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

Camp Pittman, Va., February 2d, 1863.

Our camp has been christened at last. We are building a huge oven, large enough to supply our brigade with soft bread. Furloughs are being granted to a limited number of officers and men. This will entitle our company to eight privates. In our company the lot fell between Wait Wright, of Eaton Rapids, and myself. Our cases were so similar the Colonel would not decide between us. He said we must talk it over and agree which should go first, and that, as soon as one returned, the other should go. I heard Mr. Wright’s story and volunteered to remain until his return, which will be fifteen days from the date of his furlough. The past week has been very cold. It has snowed all day, and now—about four o’clock—is turning to rain, and bids fair to be a rainy night.

January 15th, 1863.

Our shanties are completed, and we moved in yesterday. They are warm and dry, and cannot but affect the health of the men favorably. I received a letter from home last night, and great was my astonishment to see, on reading it, an indictment against one dearer to me than life, and in whose behalf I plead “Not guilty.”

My poor, wounded, suffering wife; what could have put such thoughts into your mind? Have you not always been the most tender, the most loving, of wives? Have you not always been by my side to advise, assist, uphold and sustain me? Have you not watched over me, in sickness and in health, and nursed me with more than a mother’s tenderness? Have you not borne poverty without a murmur for my sake; and still, as a wife, you are a failure? Oh, banish such thoughts from your mind, for, I do assure you, they come of an over-sensitive imagination. You say you have always been a clog to my feet. No, no! I have been my own clog. The error was in the start. Youthful ignorance and folly added to the advice of men in whom I confided, but whose council proved a snare started me in the wrong direction, and I have continued to float downward with the tide. But, dear, I have no regrets. My life has been happy beyond the lot of most men, and what, my beloved, has made it so? Certainly not the pleasures of wealth or honors conferred by man. What, then, but the never failing, self-sacrificing power of love which you have always lavished on your husband that has bound him to you with cords stronger than bands of steel? The only things I craved when I was sick were the tender accents of your voice and your dear hand upon my brow.

There seems to be a bond of sympathy between us that knows no bounds—is not confined by space. Many times since I left home have I visited you, or received your visits, and the impression left was that of reality. Last night, after I retired to rest—before 1 went to sleep, for the boys were gathered around the fire and I could hear their jests and laughter—I held your hands in both of mine, trying to comfort and console you, and it was real as reality itself. There is so much hollow-heartedness and deceit practiced here by men who, under the false guise of patriotism, seek wealth and position, that, had I all the world can bestow, I would give it all to enjoy with you one how of social intercourse.

December 29th, 1862.

As I was sitting by my cosy fire last evening—for we have evenings here, long, dreary ones—thinking of past events and trying, with my weak vision, to pierce the dark future, the thought occurred to me— where is all the trust and confidence with which I started out, and which cheered and sustained me until our late defeat? Have we made no advance? Surely we have made blunders, but will we not profit by them? We are learning the art of war—time is required to change a citizen into a soldier. Our officers are being weighed—the light weights cast aside or relegated to their class—and the good work will go on until one is found of size and weight to cope with Lee. ‘Tis said, “Great generals are born, not made;” that true greatness is also modest, and does not vaunt itself; but our President is on the lookout for him and will find him—never fear—one who has the genius to plan, the will to do, the nerve to dare. As I pondered, hope returned and all my gloomy forebodings fled away.

As I was about to retire for the night, our door was thrown open and some letters were handed in. Among them was one for me. I recognized the well-known hand—tore open the envelope, and, after perusing the welcome contents over and over again, I went to bed and dreamed of home.

Inexpressibly dear, to the soldier, are letters from home. It is interesting to stand by as the mail is being distributed, and, as the names are called, witness the animated, joyful expression that illuminates the countenance of the happy recipients, while those less favored retire to their tents disappointed and sad.

Captain Goldsmith has returned, but will not stay long, as he has sent in his resignation. The regiment is hard at work building winter quarters. Our houses are all built after the same pattern—eight feet by ten in size, five feet high—rafters one-fourth pitch, covered with tent cloth. The different companies are separated by streets one rod wide. The men do not work with very good heart, as they expect orders to leave as soon as finished. They say this has been their experience in the past.

Contrary to expectations, the health of the men does not improve with frosty nights. Diarrhea, colds and rheumatism prevail, with now and then a case of fever.

Camp near Fredericksburg, Dec. 28th, 1862.

The battle of Fredericksburg has been fought and —lost. We are now engaged in the laudable occupation of making ourselves comfortable; building log huts to protect ourselves from the cold storms of winter. Our brigade—the First—was not engaged at Fredericksburg. We were commanded by Colonel Poe, a graduate of West Point, a man thoroughly versed in the art of war. He saw the utter hopelessness of the struggle, and, when the order came to advance, he flatly refused to sacrifice his men in the unequal contest. Of course, he was put under arrest, and will be court-martialed, but he saved his men.

The eighteen thousand slaughtered husbands and sons who fell at Fredericksburg does not comprise our greatest loss. This whole army, for the time being, is thoroughly demoralized. It has lost all confidence in its leaders—a condition more fatal than defeat.

The leaders of the different corps do not work in unison. Our commander lacks the mental force to weld and bind these discordant, disintegrating elements into one solid, compact, adhesive mass, subject to his will and guided by his judgment; and herein lies the cause of our defeat.

Everything has the appearance of a protracted stay. We cannot advance; the enemy is too strongly fortified; if he were not, we would give him time to do so. And yet it is dangerous to stay. It is all Government can do, with the river open and all available transports, to furnish this great army with supplies. Should the river freeze, or the Rebels gain a position on its banks, we would be starved out in short order.

Camp near Fredericksburg, Dec. 9th, 1862.

It has been a long time—fully five weeks—since I made the last entry in this journal. The forced marches, exposure, and insufficient food of the week preceding our arrival at this place had been too much even for me. It had rained or snowed almost continuously; we were out of reach of our supply train for seven days. Food gave out, but on we pressed. When we halted on the evening of our arrival, too utterly worn out to pitch a tent, I spread my blanket on the ground, threw myself upon it and slept the sleep of exhaustion. It rained during the night, and when I awoke I found myself lying in a pool of water that half covered me. My recollection of what occurred for several successive days is very vague; I knew I was being cared for by somebody, somewhere; I had no cares, no anxious doubts or perplexing fears. If in pain, I had not sense to realize it. One morning after, I do not know how many days, I awoke to consciousness; I heard a well-remembered step tripping across the floor and stop at my bedside, a soft, cool hand was pressed upon my brow; a sweet, familiar voice whispered in my ear: “You are better, dear; you will get well now.” Nay, do not smile, thou unbelieving cynic, for from that hour—yes, from that instant—I began to mend. I learned afterward that I had been very low with some form of fever; that I was not taken to the hospital because my kind friend and comrade, Orville Collier, had begged the privilege of nursing me in his own tent. I can now sit up, can walk about a little, and hope soon to be well.

Camp near Lovetsville, Va., Oct. 28th.

We bade farewell to Pleasant Valley, and started for the land of “Dixie” quite unexpectedly to us privates. Orders were issued on Saturday to the different companies to have their things packed and be ready to move at daybreak next morning. We were aroused at three o’clock, prepared and ate our breakfast, and at five o’clock were on the march. It had rained some during the night, and morning gave promise of a rainy day. Well did it fulfill its promise. About eight o’clock a drizzling rain set in, which continued until about one o’clock, when the wind changed to the north, increasing in violence until it blew a gale, which continued until morning, raining incessantly. The north winds here are very cold, and the poor soldiers, marching or standing all day in the rain, with sixty rounds of ammunition, three days’ rations, knapsacks and blankets on their backs, passed a very uncomfortable day. But they bore it uncomplainingly, and when, about sundown, we pitched our little “dog tents” on the soaked and muddy ground with shouts and merry jests, we made a break for the nearest fence, and soon each company had a pile of dry chestnut rails, with which we kept a roaring fire until morning. Many of the men were wet to the skin, and, too cold to sleep, could be seen at any hour of the night in circles round their blazing campfires, talking over past scenes or future prospects. As I passed from group to group through the brigade, I noticed a feeling of discontent, caused by a lack of confidence in our leaders. The men seemed to feel we are being outgeneraled; that Lee’s army, and not Richmond, should be the objective point; that the rebellion can never be put down until that army is annihilated. When I returned to our company the boys had arranged it all—the President is to retire all generals, select men from the ranks who will serve without pay, and will lead the army against Lee, strike him hard and follow him up until he fails to come to time. So passed this fearful night away.

Pleasant Valley, October 17th, 1862.

Being in a wakeful mood, I will try and compose my mind by writing a few lines in my diary, for we have become great friends—yes, confidantes—and tonight I need a confidante. Did I ever tell you, my silent friend, of my Northern home; of wife and children, loving and beloved? Then listen, while I whisper in your ear the sacred secret. I have a wife and four small children far off in Michigan. I love them with all the intensity and devotion of my nature. The thought of them is ever uppermost in my mind. In the daily, monotonous rounds of duty; in the long, dreary evenings, when folly reigns; in the stillness of the night; on the rugged, toilsome march, or in the tumult of battle, thoughts of the dear ones at home arc ever present, inspiring me with hope, encouraging me to duty, a shield against temptation, a beacon light, shining out upon the stormy sea of strife on which my frail bark is launched, enabling me, thus far, to shun the rocks and quicksands that surround me.

Our regiment returned today from Frederic, where it has been guarding the railroad. We hear that General Wilcox, Colonel Fenton and Colonel Withington are to be promoted. We are heartily glad their eminent services are about to be rewarded by the Government. They are men of marked ability, and have well earned their honors. Although it will take from us our gallant Colonel, there is some compensation even in that. It will leave the regiment in command of Lieutenant Colonel Luce, who is beloved by all our men. We have heard heavy cannonading all day, but have not learned the result. It is rumored that we will move in a day or two—perhaps tomorrow. Where we go, even rumor sayeth not. Our men say it does not matter where, so they take us where work is to be done. Two men deserted from Co. G yesterday and two today. This splendid regiment that left Detroit two months ago nearly one thousand strong, mustered today, at inspection, two hundred and fifty-six men fit for duty. There are more sick than well, the result of insufficient supplies, and brutal, needless exposure of the men by officers high in rank.

The weather is delightful—cold and frosty nights, with warm sunshiny days and pure, fresh, mountain breezes that should strengthen and invigorate, and yet, of all who came from Blackman and Sandstone, I alone am well.

October 12th.

It is now nine o’clock of a Sabbath evening, and as I pen these lines my wife and children, perhaps are listening to words of peace as they fall from the lips of their beloved pastor. How vividly memory recalls the past, and, as of old, we seem to walk the well-known path to the house of worship, to join with dear friends in singing hymns of praise, and to receive instruction from the Word of God. How great the contrast between past and present.

Instead of pursuing the peaceful avocations of life, surrounded by my loved family, I find myself separated from them by many a weary mile, and surrounded by the savage enginery of war. Even as I write I hear the booming of cannon in the direction of Harper’s Ferry. Last evening, while mustering for dress parade we received orders for every able-bodied man to get ready to march with only their guns, ammunition and blankets, in the shortest possible time.

Pleasant Valley, October 9th, 1862.

We moved from Antietam day before yesterday, in order, as reported, to be nearer our supplies. However, as soldiers know nothing of movements until after they are made, we may leave here today. As I was writing the last sentence, I learned we are to move this afternoon, about two miles, where we will have more room and better accommodations. The order to march is always welcome to me. I hate the monotony of camp life. The same is true of nearly all our regiment. We want to finish up our work and go home to our families—for nearly all have families. From our old camp to the present one is about twelve miles —the toughest twelve miles I ever traveled. Our route lay over the Elk Ridge Mountain, about six miles winding up its steep, rocky sides, the remaining half down the opposite side, the midday sun pouring his fierce rays against its rocky surface, making the heat well-nigh unbearable. There was not even a whispering breeze to cool our throbbing brows. Two men of our brigade melted down and died, while hundreds fell out by the way and came straggling into camp next morning. The movement was foolishly conducted on the principle of a forced march when there was no call for haste. I was quite lame at the time, having cut a deep gash in my heel a few days before, which compelled me to walk on the toe of that foot. This made walking over such a road and for so long a distance rather difficult. I fell behind the regiment for the first time, but came into camp about sundown. Some companies left nearly every man by the roadside.

On Friday Robert Covert and myself went down to the river to wash our clothing. The day was hot, and Robert went in to bathe. I was sitting on the shore, in company with others of my regiment, dreamily watching the sportive antics of the bathers, when my attention was attracted to Robert by what I thought to be a peal of laughter. With an exclamation of horror I sprang to my feet. “‘My God, boys, he’s sinking, drowning!” He had made but two or three strokes when taken with cramps and rendered helpless. I will long remember the pleading look, the agonized cry, as he rose to the surface. There was no time for thought; he was going down the second time; in a moment he will be beyond our reach. I cannot swim, but I seized a long pole and plunged in. It was not quite long enough to reach the place where he went down, but at that instant a man stripped for a swim rushed past me, and, holding to the end of my pole, threw his shirt to Robert as he came to the surface. He caught it, and we pulled him to the shore.

I am frequently asked how I like soldiering. For a wonder, I am not disappointed. If anything, it is more endurable than I expected to find it. There are hardships—as a matter of fact, it is all hardship—but I was prepared for all that. I expected to suffer— to endure—and find myself the gainer by it. While others say: “If I had known, I would not have enlisted,” I can say with truth I am glad I did. If I can be of service to my country, I will be satisfied. That which troubles and annoys me most, others do not seem to mind. It is the intolerable, nauseating stench that envelops a military camp. My olfactories have become so acutely sensitive I can smell an encampment “afar off.” Many complain of the strictness of military discipline. That does not trouble me. The law is a “terror to evil doers.” I am thankful for the many kind friends I have found here. I hail with delight the President’s proclamation. I believe it is a step in the right direction.