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

Knoxville, January 25th, 1864.

I saw Lieutenant Hurd, of our regiment, today. They are in camp five miles down the river. The Ninth Corps is turning over to the Government all horses and mules, reserving one team for each regiment. They are under marching orders, and are to draw eight days’ rations today. The Lieutenant is so certain they start for the north in a day or two he offers to “bet any amount.” He says Burnside has authority to recruit his corps to fifty thousand. We are having delightful weather, mild and balmy as May. Our chief surgeon, Dr. Bevere, was “gobbled” on the late retreat from Strawberry Plains. He halted at a farm house for dinner. His attendants rode on about half a mile, built a fire and cooked their own dinner. They had finished their repast and were preparing to mount when they saw a squad of Rebel cavalry dash up and surround the house. Nothing has been seen or heard of the Doctor since.

January 23d.

All is quiet here again. The Rebels have retired from Knoxville, the scene of their late endeavor. The Fourth Corps went to Loudon, the Ninth to Concord, the Twenty-third remains here. Our regiment drew clothing yesterday, and have the promise of full rations tomorrow.

January 21st.

The tumult increases. Our forces have burned the bridge at Strawberry Plains and have fallen back to within six miles of Knoxville. The wagon train arrived here this morning—also the usual number of stragglers.

I said the wagon train arrived. I should have said the little that remains of it. It was mostly destroyed or left for the enemy. It is the general belief that Longstreet has been heavily re-enforced and is about to make a determined effort to regain possession of East Tennessee.

January 20th.

Nothing reliable from the front. All sorts of rumors prevail, but so contradictory one can believe none of them.

Early this morning infantry began to come in, or rather to pour through, in the wake of the cavalry. All day long they came, a ceaseless flood. They belong to the Fourth Corps. I could get nothing satisfactory from them, only they were going to Louisville. After all, it may be only a change of position.

January 11th, 1864.

Our wounded continue to await with what patience they possess their departure to the land of promise—but their hearts grow sick and their spirits faint at the long delay. The cause assigned is “want of transportation, and cold weather.”

Since the 1st inst. the weather is very cold. The ground is frozen like a rock, and worn smooth as marble. Snow has not been over an inch deep—just enough to whiten the ground. The air is piercing; some mornings at 10 o’clock, when taking my morning walk, the sun shining brightly the while, I have had my beard covered with frost in walking forty rods.

Imagine the situation of the men of the Ninth Corps, in their little shelter tents, barefooted and naked, through weeks of such rugged weather. I saw Mr. Woodin today. He says they are still on quarter rations, with no prospect of an increase of supplies at present. They have been, at times, forced to issue corn in the ear. He says the men were never in better health or spirits. There is not a sick man in the regiment.

Parson Brownlow has returned to his home. He continues to breathe out threatenings and denunciations against his secession brethren. I have not seen him, but, judging by his writings, I do not like the man. There is too much savage ferocity in his writings for an enlightened Christian. He is a man of great influence here, and I thank God it is exerted on the side of the Union.

I accidentally met an old acquaintance from Blackman today. I was passing the convalescents’ room, when my attention was attracted by a countenance that had a familiar look. I halted, but did not feel quite sure. Presently our eyes met, and we recognized each other instantly. “My God, Mr. Lane, is that you?” “I believe it is,” said I, “and you are Austin Draper.” We had a lively chat for a few minutes. Oh, it is pleasant to meet one we have known at home! He belongs to the Ninth Michigan Cavalry.

Our Chaplain has resigned and gone home. He told me, before he left, he was confident the Ninth will cross the mountains soon. Nearly all who have re-enlisted have gone already—fourteen regiments in all. The fact that no provision has been made for us here is conclusive proof, to me. It is the opinion of those generally best informed that we will go to Newport News to reorganize.

Evidently there is to be another summer campaign. Our friends, the loyal people of the North, have made it necessary by defeating the draft, which, practically, they have done. Fifty thousand—of the three hundred thousand called for—is the pitiful number realized; and it took from the field, at the time they were most needed there, forty thousand of our best men to secure these doubtful ones. The loyal people of Michigan, by combining to pay the conscription fee, did more to defeat the draft than did Horatio Seymour and his copperhead allies by resistance; for their resistance was put down by force.

It seems Congress is about to repeal that precious clause, and make it what its name implies, a bill to raise men, not money. These are my individual thoughts and impressions, and may be all wrong, but I cannot help believing the course pursued will tend to prolong the war. In my eagerness to get home, to enjoy the dear companionship of my family, I have, at times, been led to set bounds—to limit the duration of the strife—forgetting, for the time, that the American people, through and by this struggle, are to be purified and brought up to their professions of liberty.

Our sky is again overcast. Doubt and uncertainty have taken the place of confidence and fancied security. All day yesterday and today reports from the front are most discouraging. Our forces are falling back. Longstreet is said to be advancing with an overwhelming force. Many begin to fear another siege. Cavalry have been passing through the city the last forty-eight hours, with the usual stampede of citizens. Something is in the wind. Is it a “strategic movement,” or is it a retreat? I cannot believe that we are forced to fly from Longstreet alone. Has Lee joined forces with him to sweep us from East Tennessee? There has been but little fighting, and that little is confined to cavalry. Still, everything has the appearance of a hasty retreat.

At midnight last night the sick were ordered by train to Knoxville. All supplies were sent across the river at Strawberry Plains, and the bridge, a new one, was coated with tar, that it might be destroyed at short notice. Wagons loaded with provisions were burned. The most significant feature of all is, the Ninth Corps is ordered to hold the bridge, and three Ohio regiments, on their way home, were halted at Loudon until further orders.

“Verily, these are troubulous times and changeful.”

January 6th, 1864.

It has snowed all day, and the night is fearfully cold, but in our new quarters we feel it not.

This has been a day of unusual excitement in Knoxville. A legal murder has been committed in public.

In other words, a Rebel spy has been executed. His name is Dodd, of the Eighth Tennessee Cavalry. I did not witness the execution. I did not feel like it. I saw the procession as it passed my door. First, a regiment of soldiers; next a cart with the victim sitting on his coffin; behind, another regiment, with fixed bayonets. On each side, the street was crowded with men and women, eager to see a fellow mortal die. I am forced to see enough of human misery. Would God I might never see more. Oh, this cruel, murderous war! Will it never end? Perhaps, when political intrigue can keep it going no longer.

Knoxville, Tenn., January 6th, 1864.

It is a serious thing to have the care of sick and wounded men. They are like children—fretful, impatient, exacting. I was a stranger to all but one when I came here; now I count my friends by scores. I endeavored to do my duty. My patients soon discovered this, and I do not lack employment. There is one old fellow—a Massachusetts man—wounded through the cheeks. He is as cross as a grizzly, ferocious as a hyena. The nurses can do nothing with him. He cannot talk plain, and if they do not understand the first time, he flies into a rage and curses them soundly. The first time he called on me to dress his wound he snatched the dish from my hand, saying he wanted some one to do it who understood it. I said nothing, but let him do it himself. The next day he asked me to warm some water to dress his wound. “No,” said I, “I will have nothing to do with you until you can treat me as one man should treat another. When that time comes I will do all I can for you, willingly, cheerfully.” In a day or two he came to me and asked, very civilly, if I would try and get him some tea, as his mouth was so bad he could eat nothing. “With pleasure,” said I. From that day he is my fast friend. The boys call him “the boss’s pet tiger.

January 5th, 1864.

There are now thirty men in my ward. All but two are able to wait on themselves. There are six nurses to see them do it. It has not been so long, however. At first we had sixty of the worst cases in one room. When off duty, until day before yesterday, the nurses had to shirk for themselves, sleeping on the floor in the room with the sick. Now we have a room eighteen by twenty, and warmed by a stove. There is a large building adjoining the hospital assigned to convalescents. Each morning the surgeon examines them all and sends such as he deems able to do duty, to their regiments. These convalescents kept good fires, and I frequently went there to warm myself, when off duty. One morning the surgeon, a new arrival and a stranger to me, noticed me standing by the fire, and thought from my appearance I was fit for duty. “To what regiment do you belong?” “The Seventeenth Michigan, sir.” “How long have you been here?” “About six weeks.” “What are you doing?” “Nursing.” “Where?” “In the first ward.” “What business have you here, then?” “No business, only to warm myself. It is rather cold standing in the street today, when off duty.” “What, have the nurses no place to stay?” “No, sir; they are as poor as was the Son of Man; they have no place to lay their heads.”

This surgeon was Dr. Cogswell, of the Twenty-ninth Massachusetts, who had lately relieved Dr. Fox. In a few minutes I was notified this pleasant room was at our disposal.

January 4th, 1864.

It has been very cold the past four days. The day before New Year’s was warm and rainy. Toward night the wind changed into the north, “with a snap to it,” as it does in Michigan sometimes. New Year’s morning was very cold—not so many degrees, I presume, by a score or two, as we frequently experience in Michigan—but quite as piercing to me as the coldest weather at home.

Today is warm as summer again. This is a delightful climate “overhead,” the coldest weather being about like October with us. But the mud is really fearful. The roads are next to impassable four months of the twelve. I could not be induced to live here. I have been in fourteen different states; in most of them have traveled quite extensively, and have seen nothing yet that excels Michigan. True, some states possess advantages that Michigan does not, but they lack in others. Whenever I have thought of a change of residence, my feelings rebel, and I can but exclaim, “Give me my own, my native land,” for such I regard Michigan.

December 31st, 1863.

A squad of ten convalescents left for the North today. The balance of the wounded will go as fast as their condition will permit. Twenty-six, out of thirty in my ward, will be able to go by Wednesday next, and I will be left without patients. I rejoice with the poor fellows. The thought of going home, where kind friends can minister to their wants and supply their needs, is a wonderful tonic.

There has been much excitement among the old regiments the past two weeks. The Eighth Michigan boys have enlisted for “during the war,” nearly every man. The same is true of several other regiments whose terms of service expire next spring. They are to have four hundred dollars bounty and thirty days’ furlough.

The Seventeenth is not included in this order, having over a year to serve. There is much talk of the Ninth Corps leaving this department. I wish I knew it to be true.