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

September 16th.

I was so completely exhausted yesterday I did not expect to be able to march at all today, but, thanks to my recuperative powers, I arose this morning “good as new.” The distance is nothing; it is the load we carry, and the rough, hilly country, winding up, higher and higher, that fatigues. Rough and hilly as it is, this country is thickly settled by a people who raise barely enough to keep soul and body together. We have marched only nine miles today, and will lay over until the day after tomorrow.

September 15th.

We marched fifteen miles to Barboursville and encamped on the banks of the Cumberland River. Many of the men fell out by the way and came straggling into camp until after dark. I am too tired to write, and will lie me down and rest.

September 14th, 1863.

We were aroused this morning at 3 o’clock and ordered to be ready to march at 5 o’clock. In a very few minutes hundreds of fires were brightly glowing, striving by their feeble rays to dispel the gloom of night. At the appointed hour we were up and away with hearts as light and buoyant as though privations, toil and danger were unknown. The morning was delightfully cool, and before the god of day had risen to scorch us with his burning rays, nearly half our day’s march was done. The rest of the day was made easy by frequent halts, and when, at 2 o’clock p. m., we filed into line and stacked arms, all were agreeably surprised. We had marched twelve miles. Today is the anniversary of our first battle—our baptism. The mind naturally reverts to that trying time, and all its scenes pass rapidly in review. Then, for the first time, we met face to face our country’s foe. The chivalry of the South then met the mudsills of Michigan and learned to respect them. Today we met them again, but not in battle array. As we were starting, this morning, we came upon 2,300 prisoners taken at Cumberland Gap. They were free to talk, and a more ignorant lot of semi-savages I never met. We could not convince them that Vicksburg or Port Hudson were in our possession. They were very “frank,” and indulged freely in epithets and pet names.

September 14th, 9 o’clock p. m.

Our camp is in a beautiful grove, on the banks of a “babbling brook.” A cool, delicious breeze is gently blowing from the west. The sky is cloudless, and the bright, scintillating stars shine out in unwonted brilliancy, and the pale moon is pouring down upon the earth a flood of silvery light. It is an ideal night in which to rest after a fatiguing march—an ideal night, so seem to think our boys, in which to celebrate the anniversary of our first battle. The Sutler came up about sundown with the “accessories.” The preliminaries have been gone through with, and the “celebration is in full blast.” Pandemonium reigns. This quiet glen has been transformed, for the time being, into the council hall of demons. Men fall upon each other’s necks and weep, and laugh, and drivel, and shout ” ‘Rah for Seventeenth Michigan.” It was an impressive ceremony, and one in which all allusions to the brave men who fell and sympathy for their bereaved families were considerately left out, lest they wound the tender sensibilities of the living.

London, Ky., September 13th, 1863.

We broke camp last Thursday morning, the tenth of September, bound for Cumberland Gap, ninety miles distant. The first day we marched eleven miles over a rough, broken country, and encamped for the night. The next morning we started at 5 o’clock and made eighteen miles; yesterday, nine miles— thirty-eight miles in three days, with eight days’ rations and our accoutrements. The second day we marched rapidly, making few halts, our business being urgent, for Burnside’s left was threatened, and we were hastening to the rescue. But, thanks to a kind Providence, a messenger met us at this place with the intelligence that the Rebels had suddenly left East Tennessee to join Bragg’s army at Lafayette, and the Gap was already in possession of our forces. There being no cause for haste, our commander decided to spend the Sabbath here, and give the poor, tired mules a chance to rest. We will probably resume our march in the morning and proceed leisurely to the Gap—perhaps to Knoxville. We have borne the fatigue thus far better than I expected.

It is a long time since I carried a knapsack, but the more I have to do, the more strength I have to do it with.

Crab Orchard, Ky., September 9th.

Again has the note of preparation sounded in our camp, and all hands are busy getting ready for another campaign. In all probability we will soon be on our winding way among the Cumberland Mountains, en route for East Tennessee to assist in driving treason from that unhappy State. Orders have not been issued, but our artillery and ambulances have come, clothing has been issued, knapsacks, haversacks, canteens and tents have been distributed, and, more ominous still, forty rounds of cartridges have been dealt out to every man—in fact, we are ready to take the field at a minute’s notice, and only await the order.

“Be ready to march tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock,” is the order that greets me as I write. It is one hundred forty miles to Knoxville, our objective point, and will take us fourteen days if unopposed.

Crab Orchard, Ky., August 30th, 1863.

We arrived at 10 a. m., making ten miles from Lancaster this morning. Crab Orchard is a lovely town of about one thousand inhabitants. We are encamped about one mile south of the village, in a lovely spot, shut in on all sides by high hills and forests. To the south, far in the distance, the Cumberland Mountains raise their blue peaks as landmarks to guide us on our course when next we move. From what I see and hear of the surrounding country, the boys will have to depend on their rations for food.

Soldiers are strange beings. No sooner were our knapsacks unslung than every man of us went to work as though his very life depended on present exertions. We staked out streets, gathered stakes and poles with which to erect our tents, and now, at 3 p. m., behold! a city has arisen, like a mushroom, from the ground. Everything is done as though it were to be permanent, when no man knows how long we may remain or how soon we may move on.

Part of our route from Camp Parks lay through a country made historic by the chivalric deeds of Daniel Boone. We passed his old log fort, and the high bluff from which he hurled an Indian and dashed him in pieces on the rocks below. At the foot of the bluff is the cave in which he secreted himself when hard pressed by savages. His name is chiseled in the rock above the entrance. The place is now being strongly fortified.

We had a lively skirmish in Company G this morning. About a week ago the Brigade Surgeon ordered quinine and whiskey to be issued to every man in the brigade, twice daily. During our march the quinine had been omitted, but whiskey was dealt out freely.

Solon Crandall—the boy who picked the peaches while under fire at South Mountain—is naturally pugnacious, and whiskey makes him more so. This morning, while under the influence of his “ration,” he undertook the difficult task of “running” Company G. Captain Tyler, hearing the “racket,” emerged from his tent and inquired the cause. At this Solon, being a firm believer in “non-intervention,” waxed wroth. In reply he told the Captain, “It’s none of your business. Understand, I am running this company, and if you don’t go back to your tent and mind your own business, I’ll have you arrested and sent to the ‘bull pen.'” At this the Captain “closed” with his rival in a rough-and-tumble fight, in which the Captain, supported by a Sergeant, gained the day.

I have the most comfortable quarters now I have ever had. Our tent is composed of five pieces of canvas, each piece the size of our small tents—two for the top, or roof, the eaves three feet from the ground. The sides and ends are made to open one at a time or all at once, according to the weather. Three of us tent together, and we have plenty of room. We have bunks made of boards, raised two feet from the ground. This, with plenty of straw, makes a voluptuous bed. I received a letter from home last evening, dated August 13th. Oh, these vexatious postal delays; they are the bane of my life. I wonder if postmasters are human beings, with live hearts inside their jackets, beating in sympathetic unison with other hearts. I wonder did they ever watch and wait, day after day, until hope was well-nigh dead, conscious that love had sped its message and was anxiously awaiting a return. A letter from home! What thrilling emotions of pleasure; what unfathomable depths of joy it brings the recipient. It is not altogether the words, be they many or few, but the remembrances they call forth; the recognition of the well’ known handwriting; old associations and past scenes are brought forth from the storehouse of the memory and held up to view. The joy of meeting—the agony of parting—all are lived over again.

We are having brigade inspection today, which is suggestive of a move, but our artillery has not turned up yet, and we will not take the field without it.

The health of our men has improved wonderfully since we reached Kentucky. A more rugged, hearty set of men I never saw than the few who are left. But, as I look around upon the noble fellows, now drawn up in line for inspection, a feeling of sadness steals over me. One short year ago nine hundred ninety-eight as brave, true men as ever shouldered gun marched forth to battle in their country’s cause. Of all that noble band, only two hundred in line today. Where are the absent ones? Some, it is true, are home on furlough, but not all. They have left a bloody track from South Mountain’s gory height through Antietam, Fredericksburg and Vicksburg to Jackson, Mississippi.

Oh, how I miss familiar faces!

Camp Dick Robinson, Ky, August 28th, 1863.

Again we are on the move en route to Crab Orchard, thirty miles from our late camp, where a military post is to be established. I understand there is to be a line of posts from Lexington to Cumberland Gap. Report says these posts are to be held by the Ninth Corps. I hope not. I much prefer active service, with its toil and exposure, to a life of comparative ease in camp. While there is work to be done, and God gives me strength, I want to be doing. When I can be of no more service, then I would go home.

But I see no preparations for field service. We have no artillery or ambulances, which is proof conclusive. I was disappointed in Camp Dick Robinson. I had read so much of it, I expected to find a military Station, or fortifications of some kind. Instead, I find a beautiful grove of oak and black walnut trees. It is noted as being the first camping ground occupied by loyal troops in Kentucky. General Nelson, its founder, who was shot last fall by General Davis, is buried here.

I have borne the march well today. My feet were somewhat tired, and what wonder? Two hundred twenty pounds—the weight of myself and load—is quite a load to carry ten miles over a macadamized road in half a day.

August 25th, 1863.

Lieutenant Chris. Rath has received a Captain’s commission, and has been assigned to Company I. He has well earned his commission by his bravery and efficiency.

There was a sudden change of weather last night. The day had been hot and sultry. Toward night we had a light shower, preceded by a hurricane which cleared the atmosphere of heat most effectually. It is now uncomfortable sitting in my tent with my coat on. Uncle Sam seems inclined to make up to us, in some measure, for past neglect. We have soft bread and other rations more than we can use. Today we were surprised by an issue of tea and sugar, more than we can use. We sell our surplus at twenty-five cents a pound. The Brigade Surgeon has put a stop to drilling except as punishment. No signs of a move are in sight. My health is good. It is years since I was in possession of such buoyant, vigorous health.

August 25th. 1863.

We are still in camp, where each day is like the preceding one. The same routine of “duty” is gone through with, which, to me, is exceedingly tiresome. Give me the variations; something new and startling every day. For this reason I prefer active service. Those who love fun, and have a natural penchant for mischief, have abundant opportunity to indulge. I have never heard Billy Dunham complain of ennui. So long as guards are to be “run,” melons to be “cooned,” peach orchards to be “raided” or a peddler to be harried, tormented and robbed, Billy is in his native element. Peddling to soldiers is not the most agreeable business in the world, especially if said soldiers happen to be, as is often the case, on mischief bent. I have seen a crowd of soldiers gather around an unsuspecting victim, a few shrewd, witty fellows attract his attention, while others pass out to their accomplices melons, peaches, tomatoes and vegetables, and when the poor fellow discovers the “game” and gathers up his “ropes” to drive away, the harness fall to the ground in a dozen pieces, the unguided mule walks off amazed, the cart performs a somersault and the poor peddler picks himself up and gazes on the wreck in silent grief. At sight of his helpless misery the wretches seemingly relent; with indignant tones they swear vengeance on the “man who did it;” help him to gather up his “wares” while he secures his mule. This is soon done, for his “stock” has grown small and “beautifully less.” He smothers his rage from prudential motives, throws the “toggle” on his mule and prepares to depart. Alas, the millennium has not yet come. His cart wheels, refusing to perform their accustomed revolutions, start off in opposite directions, while the air is rent by the screams and derisive yells of his tormenters. When once begun, the amusement continues until the stock is exhausted. Speaking of Billy, he has become reconciled to his fate, and takes to soldiering like a duck to water.