27th. Sunday. Wrote home and read some in “Nathalie,” by Julia Kavanagh. Very good story.
July 2012
Written from the Sea islands of South Carolina.
[Diary] July 27.
Mr. Phillips, the new minister, preached, and after church there was a continuation of the examination for baptism. Many of the people said they had desired for years to be baptized, but could not get their masters’ leave.
Headquarters, 1st Brigade Cavalry Division,
Tuscumbia, Ala., July 27, 1862 (Sunday).
We received orders for our brigade to march on the 19th, and started the 21st. We only made Jacinto that night, when the colonel and myself stayed with Gen. Jeff. C. Davis, who is a very approachable, pleasant and perfectly soldier-like man. There is a strong sprinkling in him, though, of the Regular Army and West Point. Next day we rejoined the command and marched 15 miles, camped at Bear Creek, 22 miles west of this place and just on the Mississippi and Alabama line. Thursday we joined General Morgan’s division and that night the brigade camped within four miles of Tuscumbia, and the headquarters came on into town. This is a perfect little Eden. Houses for 2,200 people with only 1,200 living here at present. We stayed at the hotel Thursday night, and the old negro who lighted me to my room amused me considerably with his account of General Turchin’s proceedings here. Turchin brought the first federal force across the Tennessee in Alabama, and I guess he “went it loosely.” The old Negro said that he only had 1,200 men and brought no luggage, knapsacks or anything else with him, but went away with 300 wagons, and everything there was in the country worth taking. That his men made the white women (wouldn’t let the colored women) do their cooking and washing, and that although they only brought one suit of clothes, they put on a new one every morning and always looked as though they had just stepped from a bandbox. People here hate General Mitchell’s whole command as they do the d___1, and many of them more. Well, we’ve settled once more, and I’ll be contented if allowed to stay here for sometime. We’re guarding about 100 miles of railroad from Iuka to Decatur, and it promises to be pretty rough work. Day before yesterday a guerilla party swooped down on a station 24 miles east of here where General Thomas had 160 men and captured all but 20 of them. We are relieving General Thomas’ command from duty here, but the Rebels saved us the trouble of relieving that party. We sent out a force yesterday of three companies and the Rebels surprised and killed and captured 20 of them. I have just heard that there has been a fight eight miles south of here to-day, between our cavalry and the Rebels, no particulars yet. ‘Tis the 3d Michigan that has suffered so far. The 7th Illinois are out now after the party that surprised the Michiganders yesterday, but have not heard of them since they started yesterday p.m. We are quartered in the house of a right good secesh, and are enjoying his property hugely. His pigs will be ripe within a week, and we’ll guard them after our style. The old fashion is played out as far as this brigade is concerned. We take what is necessary and give vouchers, which say the property will be paid for at the close of the war, on proof of loyalty. This valley is 60 or 80 miles long, 15 miles wide and the most beautiful country imaginable. It is now one vast cornfield. The residences in this town are superb, and the grounds most beautifully ornamented and filled with shrubbery. There is a spring here that throws out 17,000 cubic feet of water each minute. It supplies the town. General Thomas, whom we relieved, has gone to Huntsville to join Buell. I think they are going to Chattanooga then. People are intensely secesh here, and whine most mournfully when compelled to take the oath, or even to give their parole of honor not to give information to the enemy. Our headquarters is a mile from any troops, just for the quiet of the thing. Peaches are just in season now, and there are oceans of them here. Blackberries are still to be found, and we have plenty of apples.
The weather is beautiful, not too warm and still require my double blanket every night, and often cool at that. We have information that Hardee with a force is marching on this place, and it is the most probable rumor that I have heard since the evacuation. Time will tell.
July 27th. Sunday morning, bright and beautiful, but intensely hot during the day. Early in the morning the quartermaster issued new clothing, including drawers, socks, trousers, shoes, and blouses. At 7:30 A. M. we fell in for inspection, and nearly every man appeared in new clothes; the regiment looked very fine. After sunset, Broom and I rode over to the river to cool off.
July 27. [Mobile] —Captain Curtis has just called to see me. He is en route for the army. * Ho informed me that General Price has gone to Richmond to try and get an independent command, with which to free Missouri. Captain C. was very hopeful as to his receiving it, and drew a glowing picture of the army’s triumphal entry into St. Louis, with General P. at its head. I do hope and pray he will not be disappointed.
I have been told by many that if the president will not accede to General P.’s proposal, he intends resigning; but I trust he is more of a patriot than that. If we can not have faith in President Davis, and fully trust that what he is doing is for the good of the cause, it is no reason why we should not do our duty.
July 27.—Two rebel schooners were captured up the Chipoaks Creek, James River, near Claremont, Va., by a boat expedition under the command of Lieutenant Gibson of the United States gunboat Yankee, and brought out of the creek without molestation, although a force of rebel cavalry was stationed only three quarters of a mile distant—Official Report.
— A reconnoitring expedition, consisting of the United States gunboats Paul Jones, Unadilla, Huron and Madgie, left Savannah bay and proceeded up the Ogecchee River, Ga., until they arrived near Fort James, the strength of which they discovered by bombarding it for about two hours, when they returned to their former anchorage.—A number of young ladies of New-Albany, Indiana, proposed to act as clerks and salesmen for the young men of that place who would enlist, and give them half their salaries while they are absent, and surrender their positions to them on their return.
—Richmond, Ky., was visited by a band of guerrillas, under John Morgan, who plundered the stores, houses, and stables of the Union men of the place.—Richmond Messenger, August 1.
JULY 26TH—There is a pause in the depreciation of C. S. securities.
Saturday, 26th—Nothing of importance. Much of our time in camp is taken up with the question of rations. During this hot weather the regular army rations are drawn, but the men use very little of the salt bacon. But the bacon being issued, the company cook takes care of it and now has a wagon load of it stacked up beside his tent, anyone being permitted to go and help himself to it. At noon the company cook prepares the bean soup and cooks the pickled beef, after which he calls out for every man to come and get his portion. All the other rations are issued every five days, each man carrying his portion in his haversack. We haven had no Irish potatoes issued for eight months now, but fresh beef we draw, sometimes twice a week, and it is cooked for us by the company cook. The rations are all of good quality with the exception of crackers, which at times are a little worm-eaten.
26th. Wrote a letter to Fannie. Played chess with Sergeant Spencer.
Harrison’s Landing, James River, Va.,
Saturday, July 26, 1862.
Dear Brother and Sister:—
General Porter’s corps, which is quite an army of itself, is now encamped on the large wheat field of the Westover estate. The Pennsylvania Reserve of thirteen regiments, three batteries and a regiment of cavalry lies next to us on the north. Morell’s division of fifteen regiments, three batteries and two regiments of cavalry lies next to them, and between us and the river is the camp of the regulars under Sykes. All these troops belong to General Porter’s corps. You may guess that with their tents and all the baggage wagons and horses, cannon and ammunition wagons, this field is pretty well filled up. Through all the camps there is constant activity. The men are cleaning up their arms or cooking round the fire, sitting on the ground eating their hard tack and sipping their black coffee. Little squads are marching about drilling or going through their inspection, which takes place twice a day. Every thing is kept in tip top order, ready for a fight at a moment’s notice. And then, if you could see the road—it looks like the road near a county fair ground, full of teams from morning till night, long trains of wagons that are a curiosity in themselves, great covered wagons as large as two of our lumber wagons, with six mules, and a driver riding the near pole mule and guiding his team with one line. These things would all amuse you, but I have seen so many of them that they have lost their interest.
I suppose this is the height of the haying season at home. Mowing machines are rattling over the meadows, and the barns are filling up, but I see nothing like that here. Grain fields are turned into camping grounds and the cavalry horses harvest the wheat. War makes sad work with the country it passes over.
You ask me how I felt when the battle commenced, if I feared I should fall, etc. That is a very hard question to answer. In the fight at Gaines’ Mill I had lain in the woods almost all day waiting for them before I saw a rebel. They had been shelling us all the time, and occasionally a shell would burst within a few feet of me and startle me a little, but we had so strong a position and felt so certain of driving the rebels off that I was anxious to have them come on. The last words I heard Colonel McLane say were, “You’ll see enough of them before night, boys.” His words proved too true. We had but little to do with repulsing them, for they did not come within range of our guns either time, but we could hear the firing, and, when the cheers of our men announced their victory, a feeling of exultation ran through our minds. “Come on,” we thought, “we’ll show you how freemen fight,” but when they attacked us so unexpectedly in the rear, my feelings changed. Surprise at first and a wonder how they could get there, and then, when the truth flashed through my mind that they had broken through our lines, a feeling of shame and indignation against the men who would retreat before the enemy. Then, when the colonel was killed and Henry and Denny wounded, I felt some excited. I was stronger than I had been before in a month and a kind of desperation seized me. Scenes that would have unnerved me at other times had no effect. I snatched a gun from the hands of a man who was shot through the head, as he staggered and fell. At other times I would have been horror-struck and could not have moved, but then I jumped over dead men with as little feeling as I would over a log. The feeling that was uppermost in my mind was a desire to kill as many rebels as I could. The loss of comrades maddened me, the balls flew past me hissing in the air, they knocked my guns to splinters, but the closer they came they seemed to make me more insensible to fear. I had no time to think of anything but my duty to do all I could to drive back the enemy, and it was not duty that kept me there either, but a feeling that I had a chance then to help put down secession and a determination to do my best. My heart was in the fight, and I couldn’t be anywhere else. I told you it was hard to describe one’s feeling in a battle, and it is. No one can ever know exactly till he has been through it. In the fight at Malvern Hill my feelings were a little different. The memory of the scenes of the past few days was fresh in my mind, and as I marched up the hill that concealed us from the enemy, I must admit I felt a reluctance, rather a fear of going in. We were so worn out by excitement, fatigue, and want of sleep, that there was not the spirit in the movement of the men that usually characterized them, but there was the bitter determination to do or die. We would not falter, let the consequences be what they might. Butterfield and Griffin dashed here and there, cheering on the men—”Go in, my gallant Eighty-third, and give ’em h—l,” yelled Butterfield as he dashed along the line, and his inspiring manner cheered the men up. We rushed over the hill on the double quick and there were the rebels. Column behind column was swarming out of the woods and advancing on us. Ten times our number were opposed to us. There were so many that they had not room to deploy, but came up in close column. Their intention evidently was to send such an overwhelming force against us, that, if we killed twice our number, there would be enough left to drive us from the field and capture our batteries. They were perfectly reckless of life and bent on driving us off, cost what it might. We went part way down the hill to meet them, so that our artillery could fire over us, then we waited for them. The hill behind us was covered with cannon in two rows and as they advanced our artillerists poured in such deadly charges of grape that it was more than any troops could stand. Each discharge would mow a swath through their lines, from five to eight feet wide. Still they closed up their ranks and came on till they met our fire, and then they wavered. We poured it into them as fast as we could load and fire, and I tell you my fear was gone then. I felt exultant. We cheered and cheered and shouted our watchword—”Remember McLane,” and the rebels, disheartened, fell back. Butterfield’s expression of “give ’em hell” was not inapt. It was more like the work of fiends than that of human beings. The roar of the artillery, the rattling of musketry and the unearthly screaming of the great two-foot shells from the gunboats made such music as is only fit for demons, and the appearance of the men was scarcely human. The sweat rolled in streams, for there is nothing like fighting to heat a man’s blood, and as the men wiped their faces with powder-grimed or bloody hands, they left the most horrible looking countenances you ever saw. But no one cared for looks or sound. That roar of artillery was the sweetest music I ever heard, for it carried death and terror to the enemies of our country and our flag. I said the rebels retreated—they fell back out of range of our infantry, formed again and again came up. Fiercer grew the conflict and our excitement rose with it. Our men fell thick and fast, and wounded men were all the time crawling to the rear, but we did not heed them. We sat there and fought till our ammunition was gone and we had to fill up from the boxes of our dead and wounded comrades, and still we had no thought of leaving, but another brigade relieved us and we retired. Then came the reaction. I must say that the time when one feels the horrors of war most keenly is after the battle, not before it or in it.
