Chattanooga, Sunday, March 26. A pretty spring day. On guard as supernumerary. Had preaching by one of the Christian Commission agents, 10 A. M. Wrote letters in the afternoon but received none. I think I feel a little lonesome tonight.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Sunday, March 26.— I went to the Episcopal Church, and, after the morning service, the rector, Mr. Thomas, introduced me to his wife, Mrs. Bector, and Mrs. Mitchell. Mrs. M. told me she had a son in Massindorf’s battery, which is now stationed in Mobile, and that he is much pleased with the place. Last year, at the retreat from Dalton, Griffin was filled with wounded. Mrs. M.’s house was full. Bishop Lay and Dr. Quintard visited the place then, and the rite of confirmation was administered to many. One of our old patients, Lieutenant Dupree, was confirmed while lying, badly wounded, at the house of Mrs. M. I am told that the ladies of the place did a great deal for the sufferers.
We seem to be completely hemmed in on all sides. I hear that the long-expected attack on Mobile has at last begun, and that a large force is moving against Selma and Montgomery. One of the largest armies yet massed by the North is investing Richmond; Sherman and his vandals are in the very heart of the country, and a large army coming in by Wilmington— which is now in their hands; Charleston is closely besieged. Not one ray of light gleams from any quarter. It seems like hoping against hope; but my strong faith in the justice of our cause makes failure to me an impossibility. I know we shall have much yet to suffer before the end. I have seen only extracts from the president’s message, and must say I do not like the tone of them. He is still urging the people to do their duty; but says, if we should fail, we must bow with submission to the decree of an all-wise Providence. I do not like the word “fail” at all. While we have one spark of hope left, one breath of submission ought not to be breathed by any one, much less by our chief magistrate.
March 26th.—Frost last night. Cloudy, cold, and windy to-day.
Suffered much yesterday and last night with disordered bowels —from cold. This, however, may relieve me of the distressing cough I have had for months.
After all, I fear Lee’s attempt on the enemy’s lines yesterday was a failure. We were compelled to relinquish the fort or battery we had taken, with all the guns we had captured. Our men were exposed to an enfilading fire, not being supported by the divisions intended to co-operate in the movement. The 600 prisoners were completely surprised—their pickets supposing our troops to be merely deserters. This indicates an awful state of things, the enemy being convinced that we are beaten, demoralized, etc.
There was a communication for the Secretary this morning, from “headquarters;” but being marked “confidential,” I did not open it, but sent it to Gen. Breckinridge.
Pickett’s division has been marching for Petersburg all the morning.
Sunday, 26th—Pleasant weather. The Eleventh Iowa was sent out with a foraging train to get corn and fodder for the mules and horses of our brigade. They had to go a distance of thirteen miles to get the feed. I being on camp duty did not go. A train of cars came in from Newbern loaded with supplies for the army, and our quartermaster received some clothing for the regiment.
26th. Had a very good view of McClellan’s defensive works. Good. Moved up the river and crossed at Deep Bottom. An occasional shot. Heard of taking in 2,700 rebs in front of Petersburg. Camped, at Bermuda Hundred.
March 26th, 1865.
I have just read the President’s Inaugural. I consider it the most remarkable state paper of modem times. Beautiful in its simplicity; grand and majestic in its expressions of lofty faith in the “Great Ruler of Nations;” it resembles more the production of one of Israel’s ancient rulers than the Inaugural Address of a modern politician. I gathered strength and courage from its perusal. Our camp has settled down to its usual quiet. Nothing remains to remind the casual observer of the strife of yesterday.
Our men are busily engaged, under cover of night, in repairing the damage done our works. Part of our regiment went to Hatcher’s Run today, and returned with the news that the Sixth Corps advanced, and now hold one line of Rebel works, and that they took about two thousand prisoners.
Poor, old, misguided Robert; every effort to shake off the strangling grip with which Grant has throtteled him but serves to tighten it. This attack and failure proves his weakness beyond a doubt.
Mrs. Lyon’s Diary.
March 26, 1865.—Went through Chattanooga and the mountains today. Saw Lookout Mountain, where General Hooker fought and bled above the clouds. The scenery here is very grand. We saw Mission Ridge also. The city is built in the valley near Lookout Mountain. We had our dinner here. The boys built fires and made coffee in a few minutes. We had hard tack and coffee and a little cold meat.
Near Loudon we were going through a ledge of rocks that extends out over the Tennessee river, when an axle broke and two or three of the cars were wrecked. They were smashed into pieces as small as kindling wood. The engine and tender, and I think some baggage cars, went through this ledge of rocks all right. The cars loaded with supplies were broken up the most. A car that the mules were in stood on one end and the poor animals were jammed into the lower end of the car. The regiment were riding on the top of the cars, and when they saw there was something the matter they turned the brakes and ran to both ends of the train and there was not a man hurt. Their thoughtfulness in turning the brakes saved the rest of the train. The caboose that we were in just hung over the river. It was a miraculous escape. They thought that some of the mules would be dead, but they chopped the car open as soon as they could, to get them out. As they got them out they would shake themselves and walk off. Some limped, but none were killed. We went back to Loudon and stayed until the track was repaired.
