Following the American Civil War Sesquicentennial with day by day writings of the time, currently 1863.

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

February 18th, 1864.

Time creeps along with steady pace, regardless of human happiness or woe. Winter has come and gone—the second winter since I bade farewell to family and friends to battle for my country, and, as I believe, for human liberty. How long the time appears; and yet, how short! When viewed in the light of sundered ties—of family connections, once pleasant and joyous, now broken—it seems an age. Oh, God, can so much misery be crowded into eighteen short months? It is not of physical ills I speak, but tortures of the mind—the heart. My only consolation is the abiding faith that we will meet again; and then how surpassingly sweet will be the reunion. If this is not to be our happy lot on earth, it is said to be “Sweet to die for one’s country.” I but go where duty calls, leaving the event with God—not heedlessly, blindly, but in trustful confidence. I see by the newspapers the Eighth Michigan regiment is in Detroit. I hope they may be made welcome by the good people of Michigan. Much has been done for the benefit of the soldiers, but the people will never know—they cannot realize—how much these soldiers have done for them in turning back, from their peaceful homes, the devastating tide of war.

There is no news—now and then a cavalry dash, but nothing of importance. A steamer is now lying at our wharf, the first since the rebellion broke out. Two more are expected tomorrow.

February 16th, 1864.

A dear old lady acquaintance of mine used to say, “Whenever you are downhearted and disposed to complain, just sit right down and count your mercies.” I have been counting my mercies today, and find I have many things to be thankful for. Instead of being half starved, I have now plenty of food, for Joseph Cooley, a particular friend of mine, is chief cook, and the Sanitary Commission furnishes “delicacies.” I am now well dressed, for Dr. Crosby, my friend, issues what the Sanitary Commission furnish—good clothing. I have a good bed, with two white sheets, for the Sanitary Commission issues bedding. I am clean, for I wash and change clothing often, and sleep alone. Last, but not least, I am in good health, because God has bestowed upon me this priceless boon.

February 15th, 1864.

Through the kindness of Dr. Crosby, I was the recipient of a handsome present yesterday. It happened in this wise: A certain Israelite, having not the fear of Uncle Sam before his eyes, smuggled in to this loyal city a large amount of sutler’s and other goods. Some prying official scented him out and demanded to see his “papers.” Alas, of papers he had none; in default of which six thousand dollars worth of goods were confiscated. Three thousand dollars worth were turned over to the Sanitary Commission for free distribution to the different hospitals. The clothing was given to the hospital attendants. The Doctor selected a hat, vest and shirt, the articles I most needed, when they first came in, and gave them to me.

February 11th, 1864.

The Second Michigan leave today for Cincinnati, by way of Chattanooga. The sick and wounded of that regiment start tomorrow. It is thought the whole corps will be under way by a week from next Monday. The sick will be removed as soon after that time as possible—probably by the first of March. At the earnest solicitation of Dr. Crosby, I have concluded to remain and go with them. He promises, in return, to use all his influence at Cincinnati to procure for me a furlough, or leave of absence. Possibly this had an influence on my decision. I have an almost uncontrollable desire to visit my family and home this spring. It seems like I cannot be denied; I believe my prayer will be granted.

No news from the front of any importance. Rebel cavalry are seen, now and then, in small parties, across the river. Fifty-three Indians were captured and brought in yesterday. They are a sullen, ugly looking set of cutthroats.

The most potent reason, or excuse, for playing; cards, and one that seems to satisfy men who are strictly moral, is, “it serves to pass away the time.” To most soldiers, when not on duty, time passes heavily. It is impossible to procure reading matter. Men do not always feel like talking. Most men cannot sit down by themselves and indulge in calm reflection—they must have some excitement—consequently, for want of something better, they gather in knots and shuffle cards. My pastime is to dream of home and loved ones. From early morn until late at night I am busy—yes, doubly busy—for, while I do not neglect my duties, my mind is hard at work far from this cumbrous body. Annihilating space, it leaps all barriers and pauses not until by my loved one’s side.

I have just been out to see a drove of beef cattle that are being driven to our brigade. One of them fell down in the street but a few rods from here, and no amount of “encouragement” could induce him to rise.

I would suggest to our Northern farmers, if any of their cattle are likely to starve to death, they slaughter them. Their bones make excellent “soup.” I speak advisedly, for I have tried it. The mail route, by way of the Gap, has been abandoned for the present. It goes now by way of Chattanooga.

February 10th, 1864.

In walking up Gay Street today I discovered a new feature in this city of soldiers, an index of progress, of civilization. It was a news depot in full blast, established by an enterprising Yankee, of course. We at the hospital are well provided with reading matter by the Christian Commission. They have a soldiers’ reading room, supplied with piles of Northern papers, periodicals, and many religious works. There is also a table supplied with writing materials, all free. If we have no stamps, these friends of the soldiers stamp our letters. If we are sick—unable to write—they offer to write for us. Adjoining the rooms of the Christian Commission are those of the Sanitary Commission, another beneficent association for the benefit of sick and wounded soldiers. All delicacies our poor fellows receive come through their instrumentality. This is the great dispensary of all those countless gifts in the shape of clothing and eatables which the benevolent people of the North so freely bestow. The articles to be distributed are first turned over to the Surgeon in charge, he keeping enough for himself and assistants, then the cooks take out enough for themselves and friends. The balance, should there be a balance, goes to the soldiers. I know the above to be true, from personal observation.

The Christian Commission manage differently. Their agents give to the soldier such things as they may stand in need of.

February 7th, 1864.

I have just returned from attending divine service at the Soldier Chapel, an old, shaky building, without fire. We are to have preaching every Sabbath and prayer meeting every day. The Christian Commission is beginning to make itself felt here. Their agent visits us every day, distributes tracts, papers, writing paper, envelopes, etc., gives good advice, sings patriotic and other airs, prays with and for us, and does it all in such a kindly, benevolent way that he has won all hearts.

Everything is quiet—even rumor is ominously silent. Expectation is on the rack. I would not be surprised at anything but peace and our departure for the North. This hospital is not yet broken up for want of patients—transportation cannot be procured—food must be first attended to. There is but one engine running between here and Loudon. From Chattanooga to Loudon two flatboats make one trip each per week, if there is sufficient water. There are over three thousand sick and wounded soldiers in this city. Stores, taverns, court houses, are all pressed into hospital service. The original population has nearly all left; some have gone south, but the greater portion have gone north. And still they go. Every day “Old Joseph’s” shrill voice may be heard on yonder corner, as he “closes out” some poor unfortunate, who is selling off his household goods to go to some more favored land.

Language cannot describe nor imagination picture the destitution of these people. I see by the Louisville papers the people of the North are much in doubt of our ability to hold Knoxville in case Longstreet again attacks us. I am surprised at the misapprehension of our situation now and during the siege. The Journal says our numerical strength is much reduced. The reverse is the fact. It says we have no supplies. We certainly have as many now as then, with the railroad to Chattanooga nearly completed. Our men have been constantly at work strengthening and perfecting the fortifications. Knoxville can only be taken by siege, and before we could be driven to any great extremity, relief could, and would, reach us from Chattanooga.

February 6th, 1864.

I begin to feel quite certain that “the world does move.” The conviction is forced upon me by the fact that our Congress, the slowest of slow coaches, has actually begun to do what it should have done last year. Then look at Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, Texas and Tennessee. The fires of war have lighted up these dark places, and the people begin to see the hideousness of their cherished institution. Like true patriots they have set themselves at work to make their country what its vain boast has been—a land of freedom. I have become more firmly convinced, every day, that when this war ends slavery will not exist. The States I have mentioned will be free within a year.

February 4th, 1864.

Fred Byron has given up the fight and sought repose in the bosom of his Mother Earth. His wound was not considered dangerous at first, but the shock was too great for his delicate constitution. He pined away gradually, almost imperceptibly, until I could carry him in my arms, like a child. Poor boy; my heart went out to him from the first, and his countenance always brightened when I entered the room. He lived about six weeks and—slept. He had neither father or mother on earth—no relatives but a brother and sister, both married. And so they have gone, the young, the brave, our country’s choicest spirits. Death has reaped a rich harvest.

Austin Draper is quite sick of a low form of fever. He is quite discouraged, poor fellow, but I do all I can to inspire him with hope, knowing this to be better than medicine. I do not know that I will be able to join the regiment before they go over the mountains. The Doctor and the men press me to stay. From choice, I would much rather be with the boys. Dr. Bevere has returned. It seems the Rebels did not think him worth his keep. He was with them three days and says they treated him well. The men are still on “tip-toe,” momentarily expecting orders to pack up and be off. They say, however, like the true heroes they are, they are willing to stay as long as they are needed.

 

February 1st, 1864.

I have not joined the regiment yet. The Doctor is very loth to let me go, and the patients urge me so hard to stay with them, it is hard to leave. Our regiment expected to start for the North tomorrow, but the order was countermanded today, and they have been notified to be ready to march, with two days’ rations, and in light marching order. They have just passed through here and crossed the river to the front. Rumor says Wolford is in trouble again, and the Ninth Corps is to help him out. There has been some fighting near here for several days with Rebel cavalry. Prisoners are daily coming in, by fifties and by hundreds.

January 30th, 1864.

There is much speculation in regard to Burnside’s “new expedition,” as it is called. Does it look toward Mexico? It seems to me our Eastern sky is becoming overcast. It may break forth in war with France. It must, sooner or later, unless Napoleon recedes from his present position. Our forces and those of France are in close proximity on the Rio Grande, and are watching each other with jealous eyes.