An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones, 6th Battery, Wisconsin Artillery.

Chattanooga, Sunday, June 18. To-day has passed like a hundred others which I have endeavored to note down in my diary. How can I find anything to individualize this day from others, the same mechanical duties, the same lazy nothing to do. The evening closes over us into night quietly. The very atmosphere seems an earnest voice. Discussion is not heard nor the merry laugh of the jester. The soldiers group together under the arbor in front of the quarters, conversing in an undertone of services rendered, hardships endured, and of brave comrades who are no more. With a thoughtful sigh for home and friends I close the book.

Chattanooga, Saturday, June 17. Another battery drill this morning; did not go out, being on post. Awful hot. My weekly letters from home have ceased their coming, owing to their expectations of my arrival home. This is making a bad matter worse. Two men received sick furloughs, start to-morrow.

Chattanooga, Friday, June 16. Rained heavy last night. Called out at 4 A. M. to harness up before breakfast. Out to drill immediately afterwards. Captain Simpson put us through the maneuvers for the first time, drilled us accurately with mechanical precision, but he is not loud enough, will never make a good drill master, but will do. Feasted on blackberry pie and sauce from yesterday’s picking. On guard to-night. Oh, dear!

Chattanooga, Thursday, June 15. Breakfast passed as usual. Charlie Pickard and myself procured a blackberry pass, and armed each with a tin pail, set out while it was yet cool, and we walked fast. We followed the old Georgia Railroad out into Chickamauga Valley, passed the vineyard which we tugged through on the 25th of November, 1863, under the rebel fire. The scene looked very natural, but the houses used as hospitals close by are burnt down, fences repaired and crops growing, Here we conversed with a negro, once a slave but now a free man. When “Massa run, aha,” he staid behind, and has forty acres of good corn planted and cultivated by himself for his own benefit. We saw many others industriously engaged for the welfare of self and family. What better proof need we have than this that the negro will support himself.

Here we found plenty of berries, but not many of them ripe yet, so we marched on, struck Chickamauga Creek, followed it about half a mile to the ferry, when cries and shrieks fell upon our ears, evidently a woman in great agony. Our minds were readily carried back to the time when such cries were often extorted from the poor slaves by the cruel hand of the master. And could it be possible that such a scene was being enacted in this valley now under the very eye of the power that had abolished it? It seemed incredible, yet we feared it, and we hastily turned our steps in the direction of the sound. As we approached, it still became more hideous and different voices could be discerned. Up high on the hill we at last discovered the place whence the noise proceeded, from a rough log negro hut. Passing a neat white house about fifty rods below the shanty, we were informed of the cause by a woman unconcernedly smoking her pipe. She “reckoned they were shouting up there”. A little suspecting the cause, yet we were bent on investigation. We met a young woman on the way with long, flowing disheveled hair, looking very much excited.

Charley asked “What’s the row up there?”

“An old ‘oman ‘fessed ‘ligion this morn’ “.

Now we are at the door, and such a sight I never saw before. Here two large negro women and two young white girls, 16 and 17 years old about, from all appearances raving maniacs, still screeching, yelling, jumping, hugging, dancing, crying, shaking, hands, and uttering incoherent sentences, foaming at the mouth with perspiration rolling down their cheeks in streams. No cessation, but each making as much noise as though a dagger were at their hearts. The spell appeared to be partially broken by one of the girls seeing us. She stopped, looked at us with a mesmeric glare for a few minutes, then shrunk a corner, where she remained quietly until her sister (I suppose) returned to her from covering the negro woman, and commenced violent demonstrations, such as bumping her head against the wall, etc. until both soon moved.

We looked on thus for over half an hour. I was filled with amazement and sometimes provoked to laughter. I had heard of such excitement in revival meetings where enthusiastic preachers and brethren were at work, working up the imagination of the victim. But to find it in such a sequestered place with but four solitary women was such as I never dreamt of. The superstitious character and education of the negro caused me to wonder less at them than the white girls, which looked awful. But when I remembered the unconcern of the people in the white house, I concluded it was nothing strange after all for these ignorant people (for I consider it nothing but ignorance of the true standard of the human soul).

A revival is going on there, it seems, and the old woman said God had been allowing her to go on in her “devilment” for a long time, but this morning ”Jesus stood right squar’ in her way and she found him right in the chair,” and then again she started. The girls I suppose came to see her and were taken with the influence. I felt it my duty to do what I could to restore these poor creatures to their senses, and believe if I had entered the room and spoken firmly to them in earnest, the spell would be broken and the excitement quieted.

But modesty prevented me from making the experiment, and we went on in quest of berries. Found plenty of beautiful ones in a field adjoining, and we soon filled our pails and started for camp in another direction. The shouting which we heard a mile away at first, still continued while we were within hearing. Reached camp before 2 P. M. tired and very warm, having walked at least fourteen miles, well pleased with our success at berrying. Told our story of the revivalists in camp, which caused much amusement. I shall always consider it as one of the greatest psychological phenomena.

Chattanooga, Wednesday, June 14. Another very hot day. No drill of any kind. The other batteries go out every morning. Our officers are very easy on the boys at present. 6th Battery has changed commanders again. Simpson was mustered in this morning as captain and Jenawein as first lieutenant. This leaves a vacancy for second lieutenant soon to be filled by ——, I suppose. If he will be appointed it will cause much dissatisfaction among the men for he is not liked in the least. No “grape-vine” excitement to-day. What is to happen?

Chattanooga, Tuesday, June 13. Rained a refreshing shower through the night and I slept very sound. Several squads out blackberrying. They are getting ripe. I forgot to tell you that we had blackberry pie last night. One-year men and we ’62 recruits are getting wrathy. The orders that reach all other commands except the reserve ought to take us, we think, mustering out all men where term of service expires prior to October 1. One of our boys saw the General to-day. But who cares. I am not so badly excited over this matter, but that I can rest well.

Chattanooga, Monday, June 12. On guard since last night. Sat quietly in the shade and listened tamely to the wild reports flying, although nobody, except a few yearlings, believed any of them. It is amusing to see what keen interest the arrival of an orderly or the sight of an official envelope excites amongst us. The fact of it is, one day of “muster-out talk” and idleness with apparent uselessness to the government, will create more homesickness than a year of war and active service.

Orders directing us to clean harness, etc., preparatory to turning over. Inspection announced at 2 P. M. Camp swept, clothes brushed and buttons polished, then it was postponed to 6.30 P. M. Rained, but it stopped long enough to be inspected by Captain Nicklin, assistant inspector general, known better in camp as “Jack o’ Clubs”, not liked too well.

Chattanooga, Sunday, June 11. Sultry and oppressive weather. Rain still keeps at a distance. The day has passed very quietly. It was with difficulty that I managed to scribble a sheet to Sister Hannah. Read several old numbers of Cincinnati Commercial giving glowing accounts of the grand reviews at Washington, a brilliant thing I have no doubt, but I rather think unpleasant to the soldier. If the lookers-on thought of how the soldier boy would return to camp to munch his “hard-tack” and “sow belly” notwithstanding he has finished up the rebellion, while the pleased spectator returned to his hot biscuit and et ceteras—fewer flowers and more good eating, I say.

Chattanooga, Saturday, June 10. A cloudy sultry day. In vain did we await the coming of a cool refreshing shower which would settle the dust and make us all feel younger; “nary” a drop fell. Drew forage. On duty loading hay in the afternoon. Camp policed, etc. The exciting scenes of yesterday have furnished the subject of conversation to-day and happily “grapevine” is forgotten. The inebriated look very sheepish and ashamed to-day. Well they might. Seven thousand bales of hay were destroyed yesterday. $250,000 to $500,000 of property destroyed in all. Eight lives lost. One woman broke both arms, many soldiers wounded.