David L Day–My diary of rambles with the 25th Mass

A Look through the Camps.

Dec. 18. I have been looking through the camp around here and am astonished at the amount of offal and swill that is buried up and lost instead of being turned to a valuable account. An enterprising farmer could collect from these camps, manure and swill to the value of $100 a day, costing nothing but simply carting it off, thus enriching his land and fattening hundreds of hogs and cattle; but this lack of energy and enterprise prevents these people from turning anything to account. They content themselves with sitting down and finding fault with the government and their more enterprising and energetic neighbors of the north.

Courts Martial.

Dec. 5. Courts martial seems to be a prominent feature in camp affairs just at present, and almost every night at dress parade the charges and specifications are read against some unlucky wight. The burden of the song seems to be too drunk to perform the duties of a soldier; but as this is a camp of instruction, I presume these courts are really more for practice than anything else.

Thanksgiving.

Nov. 30. According to the customs of our Puritan Fathers, last Thursday was observed in Massachusetts and other states as a day of thanksgiving to God, for his manifold mercies and bounties to the erring children of men. The day was observed here throughout all the camps as a holiday. All drills were suspended, and in our camp religious services were held, after which the boys engaged in ball playing and other amusements to which their inclinations might lead. Although deprived of joining our friends at home in their festivities and meeting them around the dear old board, it seems we were not forgotten. Our thanksgiving dinners are just beginning to arrive, and our camp is literally piled up with boxes and bales containing good things from the dear ones at home.

Nov. 22. The first death in our regiment occurred this morning. John Shepard of Company B died of typhoid fever. His remains will be sent to his home in Milford for burial.

Nov. 20. Yesterday, having a day to myself, I visited Annapolis. I was greatly interested in visiting the old State House on account of the historic memories that cluster around it. I was shown up in the hall where Washington, in December, 1783, resigned his commission in the army to the Continental congress, then in session at this place. His resignation was a very solemn and formal affair, and as I stood in this venerable hall, my thoughts went back to those grand old days when our fathers struggled for independence. At the close of the revolution, Maryland offered to cede Annapolis as the Federal capital, but it was thought best to select a site on the Potomac river. Annapolis was originally designed as a great place, being the capital of the state, and possessing a fine harbor with a great depth of water, and long before Baltimore was at all noted, was the seat of wealth, refinement and extensive trade; but it is now chiefly distinguished as the seat of the United States Naval academy. The state house and Episcopal church are located in the centre of the city, and from these radiate all the streets.

To the eye of the stranger, the antique, moss-covered and vine-clad houses, with their deep embrasured windows and peculiar architecture, present a singular appearance. The Naval academy and Episcopal college present a striking contrast to the rest of the town. The buildings are large and of modern style, the grounds around them spacious and tastefully laid out. The Naval academy, located on the west side of the town, comprises an area of several acres, enclosed by a high brick wall. The buildings, of which there are several, are located partly on the water side, the balance on the east side next to the wall. The wharfage and boat houses are extensive and commodious. On the north side, and commanding the harbor, is an old brick building with a few port holes, and mounting a few old iron guns. This they call the fort, and I should suppose a few shots from one of our gunboats would level it to the ground. The park is beautifully laid out with drives and walks, and adorned with a great variety of forest and ornamental trees. The grounds and trees, however, are being sadly damaged by the soldiers and by driving army wagons across.

Here are also several handsome monuments erected in memory of departed naval heroes, among which I may mention one erected in honor of the gallant Capt. Herndon. It is a plain granite shaft, about twenty feet high, and on each of the four sides is engraved simply the name, Herndon. I noticed this more particularly, as I remembered the circumstances of his death. He ranked as lieutenant in the navy, but at the time of his death, in September, 1857, was in command of the steamer Central America, of the New York and California line. The Central America was on her passage from Aspinwall for New York, when she foundered during a terrible storm off Cape Hatteras, and out of 600 persons on board, only 200 were saved. Capt. Herndon superintended the getting off of as many of his passengers as he could, and the last words he was heard to utter were, “I will never leave the ship until my passengers are all off,” and standing on the wheel house, went down with his vessel. Brave, gallant Herndon!

Nov. 16. Here it is the middle of November, and the weather is most delightful. No frosts, but a warm, mellow atmosphere like our Indian summer in October. It is beautiful, indeed; I am charmed with it. While our farmers in New England are putting up and feeding their cattle in barns, the cattle here are luxuriating in white clover, young, sweet and tender enough to suit the most fastidious taste of any of the cattle on a thousand hills. The farmers about here are harvesting their crops of corn and sweet potatoes, some of which are very fine. Some of the boys brought in some egg plants which grow about here. I never saw any before, but am told they are very good, when properly cooked. I am not disposed to doubt it, never having eaten any of them, but I cannot believe they would make good egg nog.

We begin to see a little something of the peculiar institution, —slavery. There are a great many negroes strolling around the camps, most of them runaways, and as Maryland is supposed to be a loyal state, we have no right to take sides and afford them protection. But we have adopted a kind of English neutrality, although not giving them much protection, we give them whatever information they desire. The masters and hunters are frequently here, looking up their hoys, as they call them, and we generally manage to put them on the wrong track and then run the boys into other camps, and they run them into the woods.

Our regiment was yesterday inspected and reviewed by Brig. Gen. John G. Foster. We put in our best work, and tried to make the best appearance we could. The general seems to be a man who understands his business. At a single glance he takes a man and his equipments all in; looks at his rifle, passes it back and goes for the next one. He complimented Col. Upton on the good drill and appearance of his regiment, and flattered his vanity a little by telling him that with a little more practice his regiment would be as near regulars as it would be possible to bring a volunteer regiment.

Nov. 11. We are now fairly settled in camp life. Several other regiments from Massachusetts and other states are now with us, and drills, inspections and reviews are the order of the day. One can scarcely get time to wash his face, and take, as Gen. Scott said, a hasty plate of soup, before the drum calls to some kind of duty.