I have to look after everything myself. Still, I do insist that we are getting better. A week on a high piece of ground three miles from the river would put us all on our feet again. But as long as the morning sun rises only to quicken the fatal exhalations from this pestilent Potomac, and the evening dews fall only to rise again with fever in their breath, the contest is unequal and the victory uncertain. Well, we can only hope for better things, and be thankful for what we have. You will see, however, that the constant maintenance of military efficiency under all these circumstances exacts constant effort. I rejoice in continued health and increasing strength, and am thankful and happy. I think, too, that our experience will be a sort of seasoning. One thing is certain, — we cannot have the measles again!

I have just come in from my nightly round through the camp; and, as taps have sounded, all is quiet. I sit alone in my tent a-thinkin' o' nothin' at all, — and writing about it, too. Yes, I can tell you about our domestic arrangements, — I mean our mess.

We have intruded upon an elderly lady who lives near our lines. She has given us her parlor and the use of her cooking-stove. Tony is in great feather. He rejoices in all kinds of culinary eccentricities.

The old lady, meantime, is repaid by our protection. She confides to me her griefs for the losses of fence-rails and cabbages, of pigs and poultry. This happened when a former regiment was here. Now she is safe. Tony and she observe an armed neutrality over the common cooking-stove. This evening she told us the history of Jack Cross, the husband of the lady who owns the house where Colonel Andrews is sick. Jack is in prison — at Fort Warren perhaps — as a traitor. The good lady described his capture. Said she: “The officers came to me, and says they, ‘Do you know of Jack Cross's hanging or shooting any one?’ “As for shooting,” says I, “I've known him from a boy, and a more peaceable man I never knew; and as for hanging,” says I, “I never knew him to hang anything except a big black dog.” Which was true, indeed, and I recollect how the dog looked, and he most frightened me to death. But they took him. He was an unfortunate man, but he was a good neighbor; and a good neighbor can't be a bad man. But this business has got him into trouble; but I can't seem to understand it no how. I'm for the Union and peace before I die.” I think she would have talked till now, had we not left the table, her ideas running in a beaten track of puzzlement and dread. She evidently does not either understand or enjoy civil war.

I said our camp was still. I ought to admit that the night is full of echoes with the barking cough that prevails, — an unwholesome sound. Good night, and God bless you all at home.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 157-9

Major Wilder Dwight: Saturday Night, August 10, 1861

Department Shenandoah, Maryland Heights,

August 10, 1861.

“How pleasant of Saturday night, when you've tried all the week to be good,” &c. Pleasant, indeed, of a Saturday night to note the gathering clouds, and to look up through the withered and twinkling thatch of your rude boughs, and to think of the “drop too much” you will be taking all night. The muttering thunder will be the “sound of revelry,” and the pattering rain will soon be falling. Yet it is pleasant of Saturday night to have the retrospect of busiest occupation, — the prospect of a quiet Sunday. There is the uncertainty, too, which spices every joy. Let me just schedule my day for you, and you will see that life is not exactly a dream, and if a shadow, a most substantial one. Half past four, A. M. The Major wakes and wonders where “that first call is.” Quarter before five, A. M., he is getting up to the intrusive melody of that sleepless reveillé. Five, A. M., he is walking about camp to see that “things is workin’.” Half past five, A. M., he is strapping on his sword, and, with the bugler, going out on to the broad field with six companies to skirmish-drill. Soon the men are scattered over the plain, rallying, deploying, advancing, retreating, firing, ceasing to fire, lying down, getting up, swarming in masses, and scattering again singly, double-quicking upon their reserves, forming squares to resist imaginary cavalry, forming column again, &c., &c. This, in the cool of the morning, in obedience to the bugle-note which obeys him. Then, again, at a quarter to seven, the companies return. The Major goes to the kitchens and sees what each company is going to have for breakfast. Then, at eight o'clock, comes first mail. The Major franks the soldier's letters, attends to requisitions, &c., looks up the Tactics. At half past nine he goes out to battalion drill. The sun blazes, the regiment manœuvres. It breaks into column; it forms into line; it closes into a square; it again shapes itself into column and line; and the sunshine glows with satisfaction over all. The impatient Colonel urges on the movements. The Major flies round and means well. Two hours have passed and he returns; O, how hot! His horse is ordered, and, at twelve, he is in the saddle, on his way to head-quarters. There is always business enough to make him late to dinner, at two, P. M. At three the mail comes, and brings the refreshment of a letter or the disappointment of none. Perhaps the saddle again in the afternoon; perhaps other work; perhaps a nap. At half past five, drill again; at half past six, parade. In the evening, tactics, picket posting, discussion, reflection, schemes, bickerings, &c., &c. And bed soon after taps at half past nine. Bed in the open field. Rest conditional and precarious, — broken by the frown of the sky, or by the false alarms of trepid sentinels. But rest which, scorning all these accidental obstacles, these chances and mischances, comes willingly and wooingly to eyelids that have gazed their fill of wakeful activity. So, da capo, one day treads closely on another, and variety is always at hand. Here I give you the prose of it, — the treadmill without the song. But there is poetry in it, too. There is a sentiment which gives the impulse to this duty, and which rewards and halos the effort. I have been to Washington, and returned with a sort of desperate, teeth-set determination to do all that I can within the sphere of my duty. It seems to me that the country wants active, busy, self-forgetting endeavor. More than that, it needs guidance from a wisdom that has not guided it yet. It makes me chafe with indignation to see the helplessness of the administration. Misconceiving the emergency, mismeasuring their foe; dallying with a rabble of volunteers when they should be disciplining soldiers. Thinking, forsooth, that bold conspirators, with the halter at the end of one path and wealth and honors looming in the other vista, do not mean to fight for their very existence. Where is the evidence, either of civil or military administrative faculty, in anything they (the administration) have done? Where is the will? Who is the leader? McClellan, they hope. It is a hope so young and tender, yet so fair in its promise, that I will indulge it; yet it is only a hope. Are we to drift into another Bull Run? If not, we must all wake up. Those unappreciative politicians had not the tact or energy to utilize the first noble impulse of the country when it leapt to arms. Now they will find the drooping influence of mismanagement and defeat a fearful obstacle, as I forebode. But out of this nettle I pluck one flower, namely, that I can be of service; and it cheers me to hope that, by active and constant endeavor, I may, perhaps, do my small mite towards organization and efficiency. I wish I could do more. To will is present with me. At all events, let men awake to it. The opportunity to save the country will not wait much longer. A leader, however, we must have But too much of this. The darker the sky, the warmer my purpose.

But I cannot help writing a little of the atmosphere that is about us. They say that when some prating talker in Washington told McClellan, “You have undertaken a fearful task,” he quietly replied, “I know it, and I can do it.” Whether vero or bentrovato, I hail the omen. The rain drops now and then upon my paper. The camp is quieting itself to sleep. The other morning General Banks came over to our camp and happened in on a battalion drill. The Colonel rattled things, and General Banks was delighted. It was a clever drill, and General Banks thought it better than it was, so we are the pet of head-quarters. I wrote you a line after my return from Washington. Colonel William reigns at his camp, as of course he would. 1 think his military career will credit him. He has the energy and purpose for achievement. He gives spirit to his men. Barring accident or impatience, he will do well. If every man will be content to fill his place in this war, without pushing for the next higher, all will go well.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 68-71

Major Wilder Dwight: July 31, 1861

MARYLAND HEIGHTS, DEP’T OF THE SHENANDOAH,

July 31, 1861, in Camp.

Three letters?! Yes, one from you, one from father, one from C. Blake, — all at once. The sun shines less fiercely, and the glaring afternoon has lost its power, or is forgotten. I write in the memory of yesterday. This morning the rattle of the rain-drops on my tent roused me before the regular reveillé of the drum, and I am writing now, after breakfast, to the same cool music. If you really like to listen to the monotony of our eventless experience, I cannot do less than to write it for you. Yesterday was a busy day. Battalion drill after breakfast, and then a ride with Colonel Gordon over the mountain to head-quarters. We climbed, by a rough path cut two months ago by the Rebels, to the very top of the mountain. There we found a picket from the Twelfth Massachusetts Regiment (Colonel Webster), and upon the lookout floated the American flag. After a wide survey and a view most glorious, we descended the other side of the mountain to head-quarters. There, business and a short chat with Major Doubleday, whose battery is there in position. By the new organization of brigades, Doubleday is in ours. He is of Fort Sumter fame, as you know, and is a fine fellow with a grand battery.

I wrote thus far yesterday evening, and was expecting a quiet rainy day, when out blazed the sun and kindled our work again. Rations were to be issued, &c., then, at noon, came the sudden order: “Pack wagons with everything, and prepare to bivouac for several days.” It seems head-quarters got frightened about our wagons. The road is so exposed that, in case of attack, they would certainly be lost. Our pretty encampment had to yield, therefore, to the necessities of war. It made a long afternoon, and when the tents were struck, the wagons loaded, and the balking and unwilling teams made to draw, we were enjoying another sunset. The men were sent into the woods to cut brush for huts, and there sprang up a camp of green leaves, as if by magic. I am now writing under a bower of chestnut leaves, and am quite fascinated by my new quarters. The inconvenience of sending off all your luggage, most of your bedding and camp furniture, is not a slight one. In the absence of other hardships and perils, one can make a hardship of that. Last night we had an animated time. Just after taps one of our pickets fired, and it turned out that a man was prowling through the bushes. Soon after an excited Indiana picket fired on our men in a small picket down the hill, and that kicked up a small bobbery. But the morning makes all quiet again. The mists are lifting from the river and hillsides, and the day is already started on its uncertain course again. The kitchen fires are smoking, the axes are ringing in the wood. “Jim along Josey,” or sick-call, has just sounded. The thoughts turn fondly on breakfast. Good by. Love to all.

SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 64-5

Diary of Corporal Alexander G. Downing: Monday, May 9, 1864

The weather is warm and pleasant and things are growing fine. The order of the day in camp is as follows: Reveille at 4 o'clock, roll call and breakfast call at 6, doctor's call at 6:30, guard mount and company inspection from 8 till 9, company drill 9 to 10, dinner call and roll call at 12 noon; in the afternoon, company drill from 2 to 3 o'clock, dress parade and supper call at 6, tattoo and roll call at 8, taps at 8:30, when all lights must be out and every man not on duty must be in his bunk. This is the way the days pass with a soldier in camp, in time of war.

Source: Alexander G. Downing, Edited by Olynthus B., Clark, Downing’s Civil War Diary, p. 186