A Soldier’s Diary, The Story of a Volunteer, David Lane, (17th Mich. Vol. Infantry)

White House, Va., June 8th, 1864.

I am constantly on the move, seldom sleeping two nights in one place. I came here by request to procure supplies for our field hospital. The paroled men are all at the hospital, by order of General Burnside, until some provision can be made for them. Most of them are doing nothing, but I cannot remain in sight of so much suffering and do nothing to alleviate it, especially when help cannot be procured. I am not —will not—be detailed, and, by so doing, take a soldier’s place. On the contrary, what I do is so much that would not be done did I not do it, and I would do the same for friend or foe. God knows there is little enough done now, and I think He would hold me guiltless could I do an hundred times as much.

Dr. Bonine gives me full authority to do as 1 think best, asking nothing, and sanctioning all I do. Constant exertions, under unfavorable conditions, begin to tell on our brave men.

There are now more sick than wounded coming in, or, rather, passing through, this hospital, for they are sent away as fast as transportation can be procured. How sad and sickening the thought that the ceaseless tide of buoyant manhood that has been surging along in seemingly resistless force, as steadily returns, a crimson flood that threatens to deluge every hearthstone in our land with tears and blood. But the more fierce the storm, the sooner past. Our soldiers are firm in the belief that this is to be the closing struggle, and fight with a determination seldom equaled, never excelled.

June 5th, 1864.

I received two letters from home yesterday. Although nearly a month has passed since they left the hand of my loved one, the joy and comfort they bestow is inexpressible. Oh, my darling, how my heart has been tortured by the long delay.

The siege of Richmond has actually begun. We are only eight miles from the city, and I can plainly hear the booming of heavy siege guns. There has been heavy fighting the last three days, all resulting in our favor. I have been where I could hear and see much of it. Dr. Bonine, who has our parole papers, is surgeon in charge of Division Hospital. He is very busy during these days of continual fighting, and cannot attend to us. So we must wait until this campaign is over. I have liberty to go where I choose within our lines. I saw Mortimer Crawford yesterday. He said he had been through all the late battles and escaped unhurt. Jerome Beardsley was killed in the first day’s fight in the Wilderness. Lieutenant Gould was also killed.

Hanover Court House, Va., May 25th, 1864.

I left Fredericksburg on Sunday to rejoin my regiment in order to get my parole papers, as I can do nothing without them. We are now within twenty-six miles of Richmond, and very much nearer to Lee’s army, which I consider vastly more important.

I find that during my absence Grant and Lee have “locked horns” nearly every day, with no decided advantage on either side. Grant is now crossing the North Anna with the hope of finding a more vulnerable point. I find the Seventeenth taken from the brigade and doing provost duty at Wilcox’s headquarters. They were nearly annihilated at Spottsylvania on the 12th inst., and muster but 125 men. I am not doing any duty. The position in which I find myself is annoying, but I bear it patiently as possible, firmly believing I did my duty. I do not seem to have lost friends in the regiment—rather the reverse. I still expect to get home before a great while.

May 18th, 1864.

When we arrived at Fredericksburg and our wounded were cared for, we, the volunteer nurses, were relieved from duty. But what to do with us no one could decide. The general opinion among the officers was that our parole was worthless.

I decided at once to report to my regiment, where I felt sure of getting advice. Accordingly eight of us started at 7 o’clock in the morning and reached Division Hospital—fourteen miles—at noon. Dr. Bevere was there, and expressed great pleasure at seeing us. I told him my situation and intention to rejoin my regiment. He requested me to remain while he made inquiries. A consultation was held by the surgeons, and not knowing what to do with us, they concluded to send us to Washington with a train of wounded about to start. While they were taking our names, General Burnside appeared. The perplexing question was at once referred to him. His decision was prompt and unequivocal: “Their parole is good and must be respected. Send every man back to Fredericksburg.” At 5 p. m. we were making our way, through rain and mud, back to the rear. The next day about twenty of us reported to the Provost Marshal for transportation to Annapolis. Transportation was out of the question at present, but we were assigned to very comfortable quarters.

All went smoothly for us for a day or two, and we hardly knew that we were prisoners. Soon a change came over our keepers. The day before yesterday —May 16th—we were summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal. He told the men—I was absent at the time—that our parole was not legal; there was much duty to be done, and we must help to do it; that guns would be furnished us, and we would be required to do guard duty; that every man who refused would be placed under guard on short rations, which meant hardtack and water. They were then sent to their quarters until guns could be procured. When I returned our quiet camp was like a nest of hornets recently stirred up.

In about an hour we were ordered to fall in. No determination had been expressed, and I was fearful most of the men would submit. Just before reaching the office we were halted and ordered to “rest.” William Anderson, of my company, asked me what I was going to do. My answer was, “I will not take a gun, let the consequences be what they may.” That was the decision of every man, and, when the Captain returned, he found us in open mutiny. He raved and swore; threatened us with all sorts of punishments; but, finding us unterrified, changed his tactics and tried persuasion, with the same results. Threats and persuasions proving futile, he sent us to our quarters.

We occupy a comfortable brick building, draw plenty of rations, have a good cook and expect soon to be sent to a parole camp, from where I will make a persistent effort to get home. Now that I can be of no service here, it seems to me I cannot be denied.

Fredericksburg, Va., May 17th, 1864.

On the morning of the sixth our division—the Third—was ordered to the front, and remained under arms during the forenoon. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon we moved farther to the left, where we found the enemy and engaged him. We were once more face to face with our old acquaintance, Longstreet. At 5 o’clock the order was given to charge the enemy’s works. The order was promptly obeyed, but the Rebels were strongly entrenched, and we could not dislodge them. Our loss was seven killed and thirty-three wounded.

The Army of the Potomac, in these two days, has lost about fifteen thousand men. Grant had established hospitals at Fredericksburg which were furnished with everything to relieve or mitigate the sufferings of the wounded. Under ordinary circumstances the provision made for removing them would have been ample.

The first train of ambulances, loaded to its utmost capacity, started for Fredericksburg at dusk, by way of Kellog’s Ford. About half way to the ford it was halted. The Rebels had cut them off; some other route must be found. This occupied all the next day. Finally an opening was found by way of Chancellorsville. Again were the ambulances filled with their scarcely living freight of bruised and mangled humanity. But transportation for all could not be found. All who could walk, if only a few miles, were ordered to do so. Still there remained one hundred nine who could not walk. These were all from our brigade. What was to be done with these helpless men? Time is precious. The army is already on the move. By midnight they will be entirely unprotected. Mosby, with his cutthroats, is reported in our rear, not far away. It is now 10 o’clock. The surgeons and officers of the brigade hold a hurried consultation. Dr. Bonine, of the Second Michigan; Dr. Brooks, of the Fifty-first Pennsylvania, and Henry Baker, Hospital Steward of the Twentieth Michigan, volunteered to remain with them.

The hospital attendants were then dismissed and sent with the train. Dr. Bonine then called for ten volunteers; men whom he could trust; who would not desert him in the hour of trial. I was one of the ten. Everything being arranged, the train and its escort moved forward and left us to our fate. There was no sleep for us that night. Each nurse was assigned a tent filled with wounded men, who required constant care. We expected the Rebels to appear early in the morning. I had but little preparation to make; nothing but to conceal the few greenbacks I possessed by sewing them under the lining of my clothing, and to destroy a few mementoes that I would not have fall into other hands. Among other things were a few old letters, crumpled and worn, but very precious to me.

The morning of the eighth of May dawned bright and beautiful. Ten o’clock came, and with it the Rebels. But, thank God, they are not guerillas, but a regiment of Stewart’s cavalry, commanded by General Chambers. They file around us. A Major visits every tent, takes the name, regiment and description of every man—an officer follows and administers an oath by which we bind ourselves to not take up arms for, or assist or aid, the Government of the United States in its war with the Confederacy until duly exchanged, and we are paroled “prisoners of war.”

We were treated with the utmost courtesy by officers and men. In the afternoon of the same day we beheld with joy a train of ambulances coming in, under a flag of truce, to our relief. We reached Fredericksburg about 10 o’clock that night. None but the wounded and their attendants were paroled. About one hundred stragglers were marched off to enjoy the hospitalities of a Southern prison. We are awaiting transportation to parole camp at Annapolis. How soon we go I cannot tell. I hope we may be exchanged soon. It annoys me exceedingly to be a prisoner, even within our own lines.

May 5th.

We left Rappahannock Station at 7 o’clock and crossed the Rapidan at 1 p. m. This is our “Rubicon,” or so I can but consider it, and Grant is our Caesar. Sharp cannonading could be heard in the distance. We kept on three miles further and stopped for coffee. We heard firing in our front, which grew fainter and fainter until at 5 o’clock it has ceased altogether.

May 4th. We fell in line at 8 o’clock, ready to march as soon as relieved, but were kept waiting until 4 p. m. We then marched ten miles and encamped near Rappahannock Station. It is reported here that Meade has crossed the Rapidan and that Lee has retired to a stronger position.

Warrenton Junction, May 3d, 1864.

We had regimental inspection yesterday. Our muster rolls are nearly completed and other business in proper shape, #o we are nearly ready to take the field.

All sick and wounded have been sent to Washington, and we have orders to be ready to march at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning. I am inclined to think, from certain indications, the railroad is to be abandoned and we are to join Grant’s army in a determined effort to crush Lee’s force, and, by so doing, crush the Confederacy.

Camp near Warrenton Junction, May 1st, 1864.

The Ninth Corps has relieved the Fifth Corps, which has been guarding the railroad between Alexandria and Culpepper, and which now goes to the front. We are scattered—one regiment in a place— all the way from Centerville to Warrenton. Our work is an important one.

All of Meade’s supplies are dependant on our vigilance and energy. The Rebels, too are alive to its importance, and are making desperate efforts to cut off his supplies. Yesterday the Eighth Michigan were sent out six miles to look after a band of guerillas that attacked a train. I cannot say that I am pleased with this arrangement.

Come to be once more on the move, the same feeling of restlessness, the same desire to do, has taken possession of me. I would “forward to Richmond” and continue to go forward, until the rebellion is crushed and I could return, in peace, to my loved home. The road from Alexandria to this place was of deep interest to me. The whole country has been baptized in the “martyr blood of freedom.” Now, indeed, it is “sacred soil.” We passed directly through the old Bull Run battlefield. Much as I had read of it, and often as I had heard it described by men who were in the fight, I find I had received very erroneous impressions. I had fancied the Rebel position to have been almost impregnable. On the contrary, one can hardly conceive a fairer battle ground. Their advantage lay in our ignorance of the country and of the strength of the force opposed to us, and, more than all else, a lack of generalship on the Union side.