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

Knoxville, Tenn., December 21st, 1863.

I have been three weeks “head nurse” in the first ward of the First Brigade hospital. Dr. Crosby is with the regiment at Blains Cross Roads, about eighteen miles from here. Most of my patients are from my own regiment, and were wounded at Campbell’s Station or during the siege of Knoxville. The building we occupy was once a court house. The room is about thirty feet by forty. There are two large fireplaces, one on each side of the room. There are now thirty-three patients. All but six of the wounded can walk about the room with or without the aid of crutches. Around each fireplace is a group of men, eagerly discussing the probability of being sent to Washington or Baltimore. At one end of the room, resting one arm on the railing that surrounds the “judgment seat,” stands the “ward boss,” trying to write to the loved ones at home.

I am not on duty, but my patients ignore the fact, and frequently interrupt me with: “Mr. Lane, please step here a minute;” or, “Please give me a drink of water.” I return and try to shut out all sights, all sounds, all thoughts but those of home. Vain effort. The voice of my favorite, Fred Byron, faintly strikes my ear: “Davie; oh, Davie!” Involuntarily I drop my pen and hasten to his side. “What is it, Fred? What can I do for you, my boy?” “Oh, I’m so tired, and nobody cares but you. That man with black whiskers handles me as though I am made of wood.” I tum him gently over, adjust his bed and pillow, moisten his hot, feverish brow, and give him a sup of cool water. “There, Fred, now go to sleep, and when you wake you will feel better.” As I turn to leave him, after bidding him good-night, he grasps my hand in both of his. “Oh, Davie, you are so kind; nobody can do for me as you can.”

He is a German, from Massachusetts, nineteen years old, fair as Adonis—brave as a hero—which he is.

I have many strong attachments here, and cannot well forsake them to return to the regiment .

Knoxville, December 8th, 1863.

Thanks to Almighty God—and General Grant— the crisis is passed. General Sherman arrived on the 5th inst but Longstreet had fled, and he returned immediately to Chattanooga. Nobody seems to know the exact date of Longstreet’s withdrawal. Our forces were sent out in pursuit yesterday, the 7th inst., but no enemy could be found. We have passed through a terrible ordeal. Twenty days and nights under fire. Twenty days with death or surrender staring us m the face—and surrender meant Andersonville, a fate worse than death. On our retreat from Lenoir we were compelled to leave most of our wounded. We have recovered our own and about three hundred wounded Rebels.

November 30th. 1863.

Our rations touch the starvation limit, and still “the song and the jest goes round.” Not a murmur, not a word of complaint. We simply “gird up our loins” a little tighter. Our fare now is one-fourth pound per man of a mixture made up of coarse black flour, bran and unbolted corn meal; beef in proportion; not half as much as a man would eat, even of that vile stuff, at one meal. Night before last our pickets were driven in and sixteen of our boys captured. Last night an attack was made on Fort Saunders. We had expected a night attack and were on the alert. About 9 o’clock our pickets were driven in and the ball opened. It was “fast and furious” while it lasted, but was soon over. The Rebels lost about one thousand in this assault.

Dr. Crosby, our Regimental Surgeon, has been to General Ferrera and got me detailed for hospital service, and has given me charge of a ward in the City Hospital. The doctor says he has discovered in me the “sympathetic touch,” more soothing to irritated nerves than opiates. That is the way he puts it.

Our doctor has the poetic temperament, although one would hardly suspect it by his looks. But he is kind and tender to the sick and wounded, and skillful in his profession.

It is rumored Grant is organizing a force to send to our relief. God speed him on his way, for we are on the verge of starvation.

Knoxville, November 25th, 1863.

Only seven days of siege, and our larder nearly empty. We have been on half rations since September 25th, consequently had no surplus to fall back on. On the second day of the siege our rations were reduced to quarter rations. Now coffee and sugar have given out entirely. The men are constantly under fire. The enemy have advanced their sharpshooters to within one-fourth of a mile of our line. On the 20th they got possession of a house, just under the hill in our front, and annoyed us exceedingly. Colonel Comstock was ordered to burn it; he called for volunteers to perform the perilous feat. Instantly a company was formed, headed by A. J. Keliey, or Company E, and led by Lieutenant Josiah Billingsly. The house was set on fire and burned to the ground, but the heroic Billingsly was killed by a shell on his return.

Their sharpshooters had now advanced so near the men were forced to remain all day in their rifle pits. Every man who showed even his head became a target.

Yesterday morning, after it became fairly light, I jumped up on the embankment in front of me, as had been my custom, to see what advancement the enemy had made during the night. I took one quick glance around, and as I looked I saw two curls of smoke directly in front of me; on the instant one bullet whistled over my head; another dropped into the sand at my feet.

This morning Lieutenant Colonel Comstock received a mortal wound from one of them. A number of our boys have been wounded. The first four or five days of the siege our men divided up into reliefs and went up on the bank, in the rear of our pits, to cook and eat their food. On the 24th, as 1 was eating my breakfast, a rifle ball struck a camp kettle, standing beside me, and spilled its contents. About that time one of my comrades was struck in the face, the ball passing through both cheeks, nearly cutting off his tongue. Inspired by these gentle protests, we moved our kitchen over the brow of the hill, where we could cook and eat our “flapjacks” undisturbed.

Knoxville, November 18th, 1863.

It was now about 4 a. m., and daylight would soon appear. The whole corps was waiting for the artillery and wagon train to get a reasonable start. Much rain had fallen and the roads were heavy; horses and mules were poor. About one hundred wagons, heavily loaded with army supplies, were abandoned because we had not time to burn them. A large amount of bread, bacon, sugar and clothing were thus turned over to Longstreet’s Quartermaster. Just as daylight appeared we filed into the road en route for Knoxville. The Third Brigade was in the rear, and our regiment was detailed as rear guard, the post of honor and danger. One company of cavalry, all we had, was left to finish the work of destruction and to act as scouts. We were hardly out of sight before the Rebel cavalry made a dash, capturing several and scattering the rest. Their infantry was not far behind. They pursued and closed in on us with relentless fury. When too hard pressed, our little band would turn and charge with fixed bayonets, thus holding them in check while the others made a little headway. Mile after mile was fought over in this way, every inch contested, but all would not do. They pressed our flank and rear until Burnside was compelled to turn and fight them. The Knoxville road, in the vicinity of Campbell Station, leads through a ravine from one to two miles wide hemmed in by mountains or high hills, which render a flank movement well-nigh impossible. At the head of this ravine Burnside massed his artillery—120 pieces—formed his infantry in their rear for support, and awaited the assault. From our position we had an almost unobstructed view of what was taking place in front. No artillery could be seen; nothing but infantry. We could see them file out from a piece of timber and form in line, from hill to hill and rank on rank. At the word they moved forward, colors flying, shoulder to shoulder, a compact mass, seemingly irresistible. At a given signal from the head of the valley a sheet of flame bursts forth with a crash that shakes the earth—a blast of iron hail sweeps those serried ranks, opening wide gaps. They close and stubbornly move on. Again that withering flame; again that blast of death, and they recoil. Three times they make the attempt, and three times failed—then darkness closed the scene. By this time our wagon train was far on its way toward Knoxville, leaving the road unobstructed. One by one our cannon disentangled itself and straightened out on the line of retreat. The infantry closed in on its rear, making the best time we knew, hoping to reach Knoxville before daylight. We arrived at 3 a. m.

At sunrise the Rebels were within five miles of us. Our position is naturally strong, and our men were at once set to work to make it stronger. By 3 p. m. rifle pits encircled the city from river to river. When they were completed our brigade bands formed on the top of the hill and played “The Red, White and Blue.” “When This Cruel War Is Over,” “Rally ‘Round the Flag, Boys,” and finished up with “Yankee Doodle,” to which the boys responded with a yell of defiance as we stepped down into our ditches. We were ready for them, and every man of us understood we must whip them here or be taken prisoners.

Longstreet advanced leisurely, knowing we could go no further, and confident in his strength, for he outnumbered us three to one. But he evidently did not know our weakness. When stretched around the city we formed a very thin line; indeed, the men in trenches standing fully six feet apart. He might have carried our hastily-constructed works by assault, but it seems he chose to adopt the more humane method, and starve us out. The delay proved our salvation. In our retreat from Lenoir the Seventeenth lost 114 killed, wounded and missing.

Longstreet himself is on the ground, directing the placing of his men. I have seen him in many previous campaigns, and know him by his form and the way he sits his snow-white horse.

Lenoir, Tenn., November 14th, 1863.

We have been under orders for several days to be ready to fall in at a minute’s notice. That order was repeated at 3 o’clock this morning. We had become so accustomed to it, we began to think it only form, and meant nothing. At sunrise, however, we were startled by the order, “Pack everything and be ready to march immediately, bag and baggage.” Officers’ baggage was put on wagons, the sick in ambulances, supplies of food and clothing—a fresh supply had but just arrived—were reloaded, and the whole train headed toward Knoxville.

Our consternation can better be imagined than described. Every movement spoke of evacuation; of hasty, inglorious retreat. About 10 o’clock the cars came screaming in from Knoxville, bringing General Bumside. The wagon train was nearly formed, and, in half an hour, everything would have been ready for a general stampede. At 10 o’clock the bugle sounded fall in, and off we started toward Loudon. It soon leaked out the Rebels are crossing six miles below Loudon, and Burnside’s arrival had changed the program. So away we went, through rain and mud, fourteen miles without stopping to rest, rejoicing it was not, after all, an ignominous retreat. We halted a little after dark in a thick wood, with orders to light no fires, but remain beside our arms, ready to fall in when called on. It had been very warm during the day, raining at times, and those not wet with rain were wet with sweat. Toward night the wind had changed, and it was bitter cold. And there we sat, two hours or more, cold and hungry, having eaten nothing since morning. The men began to grow impatient. The First Brigade were on our left, and fires burned brightly all along their line. Why could not we have fires? Tom Epley, of our company, thought we could, and away he goes for a coal of fire, while others gather wood and kindlings. But our lynx-eyed Adjutant discovers it, and down he comes. “Who built that fire?” says he. “I did, sir,” says Tom. “Didn’t you know ’twas against orders?” “No, sir; I thought the order was one fire to a company, sir.” “You must put it out.”

“Then how the h—1 are we to cook? Do you think we can march all day in rain and mud and eat flour and raw beef?” “It’s tough, boys,” says the Adjutant, “but that’s the order.” Tom did not put out the fire, but built it larger, and soon the order came, “One fire to a company.”

We kept our fires brightly burning all night, expecting each moment the coming order. At 4 o’clock it came. Fall in, boys, very quietly, and quick as possible. Then, “about face,” and off we went in the darkness, taking precisely the route we came. What was the meaning of this backward move? Our officers agreed it was to draw them out from the river that we might cut off their retreat and “bag them,” as is our custom. We marched slowly and reached Lenoir about 2 p. m., when we formed in line of battle. At dark the Eighth Michigan was thrown out as skirmishers, or outpost pickets. They advanced about four miles on the Jamestown road, and as they formed their last post were fired on by Rebel pickets. The Rebels then rallied their skirmishers and charged the Eighth, which fell back to within a mile of our line of battle. They then faced about, charged the advancing Rebels, drove them a short distance, and held them until relieved. I now began to see how matters stood. The enemy had pursued us promptly and with energy; we were in line of battle awaiting an attack. Would they attack us before daylight? Probably not, as we held a good position. Will we await an attack or retire during the night? Of the latter I was confident, judging by what I saw and heard. Fires were kept up along the whole line, and some of the boys, worn out with fasting and marching, wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down and slept. But there was no sleep for me, and there I sat, listening to every sound, watching every move. Two trains of cars, heavily loaded with supplies, crept slowly away toward Knoxville, the very engines seeming to hold their breath fearful of exciting suspicion. The distant rattle of wheels told me the wagon train was falling into line, and the bright glare of fire at the depot spoke of government property being sacrificed because there was no time to remove it. At 2 o’clock I heard the artillery on the hill near us, and which we were supporting, move away and join the train. A few minutes later we followed the artillery, silent as an army of spectres. Our regimental Surgeon and his staff occupied a tent a few rods in the rear of the regiment. Before we had proceeded a dozen yards I missed them and asked our Captain if they had gone on ahead. He seemed puzzled, as their place was in the rear. Perhaps, he said, they were not notified —had been overlooked in the confusion—if so, they will be captured. I asked permission to go back and warn them of their danger. I found them soundly sleeping in their tent, aroused them, and in a few hurried whispers explained the situation—then struck across the fields for the Knoxville road. About two miles distant we came across a body of troops resting beside stacked arms. Near by we found our regiment, and all was well.

Lenoir, Tenn., November 13th, 1863.

As the men are confined to camp, they busy themselves by cleaning up the accumulated rubbish. Our camp begins to put on airs. The men must get some clothing before they can do so. I see no prospect of it yet. The day has been most delightful—warm, bright and mellow. The weather here, as with us at this season of the year, is subject to sudden changes. Today it may be warm as summer; tomorrow the wind may change to the north and be cold as winter. Wood is abundant and of good quality—mostly white oak and hickory. But should we stay here all winter, there will not be a tree left within five miles of here. We have already cleared about fifty acres.

Spite of appearances, I cannot think we will remain here until spring. I cannot see—perhaps I have no right to try to see—where our supplies are to come from, or, rather, how they are to come. We have only six weeks quarter rations on hand, and the roads over the mountains are nearly impassable. There is some wheat and corn in the valley, which is being gathered in for the use of the army, but this cannot last long. Such an army, like the locusts of Egypt, will soon “devour every green thing.” Even now hundreds of citizens are leaving for the North to escape the impending famine. In view of these facts, which are fully understood by every man in the regiment, one would expect them to be down-hearted and discouraged. Such is not the fact. The few men who are left are resolute, determined men, ready to suffer privation, to endure hardship, anything to advance the cause for which they are contending. An order is given to prepare for inspection. The Assistant Secretary of War is here to inspect the Ninth Corps. This may be an exception, but, as a rule, inspection means move.

I happened to get hold of a copy of the Detroit Free Press dated October 25th. From it I learn conscription has been postponed in Michigan until the 5th of November. By that time they hope to fill the quota by volunteers. I would like to see the North exhibit the energy and ability displayed by the South, but one-half seems to be asleep, the other half —mad.

Lenoir, Tenn., November 11th, 1863.

This morning we were aroused by the Orderly at 3 o’clock, with orders to be ready to move at daylight. We sprang out of bed, built fires, cooked breakfast, which consisted of pancakes made of wheat flour and corn meal, issued in place of bread, beefsteak and coffee; packed up, and then sat down to await the coming of day. At 6 o’clock the bugle sounded, and we fell in and stacked arms. We then received orders to go to our quarters and be ready to fall in at a minute’s notice. And so the matter has stood all day, and still remains. The reason for the movement is as follows: The Second Division has been engaged today in throwing a pontoon bridge across the Holston about a mile from here, and, not knowing the strength of the enemy, on the opposite side, we are to be ready to support them if necessary.

The bridge is nearly completed, and the Rebels have not shown themselves. Tomorrow the Second Division is to cross over. I understand they are to build winter quarters on the other side.

A “contraband” came into camp yesterday and reported himself direct from Rebeldom. He appeared intelligent, and told a straightforward story. He reports the Rebels in strong force across the river, and says they are building pontoons in which to cross over to attack us. His information was considered so important General Ferrera sent him, under guard, to General Burnside at Knoxville.

Lenoir, November 10th, 1863.

No sooner was the order to build winter quarters given than the men scattered in all directions in search of material. There are many forsaken buildings in this vicinity. These were visited, the siding ripped off, floors torn up, chimneys, if brick, pulled down, and the material appropriated. Hundreds of men worked all night, and by morning had lumber enough to build bunks, floors and gable ends to their buildings. The reason of this all-night work was to get the start of the officers. They knew, by past experience, all building material would soon be put under guard for the use of officers. A large brick storehouse at the depot had been burned. This was seized by headquarters. Not a brick could be obtained, only as it was stolen in the night. Just the same, the boys all had brick chimneys.

Not being disposed to work nights or Sundays, my tent mates and myself did not begin to build until Monday morning. In the forenoon we cut our logs and carried them about half a mile on our backs. In the afternoon two of us laid the foundations, while the other two went with the Sutler’s team for a load of stone for our chimney. They also picked up a few boards. Tuesday we began to build in earnest—two at the house and two at the chimney—carrying them both up together. At night it was ready for the roof. Wednesday we “chunked and daubed” it, and put on the roof, built our bunks, and, toward night, moved in. Thursday we finished the chimney, put up shelves, etc. We have a warm, comfortable house, seven logs high, roofed with two thicknesses of tent cloth, which makes a very good roof. Our bunk is in one end, and occupies four feet across it, leaving a room six feet by eight. We have a splendid fireplace —back and jambs of stone, the top of sticks. In one corner are shelves for our dishes. On one side of the room is a drop table, which we button to the wall when not in use. Our bunk is not made of poles, rough and crooked, like those of last winter, but of pine boards, soft and luxurious.

On Thursday we had regimental inspection of arms. I told the boys I heard “music in the air,” but they could not believe it. It was there, however. About 10 o’clock in the evening Captain Tyler came to our tent and called for me. He told me to wake the boys and tell them to pack their things and be ready to take cars in half an hour for Knoxville. Here was a fix—to leave our soft beds and warm houses, our winter quarters, and go out into the cold— it was bitter cold—to ride on the top of cars twenty, perhaps seventy-five miles, and sleep—if sleep we might—on the cold, damp ground, and march twenty or thirty miles a day on half rations. But away we went, the Third Brigade only, to the station. It was 2 o’clock in the morning before the cars were ready, and we reached Knoxville a little after sunrise. Here we learned the cause of the movement. The Rebels had made a dash on Wilcox, near Greenville, capturing a section of the Second Ohio Battery and part of the Second Tennessee Mounted Infantry. Not knowing their strength, we were ordered to be within supporting distance while a force of cavalry was sent out to reconnoitre. We drew full rations of soft bread and beef, and lay on the cars, the engine keeping up steam until about 4 p. m. We then encamped for the night . Next morning we again drew rations, packed our things and awaited orders with impatience. But no orders came, and there we lay and waited all that livelong day.