Diary of Musician David Lane, August 7, 1863

It was with a bounding heart, brimful of gratitude to God, that I stepped on board the Dakota and bade farewell to Haines Bluff on the second day of August. We have three hundred sick and wounded on this boat and are short of help. Quite a number who started as nurses are sick. Four men died the first night. We ran the boat ashore, dug a grave large enough for all, and laid them in it, side by side. Our Chaplain read the burial service, and we hastened on board to repeat the ceremony, the next morning, for some one else. It seems hard—even cruel—but it is the most solemn burial service I ever witnessed. Nine have died since we started, and one threw himself overboard in the frenzy of delirium and was drowned. We kill a beef every evening. Two nights in succession the best part of a hindquarter has been stolen. The boat hands were questioned, and a huge Irishman acknowledged the theft. He was court martialed and sentenced to be "banked." The boat was stopped opposite a wilderness. No human habitation was in sight. He was forced to pack his bundle, take to the woods and run his chance with hunger and the Rebels.

As we were running leisurely along, about 3 o'clock in the afternoon of yesterday, my curiosity was aroused by our boat running suddenly against the shore and sticking there. All hands were called, and, with the aid of soldiers, she was soon shoved off, and on we went again. A Sergeant asked the Mate why we landed there. His reply was, "Something wrong in the wheel house." One of our boys asked a darkey the same question. "Well, boss, I 'specs dey see a rabbit ober dere, an' t'ink dey kotch 'im." Soon after, as two comrades and myself were sitting in the bow enjoying the cool breeze, my attention was attracted by the glassy stillness of the water in front of us. Pointing to the right, I said, "Yonder is the safe place to sail." The words had scarcely left my mouth when we felt a sudden shock, the bow of the boat was lifted about two feet, a full head of steam was turned on, which carried us over the obstruction. We had "struck a snag." Soon after, we anchored for the night, as the pilot was "too sick" to run the boat.

The sick from our regiment are doing well. I never saw wounded men do so nicely. Of five who came as nurses, four are on the sick list. As for myself, I have not been so well in years.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 74-5

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 11, 1863

Louisville, Ky. Again in Louisville—eleven hundred miles nearer home than one week ago and yet how far. Still, it is joy to feel I am comparatively near. We reached Cairo on the evening of the seventh, took on fresh supplies, and left next day at noon for Cincinnati, which place we expect to reach some time tomorrow. We are now—3 p. m. taking on coal, and will start in a few minutes.

The Ohio is very low-in places not more than three feet deep. We have brought up against sand bars and been forced to back off perhaps fifty times since leaving Cairo. From this place to Cincinnati, I am told, there are no obstructions. The most difficult part of our way was from New Albany to Louisville. We were six hours in making three miles last night. It was nothing but "Back 'er and try again" for about a mile, and then we had a canal with three locks to pass through.

We have had no deaths since the seventh, and our sick and wounded boys are doing nicely. These fresh northern breezes are more exhilerating than wine, and the hope that they may be sent to their homes to recruit their health is more healing than medicine.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 75-6

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 12, 1863

Cincinnati, Ohio. We arrived here at 9:30 this morning. My day's work is, at last, completed, at 9 p. m. This has been a busy day. In fact, I have not been idle or had much rest, by day or night, since July fourth, and yet I am fresh and vigorous as in days of old. The sick and wounded all removed the worst cases to the General Hospital in this city, the convalescents to Camp Denison, eighteen miles out, while a few return to their regiments.

The Seventeenth passed through here today, and is now in camp near Covington, on the opposite bank of the river.

I expect to join them in the morning, and look for a handful of letters.

People call the weather here very hot, but it is not Mississippi heat, and I enjoy it. The mornings and evenings are delightfully cool, while there it is constant, relentless heat both day and night. Here a coat is comfortable in the morning—there one needs no cover day or night.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 76-7

Diary of Private William S. White, June 28, 1862

Our battery moved back last night about one mile and camped on Hogan's farm. This morning when we awoke we found a party of eight hundred Yankee prisoners at Hogan's house. Amongst them were several surgeons, and they actually refused to attend to their own wounded, but insisted, as surgeons were non-combatants, that they should be sent to Richmond and immediately returned to the North.

A great number of wounded Yankees have been brought in by our men, and are receiving all proper attention. We moved forward to Gaines's house, where we remained all day, but near us there was no more fighting.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 122

Diary of Private Adam S. Johnston, October 9, 1862

Was hauled from off the battle-ground in an ambulance wagon at half past two in the morning. for fear of the enemy opening fire on our hospital or old house in which we remained all night from the day of the fight; having our batteries planted close by, if another engagement would ensue, they would draw the enemy's fire on our building. So we, four in number, were hauled five miles this morning to Antioch church, Boyle county, and thrown out in a pile like wood, for they had been removing wounded off the battle-ground all night until the church was perfectly filled, and under every shade tree nigh at hand. I rolled over and over, as I was so disabled that I could not walk, until I got to a fence, and with loss of blood and pain and fatigue, became sleepy in a short time after being left in this condition, I went to sleep and slept until after the sun was up, and on awaking I found myself completely tight against the above mentioned fence, on account of another wounded soldier dying while I was asleep, with his feet tight down the hill against me and his head up the hill, the ground being somewhat rolling, I called to a citizen close by, that had come to see the wounded soldiers, to come to me and remove the dead man, that I might help myself up by the fence. He removed the person, and throwed a blanket over the body to protect it until better attended to. I lay for six days out under a white oak tree, with my wound dressed once. Making a march of 5 miles.

SOURCE: Adam S. Johnston, The Soldier Boy's Diary Book, pp. 23-4

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty, September 23, 1861

This afternoon I rode by a mountain path to a log cabin in which a half dozen wounded Tennesseeans are lying. One poor fellow had his leg amputated yesterday, and was very feeble. One had been struck by a ball on the head and a buckshot in the lungs. Two boys were but slightly wounded, and were in good spirits. To one of these-a jovial, pleasant boy—Dr. Seyes said, good humoredly: "You need have no fears of dying from a gunshot; you are too big a devil, and were born to be hung." Colonel Marrow sought to question this same fellow in regard to the strength of the enemy, when the boy said: "Are you a commissioned officer?" "Yes," replied Marrow. "Then," returned he," you ought to know that a private soldier don't know anything."

In returning to camp, we followed a path which led to a place where a regiment of the rebels had encamped one night. They had evidently become panic-stricken and left in hot haste. The woods were strewn with knapsacks, blankets, and canteens.

The ride was a pleasant one. The path, first wild and rugged, finally led to a charming little valley, through which Beckey's creek hurries down to the river. Leaving this, we traveled up the side of a ravine, through which a little stream fretted and fumed, and dashed into spray against slimy rocks, and then gathered itself up for another charge, and so pushed gallantly on toward the valley and the sunshine.

What a glorious scene! The sky filled with stars; the rising moon; two mountain walls so high, apparently, that one might step from them into heaven; the rapid river, the thousand white tents dotting the valley, the camp fires, the shadowy forms of soldiers; in short, just enough of heaven and earth visible to put one's fancy on the gallop. The boys are in groups about their fires. The voice of the troubadour is heard. It is a pleasant song that he sings, and I catch part of it.

"The minstrel 's returned from the war,

      With spirits as buoyant as air,

 And thus on the tuneful guitar

      He sings in the bower of the fair:

 The noise of the battle is over;

     The bugle no more calls to arms;

A soldier no more, but a lover,

     I kneel to the power of thy charms.

Sweet lady, dear lady, I'm thine;

     I bend to the magic of beauty,

Though the banner and helmet are mine,

     Yet love calls the soldier to duty."

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, pp. 68-9

Official Reports of the Engagement at Belmont, Missouri, and Demonstration from Paducah upon Columbus, Kentucky. November 7, 1861. No. 5. — Report of Col. Napoleon B. Buford, Twenty-seventh Illinois Infantry.

No. 5.

Report of Col. Napoleon B. Buford, Twenty-seventh Illinois Infantry.

HDQRS. TWENTY-SEVENTH REG'T ILL. VOLS.,        

Cairo, November 9, 1861.

SIR: I have the honor to report the part which my regiment took in the battle of Belmont on the 7th instant. The regiment, numbering 720 rank and file, were on board the steamer Montgomery at 4 o'clock p.m. of the 6th instant, which landed on the Kentucky shore at foot of Island No. 1 to await the following daybreak, at which time we steamed down the river to a point on the Missouri shore, in full view of the batteries at Columbus, Ky., and at 7 o'clock a.m. I landed the regiment, and took up the position assigned me by yourself on the right of the First Brigade, which was parallel to a bayou, which was in some places dry and in others impassable, and directly opposite one of the roads to Belmont, at the distance of 1¼ miles from the enemy's camp. I immediately advanced the first platoon of Company A, under the command of Captain Schmitt and Lieutenant Shipley, across the bayou into the woods, to ascertain the nature of the ground and discover the position of the enemy, whose drums were distinctly heard. The detachment had advanced only 100 yards before they were fired upon by a body of cavalry, which they repulsed. As soon as the firing was heard I advanced the remainder of Schmitt's company, and supported them with the whole regiment, which I caused to cross the bayou. Schmitt's company, having advanced about 200 yards farther, were again fired upon by a larger body of cavalry, wounding one of his men, which he gallantly repulsed a second time. At this time, by your orders, Colonel Fouke brought up his regiment to my support, which he quickly formed on my left, and sent out two of his companies as skirmishers. It was here that you found me in advance of the place assigned me, and as the artillery and the other regiments, not of your brigade, had not yet come up, by your orders I moved back to the right of my first position, with Fouke's and Logan's regiments all formed in line of battle.

While waiting for the arrival of Taylor's battery, my regiment was advanced half a mile to the right, and companies A and B sent forward under the command of Captain Schmitt, with orders to feel the enemy and engage him if found in that direction. Taylor's battery having arrived, the whole attacking force, with the exception of my regiment, moved forward on the direct road to Belmont, and the engagement  became warm, you leading your brigade. From the information I received I became assured that the road I was on led to the rear of Belmont, and that by following it rapidly I would get into action at the right time and in the right place.

Guided by the sound of the fierce battle in which you were all the time engaged, I moved forward. At my request you had detached Captain Bielaski, one of your aides, to attend me, who rode with me at the head of the regiment. As we pressed forward in the woods, Captain Dollins, with his cavalry, appeared on my left, and obeyed my orders with alacrity to go forward and discover the enemy.

Our road soon led to a full view of the river and Wolf's Island, below Belmont, where we met straggling soldiers retreating, of whom we captured several, Captain Parke securing the first one. The troops became animated and quickened their step, and came in sight of the camp, which was defended with an almost impassable abatis of huge sycamore trees.

I here formed our line of battle, the right opposite the abatis, the left in the open space in full view of Columbus, and under the fire of the field artillery in Belmont and the enemy's guns on the opposite side of the river. As we approached by the right flank, before the line could be formed at right angles we received a heavy fire of muskery, which killed and wounded some of my men. While forming under fire the gallant Captain Bielaski, on his charger, was seen animating the men and assisting in forming the line. His heroic bearing was observed by us all. After having his horse shot under him he seized a flag, and, advancing with shouts, he fell mortally wounded. Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington and Adjutant Rust were near me on the right, leading bravely forward, while Major Wilson was doing the same on the left. The nature of the ground, the obstacles, and the heavy cannonading which was reaching us caused each company to take up the best position it could, and all kept up a constant fire, which soon drove the enemy from his camp. Here we lost about 9 killed and 30 wounded.

My next order was to advance over the abatis on the right and across the plain on the left, and occupy the camp over which the enemy's flag still waved. The order was obeyed on the double-quick, and the camp entered simultaneously by companies A, Captain Schmitt, and G, Captain Southward and others in such quick succession that I could not distinguish which went forward with most alacrity. Captain Schmitt, with part of his company, and Lieutenant Lytle, with part of Southward's company, were the first to reach the flag, which was torn down by their joint efforts, and it remained in the hands of Lieutenant Lytle, who brought it away, a trophy well earned by the intrepidity he displayed during the whole day. As we advanced to make this attack the "Star-Spangled Banner," borne by Fouke's, Logan's, and other of the regiments engaged, was seen steadily advancing on our left; Taylor's battery was brought forward and opened fire, the enemy's artillery was captured, and we had possession of Belmont.

While these deeds were being enacted you rode into our midst, and it was by your order that my regiment fired the camp. We had taken about 70 prisoners and many muskets, pistols, horses, and trophies. I placed the prisoners under charge of Captain Schmitt, who was wounded in the enemy's camp, and he and Captain Miles, with other prisoners he had captured, began to return to the boats. Shot and shell from Columbus made it necessary that my regiment should now fall back behind the abatis and into the woods. The victory appeared won. We commenced retiring to our boats, but soon a new attack, made by fresh troops, who had been landed from Columbus in the woods, intercepted our march. We returned their fire by a part of our regiment, and sought to find a new route to return. Covered by the woods, and guided by the descending sun, I led the regiment northward until I reached the bayou we had marched around in the morning to outflank the enemy, and recognizing the position, went confidently around it and got within 1 mile of the starting-point of the morning, but was admonished to take a northerly direction by the continued sound of musketry between us and where our boats were left in the morning and by the heavy cannonading from our own gunboats. We marched northward in rear of the farms on Lucas Bend, a distance of about 3 miles, before returning to the river near sunset, exposed during the whole march to the shot and shell of our own gunboats, which happily did us no injury.

On reaching the river the fleet of gunboats and steamboats were all far in advance, steaming towards Cairo. We marched forward, greatly fatigued, with the prospect of a long night's march. Our wounded men were limping along, and all our horses were surrendered to them. The sun was setting. I met a settler, who had a frank, honest face, from whom I borrowed his horse, and mounted Adjutant Rust upon him to gallop forward, and if possible reach the steamer which was nearest us. The steamer was seen to be halting, floating back to Beckwith's Landing. The adjutant reached the steamer Chancellor, hailed, and was answered by General McClernand that he was halting with the steamer and the two gunboats to take all on board. We soon met you on the shore, happy in knowing you had bravely led the brigade and continued unwearied in securing its safety.

And now how shall I distinguish those of my own command who did nobly? It was our first action. We encountered great odds; the enemy in his fortified position, the thunder of the heavy artillery from Columbus, the whizzing of rifled cannon; we had no guides. How could soldiers who had only volunteered a few days ago be expected to brave such odds! But they did brave them. My thanks are due to Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington, to Major Wilson, and to Adjutant Rust, who nobly assisted in forming the line under the fire and rallying the troops and in covering the retreat; also to Captains Schmitt, Parke, Moore, Miles, Southward, Brooks, Merrill, and Bozarth, and all the officers under their command; also to Sergeant Jansen, of Company A, and Fourth Sergeant McCormick, of Company B, whom I observed nobly doing their duty. Surg. E. H. Bowman was at his post, dressed the first wounded man, and was the last to leave his post. Happy am I that he is safe. Assistant Surgeon Barrell remained at home by my order to take care of the sick, but obeyed reluctantly. Quartermaster Sears solicited me to accompany the expedition, but as we took no train, I left him in command of the camp at home. Chaplain Rev. Dr. S. Y. McMasters accompanied the expedition, and was unwearied in consoling and dressing the wounded.

We lost 11 killed, 42 wounded, 28 missing, and 14 known to be prisoners. Among the mortally wounded was Lieut. William Shipley, of Company A, from Quincy, a young man of rare merits. He had for some time been unwell, and was by me directed to remain in camp; but when the column marched he was at his post, radiant with smiles, and was in the battle from first to last, receiving his wound on the retreat within a mile of the boats.

All of which is respectfully submitted.

N. B. BUFORD,        

Colonel Twenty-seventh Regiment Illinois Volunteers.

Brig. Gen. JOHN A. McCLERNAND,
        Commanding First Brigade Illinois Volunteers.

SOURCE: The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, Series I, Volume 3 (Serial No. 3), pp. 283-5

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 Jenkin Lloyd Jones: Sunday, October 5, 1862

Corinth, Miss. As it is seen from the last date, I have not written any for some time and I must write of the past from memory. Not getting any better, I went to the Company hospital on September 24 and there was treated for fever of which I had but a very slight touch. On the morning of October 1 every man that could not join his platoon was to be sent to Corinth as the Battery was going to move, so I and four others were put in the ambulance and driven to the depot, but the cars did not come till 2 P. M. When they came, they loaded all the commissary stores in the rooms. E. R. Hungerford and myself were lucky enough to get into the box car. We got to Corinth in about two hours, and after waiting an hour we were taken in a mule wagon to the Seminary Hospital situated on a hill about one mile and a half from Corinth.

We were put in a comfortable tent and lay there unmolested until the 3rd, when early in the morning heavy firing was heard and continued all day. We learned that the cannon had been attacked by the rebels consisting of Price, Breckinridge, Van Dorn and one other commander. In the afternoon we had to move down under the hill, we being right in the range of the guns should they open fire in that direction at night. We were ordered to have everything packed so as to leave at a moment's notice. At about 12 o'clock at night we were ordered out on the road, while the tents were struck and cots piled. Presently the teams began driving in and loading men and cots. At last our turn came, but not until the rebs had opened fire on the town with three guns throwing shells. We had to pass under the fire. The shells whistled over our heads in every direction, while off went the mules as fast as they could trot. It certainly was a rough ride. They drove us through town and left us on the east of it about ½ mile. By this time it was nearly day-light and the guns used by the rebs throwing shells were taken. About 9 o'clock the engagement became general. The noise of the musketry, occasionally broken in upon by the loud peal of artillery, made it truly terrific. The fight lasted about three hours, when the rebs were obliged to skedaddle.

All of this time we had heard nothing from the Battery. We supposed that it had been engaged, when at 12 o'clock Dr. Miller came around and told us that the Battery had been engaged that morning, and had been taken and retaken, but he could not give us a list of the casualties. We heard nothing more from the Battery until to-day, G. M. Spencer came with a list of casualties. He informed us that the sick and wounded were gathered in a company hospital about a quarter of a mile to the south. We remained in the general hospital until [Tuesday, Oct. 7.]

SOURCE: Jenkin Lloyd Jones, An Artilleryman's Diary, p. 8-8

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

Our camp here was made without consulting the Surgeons. It was laid out without order, and the tents are so close together that teams cannot pass through to remove its rubbish, its offal, and its filth. My Colonel, too, has interfered much with my sanitary orders, particularly those in reference to ventilation. The result is the largest sick list we have had, I have succeeded, however, in getting consent to move the camp to other ground, high and dry, where I am now engaged in ditching the streets, and staking out the ground preparatory to a move, where I hope we shall be able to reduce the list of sick. I believe I omitted in the proper place the record of the first death in our regiment. It occurred on the 3d of this month. The poor fellow died of Nostalgia (home-sickness), raving to the last breath about wife and children. It seems strange that such an affection of the mind should kill strong, healthy men; but deaths from this cause are very frequent in the army; the sufferer, towards the last showing evidences of broken down nervous system, accompanied by most of the symptoms of typhoid fever.

A little incident to-day. A reconnoitering party went out this morning towards Vienna and Flint Hill. At noon, a courier came in with a report that they were fighting. I was ordered to take an ambulance and join my regiment "in the direction of Vienna" immediately. On starting, I met with Surgeon Thompson, of the 43d N. York Vols., told him I was going in search of an adventure, and invited him to go with me. He accepted. We reached our outer lines "in the direction of Vienna," but had not found my regiment. To Surgeon T.'s question, "What now!" I replied that my orders were to "go till I found my regiment." "But are you going to cross the lines into the enemy's country?" My orders are unconditional; will you go with me further?" "Certainly," said the Doctor. Shortly after leaving head-quarters, we met the 1st Regt. Regular Cavalry, who told us they had left one man badly wounded between Flint Hill and Vienna. This man we determined to rescue, if possible. We found him in a house in Vienna. I had now obeyed my order, though I had not found my regiment, and I determined to take this man back with me, though the enemy were all around us. One ball had passed between his ear and skull, a second had passed through the leg, a third had entered the back, just below the shoulder blade, but had made no exit. He was suffering severely from pain and difficult respiration. He could not ride in an ambulance, so Doctor T. volunteered to return to our lines for litter-bearers and an escort, whilst I should remain with our newly made friend. I confess that as I caught the last glimpse of the Doctor's fine black horse dashing over the hill, there was at the ends of my fingers and toes a sensation very much akin to the "oozing out of courage." I was alone in the enemy's country. But there was no other way now, so I dressed the wounds, and waited his return, with what patience I could. He soon returned. We started the man in the direction of our lines, under an escort of eight men.

We mounted our horses, and paying but little attention, got some mile ahead of our escort, when suddenly, eight horsemen, well mounted and armed, came bearing down on us, evidently intending to surround us. They were about a quarter of a mile off when first discovered. "We are in for a trip to Richmond," said Doctor T. "Is it not safer," replied I, "to fight than to be taken prisoners by these fellows?" "I'm in," said the Doctor. We drew our revolvers and waited, one of us, I am certain, in considerable trepidation. By this time they were in hailing distance. We called them to halt, when, to our mutual disgust, we found that we were friends—they were cheated of the capture of two very fine looking rebel officers," and we of a short road to "that borne whence no traveller returns.” A little after dark we reached camp with our man. In civil life, it will hardly be credited that the commanding officer of this regiment, when he found his man so badly wounded, ordered him to be taken from his horse and left, whilst the horse was to be taken away; yet the man states that such is the fact, and that he saved himself from such a fate by drawing his revolver and threatening to shoot the first man who should approach him for that purpose. After the regiment left him, he managed to sit on his horse till he reached Vienna, about three miles from where he was shot.

Since last date, we have had an opportunity of learning something of the military qualities of our brigade officers. We have not been before on ground where we could have our brigade drills; but here we have them.

General Smith, who commands the Division, is a stout, short man, rather under size, from Vermont, I think. He is taciturn, but exceedingly courteous and gentlemanly, and firm and decided. Of his mental calibre, we have not yet had an opportunity to judge. It is a strange paradox of human nature, that whilst we acknowledge that a vast majority of our mentally big men are quiet and reserved, yet when we meet a stranger, if he says little, we fall at once into the opinion that he knows little. How this is with General Smith, I do not know. I am much disposed to construe his quiet and courteous manner favorably; but I confess that whispers from the grove have rather prejudiced me against him.

Brigadier General Winfield Scott Hancock is the very antipode of General Smith. He is fully as long as his name, with title perfixed, and as for quiet and courtesy—Oh, fie! I saw him come on to the field one morning this week, to brigade drill. He was perfectly sober. He is one of those paradoxes who believe that one man, at least, is to be known by his much talking. He became excited, or wished to appear so, at some little mistake in the maneuvering of his Brigade, and the volleys of oaths that rolled and thundered down the line, startled the men with suspicion that they were under command of some Quarter Master lately made General, who mistook the men for mules, and their officers for drivers. He must be a facetious chap, that General, to wish to excite such suspicions. I think he hails from Pennsylvania, but nobody seems to know much about him, except from his statement that he has been seventeen years in the service, and knows all about it." Wherever he has been, he has certainly acquired a perfect intimacy with the whole gamut of profanity.

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. 44-7

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty: August 20, 1861

These mountain streams are unreliable. We had come to regard the one on which we are encamped as a quiet, orderly little river, that would be good enough to notify us when it proposed to swell out and overflow the adjacent country. In fact we had bragged about it, made all sorts of complimentary mention of it, put our tents on its margin, and allowed it to encircle our sick and wounded; but we have now lost all confidence in it. Yesterday, about noon, it began to rise. It had been raining, and we thought it natural enough that the waters should increase a little. At four o'clock it had swelled very considerably, but still kept within its bed of rock and gravel, and we admired it all the more for the energy displayed in hurrying along branches, logs, and sometimes whole trees. At six o'clock we found it was rising at the rate of one foot per hour, and that the water had now crept to within a few feet of the hospital tent, in which lay two wounded and a dozen or more of sick. Dr. McMeens became alarmed and called for help. Thirty or more boys stripped, swam to the island, and removed the hospital to higher ground-to the highest ground, in fact, which the island afforded. The boys returned, and we felt safe. At seven o'clock, however, we found the river still rising rapidly. It covered nearly the whole island. Logs, brush, green trees, and all manner of drift went sweeping by at tremendous speed, and the water rushed over land which had been dry half an hour before, with apparently as strong a current as that in the channel. We knew then that the sick and wounded were in danger. How to rescue them was now the question. A raft was suggested; but a raft could not be controlled in such a current, and if it went to pieces or was hurried away, the sick and wounded must drown. Fortunately a better way was suggested; getting into a wagon, I ordered the driver to go above some distance, so that we could move with the current, and then ford the stream. After many difficulties, occasioned mainly by floating logs and driftwood, and swimming the horses part of the way, we succeeded in getting over. I saw it was impossible to carry the sick back, and that there was but one way to render them secure. I had the horses unhitched, and told the driver to swim them back and bring over two or three more wagons. Two more finally reached me, and one team, in attempting to cross, was carried down stream and drowned. I had the three wagons placed on the highest point I could find, then chained together and staked securely to the ground. Over the boxes of two of these we rolled the hospital tent, and on this placed the sick and wounded, just as the water was creeping upon us. On the third wagon we put the hospital stores. It was now quite dark. Not more than four feet square of dry land remained of all our beautiful island; and the river was still rising. We watched the water with much anxiety. At ten o'clock it reached the wagon hubs, and covered every foot of the ground; but soon after we were pleased to see that it began to go down a little. Those of us who could not get into the wagons had climbed the trees. At one o'clock it commenced to rain again, when we managed to hoist a tent over the sick. At two o'clock the long-roll, the signal for battle, was beaten in camp, and we could just hear, above the roar of the water, the noise made by the men as they hurriedly turned out and fell into line.

It will not do, however, to conclude that this was altogether a night of terrors. It was, in fact, not so very disagreeable after all. There was a by-play going on much of the time, which served to illuminate the thick darkness, and divert our minds from the gloomier aspects of the scene. Smith, the teamster who brought me across, had returned to the mainland with the horses, and then swam back to the island. By midnight he had become very drunk. One of the hospital attendants was very far gone in his cups, also. These two gentlemen did not seem to get along amicably; in fact, they kept up a fusillade of words all night, and so kept us awake. The teamster insisted that the hospital attendant should address him as Mr. Smith. The Smith family, he argued, was of the highest respectability, and being an honored member of that family, he would permit no man under the rank of a Major-General to call him Jake. George McClellan sometimes addressed him by his christian name; but then George and he were Cincinnatians, old neighbors, and intimate personal friends, and, of course, took liberties with each other. This could not justify one who carried out pukes and slop-buckets from a field hospital in calling him Jake, or even Jacob.

Mr. Smith's allusions to the hospital attendant were not received by that gentleman in the most amiable spirit. He grew profane, and insisted that he was not only as good a man as Smith, but a much better one, and he dared the bloviating mule scrubber to get down off his perch and stand up before him like a man. But Jake's temper remained unruffled, and along toward morning, in a voice more remarkable for strength than melody, he favored us with a song:

Ho! gif ghlass uf goodt lauger du me;

  Du mine fadter, mine modter, mine vife:

Der day's vork vos done, undt we'll see

  Vot bleasures der vos un dis life,

 

Undt ve sit us aroundt mit der table,

  Undt ve speak uf der oldt, oldt time,

Ven we lif un dot house mit der gable,

  Un der vine-cladt banks uf der Rhine;

 

Undt mine fadter, his voice vos a quiver,

  Undt mine modter; her eyes vos un tears,

Ash da dthot uf dot home un der river,

  Undt kindt friendst uf earlier years;

 

Undt I saidt du mine fadter be cheerie,

  Du mine modter not longer lookt sadt,

Here's a blace undt a rest for der weary,

  Und ledt us eat, drink, undt be gladt.

 

So idt ever vos cheerful mitin;

  Vot dtho' idt be stormy mitoudt,

Vot care I vor der vorld undt idts din,

  Ven dose I luf best vos about;

 

So libft up your ghlass, mine modter,

  Undt libft up yours, Gretchen, my dear,

Undt libft up your lauger, mine fadter,

  Undt drink du long life und good cheer.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 58-62

Diary of 2nd Lieutenant Benjamin F. Pearson, October 19, 1862

10 Oc I & Emma Amandus & our Cozens Maria & Mary Kelley attended Catholic Church after which we went to the Hospital Boat & from that we went to the hospitals & amongst the sick & wounded 5 Oc I was on dress perade evening I preached in the tent 30th Reg text Gal 6th 1st & 2nd v

SOURCE: Edgar R. Harlan, Currator, Annals of Iowa, 3rd Series, Vol. 15, No. 2, October 1925, p. 92

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Tuesday, May 17, 1864

Wounded men are taken out from among us to be sent back. All windows are ordered closed. Owing to this order two of our fellows rigged up a skeleton dummy and dressed in blue and a cap which they stood at the window. Soon after it was fired upon, and an hour later it was poked up at another window and two guns banged at it. Soon after they swung it up at another window. Two more Rebel guns burned powder. Every time the glass was scattered over the room to the annoyance of men, but when they growled the fellows yelled out we have got to have air. This time a sergeant and several guards with bayonetted guns came up to look after the dead and wounded, but found none. The boys dissected their artificial Yankee and the event was a mystery to Rebels until in the afternoon at a later performance, the trick was discovered by a man posted on the stairway and an officer of the prison came up and vented his wrath very savagely, but did not find the fellows who had fooled them.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 47

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 Musician David Lane, June 14, 1863

We are still in the harbor at Memphis awaiting orders. Eight hundred and fifty wounded men were brought to this place yesterday from Vicksburg. Grant is still hammering away at that seemingly impregnable fortress. The weather is extremely hot, which renders our situation, huddled together as we are, very uncomfortable. Yesterday we steamed up the river about a mile to a fine grove, and all went on shore while the crew gave the old boat a thorough cleaning. This morning our surgeon ordered us all on shore as a "sanitary measure." We marched off by companies, each company going where it chose, but to different points. We went to Court House Square and disbanded. It was like being transferred from a gloomy prison to "smiling fields and shady groves.” The square contains about five acres; is enclosed by an iron fence; is thickly set with trees of different varieties the brave old oak, with its spreading branches and delicious shade; the gorgeous magnolia, the tree of paradise; the orange and lemon, with an almost endless variety of evergreens. Near the center of the square is a bust of General Jackson, cut in marble.

On one side of the pedestal is inscribed those memorable words of that grand old patriot: "The Federal Union; it Must Be Preserved." I noticed the word "Federal" was partly obliterated, and inquired the cause. A citizen told me it was done by a Rebel Colonel at the beginning of the war; that his men, still cherishing some regard for the hero of New Orleans, took him outside the city and shot him. At four o'clock we were marched on board our prison ship.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 48-9

Diary of Corporal John Worrell Northrop: Monday, May 16, 1864

Appearances and talk on the streets last night indicated that they had news that worried them. This morning I learned from a sergeant, that General Stuart is killed. Our cavalry are troubling the railroads, the long bridge mentioned near Burkville, they destroyed. Several hundred start from other prisons to Georgia. There are some wounded here, thus far no medical attendance. Considerable excitement in the street occasioned by several bodies of troops leaving for the front to join Lee's army.

SOURCE: John Worrell Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 47

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty: July 7, 1861

On the 5th instant a scouting party, under Captain Lawson, started for Middle Fork bridge, a point eighteen miles from camp. At eight o'clock last night, when I brought the battalion from the drill-ground, I found that a messenger had arrived with intelligence that Lawson had been surrounded by a force of probably four hundred, and that, in the engagement, one of his men had been killed and three wounded. The camp was alive with excitement. Each company of the Third had contributed five men to Captain Lawson's detachment, and each company, therefore, felt a special interest in it. The messenger stated that Captain Lawson was in great need of help, and General McClellan at once ordered four companies of infantry and twenty mounted men to move to his assistance. I had command of the detachment, and left camp about nine o'clock P. M., accompanied by a guide. The night was dark. My command moved on silently and rapidly. After proceeding about three miles, we left the turnpike and turned onto a narrow, broken, bad road, leading through the woods, which we followed about eight miles, when we met Captain Lawson's detachment on its way back. Here we removed the wounded from the farm wagon in which they had been conveyed thus far, to an ambulance brought with us for the purpose, countermarched, and reached our quarters about three o'clock this morning.

I will not undertake to give the details of Captain Lawson's skirmish. I may say, however, that the number of the enemy killed and wounded, lacerated and torn, by Corporal Casey, was beyond all computation. Had the rebels not succeeded in getting a covered bridge between themselves and the invincible Irishman, he would, if we may believe his own statement, have annihilated the whole force, and brought back the head of their commanding officer on the point of his bayonet.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 14-5

Diary of Lieutenant-Colonel John Beatty: July 12, 1861

We were rejoiced this morning to hear of Rosecrans' success, and, at the same time, not well pleased at the escape of the enemy under cover of night. We were ordered to move, and got under way at eight o'clock. On the road we met General Rosecrans and staff. He was jubilant, as well he might be, and as he rode by received the congratulations of the officers and cheers of the men.

Arriving on yesterday's battlefield, the regiment was allowed a half hour for rest. The dead had been gathered and placed in a long trench, which was still open. The wounded of both armies were in hospital, receiving the attention of the surgeons. There were a few prisoners, most of them too unwell to accompany their friends in retreat.

Soon after reaching the summit of Rich mountain, we caught glimpses of Tygart's valley, and of Cheat mountain beyond, and before nightfall reached Beverly and went into camp.

SOURCE: John Beatty, The Citizen-soldier: Or, Memoirs of a Volunteer, p. 26-7

Diary of Corporal John W. Dennett, November 6, 1862

Started at half-past six A.M., passing Millville and Philmont, to Millburg, where we saw a lot of wounded rebels, and went into camp at five o'clock. Eighteen miles.

SOURCE: John Lord Parker, Henry Wilson's Regiment: History of the Twenty-second Massachusetts Infantry, the Second Company Sharpshooters and the Third Light Battery, in the War of the Rebellion, p. 269

Diary of Private John J. Wyeth, November 3, 1862

At four o'clock this morning "all was wrong." We were aroused from the most miserable attempt at sleep our boys ever dreamed of trying. It was a mercy to awaken us; only we were so stiff, sore, cold, and hungry, that it was most impossible to get up at all. We were covered with dirt and frost. Our guns were in fearful condition, and we were ordered to clean them and be ready for the road in half an hour. That was good; no chance to eat anything or clean up ourselves; but such is the luck of war. At six A.M. we started on our second day's tramp. Had you asked any of the company, they would have said, "We have been tramping a week." Our colonel gave us a good word this morning, in passing, saying we had done well. We are satisfied; for although "Rawle's Mill" was not an extensive affair, but very few men being engaged, it was an ugly encounter for raw material, fired upon, as we were, while up to our waists in water; the unknown force of the enemy, apparently on top of the hill, under cover, and having a perfect knowledge of the "lay of the land.”

After a steady march of about twelve miles, we entered Williamston, where we halted, broke ranks, and had a picked-up dinner, and made ourselves comfortable for two hours or so. Williamston is a pretty little town on the Roanoke. We foraged considerably; most every man having something. The gunboats here effected a junction with us, bringing extra rations, &c.

We visited the wounded, calling on Charley Roberts, who was hit last night. He looks pretty white, but is doing well, and will probably be sent to New Berne on one of the boats. A few of us found a piano in one of the houses, and after moving it to the piazza, Ned Ramsay played, and we sang home tunes for a while, having a large audience on the lawn. Soon after the officers broke up our fun, by Fall in E," and as that was what we came for, we "fell in," and recommenced our walk at three P.M., marching about five miles, when we pitched camp for the night. Parsons has been made sergeant for his coolness and bravery in taking prisoners.

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. 19