Diary of Musician David Lane, June 18, 1863

Haines Bluff, Miss. Once more on land, and glad are we of the change. We arrived at the mouth of the Yazoo at ten o'clock yesterday morning, six miles from Vicksburg, and, turning upstream, came to anchor at this place, fifteen miles from its mouth, at 12 m.

We had a perilous voyage down the river. It would seem, on looking back on the dangers through which we were safely carried, that a power higher than man's had been exerted in our behalf. To say nothing of the guerillas, three times were we in imminent danger of being "blown up." Once nothing but a miracle—men called it luck—saved us from capsizing; once we were driven on shore by a hurricane on the only spot, so said our pilot, where we could by any possibility have escaped being wrecked.

Part of our division, two days in advance of us, has reported at Vicksburg. Two divisions of the Ninth Corps are here, the other—the Third—is at Suffolk, Virginia. The place we now occupy was lately in possession of the Rebels. It is strong by nature, and has been made still stronger by man, but those terrible little gunboats made it too hot for secession, and they left in haste, leaving part of their baggage, a few horses and cattle, and even poultry, which our boys found skulking in the bushes. Of course, they arrested the cowardly creatures and brought them into camp.

The inhabitants have all left, driving their stock with them, and burning what furniture they could not carry.

The face of the country is rough and broken, quite as much so as Maryland and Virginia. Spite of Jeff. Davis' prohibition, I find much cotton planted in this part of Mississippi, but it will not come to much unless Uncle Sam soon gives it in charge of his colored children, who literally throng our camp. I wish I could describe the beauty and grandeur of these forests, but to be appreciated they must be seen. That which gives them their greatest charm is the long, wavy, gray moss which hangs suspended from every limb, from the smallest sapling to the mighty, towering oak. Wild plums and blackberries, large and luscious, abound and are now in season. Figs will soon be ripe. Among other things, good and bad, fleas and woodticks are in evidence.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 52-3

 

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 21, 1863

The sky is overcast with clouds, a cool breeze comes from the west, which makes the temperature delightful. I have been out berrying, and have succeeded admirably. On my way in I found some short pieces of board, of which I have made a comfortable seat, with a desk in front, on which I am now writing. I feel quite like an aristocrat. In my ramble across the field I discovered a flowering vine, the most bewitchingly beautiful thing I ever saw. I searched in vain for seed sufficiently matured to germinate. I wish I could describe its matchless beauty, but words are feeble.

We are still lying here waiting for Johnson, of course, to come to us, although no one seems to know where Johnson is—whether on the Yazoo, the Big Black or the little one. I suspect it is not definitely known whether his "large army" is a myth or a reality. But, doubtless, these hidden, secret, mysterious "strategic movements" and original plans will, some time, be made apparent, and then I, at least, will make one desperate attempt to appreciate and admire the wisdom and energy which could see, plan and execute with such unerring certainty and success. But Vicksburg, the center of gravity at present, is really a very stubborn fact. I do not understand it, cannot comprehend it, but I believe Grant will investigate it to the satisfaction of all loyal people. All the reliable information I can get at present is brought on the wings of the wind. This is not Grant's official report, but the report of his artillery. Last night his cannons' sullen roar reverberated from cliff to cliff and shook the hills. There are all sorts of rumors which it is folly to repeat, for they are replaced by new ones every hour. I believe I will record the latest, so here goes:

Last night Pemberton conceived the brilliant idea of turning loose four or five hundred horses and mules, creating a stampede among them, and, when Grant's lines open to let them through, as certainly would be done, if he suspected nothing, why, out they would rush, artillery, infantry and all, before the lines could close again, and thus escape. But Grant was wide awake, fell back a mile or two to give himself room to work, opened his lines for the horses to pass through and the Rebels to pass in, then closed on them and had them trapped.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 53-5

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 23, 1863

Once more we are on the wing. Yesterday morning we were ordered to be ready to march when called on. Of course, the men do not expect to stay anywhere, but it always comes a little tough to leave a pleasant camp just as they get comfortably settled. But military orders are inexorable, and, in spite of regrets, we "struck tents, slung knapsacks," and started on our winding way among the hills. This part of the country is made up of ranges of high hills separated by ravines down which the water has cut channels from ten to twenty feet deep. We marched about three miles on the road leading to Vicksburg and halted on the top of a high hill just large enough to hold our regiment. It was plowed last spring and planted to cotton. Colonel Luce looked indignant, the company officers grumbled, the men swore. General Welch regretted, but Major General Parks ordered the left to rest here, and it rested. But Colonel Luce could still do something. Ordering us in line, he said: "Men, you need not pitch your tents in line in this open field; go where you can make yourselves most comfortable, only be on hand when the bugle sounds." Three cheers and a tiger for Colonel Luce. then a wild break for trees, brush; anything to shelter us from the fierce rays of a Southern sun. We are now nine miles from Vicksburg by the road, six miles in a direct line. We can distinctly hear musketry at that place, which has been kept up almost incessantly the last three days. At intervals the cannonading is terrific. Our Orderly Sergeant rode over there yesterday, to see his brother. He says Grant's rifle pits are not more than twenty-five rods from the Rebels, and woe to the man on either side who exposes himself to the marksmanship of the other. As near as I can learn, matters remain about as they were three weeks ago. Unless General Grant succeeds in mining some of their works, thus affecting an entrance, he will be compelled to starve them out.

We would think, in Michigan, such land as this utterly unfit for cultivation. But the highest hills are cultivated and planted with corn or cotton. Corn, even on the highest hills, I have never seen excelled in growth of stalk. One would naturally suppose that in this hilly country water of good quality would abound. Such is not the fact. Soon as we broke ranks I started out in quest of water. I followed a ravine about half a mile, then crossed over to another, but found none. Blackberries being plentiful, I filled my cap and returned to camp. Some of the boys had been more successful, and after resting a few minutes I took another direction, for water we must have. This time I followed a ridge about half a mile, then began to descend—down, down, I went, seemingly into the very bowels of the earth, and when I reached the bottom found a stagnant pool of warm, muddy water. Making a virtue of necessity, I filled my canteen, returned to camp, made some coffee, ate my berries, with a very little hardtack, and went to bed to dream of "limpid streams and babbling brooks."

This morning my comrade and I arose with the early dawn and started out in search of berries, which we found in great abundance.

A strange stillness pervades our hitherto noisy and tumultous camp. The men are scattered in every direction, lounging listlessly in the shade, not caring even to play cards, so oppressive is the heat. I am sitting in the shade of a mulberry tree, Collier lying on the ground near by; we alternately write or lounge as the mood takes us. Most assuredly I never felt the heat in Michigan as I feel it here. Yet men can work in this climate, and northern men, too. The Eighth and Twentieth have been throwing up fortifications for several days.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 56-8

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 24, 1863

Haines Bluff. Yesterday, as I was strolling through the ravines, picking berries, I came across a spring of delicious water, cold and pure. It is about half a mile from camp, in a lovely, romantic spot, almost shut out from the light of day by the thick foliage of the magnolia and other evergreens which are thickly interwoven with flowering vines. I wish I could picture the unrivaled beauty of the magnolia. The largest I have seen is about fifty feet in height, leaves from four to six inches in length by two in breadth in the middle, rounding each way to a point, and are of the darkest shade of green. Its chief beauty lies in its blossoms, which are pure white, about six inches in diameter, contrasting strongly with its dark green leaves. It is very fragrant, filling the air with sweet perfume. Nature is indeed prolific in this Southern clime, bestowing her gifts in the greatest variety and profusion, both animate and inanimate, things pleasant to look upon and grateful to the senses, and those that are repulsive and disgusting in the extreme. Insects and reptiles, varying in size from diminutive "chiggers," too small to be seen by the unaided eye, but which burrows in the flesh and breeds there, to the huge alligator that can swallow, a man at a single gulp. I have not seen an alligator yet, but some of our men have seen him to their sorrow. Soon after our arrival some of the men went in to bathe and wash off some of the dust of travel. They had been in the water but a few minutes when one of their number uttered a shriek of terror and disappeared. Two of his comrades who happened to be near by seized him and dragged him to shore. The right arm was frightfully mangled, the flesh literally torn from the bone by an alligator. Since that incident bathing in the Yazoo is not indulged in.

Moccasin snakes and other poisonous reptiles abound, and a species of beautifully-tinted, bright-eyed, active little lizards inhabit every tree and bush, creep into and under our blankets and scamper over us as we try to sleep. The nimble little fellows are harmless, but quite annoying.

There has been uninterrupted firing of small arms and artillery at Vicksburg today. We are busily engaged in throwing up breastworks two hundred rods from here. Our regiment was detailed for that purpose today.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 58-9

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 26, 1863

Haines Bluff, Miss.  We get no news from the outside world. Not even the New York Herald or Detroit Free Press, those blatant organs of secession, can penetrate these lines. But the air is filled with rumors—rumors that are true today and false tomorrow. It is said the Rebels have a battery now where they fired on us when we came down; that they have captured all our mail and destroyed the mail boat. Today they sank the boat in shallow water and one of our gunboats secured the mail. All we are sure of is we are here, felling trees and throwing up breastworks; that General Grant is still knocking for admittance at the "Gates of Jericho." Were I to credit what I hear, and it comes from "reliable sources," I would believe he has already made the seventh circuit of that doomed city with his terrible ram's horn in full blast, and now, covered with sweat and dust, has paused on a "commanding eminence" to witness the final consummation of his plans. But the continuous thundering of his artillery and the occasional rattle of musketry convince me that, in these latter days, the tumbling down of formidable walls is not so easily accomplished as in the olden times when the Almighty seemed to take more interest in the affairs of men. But, although the long-wished for event is delayed until hope is well-nigh dead, still, seeing and knowing what I do, I have entire confidence in Grant's final success.

But hark! What cry is this? Oh, joyful sound. The mail! the mail has come!

Thank God, there is one for me!

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 60-1

Diary of Musician David Lane, June 27, 1863

A letter from home—the first since April 25th, and written by my beloved wife. On receiving it I sought my tent with eager haste and perused its welcome pages over and over again. Well may my darling say, "God has been better to me than my fears," for we have been spared to each other, and our children to us both.

I do not believe my darling's dream was all a dream. On that same day, the 9th of June, I was on my way from Louisville to Cairo. We went directly north to Seymour, Indiana. Almost home, it seemed to me, where we changed cars for the southwest. I was cast down, discouraged, more so than at any other period of my life. My thoughts and affections were drawn out to my sorrowing wife with an intensity that was agonizing. I had given up hope of her ever becoming reconciled to our fate, and believed she would mourn her life away for him who would gladly have given his own to save his wife. I felt I could do no more. Under the circumstances was I not permitted to visit her, that my spiritual presence might cheer, comfort and encourage her by the assurance that she was not forsaken; that, though far away, her husband was still present, even to her outward senses.

I believe my darling has often visited me, and I love to cherish the fond thought. Every nerve and fiber of my soul has thrilled with joy unspeakable at the familiar touch of her dear hand upon my brow.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 61-2

Senator Charles Sumner to John Bigelow, November 19, 1851

I do not see our future on the Presidential question. The recent declaration of Toombs seems ominous of a break-up, in which I should rejoice. I long to see men who really think alike on national politics acting together. The Whigs [in Massachusetts] are in despair. They confess that they are badly beaten. The coalition has been sustained and its candidate.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 256

Diary of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, November 23, 1851

Sumner takes his last dinner with us. In a few days he will be gone to Washington for the winter. We shall miss him much. He passed the night here as in the days of long ago. We sat up late talking.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 258

Diary of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, November 30, 1851

We had a solitary dinner, missing Sumner very much. He is now in Washington, and it will be many days before we hear again his footsteps in the hall, or see his manly, friendly face by daylight or lamplight.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 258

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow to Senator Charles Sumner, December 25, 1851

Your farewell note came safe and sad; and on Sunday no well-known footstep in the hall, nor sound of cane laid upon the table. We ate our dinner somewhat silently by ourselves, and talked of you far off, looking at your empty chair. . . As I stand here by my desk and cast a glance out of the window, and then at the gate, I almost expect to see you with one foot on the stone step and one hand on the fence holding final discourse with Worcester.¹

__________________

¹ Author of the "Dictionary of the English Language,"—a neighbor of Longfellow, and a good friend of Sumner.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 258

Senator Charles Sumner to Julia Sumner, November 26, 1851

MY VERY DEAR JULIA, — Your parting benediction and God-speed, mingling with mother's, made my heart overflow. I thank you both. They will cheer, comfort, and strengthen me in duties where there are many difficulties and great responsibilities. For myself, I do not desire public life; I have neither taste nor ambition for it; but Providence has marked out my career, and I follow. Many will criticise and malign; but I shall persevere. Good-by. With constant love to mother and yourself,

CHARLES.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 259

Senator Charles Sumner to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, November 26, 1851

DEAREST LONGFELLOW, — I could not speak to you as we parted, — my soul was too full; only tears would flow. Your friendship, and dear Fanny's, have been among my few treasures, like gold unchanging. For myself, I see with painful vividness the vicissitudes and enthralments of the future, and feel that we shall never more know each other as in times past. Those calm days and nights of overflowing communion are gone. Thinking of them and of what I lose, I become again a child. From a grateful heart I now thank you for your true and constant friendship. Whatever may be in store for me, so much at least is secure; and the memory of you and Fanny will be to me a precious fountain. God bless you both, ever dear friends, faithful and good! Be happy, and think kindly of me.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 259

Senator Charles Sumner to Samuel Gridley Howe, November 26, 1851

DEAREST HOWE, Three times yesterday I wept like a child, — I could not help it first in parting with Longfellow, next in parting with you, and lastly as I left my mother and sister. I stand now on the edge of a great change. In the vicissitudes of life I cannot see the future; but I know that I now move away from those who have been more than brothers to me. My soul is wrung, and my eyes are bleared with tears. God bless you ever and ever, my noble, well-tried, and eternally dear friend!

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 259

Diary of Private William S. White, August 17, 1861

Returned to Bethel Church where we remained until the 22d.

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

Diary of Private William S. White, August 22, 1861

Returned to Young's Mill.

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

Diary of Private William S. White, August 23, 1861

Having but a limited supply of underclothing with me at this camp, I doffed my garments and turned washerman for the nonce, intending to seat myself on the sunny side of the mill pond and wait patiently until my clothes were sundried thoroughly. Only one shirt, one pair of drawers and one pair of socks. As a washist, I never have been a success, but clear water and a good will accomplishes much,—when all at once the drum beats to "fall in"—on went my wet clothes and away we marched to Yorktown, reaching that place thoroughly chilled through and through.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We must wait for orders, Bob.”

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

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

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

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

Diary of Private William S. White, December 1861

Our Third and Fourth Detachments are camped for the winter at Land's End, under the command of Lieutenant John M. West, and supported by the Fourteenth Virginia Infantry, Colonel Hodges commanding. The third gun is stationed immediately on the James River where the Warwick empties into it, and the fourth gun one-and-a-half miles up the Warwick River, supported by Company "K," Fourteenth Virginia Infantry, Captain Claiborne, of Halifax county, Va., commanding. We have comfortable log cabins, built by our own men, with glass windows, plank floors, kitchen attached, etc., and our cuisine bears favorable comparison with home fare. Time does not hang very heavily on my hands, for I am now drilling a company of infantry from Halifax county, Captain Edward Young's, in artillery tactics, previous to their making a change into that branch of the service. Then we get up an occasional game of ball, or chess, or an old hare hunt, or send reformed Bob to the York River after oysters, we preferring the flavor of York River oysters to those of Warwick River.

Fortunately we have managed to scrape up quite a goodly number of books, and being in close communication with Richmond, we hear from our friends daily.

Soon the spring campaign will open, and then farewell to the quiet pleasures of "Rebel Hall," farewell to the old messmates, for many changes will take place upon the reorganization of our army during the spring. No more winters during the war will be spent as comfortably and carelessly as this[.] Soon it will be a struggle for life, and God only knows how it will all end.

My health has but little improved, but I had rather die in the army than live out.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 110

Diary of Private William S. White, Late February 1862

During the latter part of February we were ordered with the Fourteenth Virginia Infantry to fall back to the left flank of Mulberry Island, some four or five miles in rear of our former position.

Mulberry Island is the nearest water battery on the north side of the James River to Newport News, and mounts seven or eight heavy guns. It is supported by the Day's Point battery, on the south side of the James, mounting seventeen guns. Magruder, as soon as we reached this place, sent us six hundred negroes to throw up heavy fortifications. Our position here is quite a strong one; on our left flank is the Warwick River, on our right is a deep marsh and the heavy battery at Mulberry Island; in our front is a broad, open field, our guns commanding it. Reinforced by the Fifth Louisiana Infantry.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 111

James Buchanan to Daniel S. Dickinson, August 9, 1855

LEGATION OF THE UNITED STATES,        

LONDON, August 9, 1855.

MY DEAR SIR—I have received your note of the 15th ultimo, and have caused a very careful examination to be made of all the files in the time of Mr. Lawrence, and no such lease or paper as that mentioned in the order of Mr. Clark can be found. I look forward with peculiar pleasure to my return to the United States, which I trust may take place in the month of October. Although I cannot complain of the manner in which I have been treated here, yet I am tired of my position, which has proved to be far more laborious and confining than I had anticipated.

With my kindest remembrance to Mrs. Dickinson, and the agreeable anticipation of meeting you both after my return,

I remain, yours, sincerely,

JAMES BUCHANAN.

SOURCE: John R. Dickinson, Editor, Speeches, Correspondence, Etc., of the Late Daniel S. Dickinson of New York, Vol. 2, p. 488-9