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

Jan. 18. The order has arrived and we are under heavy inarching orders for Yorktown, which is 30 miles distant and where, it is said, we shall probably all die of malarial fever or other contagious diseases. But there is one redeeming feature to the order; that is, if we will enlist, or three-fourths of those reported for duty will enlist, then they can all go home together as a regiment, while those not enlisting will be sent into banishment, the non-coms reduced to the ranks and permanently assigned to other organizations during their terms of enlistment.

Jan. 17. The balance of the re-enlisted men left for home today, several of the officers going with them. We have now got our ultimatum, either enlist or go into exile. An order was received intimating that as enlistments seemed about through in this regiment, we would be more useful at Yorktown than here, and for us to be ready to march in heavy marching order at any time; but enlistments still drag.

Jan. 14. Up to this date about 200 of our men have reenlisted, and today the first detachment left for home on their thirty days’ furlough. They were accompanied by three of the officers, one of whom was Lieut. McCarter of company B. I hope they will have a good time and enjoy themselves. Orders keep coming from headquarters, at the fort to hurry up enlistments and some of them are of a rather threatening character.

January 1, 1864. We have now entered on the last year of our soldier service and are looking forward to the end, and may it not only end our service as soldiers, but the war as well, when both sides can meet between the lines, shake hands, smoke the pipe of peace and together sign a long and lasting truce, and all say homeward bound. But I am sermonising, and however much that happy end may be desired, the indications now are that it will not be realized. For a month past our regiment has been a good deal excited. About thirty days ago orders were received from the war department at Washington, soliciting re-enlistments from among the soldiers of the old regiments of 1861. Liberal money inducements were offered, and in addition the present term of service would end on re-enlistment; the $100 bounty due at the expiration of the three years term could be drawn, together with a thirty day’s furlough. Lieut. Woodworth of company H was appointed recruiting officer, but up to the present time there have been but few enlistments. We all understood the terms and all thus far have been left free to act according to their own judgment. The officers have not seemed to take much interest in it and have not used their influence to get the boys to enlist but have given advice when sought for. If a man re-enlists he has some motive for it; if he does not he has his reasons, and both may be equally patriotic. I shall not re-enlist, and my reasons are, first, I have no desire to monopolize all the patriotism there is, but am willing to give others a chance. My second reason is that after I have served three years my duty to the country has been performed and my next duty is at home with my family.

Newport News.

Dec. 10. I am now on the sacred soil of old Virginia, and my first care will be to seek an introduction to some of the F. F. Vs. What this place derived its name from, or why it was named at all, I have not been able to learn. It was simply a plantation before its occupation by Federal troops, and perhaps the name is as good as any to distinguish it by. Our camp is near the river, and only a few rods from us lie the wrecks of the frigates Cumberland and Congress, sunk by the rebel ram Merrimac. The Cumberland lies in deep water out of sight, but the deck of the Congress is seen and often visited by the boys at low water. Since the occupation of this place by Federal troops it has grown into what they call down this way a town, containing quite a collection of rough board store-houses, sutler’s shops, negro shanties and horse sheds. A boat runs from here to Fortress Monroe every day, and three times a week to Norfolk; the distance to either place is about the same, some twelve miles.

For the first time since the war began, the oyster fishing is being prosecuted, and Hampton Roads are alive with oyster schooners. The oysters have had a chance to grow, and are now abundant and of good size and flavor. Newport News was the first place in Virginia, except Washington, that was occupied by Federal troops, and it was from here that a part of old Ben’s famous Big Bethel expedition started.

During my absence, this military department has gone all wrong. Gen. Foster has been ordered to Knoxville, Tenn., and Gen. Butler has superseded him to this command. I am not pleased with the change. Gen. Foster was a splendid man and fine officer, and I would rather take my chances with a regular army officer than with an amateur. The first year of the war Gen. Butler was the busiest and most successful general we had, but since then he has kind o’ taken to niggers and trading. As a military governor he is a nonesuch, and in that role has gained a great fame, especially in all the rebellious states. He is a lawyer and a man of great executive ability, and can not only make laws but can see to it that they are observed, but as a commander of troops in the field, he is not just such a man as I should pick out. He had a review of our brigade the other day, and his style of soldiering caused considerable fun among the boys who had been used to seeing Gen. Foster. He rode on to the field with a great dash, followed by staff enough for two major-generals. He looks very awkward on a horse and wears a soft hat; when he salutes the colors he lifts his hat by the crown clear off his head instead of simply touching the rim. The boys think he is hardly up to their ideas of a general, but as they are not supposed to know anything, they will have to admit that he is a great general. He is full of orders and laws (regardless of army regulations) in the government of his department, and his recent order in relation to darkies fills two columns of newspaper print, and is all the most fastidious lovers of darkies in all New England could desire. Hunter and Fremont are the merest pigmies beside Ben in their care of darkies.

Sept. 20. Our last furloughed men have returned, and I have the promise of one next week, and am congratulating myself on the prospect of once more seeing home. I am anticipating a great deal when I get home; among other things the pleasure of once more sitting down to a clean, well-spread table, with a good square dinner before me. In anticipation of such an event, I send by this mail a small bill of fare of such dishes as I think I shall relish, and have ordered them to be ready and smoking hot on my arrival:

Roast—Sirloin of beef, spare rib of pork, breast of veal, turkey with cranberry sauce, chicken.

Baked—Bluefish, oyster dressing. Chicken pie.

Boiled—Halibut. Fried—Pouts.

Chicken salad. Lobster salad.

Oysters—Stewed, fried, escalloped. Clam chowder.

27 dozen Providence river oysters on the half shell.

Mashed potatoes, boiled onions, beets, turnips, squash, sweet corn, string beans, succotash, stewed tomatoes, tomatoes sliced with vinegar or sugar, apple dumplings with sugar sauce; mince, apple, berry, lemon, cream and custard pie.

Also one moderately sized pumpkin pie, say about thirty-six inches across and not less than eight inches deep; that is as small a pumpkin pie as I care to bother with.

Oranges, apples, pears, grapes, chestnuts, walnuts, cider.

N. B. No boiled salt pork, beef soup or rice and molasses. I don’t hanker for that.

With that bill of fare, and such other things as my folks will naturally think of, I reckon I can make a tolerable dinner.

Waiting to be Relieved.

We keep a small camp guard during the night and this duty is assigned to the artillery detail, each gun’s company taking its turn, which brings us on every third night. There are only four posts, the guns and magazine, and as they only go on at tattoo and come off at reveille, the duty is not very arduous. The guard is divided into two reliefs, one going on the first part of the night and the other the latter part; the duty is simply to keep their ears open for any disturbance among the pickets out in the woods and alarm the camp. The reliefs sleep in their quarters and are called when wanted. The sergeant or corporal on duty occupies a small wall tent, in which a candle is kept burning through the night. Having my choice of time and it not making any difference to the corporal, I take the latter part, as I prefer sleeping the first part. I have a splendid corporal, I think the best in the service; we go along together, and agree first rate. He is willing to do all the work and I am willing he should. He posts the first relief and then keeps his eyes open until it is time to post the second relief, when he posts them and then comes and calls me, when I relieve him. My work is now all done; all I have to do is to lie down and go to sleep or busy myself with my reading or writing, and call off the relief at reveille. If I am too busy to attend to that duty (which I generally am), they take the responsibility of relieving themselves, which is a great help to me and relieves me of a great burden of care.

One night while on this duty the officer of the day came in and inquired if I would like to take a stroll and make a round of the pickets. I replied that I should. We started out making the round and not being in a hurry did not get back till daylight. I laid down and went to sleep, feeling that everything was all safe and quiet on the Pamlico. About 7 o’clock I was called up and told I was wanted at the magazine. I went out and there stood Charley, a Roman sentinel amid the wreck of worlds. I admired his fidelity, but I really couldn’t commend his judgment and no explanation or excuses of mine availed in the least; he was going to he relieved officially, and after he had got through with me I don’t think there were many more cuss words left in him. I certainly felt relieved if he didn’t.

The Rover.

Capt. Foss somewhere picked up an old boat and with Jed’s assistance put it in good repair, rigged up a sail, rated it A 1, and named it the Rover. The captain is skipper and Jed sailing master. She is a long, clipper-built craft, with a large spread of canvas and a carrying capacity of ten or twelve persons. With a spanking breeze she walks up and down the river like a thing of life and makes nothing of sailing right around the little steamer Undine. She makes frequent trips to Rodman’s and occasionally to town. The captain selects the party he wants to take out and I am sometimes honored with an invitation. We usually run alongside the gunboat that lays here and take aboard the second assistant engineer, who is a genial, good-natured old fellow, full of his fun and stories, and then put for Rodman’s. We stop there an hour and start for home. On the return trip, the old engineer’s inventive powers will be a good deal quickened and he will suggest various alterations in the rig and sail of the craft, which will improve her sailing qualities, all of which Jed readily accepts and is going to forthwith adopt, but the next day the improvements are all forgotten and never thought of again until another return trip from Rodman’s. A few days ago a small party of us made a halt at Rodman’s and found Sergeant Martin in command. He did the honors, showing us about the camp and extending hospitalities in a manner that would have done credit to a prince. To my notion Sergeant Martin has got the correct idea of holding a command, not to go dry himself nor let his friends.

Big Jim.

Big Jim, as he is called, is a character; genial, charitable, good-natured, humorous and generous to a fault. He is quite a theatrical character and loves to deal in romance and tragedy, and he caters to the mirthful and fun-loving among the boys. He does not amount to much as a soldier, but that is more his misfortune than from any unwillingness. He is of enormous proportions and very fat, tipping the scale at 250 pounds. He is sorely troubled with chafing when drilling or on the march, and for that reason is excused from pretty much all duty. He is a sort of independent corps, doing duty when he feels like it; he will often go out in the woods and relieve a man on picket who happens to be taken sick. He sometimes has a feeling come over him that he would like to get away from the noise and bustle of the camp, and be alone by himself. At such times he takes his rifle and goes to the little point, some 100 rods down the river, where there is a picket post. Here he will stay two or three days at a time, caring for no company except at night, and amuses himself with fishing, reading and writing. He has become so enamoured of this kind of life, that he has taken the contract to do the picket duty at that post and has made it his permanent residence, coming up to camp only two or three times a week to see the boys and get his rations. He has opened a trading post down there, and trades with the natives who touch there as they come in their boats from up the bay or cove which sets back from there. He has built himself a log house, and a sign over the door reads “Cash paid for coon skins,” of which and other peltries he has collected quite a quantity, and intends sending them to Boston, markets.

An Inspection.

August 12. A few days ago orders came to get ready for inspection the next afternoon. All was now hurry and bustle, cleaning up camp, arms, equipments and clothing, and putting everything in order. The artillerists worked like beavers, cleaning up the gun carriages and limbers, using all the grease in the kitchen to brighten them up. The old brass guns were polished up and shone like mirrors and we were congratulating ourselves on being highly complimented.

At the appointed time, Lieut. Col. Moulton and Capt. Rawlston of somebody’s staff put in an appearance. The captain was the inspecting officer; a very airy, pompous young gentleman, with a remarkable faculty of making his weak points conspicuous. When the companies fell in, he noticed the artillery detail did not fall in and inquired the reason. Col. Moulton replied that they were expecting to be inspected as artillery. The captain said he knew nothing about that, he was sent here to inspect this detachment as infantry and every man must fall in. Now that was all right enough, only it placed me at a disadvantage, for I had taken no thought or care of Spitfire since my promotion and it was looking pretty bad. But I had no time to clean it up, and I must say it was a sorry looking piece to take out for a show. But as bad as it looked, I had the utmost confidence in its shooting qualities, in fact I have never lost confidence in Spitfire but once, that was when I dropped it in the creek at Goldsboro.

We were marched out and paraded, and after the inspecting officer had “sassed” Col. Moulton and nearly all the other officers, he commenced his job. He found right smart of fault, but didn’t find a really good subject until he came to me. He looked me over, and taking Spitfire gave it a very careful and thorough inspection. Handing it back he very gravely informed me that he had inspected the whole army of the Potomac and had never before seen a rifle looking so bad as Spitfire, and still further complimenting me by saying I was about the roughest looking sergeant he had ever seen. I nodded assent, venturing the remark that I had been in the artillery detail while here and my rifle had been somewhat neglected, but I had a gun on the Malakoff that could knock the spots off the sun. He allowed that that was insolence and any more of it would subject me to arrest. Imagine the indignation of the chief of artillery on being threatened with arrest by an infantry captain. My first impulse was to call my command, lash him to the muzzle of the gun on the Malakoff and give him rapid transit over the tops of the pines, but better thoughts soon succeeded and I forgave him, thinking that perhaps he was doing as well as he knew how. The inspection over, he had not long to stay, as the boat was waiting for him. I noticed the officers didn’t pet him very much and I don’t believe he got more than one drink.

Miss Carroll.

Three or four miles out here, through the woods, lives a Mr. Carroll. He has two sons in the 1st North Carolina union volunteers, stationed up in Washington. He makes frequent visits up there to see the boys and is often accompanied by his daughter, a rather good-looking young lady of about 20 years of age. It sometimes happens that they get here early in the morning and have to wait an hour or so for the boat, and will sometimes stop an hour on their return before going home. At these times they are guests at headquarters and a few of us, without the fear of the captain before our eyes, will happen in to have a chat with the old gentleman and his daughter. She expressed a great fondness for literature and claims to be “the only really literary young lady in these yere parts.” We occasionally fit her out with such story papers and magazines as we may have lying around, for which she expresses great pleasure.

She one day inquired if we had read a certain piece of poetry in one of the magazines we had given her. She was told we had and thought it very nice. We inquired if she was pleased with it. She replied she thought it was “Splendid! beautiful!” ‘We asked if she was fond of poetry. She said, she was excessively fond of it and read a great deal; in a sly, blushing kind, of way, she hinted that she sometimes tried her hand at composing. “Ah, indeed; would you favor us with a few specimens, some day when you come over? We should be pleased to look at them.” She promised she would, and the next time she came she brought a composition entitled “Lines to the Union Boys.” They were the merest doggerel, but we were loud in their praise and told her that by reading poetry and practising composing she would excel; that when the cruel war was over and we had retired to the peaceful pursuits of life in our far northern homes, we hoped to be reminded of her occasionally, by seeing some of her productions in print. She seemed a good deal pleased with such flattering encomiums, but thought she would hardly attain to that distinction. I thought so too. I asked if she would allow me to take a copy of the lines during her absence up town, and she kindly consented. Below is the copy:

I suppose you have herd of Swift creek

An the victory there was won

The yankee boys was wide awake

An they made them rebels run.

Chorus—Farewell Father an Mother

An a true sweetheart

An the girls we leave in pain

Oh dont forget those yankee bys they are coming back again.

An when the yankees did come in

The guerrillas took to flight

An tore down the bonna blue flag

An hoisted the stars an stripes.

When South Carolina did secede

An surely did go out

The yankee boys must have bin asleep

They had not whipt her back

I take my stand in Richmond

An Swift creek Il persue

I do not care for Whitford[1]

Nor none of his cowardly crew

The gurrillas hates the Buffalows[2]

But they dont care for that

If they dont shut their mouths an let them alone

They will make them clere the track

There is good many men in this war

By the names of Hill

An if the yankees dus get them

They will larn them how to drill

There is good many men here

By the name of Whitford two

An when the Yankees does get them

They will put them rebels through

The secesh girls look mighty loansum

Walking the road in there homemade homespun

The Union girls dont look sad

Walking the road in there yankee plad

An when the war is ended

The guerrillas they will say

They rather fight the devil

Than the boys that gains the day

Hold your toungs you secesh ones

An see what will be don

The yankees boys are bound to go

The whole hog or none

The Union men looks mighty grand

With there cork heel boots an their gloves on their hands

The secesh men looks mighty mean

Going through the woods an never are seen. Chorus, &c.

 
Now whatever fault can he found with the above lines, there can certainly no fault he found with their loyalty.

[1] Whitford was a Guerrilla captain.

[2] Buffaloes were North Carolina Union volunteers.

A Field Day.

August 1. We had been drilling and going through the motions of artillery firing every day for a month, and a few days ago it was thought best to test our theory by a little practice. Each gun was to fire eight rounds. The targets, about the size of a large barn, were set up (500 yards in front of the guns.

At noon the pickets were called in from out the woods and soon after the firing commenced. I ordered a blank to commence with to see if the old gun would shoot. It spoke out splendidly; I was pleased with it; I then ordered a solid shot. It was fired and went somewhere, I don’t know where; but it didn’t hit the target. Calculating that a shell will travel a mile in seven seconds and the target was about a third of a mile away, I thought I would try one with the fuse at three seconds. It was fired and burst at the muzzle of the gun. That was not satisfactory. I then ordered another with the fuse at five seconds. This exploded when about half way to the target. I began to think those shell were all intended for short range anyway, and ordered one at one second. It was fired, and I heard it whizzing off through the woods a mile away. I was disgusted with shell practice and thought I would try canister. We fired one and I could see the bushes cut away at about 200 yards. Those shots had been fired at two degrees elevation. I ordered the corporal to sight the gun at the tops of the trees out in the woods, and tried another canister. This was better, the shot scattering about the target. We had now only one more shot, I thought I would try a solid one, and ordered the gun sighted at the top of the target. This was an excellent shot and I know it must have gone very near the target as I saw the top of a tree shake out in the woods in a direct line of the target.

On the whole, the firing was not entirely satisfactory, but the gunnery was all that could be desired and I am inclined to think the fault was in the ammunition. I think it must have been shopworn or second-hand. But perhaps I ought not to find too much fault, as this was our first practice. I am now impatient for an attack, for I know we can hold this post against any force that would be likely to be brought against it, and demonstrate to the country that we are heroes descended from heroes.