we still went on and
about 3 oclock in the eavning we come up with the main body of the Yankees (at
Cold Harbor) and attacked them And from that time untell dark we had a wright
warm time of it But we whipt them And in our company A. Burk was kild and A.
Tucker and Page was slitley wounded
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 22
we was rousted up
about too oclock in the night and about day break we started out again And
crost the Chickahominy River and marched untell we came to the York river
Railroad 8 miles below Richmond And then we taken down the Railroad and about 2
hours befour sunset we come to a little creak whar the Yankees had burnt the
bridg And left sum of thir peases thar to bumb us so we couldent build the
bridge untell they could get thir armey futher along, And we never got the
bridge built untell next morning about a half of a hour by sun
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 22
Nashville, Tenn., Thursday Evening, April 7.
The present week, thus far, has been to me, full of new and thrilling experiences.
On Sabbath, the day after our arrival, I entered an ambulance and visited a camp for the first time. The company consisted of three, besides myself—Rev. Dr. D., a young theological student who is passing vacation here, and Miss T. The day was warm and springlike; the hyacinths, crocuses, and peach trees in blossom. It was the camp of the 7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and situated upon one of the hights overlooking the City. The tents were white, the soldiers well-dressed, the uniform bright and everything tidy. A new and gaily painted banner pointed out the tent of the Colonel. As we entered the grounds, that gentleman, with the Major, met us cordially, a seat was prepared for the ladies at the opening of the Colonel's tent, while a huge box in front served for a speaker's stand. The bugle then summoned such as wished to listen, and service was held by the two gentlemen of our party. Books and papers were afterward distributed, for which the soldiers seemed eager. The Colonel informed us that the Regiment had just been reorganized, and new recruits filled the vacant places in the ranks, made so by the heroes, who fell at such battles as Lookout Mountain, Mission Ridge, and Chickamauga. There is a long list of such inscribed upon this banner, of which they are justly proud.
On Monday, visited a hospital for the first time. Was accompanied by Mrs. E. P. Smith, Mrs. Dr. F. and my travelling companion Miss O, beside the driver. As the ambulance halted, we saw through the open door and windows the homesick, pallid faces raised from the sick beds to greet us with a look of pleasure. Upon entering, almost the first object was that of a dying boy. His name was John Camplin, of Co. G. 49th Illinois Vols. He was a new recruit of only seventeen, and the victim of measles. He "did'nt want to die," but, after the singing of such hymns as "Rock of Ages," and "Jesus lover of my soul," he grew more resigned. I took the card which hung in a little tin case at the head of his bed, and copied the name and address of his father. The dying boy had been watching, and he then with difficult speech asked me to write to his people and tell them "good bye,” and that he was "going home." I tried to obtain a more lengthy message to comfort them, but speech was soon denied nd reason wandered. He died a few hours after, and the sad tidings was sent next day.
Found another poor boy quite low, with pneumonia. He knew his condition, but with an heroic smile upon his wasted features said, that "if" his "life would do his dear country any good" he was "willing to give it."
The Masonic Hall and First Presbyterian Church constitute Hospital, No. 8. We visited that on Tuesday.
As we enter the Hall, past the guard, we find a broad flight of stairs before us, and while ascending, perceive this caution inscribed upon the wall in evergreen.
"Remember you are in a hospital and make no noise." Up this flight, and other cautions meet us, such as "No smoking here"—" Keep away from the wall," &c. We here pause at a door, and are introduced to the matron who is fortunately just now going through the wards. It is Miss J-tt, of Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Ascending another broad flight, and asking in the meantime of her duties, she throws open the door of the linen room where are two clerks, and says:
"This department comprises all the work assigned to me whatever else I do is voluntary and gratuitous. "But today," she adds laughingly, "it would be difficult to define my duties. I think I might properly be called 'Commandant of the Black Squad,' or Chief of the Dirty Brigade;" and she explained by saying that she had seven negro women and two men, subject to her orders, who were cleaning the building. She next throws open the door of a ward which contains but a few patients, and has a smoky appearance. She tells us, they are fumigating it, having had some cases of small pox, most of which have been sent to the proper Hospital.
We pass to another, where she tells us, previous to entering, is one very sick boy. He is of a slight form, only fifteen, and with delicate girlish features. His disease is typhoid fever, from the effects of which he is now quite deaf. As we approach, he says to her faintly, "Sit down here, mother, on the side of my bed.”
She does so, when he asks her to "to bend her head down so he can tell her something." This she does, when he says, quite loud, but with difficulty;—“There's some money under my pillow, I want you to get it, and buy me some dried peaches."
"I don't want your money," she says, "but you shall have the peaches if I can get them," and she writes a note and dispatches it to the sanitary rooms for them." "This boy always calls me mother," she says, "and the first day he was brought here, he sent his nurse to ask if I would come up and kiss him. He has always been his mother's pet, and I now correspond with her on his account."
His fever is very high, and we pass our cold hand soothingly over his forehead and essay to speak words of cheer, and as we turn to leave, he looks up pleadingly and says:
"Can't you kiss me?"
"Yes, indeed, I can—am glad to do so," and we press our own to his burning lips and receive his feverish, unpleasant breath, not a disagreeable task though, for all, when we remember that he is the pet of his mother, who misses him so very much, and who may never look upon her boy again.
Of one-a middle-aged, despondent looking man we ask cheerily, how he is to-day.
"About the same," he replies coldly, but with a look which is the index of a thought like this:
Oh, you don't care for us or our comfort,—you are well, and have friends, and home, probably near you, and you cannot appreciate our suffering, and only come here to satisfy an idle curiosity."
He does not say this, but he thinks it, and we read the thought in the voice, manner, and countenance. We determine to convince him of his mistake, if possible, notwithstanding he looks as if he prefers we should walk along and leave him alone.
"Were you wounded?" we ask.
"No-sick," was the short gruff answer.
"Your disease was fever was'nt it?" we persist," your countenance looks like it."
"Yes, fever and pneumonia,” he replies in the same cold, but despairing tone.
"Ah-but you're getting better now."
"Don't know about it—reckon not."
"Well, how is it about getting letters from home?"
His countenance, voice and manner undergo a sudden change now, and his eyes overrun with tears, at the simple words "letters from home."
And as he raises his hand to his mouth, to conceal its quivering, he tells us with tremulous voice that he has sent three letters to his wife and can get no answer. She has left the place where they used to live, and he does not know certainly where to direct. We ask who we can write to, to find out, and learn that a sister would know. We take the probable address of the wife, and that of the sister, and after some farther conversation leave him looking quite like another man as we promise to write to each in the evening. (Subsequently, we learned that he received a reply to both, and was comparatively cheerful and very grateful.)
Down stairs, and we enter a ward on the first floor. Here is a thin sallow visage, the owner of which piteously asks if we "have any oranges," "No," but we provide means, by which he can purchase.
"I'm from North Carolina," he says, "I hid in the woods and mountains and lived on roots and berries for weeks, before I could get away."
In reply to our query as to whether he would like a letter written home, he informs us that his wife and father arrived in town only a few days ago,
"Then you have seen them," we say.
"Yes, they both visit me, but my wife comes oftenest."
Just now, his nurse, a young man who should know better, interrupts him by telling us that "it isn't so, and his family are all in North Carolina."
"That's just the way," said the sick man, turning to me with a flushed and angry look, "that they're talking to me all the time, and trying to make everybody think I'm crazy. I reckon I know whether I've seen my wife or not!"
"Of course you do," we say quietingly; "does she bring you anything nice to eat?" and we add that we wish she would come while we were there, so we could see her.
"Well, she don't bring me much to eat," he says in a weak, hollow voice, but earnestly, "she don't understand fixin' up things nice for sick folks, and then she's weakly like, but she does all she can, for she's a right gude heart. She doesn't fix up, and look like you folks do, you know," he added, “for she's sort o' torn to pieces like by this war."
“Yes, we can understand it."
Upon inquiring about this man a few moments after of the Ward-Master, we find that he is really a monomaniac upon this subject, persisting in the declaration that his wife and father visit him often though no one sees them.
"He can't live," said the Ward-Master, "he has lost all heart and is worn out. The chance of a Southerner to live after going to a hospital is not over a fourth as good as for one of our Northern boys. They can do more fighting with less food while in the field, but when the excitement is over they lose heart and die.”
We find upon several subsequent visits that he is growing weaker, and at the last when his countenance indicates that death is near, we are thankful that he is still comforted by these imaginary visits from father and wife.
We crossed the street and entered the First Presbyterian Church, which constitutes a part of the hospital. This place is notable for the promulgation of secession sentiments from its pulpit in other days. A specimen of the style was given here a short time before the entrance of our troops, by Prof. Elliott of the Seminary, who in a prayer besought the Almighty that he would so prosper the arms of the Confederates and bring to naught the plans of the Federals, that every hill-top, plain and valley around Nashville should be white with the bones of the hated Yankees!”
“After hearing this it was doubly a pleasure, in company with Miss J., another "Northern vandal," to make the walls of the old church echo to the words of "The Star Spangled Banner," with an accompaniment from the organ; and it would have done any loyal heart good to see how much pleasure it gave to the sick and wounded soldiers.
SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 13-19
All quiet along our lines, and we have come to the conclusion that the Yankees have postponed their attack upon this place.
SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 112
The 26 day of May was a nice one but about 12 oclock in the night it comenced raining very hard And about 1 oclock we was rousted up and did expect to attack the Yankees about day but it rained so hard we did not go
SOURCE: Bartlett Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 20
The 28 day was clear and about a hour befour the sun set we left our camp And march all night down toward Hanover Coathouse And we past in about three hundred yards of the Yankeys pickets And then we stopt and rested about 3 hours And about 8 oclock the next day we started back and went about 5 or 6 miles and stopt for the night
SOURCE: Bartlett Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 20
The incident at the
creek, where I nearly drew the fire of two sentries, led me to inquire as to
methods prison authorities have for informing new arrivals, of their rules in
reference to the dead line, especially where no line is visible, which is the
case for 60 yards at the point mentioned, parallel with the crossing from south
to north. I learned they never published their rules, every man learns at his
peril, just as I did, or by hearsay. Old prisoners say there never has been a
visible line at this creek crossing; that no man knows where it is except as he
judges the distance from the stockade, or guesses where it would come by
looking at the line where it stops north and south of the creek. The sentry is
left to guess when a man gets over the line, that is not there and shoots
according to his guess. It involves upon the prisoners to post new men, as much
as possible, but comparatively few think to do so. It is a serious matter as
new arrivals nearly every day are apt to transgress the rule ignorantly and
innocently, and if shot they have been murdered in cold blood. During new
arrivals this happens often, as guards are mostly young fellows whose chief
education is to despise Yankees whom it is a Southern virtue to kill, and to
perform this patriotic duty he has been trained to shoot well, and to watch for
a chance. At this point he finds opportunity. Guards are composed of Alabama
and Georgia youths reared under the fire-eating doctrines of Yancey, Cobb and
Toombs, and to believe in the infallibility of the chivalric South, its
institutions, peculiar rights, as superior to all else, whose leaders have led
the Southern mass to engage in a bad war for a bad cause. Probably these
shooting imps know nothing of this, are ignorant of the crime they every day
commit. Not a single instance, so far, were men who were shot seeking to
escape. They were ignorant of any rule and unhindered in their approach to the
stockade by a visible dead line at this point. Hence the shooting has been
unjustifiable by ordinnary prison discipline prescribed by treaties or laws of
war.
It is one
continuous, irksome every day recurrence of unpleasant scenes. But one event is
looked for with hopeful pleasure, that is the issuing of rations which never
lacks serious, if not total disappointment. After roll call the sick are helped
to the gates; those ready to die are put on stretchers and carried to the
hospital outside near the south end of the stockade. Of all the grim and
ghastly sights imagination ever depicted, those we see at this hour far excel
in horror. Poor, squalid, yellow faces, eyes sunken and glassy, cheeks hollow
or swollen with scurvy, fevered lips drawn tightly across the teeth, the mouth
agape to breathe or let escape fetid breath, some borne by comrades, others
tottering by the help of staffs or supported by friends; some without half a
suit to cover them, some with terribly swollen limbs, putrid sores, dropsical
distensions and bent forms. One holds his breath to look at them, nay turns
away! Men walk about whom we would call bad corpses if seen in coffins anywhere
else. Such a pitiful look as they give I never saw; their voices are as if the
dead speak.
Two rods to the rear
of us I witnessed the death of a Tennesseean, the last of three brothers who
died on the same spot since March. All were Belle Isle victims. He had laid all
day in the heat and will not be carried out till morning. He gradually wasted
and died without a struggle. It is more remarkable than anything I ever read,
how men lose their sense of life; imperceptibly degree by degree, it goes out
leaving only a latent consciousness of what they have been, what they are, and
a vague, unintelligent hope. Even that departs and his mind ranges in the
narrowest sphere the human spirit can. For weeks he is robbed of himself; an
infant is not more childish or weak; age not so whimsical or broken. He is a
mere human worm! Another singular phase of these conditions: We frequently see
men unable to arise from the sand, threatening to knock down strong men for
trivial things they deem insulting. Men of skeleton forms lock in each others
puny arms in a rage, falling on the ground unable to rise, they still boast of
what they can do. So long bereft of comfort, so long have they only hoped for
bread and liberty from day to day at the hands of merciless authorities, that
reason is extinguished in many, and the lowest, blindest, selfish passion
clings to the rotten thread of life. The phases which life assumes in this
degraded condition, is inconceivable. Some retain the tenderest affection and
the broadest faith, as long as consciousness remains.
I saw a man today in
the last stages of starvation having sickened of his scanty food. His cry was
bread, but when offered that given us, his stomach heaved; he turned his face
with expressions of hopeless agony and exclaimed: "They can get me
something else! could I be at home!" There are many cases which doctors
might term chronic innutrition, where they eat with avidity all they get and
still starve, the food doing no good. Doctors have been made acquainted with
many of these cases, but will not admit to the hospital. Bell Isle boys tell me
they have often dreamed of eating and woke up to go through the motions
frothing at the mouth. In one instance they begged the guard to throw over
pieces of a cow that had been delivered of a calf three days before, some of
which they devoured, raw. They exhibit some rings claimed to have been made
from the bones of a dog, eaten at Belle Isle, kept as a memento.
SOURCE: John Worrell
Northrop, Chronicles from the Diary of a War Prisoner in Andersonville
and Other Military Prisons of the South in 1864, p. 66-8
This morn before day
our Army commenced to retreat. I left the Regiment on the Plaza in M. and went
out to the end of the Wilkerson pike. Got my clothing and came across to the
Salem pike, found a number of unparoled Yanks on my way. I met Gen'l Buford but
he would not send back to parole them. I went on to town, went to see Miss
Kate, took a bite to eat and bid them goodbye. Went up to Mr. Lane's and from
there out to Col. Smith's Regiment and back to Col. Cox in town. He promised to
attend the Yanks. I then started for the Command. Came out to Col. Lytle's,
stopped, found Morton of the Battery there. I took supper there but did not
know where I was until the young ladies came down. Miss Mollie came in glad to
see me, was then introduced to Miss Mollie Turner and Miss Alice Hord, staid
till 11 o'clock, time passed very pleasantly. Came on to Camp.
SOURCE: Ephraim
Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's
Texas Rangers, p. 5-6
Magruder arrived at
Bethel Church a few hours since, and right glad were we to see him, for “Old
Mac," as we call him, has our fullest confidence. Sent my
"detachment," mounted, with a guard of cavalry to New Market Bridge
to reconnoitre. Results: procured two cart loads of corn, one spade and two
shovels, shot at one of our own videttes, but didn't hit him, as he ran too
fast. We could have been easily cut off had the Yankees possessed any daring.
SOURCE: William S.
White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 101
Our strength at this
place now amounts to about seven thousand men—on the entire Peninsula, nearly
ten thousand.
It is quite evident
that the Yankees will not act on the offensive, and we must decoy them out of
their strongholds if we wish to bring on another engagement.
SOURCE: William S.
White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 103
Were aroused early
this morning with the word the Yankees are in Nolensville. Went up at double
quick and found them there. Fought them there all day until night, falling back
to our old Camp at Mr. Page's. Staid there tonight. Our loss, one piece of
cannon and a few men—McClure of Company E killed.
SOURCE: Ephraim
Shelby Dodd, Diary of Ephraim Shelby
Dodd: Member of Company D Terry's Texas Rangers, p. 4
During the siege of Savannah Major Johnson was off on the flanks of the army with the mounted portion of the regiment, scouting, foraging, doing outpost duty, and gathering up stragglers from their commands. After the fall of the city General Corse sends a dispatch ordering him to join his regiment. On the evening of the twenty-second he halts on a plantation near the Ogeechee River, and after camping his men, accompanied by Lieutenant S. F. Flint, he wends his way to the planter's mansion. It is now dark and raining. The Major knocks at the door, and after an assurance of friendship, they are received into the household. Their sabres’ frightful clang grates harshly upon the ears of the inmates—an old man, woman and daughter and for a while they seem frightened, but the gentlemanly demeanor of the Major and Lieutenant soon wins their confidence, causing them to come to the conclusion that the Yankees were not the wild creatures they had been represented to be. The midnight hour approximating, they all retire, leaving the Major and Lieutenant the occupants of the parlor. In the morning, while all is quiet, they make their exit, leaving the following beautiful lines (written by the Lieutenant,) in the clock:
After our entrance into the city, we go into camp in the suburbs, where we remain during the night and the following day.
SOURCE: Daniel Leib Ambrose, History of the Seventh Regiment Illinois Volunteer Infantry, p. 288-90
MY FIRST FIGHT.
My gun, Fourth
Detachment, Third Company, was ordered off to meet a party of the Yankees who
had been committing daily depredations upon the inhabitants of Elizabeth City
county. We were supported by thirty First North Carolina Infantrymen and twenty
cavalrymen, making in all some sixty-five men. After marching five or six miles
we came upon them, and immediately opened with our twelve-pounder howitzer, but
the Yankees concluded not to fight and fled precipitately. We captured one
prisoner, and he was wounded by an old Peninsula scout, whose name was Ben
Phillips, commonly known amongst our soldiers as "Uncle Ben."
It is my impression
that this was the first cannon shot fired at land forces in Virginia, and
also that this was the first prisoner captured. His name was Mooney, and he
belonged to the Second Regiment New York Zouaves.
Soon after we left
another gun belonging to my company was sent out to reënforce us, and taking
another road it came upon the Yankees before either party were aware of it. The
Yankees, as before, made a hasty retreat, and our men captured another
prisoner. Nobody hurt on our side.
SOURCE: William S.
White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 95-6
cool and cloudy And ther was
a wright smart excitement in camp today It was repoted that the Yankees was a
landing at Colchester
SOURCE: Bartlett
Yancey Malone, The Diary of Bartlett Yancey Malone, p. 15
Fighting commenced
at daylight, and lasted all day. So did it last with their everlasting
reinforcements. If General Lee only had half their men, and those men were
rebels, we would go to Washington in two weeks. When he has fought such an army
for four years it certainly shows we have the generals and the fighting-stock
on our side, and they have the hirelings. Look at our army, and you will see
them in rags and barefooted. But among the Yankees I see nothing but an
abundance of everything. Still, they haven't whipped the rebels. Several of our
boys came in as prisoners to-day, with them Engle of our company. They think I
was killed, so does my brother, but as yet the bullet has not done its last
work for your humble servant.
SOURCE: Louis
Leon, Diary of a Tar Heel Confederate Soldier, p. 61
We have just had some sport. Five negroes hailed us, and on being asked if they wished to come aboard, answered "yes" with every demonstration of joy, as they supposed us to be Yankees. The shout that went up when they were safely aboard made the welkin ring. They never found out their mistake until Colonel Brend told the mate to take them below and pay them for their loyalty, which he knew how to do from long practice. They had been working on the fortifications at Vicksburg, and said they had "been trying to get with us for several months." One yellow rascal shouted for Lincoln as he stepped aboard. We are now in sight of Natchez, and have not found the Indianola yet.
SOURCE: Edwin L. Drake, Editor, The Annals of the Army of Tennessee and Early Western History, Vol. 1, p. 67
General Stand Watie,
commanding our Indian troops in the trans-Mississippi Department, has fully
clothed and armed all his men, and is in the vicinity of Fort Smith, attacking
and destroying Yankee wagon trains.
SOURCES: Richmond Daily Dispatch, Richmond,
Virginia, Saturday Morning, December 24, 1864, p. 3; John Beauchamp
Jones, A Rebel War Clerk's Diary at the Confederate
States Capital, Volume 2, p. 365-6
At 4 o'clock yesterday we were moved from our old position to a bridge. We had stood out in the rain since the evening before, and were completely soaked with wet, and had to climb the steepest and slickest hills a man ever lives to stand upon. Half of the time we were down in the mud, and the balance in water up to our waist, while the darkness was so thick that we couldn't see our file-leaders; but I never heard a single murmur from the cold, wet and hungry men. Lieutenant-Colonel Tillman, who has command of the regiment, led the way on foot, and was as deep in the mud as we were in the mire; and, after we arrived at the bridge which we were sent to guard, the officers "stood and took it" as cheerfully as though they were basking in the sunshine of an April morning. One of the boys, who was up to his knees in mud, and over whose face the rain was streaming from a narrow brim cap, said to Major Miller, who was leaning against the side of a house and under the drip, "I say, Major, you look like a man trying to hide behind a ladder." The Major took the joke quite good humoredly, and did not appear more discomposed by the loud laugh which greeted the sally, than he was a few days before, when the Yankee sharp-shooters were making the minnie bullets sing around his ears. At 10 o'clock, the enemy having failed to come to time, we were allowed to drag our weary limbs out to our camps. There being only one tent to the company, we had to stand out in the wet all day and part of the night, when, to our great relief, the wind changed to the north, and the rain, which had been falling for forty-eight hours, ceased.
SOURCE: Edwin L. Drake, Editor, The Annals of the Army of Tennessee and Early Western History, Vol. 1, p. 17-8
Yesterday being Sunday, and no enemy appearing, we had a day of comparative rest. In the morning we were marched into town for fear the Yankees might return and attempt to land under cover of their gunboats, but five minutes after our arrival we were about-faced and moved back to camps. The day was spent in drying clothes, cleaning guns, and setting tents. The cooking is an easy job with us here, as our ration consists only of musty meal and poor, tough beef. I obtained permission this morning to go to town, and while there learned that the regiment was coming in to take a boat for Port Hudson. I write this entry on the top of the wheel-house of the "Charm," waiting for her to start.
SOURCE: Edwin L. Drake, Editor, The Annals of the Army of Tennessee and Early Western History, Vol. 1, p. 18
To-day, as several of us went to get some straw near Kelly's Ford, we heard firing, and the long roll beat. Looking up we saw the Yankees crossing the river. We double-quicked to camp and got there just in time to fall in with our regiment, to intercept the enemy, but they had already crossed the river before we got there. We manoeuvered about until dark, when my corps of sharpshooters was ordered out. We were within one hundred yards of the Yankees, and saw them around their fires very plainly. On the morning of the 8th we retreated in very good order. I certainly was glad of it, as we were in a very bad fix. We marched until sun-up and halted on Stone Mountain, passed through Stevensburg. Stayed here all night, and resumed our march and halted on the morning of the 9th. We then crossed the Rapidan at the Raccoon Ford, and are now camped at our old camp at Moulton Ford. We marched, since leaving Kelly's Ford, forty miles. The distance is only seventeen miles. We were certainly surprised for the first time since the war. We did not dream the enemy was on us before the firing commenced. Our brigade was cut off from the army twice, but our General Daniels got us through safe. Nothing new up to the 26th.
SOURCE: Louis Leon, Diary of a Tar Heel Confederate Soldier, p. 51-2
