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

August 22d, 1863.

I had comforted myself with the reflection that when we returned to Kentucky, where communications were uninterrupted by guerillas, and were only separated by twenty-four hours of time, I might be permitted to correspond with my family without such harrowing delays, for I would not have my darling in doubt as to my situation or whereabouts for one single day, knowing, as I do, the uncertainty of suspense is worse than the reality. But ’tis said, “The darkest hour is just before the dawn,” and, even as I write, my mind filled with dark thoughts, a ray of light from my Northern home flashes across my vision. The whole current of my thought is changed, and thankfulness takes the place of my repining. Thankfulness that it is as well with my beloved ones as it is. Oh, that I could remove every burden, and make their pathway smooth and flowery. I find most of our trials are imaginary, but none the less real for being so. For instance, my beloved wife’s imagination pictures me on my weary way back to old Virginia’s blood-stained fields, subject to every hardship, exposed to every danger, and her suffering could be no greater if it were so. On the contrary, I am still in Kentucky, in a pleasant, shady grove, enjoying a season of welcome quiet and repose, soft bread to eat, plenty of pure, cold water to drink. What more could mortals crave. The newspapers were right, as far as they went, about our being ordered to the Potomac. We did receive such orders, but General Burnside telegraphed the War Department the Ninth Corps had marched, during the year, an average of twenty miles a day; that it had just returned from an exhausting campaign in Mississippi; that the men were worn down by fatigue and sickness, and were unfit for active service, and asked that they be allowed to remain here for a season. His request was granted. One year has passed since I left my pleasant home to serve my country—a year big with the fate of millions yet unborn—a year the most eventful in our history; perhaps in the world’s history.

Camp Parks, Ky., August 20th, 1863.

I received a letter from a friend in Michigan last evening, saying: “If you were in Michigan, or could see the situation from the standpoint of the North, you would be less hopeful of the speedy termination of the war.” If by “speedy” is meant a single campaign, as was promised us one year ago, I do not now believe in it, but nothing but the most signal failure can change my faith in the ultimate success of our cause. We have steadily gained ground from the first. The series of reverses that attended our arms the first year of the war has forced our government to accept the inevitable, seemingly against its will. I do not forget the violent opposition to the Emancipation and Confiscation Acts, passed by Congress in December, 1861, by Northern men of undoubted loyalty, nor the President’s timid recommendations in his inaugural address to that Congress. I remember well that reverses and disasters attended all our efforts until the government was compelled, as by an overruling Providence, to free the slaves of rebels, which includes them all; and that from the moment these measures became the fixed policy of the government, reverses ceased. It is not the issue of a battle or campaign that gives me hope, but the successes that have attended our arms all through the month of July were attended by such peculiar circumstances as to force upon me the conviction, “There IS a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.”

Nicholasville, Ky., August 27th, 1863.
(probably the 17th, as this entry
is sequenced between the 16th
and the 20th in the book)

We are again enjoying the quiet of camp life. Our miniature tents are pitched in regular order, streets are policed and brigade guards posted to keep our unruly boys within bounds.

Colonel Luce, five line officers and twenty privates have gone home on furlough—others to Cincinnati on leave of absence. Everything indicates a period of rest. Our boys are trying to make up for their privations “down below.” Nearly every tent presents the appearance of a market for the sale of fruit or vegetables.

Potatoes, peaches, apples, cabbages, onions, watermelons and green corn are piled in heaps or lie around loose throughout the camp. Then we have artists, too. Two Daguerian cars are running full blast, where the boys get indifferent pictures at one dollar each. I saw a great curiosity today—a relic of bygone ages. About a mile from camp there is a shop where the old-fashioned spinning wheel is manufactured on quite an extensive scale, and they find a ready sale. This is a fair index to the progress of the people. Their manners, forms of speech and customs all point to past ages. They are very loyal and very friendly when sober, but when filled with corn whiskey, hypocrisy and self-interest take a back seat, and they speak their real sentiments with a frankness and fluency that is not at all flattering to us “Yanks.” From what I have seen, I conclude all Kentuckians drink whiskey. There are distilleries in every little town, where the “genuine article” is turned out. I called at a farm house one day for a drink of water. The good woman was catechising her son—a lad of ten or twelve years—about ten cents she had given him with which to buy some little notion at the store. She gave me a drink of water, then, turning to the young hopeful, angrily inquired, “But where’s that ten cents I gave you?” “I guv five cents to Bill.” “Where’s the other five?” “Bought my dram with it.” The explanation appeared satisfactory.

Camp near Hickman’s Bridge, Ky.,
August 16th. 1863.

I did not join the regiment as soon as I expected, owing to the negligence of the Medical Director, whose duty it was to furnish me transportation. As I had no money, I was forced to await his pleasure. The regiment took cars for this place the day they crossed over, so I was left in Cincinnati until Friday evening to live as best I might. I crossed the river on Friday, and next morning took cars for Nicholasville, fourteen miles beyond Lexington, and one hundred fifteen miles from Cincinnati. I was just in time to get two months’ pay. I should have drawn for two months more, but there was a mistake in the pay rolls, which cannot be corrected until next muster. The Paymaster says he is going to pay us again next month, and the next time muster us out of the service.

We have a very pleasant camp, in a shady grove, and an abundance of pure, sparkling water, which I appreciate now as I never did before.

Cincinnati, Ohio, August 12th, 1863.

We arrived here at 9:30 this morning. My day’s work is, at last, completed, at 9 p. m. This has been a busy day. In fact, I have not been idle or had much rest, by day or night, since July fourth, and yet I am fresh and vigorous as in days of old.. The sick and wounded all removed—the worst cases to the General Hospital in this city, the convalescents to Camp Denison, eighteen miles out, while a few return to their regiments.

The Seventeenth passed through here today, and is now in camp near Covington, on the opposite bank of the river. I expect to join them in the morning, and look for a handful of letters.

People call the weather here very hot, but it is not Mississippi heat, and I enjoy it. The mornings and evenings are delightfully cool, while there it is constant, relentless heat both day and night. Here a coat is comfortable in the morning—there one needs no cover day or night.

Louisville, Ky., August 11th, 1863.

Again in Louisville—eleven hundred miles nearer home than one week ago—and yet how far. Still, it is joy to feel I am comparatively near. We reached Cairo on the evening of the seventh, took on fresh supplies, and left next day at noon for Cincinnati, which place we expect to reach some time tomorrow. We are now—3 p. m.—taking on coal, and will start in a few minutes.

The Ohio is very low—in places not more than three feet deep. We have brought up against sand bars and been forced to back off perhaps fifty times since leaving Cairo. From this place to Cincinnati, I am told, there are no obstructions. The most difficult part of our way was from New Albany to Louisville. We were six hours in making three miles last night. It was nothing but “Back ‘er and try again” for about a mile, and then we had a canal with three locks to pass through.

We have had no deaths since the seventh, and our sick and wounded boys are doing nicely. These fresh northern breezes are more exhilarating than wine, and the hope that they may be sent to their homes to recruit their health is more healing than medicine.

August 7th, 1863.

It was with a bounding heart, brimful of gratitude to God, that I stepped on board the Dakota and bade farewell to Haines Bluff on the second day of August. We have three hundred sick and wounded on this boat and are short of help. Quite a number who started as nurses are sick. Four men died the first night. We ran the boat ashore, dug a grave large enough for all, and laid them in it, side by side. Our Chaplain read the burial service, and we hastened on board to repeat the ceremony, the next morning, for some one else. It seems hard—even cruel—but it is the most solemn burial service I ever witnessed. Nine have died since we started, and one threw himself overboard in the frenzy of delirium and was drowned. We kill a beef every evening. Two nights in succession the best part of a hindquarter has been stolen. The boat hands were questioned, and a huge Irishman acknowledged the theft. He was court martialed and sentenced to be “banked.” The boat was stopped opposite a wilderness. No human habitation was in sight. He was forced to pack his bundle, take to the woods and run his chance with hunger and the Rebels.

As we were running leisurely along, about 3 o’clock in the afternoon of yesterday, my curiosity was aroused by our boat running suddenly against the shore and sticking there. All hands were called, and, with the aid of soldiers, she was soon shoved off, and on we went again. A Sergeant asked the Mate why we landed there. His reply was, “Something wrong in the wheel house.” One of our boys asked a darkey the same question. “Well, boss, I ‘specs dey see a rabbit ober dere, an’ t’ink dey kotch ‘im.” Soon after, as two comrades and myself were sitting in the bow enjoying the cool breeze, my attention was attracted by the glassy stillness of the water in front of us. Pointing to the right, I said, “Yonder is the safe place to sail.” The words had scarcely left my mouth when we felt a sudden shock, the bow of the boat was lifted about two feet, a full head of steam was turned on, which carried us over the obstruction. We had “struck a snag.” Soon after, we anchored for the night, as the pilot was “too sick” to run the boat.

The sick from our regiment are doing well. I never saw wounded men do so nicely. Of five who came as nurses, four are on the sick list. As for myself, I have not been so well in years.

July 31st, 1863.

Our transports have arrived, and we expect to leave this afternoon for Cairo. Some of our boys are very sick, and urge me to go with them on the hospital boat. They have obtained the consent of Colonel Luce, and I may be detailed for that purpose. Rumor says the sick are to be sent to St. Louis. If so, I will go there with them and join the regiment as soon as possible, wherever it may be. I do not like to leave it, for I am lonely and discontented when out of sight of the Seventeenth. Colonel Luce says we are going to Indiana, but there are so many contingencies, we may be needed elsewhere.

July 30, 1863.

Another letter from my poor, suffering wife. As I think of her sorrows, cares and perplexities, I cannot force back the thought that will unbidden rise, can so much be required of us; such great sacrifices, not only of property, but our cherished plans, embracing the future welfare of our children, in fact, all of earthly good, while others are exempt—have no part or lot in it—who would not even know that war existed were they not led to inquire the cause of such unexampled prosperity—and, when rebellion at home stares them in the face, and the “fire in the rear” so often threatened really breaks forth, loudly call for soldiers to come and protect their precious lives and property?

Where are those Union Leagues, who were going to “unite the loyal people of the North and subdue Copperheads?” Where are those patriots who could not leave their business to go to the war, but would “take care of the Rebels at home?” But a little cool reflection banishes such thoughts. I have to act only for myself, and answer only to my own conscience.