Diary of Musician David Lane, August 20, 1863

Camp Parks, Ky. I received a letter from a friend in Michigan last evening, saying: "If you were in Michigan, or could see the situation from the standpoint of the North, you would be less hopeful of the speedy termination of the war." If by "speedy" is meant a single campaign, as was promised us one year ago, I do not now believe in it, but nothing but the most signal failure can change my faith in the ultimate success of our cause.

We have steadily gained ground from the first. The series of reverses that attended our arms the first year of the war has forced our government to accept the inevitable, seemingly against its will. I do not forget the violent opposition to the Emancipation and Confiscation Acts, passed by Congress in December, 1861, by Northern men of undoubted loyalty, nor the President's timid recommendations in his inaugural address to that Congress. I remember well that reverses and disasters attended all our efforts until the government was compelled, as by an overruling Providence, to free the slaves of rebels, which includes them all; and that from the moment these measures became the fixed policy of the government, reverses ceased. It is not the issue of a battle or campaign that gives me hope, but the successes that have attended our arms all through the month of July were attended by such peculiar circumstances as to force upon me the conviction, "There IS a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will."

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 80-1

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 22, 1863

I had comforted myself with the reflection that when we returned to Kentucky, where communications were uninterrupted by guerillas, and were only separated by twenty-four hours of time, I might be permitted to correspond with my family without such harrowing delays, for I would not have my darling in doubt as to my situation or whereabouts for one single day, knowing, as I do, the uncertainty of suspense is worse than the reality. But 'tis said, "The darkest hour is just before the dawn," and, even as I write, my mind filled with dark thoughts, a ray of light from my Northern home flashes across my vision. The whole current of my thought is changed, and thankfulness takes the place of my repining. Thankfulness that it is as well with my beloved ones as it is. Oh, that I could remove every burden, and make their pathway smooth and flowery. I find most of our trials are imaginary, but none the less real for being SO. For instance, my beloved wife's imagination pictures me on my weary way back to old Virginia's blood-stained fields, subject to every hardship, exposed to every danger, and her suffering could be no greater if it were so. On the contrary, I am still in Kentucky, in a pleasant, shady grove, enjoying a season of welcome quiet and repose, soft bread to eat, plenty of pure, cold water to drink. What more could mortals crave. The newspapers were right, as far as they went, about our being ordered to the Potomac. We did receive such orders, but General Burnside telegraphed the War Department the Ninth Corps had marched, during the year, an average of twenty miles a day; that it had just returned from an exhausting campaign in Mississippi; that the men were worn down by fatigue and sickness, and were unfit for active service, and asked that they be allowed to remain here for a season. His request was granted. One year has passed since I left my pleasant home to serve my country a year big with the fate of millions yet unborn—a year the most eventful in our history; perhaps in the world's history.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 81-2

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 24, 1863

We have nearly the same regulations here as at Newport News, everything being regulated by bugle call. Of course, we drill; it would be hard to imagine a military camp without drill; but it would make a horse laugh to see us do it. We fall in line, march to the parade ground and halt under the shade of a big tree. A Sergeant puts us through the manual of arms about five minutes; then stack arms and rest. The remainder of the time is spent in lounging on the grass until the bugle sounds recall.

We are under marching orders again; that is, we are ordered to be ready, an order altogether superfluous, for we are always ready. The general impression among the officers is, this division is to be broken up and scattered over the State, a regiment in a place. Our old brigade commander, General Poe, is here. He is now Chief Engineer in the regular service. He is working, I am told, to get our brigade attached to the engineer corps. I hope he will not succeed, as I do not fancy that branch of the service. If he does succeed, I think I will resign. There has been much talk of mounting this brigade and sending us to fight guerillas. That would suit me to a fraction. Give me a "bounding steed" and a "God speed you" from my "lady love," and never did "armed knight" grasp spear and shield with greater enthusiasm and devotion than I would experience as I hastened to the field of bloody strife. But I do not believe Burnside will send us from the State at present. He has already sent away most of the troops in this vicinity, and is sending the rest fast as he can mount them, and probably we will take their places.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 82-3

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 25, 1863

We are still in camp, where each day is like the preceding one. The same routine of "duty" is gone through with, which, to me, is exceedingly tiresome. Give me the variations; something new and startling every day. For this reason I prefer active service. Those who love fun, and have a natural penchant for mischief, have abundant opportunity to indulge. I have never heard Billy Dunham complain of ennui. So long as guards are to be "run," melons to be "cooned," peach orchards to be "raided" or a peddler to be harried, tormented and robbed, Billy is in his native element. Peddling to soldiers is not the most agreeable business in the world, especially if said soldiers happen to be, as is often the case, on mischief bent. I have seen a crowd of soldiers gather around an unsuspecting victim, a few shrewd, witty fellows attract his attention, while others pass out to their accomplices melons, peaches, tomatoes and vegetables, and when the poor fellow discovers the "game" and gathers up his "ropes" to drive away, the harness fall to the ground in a dozen pieces, the unguided mule walks off amazed, the cart performs a somersault and the poor peddler picks himself up and gazes on the wreck in silent grief. At sight of his helpless misery the wretches seemingly relent; with indignant tones they swear vengeance on the "man who did it;" help him to gather up his "wares" while he secures his mule. This is soon done, for his "stock" has grown small and "beautifully less." He smothers his rage from prudential motives, throws the "toggle" on his mule and prepares to depart. Alas, the millennium has not yet come. His cart wheels, refusing to perform their accustomed revolutions, start off in opposite directions, while the air is rent by the screams and derisive yells of his tormenters. When once begun, the amusement continues until the stock is exhausted. Speaking of Billy, he has become reconciled to his fate, and takes to soldiering like a duck to water.

Lieutenant Chris. Rath has received a Captain's commission, and has been assigned to Company I. He has well earned his commission by his bravery and efficiency.

There was a sudden change of weather last night. The day had been hot and sultry. Toward night we had a light shower, preceded by a hurricane which cleared the atmosphere of heat most effectually. It is now uncomfortable sitting in my tent with my coat on. Uncle Sam seems inclined to make up to us, in some measure, for past neglect. We have soft bread and other rations more than we can use. Today we were surprised by an issue of tea and sugar, more than we can use. We sell our surplus at twenty-five cents a pound. The Brigade Surgeon has put a stop to drilling except as punishment. No signs of a move are in sight. My health is good. It is years since I was in possession of such buoyant, vigorous health.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 83-4

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 27, 1863

Nicholasville, Ky. We are again enjoying the quiet of camp life. Our miniature tents are pitched in regular order, streets are policed and brigade guards posted to keep our unruly boys within bounds.

Colonel Luce, five line officers and twenty privates have gone home on furlough—others to Cincinnati on leave of absence. Everything indicates a period of rest. Our boys are trying to make up for their privations "down below." Nearly every tent presents the appearance of a market for the sale of fruit or vegetables.

Potatoes, peaches, apples, cabbages, onions, watermelons and green corn are piled in heaps or lie around loose throughout the camp. Then we have artists, too. Two Daguerian cars are running full blast, where the boys get indifferent pictures at one dollar each. I saw a great curiosity today—a relic of bygone ages. About a mile from camp there is a shop where the old-fashioned spinning wheel is manufactured on quite an extensive scale, and they find a ready sale. This is a fair index to the progress of the people. Their manners, forms of speech and customs all point to past ages. They are very loyal and very friendly when sober, but when filled with corn whiskey, hypocrisy and self-interest take a back seat, and they speak their real sentiments with a frankness and fluency that is not at all flattering to us "Yanks." From what I have seen, I conclude all Kentuckians drink whiskey. There are distilleries in every little town, where the "genuine article" is turned out. I called at a farm house one day for a drink of water. The good woman was catechising her son—a lad of ten or twelve years about ten cents she had given him with which to buy some little notion at the store. She gave me a drink of water, then, turning to the young hopeful, angrily inquired, "But where's that ten cents I gave you?" "I guv five cents to Bill." "Where's the other five?" "Bought my dram with it." The explanation appeared satisfactory.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 78-9

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 28, 1863

Camp Dick Robinson, Ky. Again we are on the move en route to Crab Orchard, thirty miles from our late camp, where a military post is to be established. I understand there is to be a line of posts from Lexington to Cumberland Gap. Report says these posts are to be held by the Ninth Corps. I hope not. I much prefer active service, with its toil and exposure, to a life of comparative ease in camp. While there is work to be done, and God gives me strength, I want to be doing. When I can be of no more service, then I would go home.

But I see no preparations for field service. We have no artillery or ambulances, which is proof conclusive. I was disappointed in Camp Dick Robinson. I had read so much of it, I expected to find a military station, or fortifications of some kind. Instead, I find a beautiful grove of oak and black walnut trees. It is noted as being the first camping ground occupied by loyal troops in Kentucky. General Nelson, its founder, who was shot last fall by General Davis, is buried here.

I have borne the march well today. My feet were somewhat tired, and what wonder? Two hundred twenty pounds the weight of myself and load is quite a load to carry ten miles over a macadamized road in half a day.

SOURCE: David Lane, A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, pp. 85-6

Diary of Musician David Lane, August 30, 1863

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how I miss familiar faces!

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

Senator Charles Sumner to Henry Wilson, April 29, 1852

I notice the attack on me in the 'Liberator.' If need be, I shall show backbone in resisting the pressure even of friends. Had I uttered a word for Drayton and Sayres in the Senate, I should have dealt a blow at them which they well understood. At present nothing can be done for them in the Senate. I have presented their case to the President, and am sanguine in believing that they will be pardoned. But of this not a word at present.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 278

Samuel Gridley Howe to Senator Charles Sumner, 1852

God bless you for your truly noble and courageous course! Follow it up to the end, however, without caring for blessing or cursing. Such things do my very heart good, and make me love you, if possible, more than ever.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 278

Wendell Phillips to Senator Charles Sumner, 1852

I congratulate you most sincerely on the happy issue or your efforts for Drayton and Sayres. You have earned your honors.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 278

Senator Charles Sumner to John Bigelow, February 3, 1852

I am won very much by Houston's conversation.¹ With him the antislavery interest would stand better than with any man who seems now among possibilities. He is really against slavery, and has no prejudice against Free Soilers. In other respects he is candid, liberal, and honorable. I have been astonished to find myself so much of his inclining.

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¹ General Samuel Houston, senator from Texas, was mentioned at the time among the Democratic candidates for the Presidency.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 278

Senator Charles Sumner to Theodore Parker, February 6, 1852

I have yours of 25th of January proposing to me to write an article on Judge Story in the Westminster Review. As a filial service I should be glad to do this; but how can I? I rarely go to bed before one or two o'clock, and then I leave work undone which ought to be done.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 278

Senator Charles Sumner to John Bigelow, February 8, 1852

Pardon me if I say frankly you have done injustice to Story.¹ I admire him as a jurist, but with a discrimination between his titles to regard for his judgments and his books. The former I have always thought unique in variety, learning, point, usefulness, and amount. I love his memory, but I cannot sympathize with much of his politics. Even you will find much to praise in the accumulated expression of his Northern sentiments against doughfaces and the aggressions of the slave-power. I have known many judges and jurists, but I have never known one so completely imbued with jurisprudence as Story.

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¹ Mr. Bigelow had in a review of Judge Story's "Life and Letters," in the New York "Evening Post," Jan. 29 and Feb. 4, 1852, disparaged the judge's character as a jurist and author.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, pp. 278-9

Senator Charles Sumner to John Bigelow, March 2, 1852

Congress and all the world have a vacation to-day to quaff fresh air, sunshine, and champagne on board the 'Baltic.'¹ I voted for the adjournment, but did not care to put myself in the great man-trap set especially for members of Congress. I see nothing certain in the Presidential horizon. In all my meditations I revert with new regret to the attempted reconciliation in '49 in your State. Without that we should now control the free States.

I read carefully and enjoyed much Mr. Bryant's address.² It was a truthful, simple, and delicate composition, and, much as I value sculpture and Greenough, I cannot but add will be a more durable monument to Cooper than any other. Webster's historical article was crude and trite enough.

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¹ Of the Collins line of steamships, whose owners were then seeking a subsidy.

²  On J. Fenimore Cooper, Feb. 25, 1852, at a meeting of which Mr. Webster was chairman, called to raise funds for a monument to the novelist. Sumner's reply to the invitation to attend the meeting is printed in his Works, vol. iii. p. 43.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, p. 279

Senator Charles Sumner to John Bigelow, March 26, 1853

The post of assistant secretary of state was offered to my brother; but I write, not for any public correction of your paper, but merely for your private information. More than ten days ago Mr. Marcy communicated to me personally his desire to have my brother in the place, his sense of his fitness beyond that of any other person in the country, and also the extent to which he was plagued by applications from persons who would make the office only a clerkship. My brother was absent from Washington at the time. At the request of Mr. Marcy I sent for him; and on his arrival, at Mr. Marcy's request, he reported himself at the state department, was most cordially welcomed, was assured that not only the secretary but the President desired him to be assistant secretary, that his knowledge of European affairs was needed, that it was the intention to raise the salary of the office and to make it a desirable position. At three different stages of a protracted interview the matter was thus pressed upon my brother. But in the course of the interview Mr. Marcy expressed a desire for some confession on the subject of slavery by which my brother should be distinguished from me, some acceptance of the Baltimore platform, - all of which he peremptorily declined to do, in a manner that made Mr. Marcy say to me afterwards that he had behaved in an honorable manner.' After my brother had fully declared his determination, and his abnegation of all desire for office, of which I do not speak in detail, the Secretary still expressed a desire for his services. Subsequently my brother addressed him a brief note absolutely declining, and in another note recommended the appointment of Dudley Mann. This affair has got into the newspapers, but by no suggestion of mine or of my brother.

SOURCE: Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and Letters of Charles Sumner, Vol. 3, pp. 279-80

Diary of Private William S. White, June 1, 1862

We cannot as yet procure the full particulars regarding the battle of "Seven Pines" fought yesterday and to-day. As well as I can learn the plan was this: the Yankees had crossed a large force on the south-side of the Chickahominy, and on the night of the 30th of May, we had a most terrific storm. Our Commander, General Jos. E. Johnston, concluding that the bridges were all washed away, and the river past fording, concluded to attack the Yankees on the south-side and crush them out before they could be reinforced. On account of the tardiness of General Huger the plan was not fully successful, though we surprised the enemy, capturing a large number of prisoners with several pieces of artillery. Our camp was on the main road leading to Seven Pines, but 'twas difficult to handle artillery and we received no orders to move. What a heart-rending scene it is to witness the wounded brought in from a terrible battle field. The people of Richmond turned out en masse to render aid to our wounded soldiers. Many a wounded soldier-boy from the sunny South will never cease to remember the fair form of the "city belle" as she soothed his aching brow or bound up his wounded limb. Too often do we hear our Southern allies cursing the people of Richmond as a set of speculators thriving on our misfortunes, but now many of them have been convinced that "in the hour of pain and anguish," Richmond can and will do all within her power to aid those who are seeking to uphold our cause.

'Tis undoubtedly true that Richmond has changed greatly since the war began, for it has, I am sorry to say, become the headquarters of all of the "fancy men" of the South—gentlemen of the Hebrew persuasion have made it their rendezvous to sell blockade goods, and countless numbers of Yankee spies, though outwardly swearing allegiance to our government, hold strong foothold in our city. Gambling hells, furnished with tinseled splendor are at every corner, to catch the unwary, and relieve them of their superabundant "Confederates."

Still there is enough of the old metal left, purified and refined, to make Richmond to me the sweetest, dearest spot on earth. General Johnston being wounded, General Robert E. Lee now commands our army.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, pp. 116-7

Diary of Private William S. White, June 15, 1862

Day after day have we been anxiously awaiting an engagement; our leaders seem to be afraid of risking a battle, and our men are worn down with continued anxiety. Hundreds and thousands of our men are sick from want of proper food, and there seems to be but little chance for improvement. Was taken quite sick myself to-day, and with my Captain's permission, I went into the city to remain until I got well. Went to Mr. William S. Donnan's, where, for several days, I was quite ill. Had I remained in camp, I doubt very much if I ever would have recovered, but being well nursed, I soon managed to improve.

To Mr. D. and his family, I will always feel deeply grateful for their many and kind attentions.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 117

Diary of Private William S. White, June 24, 1862

Having some information that a great battle was imminent, I concluded to return to camp to-day, though I was far from being well.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, p. 117

Diary of Private William S. White, June 27, 1862

BATTLE OF ELLERSON'S MILL, JUNE 27TH, 1862.

For several days we have been on the qui vive for a fight, and at last it has come. Day before yesterday my company was transferred from Huger's division, to which it was temporarily attached, to the First Regiment Virginia Artillery, commanded by Colonel John Thompson Brown, and we now belong to Longstreet's division. We had just gotten our tents pitched, picket rope stretched, etc., when we were ordered to report to Brigadier-General Featherstone, commanding a splendid brigade of Mississippians. We reached this brigade on the evening of the 25th, pitched our tents and camped for the night. At 10 o'clock we were ordered to rise at 2 A. M., prepare three days' rations, allowing each man one blanket, and report to General Longstreet near the toll-house on the Mechanicsville Turnpike. According to instructions we arose next morning at 2 o'clock, but as we had no rations had to start without them. We remained on the turnpike all day awaiting orders to move. A. P. Hill's division, having crossed the Chickahominy near the Virginia Central Railroad, flanked the enemy and charged upon them at Mechanicsville, driving them across Beaver Dam Creek to Ellerson's Mill. Our division (Longstreet's), with D. H. Hill's, then moved directly up the Mechanicsville Turnpike and formed a junction with A. P. Hill at the village of Mechanicsville, five and a half miles from Richmond. The fighting for the night was over, but sleep was impossible, for well we knew the coming morrow would be a day fraught with heavy interests to the South. Jackson, we also knew, was on his way to join us, and was moving around to strike the enemy's right flank, taking it en reverse. About 12 o'clock at night my brigade (Featherstone's) was ordered to the front to relieve General Ripley's, and my company ordered to remain in the road at the blacksmith's shop, awaiting "further orders."

The dawn of the 27th of June was announced by a shell from a Yankee battery, and pretty soon they made the turnpike a very hot place.

Featherstone and Willcox, supported by R. A. Pryor, were already engaged. Our battery was then ordered to take position where we could shell the enemy. To accomplish this we had to move about a mile across an open field and in point blank range of the Yankee batteries. Gallantly did our boys dash across the field and in the very face of the enemy; loudly screamed the shot and shell; but on we pushed until we reached our position directly in front of the Catlin House. Our guns were speedily "unlimbered," and soon the clear, ringing report of the little howitzers bespoke the earnestness of the affair we were engaged in.

Our Parrot gun and howitzer No. 2 were stationed to the rear of the Catlin House, whilst the third and fourth (my gun) were directly in front.

The enemy's artillery soon ceased, for it was very evident that having been struck such a heavy blow on this, their extreme right flank, by Hill on the preceding day, that McClellan was drawing in his lines, and we were now fighting only a heavy rear guard commanded by Fitz John Porter.

Nevertheless their sharp-shooters were swarming like bees on the opposite hills, across the Beaver Dam, and they made it uncomfortably warm where we were strange to say none of my company were hurt.

Pryor's, Wilcox's and Featherstone's brigades were fighting heavily on our right and their loss was quite severe, the enemy being strongly posted.

Our artillery was composed of the "Maryland Artillery," "Donaldsonville (Louisiana) Artillery, "Thomas Artillery" and the "Third Company Richmond Howitzers." Our guns were worked with coolness and precision. The Yankee skirmishers, being posted in rifle-pits, and many of them securely stationed up tall pine trees, had many advantages over our men, we fighting in the open field all the time. For several hours did we pour a galling fire into the enemy and they replied with great spirit. About 8 A. M. our batteries were ordered to "cease firing," and "Gregg's brigade," A. P. Hill's division, charged the works in our front, meeting with but little opposition, as the enemy rapidly retired before them. The remainder of A. P. Hill's division was moving against the enemy's right flank, hoping to get in the rear of Fitz. John Porter and capture his entire force, but he, seeing Hill's intention, rapidly decamped.

An incident, proving the money loving nature of the genuine Yankee, occurred at this place, and I cannot refrain from relating it. One of our boys, in conversation with one of the wounded prisoners who had both eyes shot entirely out, remarked to him that "his wound must be very painful?"

The Yankee replied: "I don't mind the pain so much, sir, but I wouldn't have both of my eyes shot out for twenty-five dollars!" Umph! What a people-eyes twelve and a half dollars each.

This Catlin House was built by my grandfather, and sadly sweet is the recollection to me that for three hours, to-day, I fought within a few short yards of my father's grave. Yes! here where we fought to-day is the very spot where he was born, more than a half century ago, and hard by is the grave where he now lies buried. Oh! who can wonder that my arm was strengthened, and my heart nerved for the conflict. The balls flew thick and fast around me, but I heeded them not, and thought only of the sacred dead, whose grave had been desecrated and his slumbers disturbed by the foeman's shout and the wild, loud, crash of battle!

BATTLE OF GAINES'S MILL, FRIDAY, JUNE 27TH, 1862.

The Federals were driven back through Austin's, Sydnor's, Hogan's and Gaines's farms, slightly skirmishing as they rapidly retreated before our successful forces. They made a final stand about a mile from Dr. Gaines's residence. Pryor's brigade was in the advance, and was acting as skirmishers—the Donaldsonville Artillery was attached to this brigade. The remainder of Longstreet's division was stationed in a thick wood near Dr. Gaines's house, and was evidently waiting for the music of Jackson's guns. We knew Jackson was close at hand, for this morning, on following up the enemy from Ellerson's Mill, we took the wrong road at Meadow Farm (William Sydnor's,) and crossed over into Oakley Hill (Edward Sydnor's) where we ran into Jackson's men, and skirmished with them some time before we found them out. The enemy soon found out our position in this wood and commenced shelling us at a terrific rate. Their guns were well aimed for their shots skim'd above and around us in no very pleasant manner. Being somewhat worried by the delay and wanting to see what was going on, I rode out to the front where Pryor's men were skirmishing; seeing a deserted camp about a half mile off, I rode over to it, hoping to get something for my horse to eat, and just as I was securing a very plump looking bag of oats, a body of our cavalry dashed in at the other end of the camp, and the first thing I knew, one of them was about to shoot me for a Yankee—remembering I had on a Yankee jacket, I cried out lustily, that I was a Confederate soldier, whereupon they rode swiftly on, leaving me to carry off my booty.

Shortly after 3 P. M. the welcome sound of Jackson's guns is heard on our left, and our entire line advances in splendid style, our infantry moving across an open field, subjected to a terrific fire poured into them by the enemy, who were strongly entrenched in earthworks commandingly situated. My company took position on the east side of Dr. Gaines's house and immediately opened fire upon the enemy. Three of our guns, it will be remembered, were twelve-pound Dahlgren navy howitzers, fitted only for very close work, and I presume the chief good we did was to make a noise and draw the fire of the enemy. Our rifled Parrot gun, however, did good service, and was effectually manned during the remainder of the day.

The enemy opened a heavy fire upon us both from the north and south sides of the Chickahominy. We were also under a galling fire from their infantry directly in our front.

Longstreet's division, on our left, charged across the open field in gallant style and up the hill they went as if they meant to stay. Three times were they driven back, but they rapidly reformed and finally drove the Yankees from their almost impregnable position, slaying them by thousands. The shot and shell from the Yankee batteries would strike in our battery and ricochet farther than our guns would carry. Our little howitzers now being unable to reach the enemy, Colonel John Thompson Brown, Longstreet's chief of artillery, ordered us into a ravine, where we were in a great measure protected. During the engagement our battery was subjected to an enfilading fire from the south side of the Chickahominy, and how we escaped without loss is a mystery to me. Finally darkness brought an end to the bloody scene; the enemy had been completely whipped out of their works. We captured a great number of prisoners, including the Eleventh Pennsylvania Reserve entire; also, some twenty-five or thirty pieces of artillery. We passed through many Yankee camps, and our men obtained a number of articles they were sadly in need of. The enemy, however, destroyed vast quantities of commissary stores and all their camp equipage. The people of Hanover were perfectly overjoyed to see us once more, and as many an old acquaintance and kinsman grasped me warmly by the hand I could but silently offer up my thanks to the Omnipotent for our success. The Yankees have been more lenient to this portion of Virginia than has been their custom, but the parlor walls of some of our Hanover houses bear ample testimony to their obscenity and meanness. Their letters, which we find scattered all over the fields, are also filled with obscene thoughts and vituperations of us of the South. One thing especially I notice in the letters the Yankee soldiers receive from their homes, in nine cases out of ten: the people at home write piteous appeals for money and complain bitterly of the hard times, whilst our soldiers write home, invariably, for money. Many of the Yankee soldiers enter the army because it insures a comfortable support, and they can, if at all provident, put by something every month.

SOURCE: William S. White, A Diary of the War; or What I Saw of It, pp. 117-22

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