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

November 22d, 1864.

The storm that has raged the last three days has passed away. Since last Friday evening until today, there has been a steady downpour. The swamps and lowlands are flooded. In our camp, situated as it is on high, sandy land, no inconvenience is felt. Now is the time Grant’s railroad conies in play. Without it we could not hold our position. About half the land between here and the Point is submerged; all of it is as bottomless.

Our furloughed men have all returned. They all tell the same story; a pleasant, happy time, but oh, so short, so quickly passed. They had only fifteen days. So soon as twenty days are offered, I will make an effort to obtain one for myself.

November 20th, 1864.

A storm of forty-eight hours’ duration has followed the pleasant weather of last week; two days and nights of incessant rain; and still, as night shuts in, the darkening clouds foretell another night of storm. Doubtless the long-talked-of fall rains have set in. From a military point of view, it may be unfortunate. A move was in contemplation which must be suspended, for the present. In all probability General Butler will have time to test his “peace doctrine” before he can resume active operations.

It is my design to confine myself to facts, when writing in my journal, and to leave out my own opinions and speculations, but I find it to be impossible. I am so deeply interested in the progress of events, I cannot always confine myself to the past and present. I am continually watching, with intense anxiety, for something on which to hang a hope of coming peace. In almost every transaction of daily life, that which we firmly resolved to do is already half completed. I hail the result of the late elections as the expressed determination of the American people to fight the battle out to the bitter end. Grant calls it “a great moral victory, depriving the Rebels of their most efficient weapon.”

Long have they, with exultation, pointed to a “divided North,” and to what they pleased to call a “united South.” Time was when they were united, but that time has passed. They have experienced the horrors of war, as no other people of modern times have experienced them. They know, without help from some quarter, their cause is hopeless. That help, Jefferson Davis tells them, they need not expect The New York Herald says: “President Lincoln can now afford to be magnanimous. Let him offer them terms of honorable peace.” Good might come of it, but I would not have him abate one jot or tittle in the vigor of preparation, or withhold his hand when possible to strike. On the whole, I see abundant cause for encouragement. To me, the future is full of promise.

November 18th, 1864.

This has been one of the most pleasant days that ever visited this storm-swept world. So soft and balmy—I have not words to describe it; I have almost fallen in love with this Southern climate.

I confess to a feeling of dread when I think of the severity of our Northern winters. The coldest weather we have yet had was only sufficient to cause a light frost. And yet I actually suffered with cold before! had a fireplace in my house.

The house I built a few days ago was comfortable, but rather small. I could not build larger, for I had not the strength to draw the logs on my back. Fortune has been kind to me, as usual.

Today I moved into a large, new house, all complete. It happened in this wise. The regiment had been at work at the field hospital and for General Wilcox, which made it impossible to build their own houses without resorting to strategy. The day before yesterday a squad of men from our company was detailed, as usual, to cut logs for the General’s stables. On reaching the woods, Charlie Groesbeck and William Jones separated from the squad and went to work on their own account. By 11 o’clock their timber was cut; how to get it drawn was the next question. Luck favored them. A teamster came along looking for a load of brush that was to have been cut by— somebody. The boys told him they “guessed” they were the men, but the brush were not all cut. If he would draw a load of logs they had cut, the brush would be ready on his return. He consented to the arrangement, and the thing was done. The next day they built their house, and, when completed, invited me to share its comforts.

General Burnside has been here. He had hardly arrived before the air was filled with rumors, all looking to a removal from this department. One newspaper has it the Seventeenth is to be detached from the corps to guard prisoners at Elmira, New York.

I was the recipient of a handsome present last night —a portfolio bound in morocco. The donor is W. B. Jones, one of my tent mates.

Peebles House, Va., Nor. 15th. 1864.

All is quiet in front of Petersburg. The sharp crack of the rifle is superseded by the clatter of axes. When we came here, some six weeks ago, this whole country was almost an unbroken wilderness. Now hundreds of acres are completely stripped of tree and shrub. The officers have built good, substantial log houses, with brick chimneys. The Seventeenth is now building stockades for the General’s horses.

I have had but little work since election, most of my work coming on during the last half of each month. A short period of rest was never more grateful, or more needed—I have not been sick; only worn out, as sometimes happens when teaching school “Teaching school;” how the phrase calls up old memories of the shadowy past Thank God, they are pleasant memories. I wonder, will I ever more follow that, to me, delightful occupation? I think not; the “old man,” after three years of “service,” can hardly expect to be “up to date.”

We are looking again with our accustomed eagerness, for the “Greenback Man.” We expect, too. General Burnside will be here, in a day or two, to take command of his old corps again. The event will be hailed by us with joy. Let others think of him as they may, he possesses the confidence of the Ninth Corps to an unlimited extent. The reverse is true of our present commander, General Parke.

November 13th. 1864.

It has been growing cold all day, and toward night the wind increases to a gale, bringing a few flakes of snow with it. Tomorrow we begin building winter quarters, by order of the General commanding. So the vexed question of moving seems to have been settled. Mail matter came in freely last night.

The election returns are very gratifying to me. The people, with a unanimity never equaled, have decided in favor of a united government. President Lincoln is now, emphatically, the chosen of the people, he having received a majority of all the votes cast. Supported by the moral force of the Nation, he can now proceed, untrammeled, with the great work before him.

There is much talk in the newspapers of a Thanksgiving dinner which is to be given the Army of the Potomac and the James by volunteer contributions of the people of the North. It is a gigantic undertaking, but can be accomplished by the aid of Adams Express Company, who, I understand, have offered to deliver free of charge.

The new railroad is completed to within a half mile of Ninth Corps Headquarters, on the extreme left of the line. Wagon loads of express boxes arrive at Division Headquarters nearly every day. Nearly every man in our regiment has received a box filled with “creature comforts.” I had the pleasure of testing the quality of some Michigan butter today, sent to a Mr. Hopkins, of Oakland County. He was so unfortunate as to get a furlough on the day of its arrival, and left it in care of his tent mates, enjoining them to be sure and not let it spoil. They are doing all in their power to prevent it, with fair prospects of success. About one-fourth of the sixteen pounds is already saved.

An incident just occurred that created some excitement. A man who claims to have once belonged to the Eleventh New York Cavalry, now a cripple in both arms, has been through camp selling papers, songs, etc. One of our men, thinking he recognized him as a Rebel spy whom he had seen in Frederick City, Maryland, reported him as such to the Provost Marshal. He was able to give a good account of himself, however, producing a pass signed by the Secretary of War, and a letter of recommendation from General Phil Sheridan.

November 11th, 1864.

I have gratified a long-cherished wish today—that of visiting the outer fortifications in our front. I wish some of my Northern friends, who are disposed to growl because the army does not “move forward,” had been with me. The questions they ask would have answered themselves, for, in looking at our works, they would have seen a counterpart of the Rebels’. First, a continuous chain of rifle pits, or breastworks, running from Appomattox River, on our right, to our extreme left, where it turns a half circle back, in our rear, toward City Point. These works are built of pine logs laid up as high as a man’s head, and firmly joined together. On the side facing the enemy a ditch is cut, about eight feet from the logs, the dirt being thrown up against them and firmly packed, forming a protection against solid shot, and shell unless they burst directly overhead. In front of these works, from a quarter to a half mile, the timber is “slashed,” rendering it next to impossible for men to make their way through it, even if not opposed. Much of the way the breastworks are protected by abbattis. A ditch is dug some three feet deep, from four to six rods in front of the line of breastworks, then the tops of trees are inserted in the ditch closely packed together, every limb sharpened and projecting toward the enemy, and the dirt is then thrown back and packed, to hold them firmly in place. But this is the weakest point of the line of defense.

All along this extended line, at every angle, forts are built, mounting twelve to thirty guns. These forts are within musket range of each other, so situated as to sweep the intervening space with grape and canister.

This is a very faint and imperfect description, but is, I think, enough to show that mortal man cannot carry these works, if earnestly defended. The Rebel works are quite as strong as ours.

I had several fine views of them through a field glass, which annihilated distance, so far as vision is concerned. Half way between the two lines are the pickets, but a few rods apart.

November 10th. 1864.

Mr. Collier came over and spent the evening with me. His visits are highly prized by me. He brought his note book, and we sang “Sweet Home” together, and then, as usual, we talked of home. He is a singular being—a “specimen,” and a rare one, too. It is impossible to be long afflicted with the dumps when in his society. Like a bubbling spring, he overflows with mirth and good nature, and is sufficiently intelligent to be an agreeable companion. Goodness is natural to him. He neither chews, smokes, drinks whiskey or uses profane language. There is not a particle of deceit in his composition. Added to all these good qualities, and many more I might mention, he adores his wife and baby. All this I can say of him, after two years of intimate acquaintance. Spite of the contrast between us, and it is great, the strong attachment and friendship I feel for him is reciprocated.

Peebles House, Va., November 8th, 1864.

It is the evening after election. The turmoil and excitement of the day is past, and, almost prostrated by the intense anxiety of the past week, I long to flee to the sympathetic heart of my wife for comfort and consolation. Never before has a political contest assumed such vast proportions. In it I see a Nation sitting in judgment on its own acts. The question to be decided involves its very existence. Individuals are lost sight of. Life and death hang quivering in the balance. Feeling this, I entered into the contest with all the energies of my nature. “Sleep departed from my eyes and slumber from my eyelids.” My sphere was circumscribed, but it was no light task to rescue my own loved regiment from a record of infamy. Thank God, it is accomplished. Of one hundred ninety-four votes polled today, only forty-six were cast for McClellan and Secession. One week ago they claimed a majority. At that time, in Company G, eleven out of eighteen loudly proclaimed fidelity to the “Hero of Malvern Hill.” Today, in this same company, three votes were polled for him. I think I can say with truth, and without egotism, the result is largely due to my efforts. I devoted my time mainly to the recruits throughout the regiment, visiting them in their tents, seldom leaving one until I had obtained a promise that he would not vote for “Little Mac.” Faithfully they kept their word in nearly every instance.

The day was fine. At sunrise the regiment assent bled, chose inspectors, clerks, etc., and proceeded to business. I never knew an election to pass off so quietly. No drunken brawls, for whiskey could not be obtained. General Wilcox and staff came over and deposited their votes. It had been confidently asserted that Wilcox would vote for McClellan, but he called for an “Administration ticket” and deposited it in the ballot box. No partiality was shown to rank; several officers were challenged and had to swear in their votes. The day, with its overwhelming weight of responsibility, is passed beyond recall and I calmly await the announcement of the result. As the polls were about to close, a telegram was received announcing the capture of the pirate Florida. I accept it as an omen of good.

Peebles House, Va., November 4th, 1864.

We have had a few days of cold, stormy weather. It even snowed a little yesterday. We have built comfortable quarters, most of them with fireplaces. I have been so busy since our return, with muster rolls, monthly returns, etc., that I was compelled to postpone building until today. We have a very comfortable place, built of pine logs, six feet by seven on the inside. It is completed except “chunk and daubing,” which will occupy but a short time. About half of it is occupied by our bed. In one corner is our table, two by three feet square. The remaining comer is our sitting room. Our bed of poles is covered with a thick layer of “Virginia feathers.” Over these a rubber and one blanket, leaving one blanket and our overcoats to spread over us.

We may not remain here long to enjoy the fruits of our labor, but then, we may. Probably another attempt to move will not be made until after election. I will be heartily glad when that is over. I am sick, tired, disgusted with the whole arrangement. Popular election, indeed! It is all humbug. The very name is a lie and a cheat. Mr. Winegar, of Grass Lake, has arrived as commissioner to receive the votes of Michigan regiments. The McCIellan vote will be quite strong in this regiment unless something can be done to counteract it. The French recruits will all vote that way, and they comprise nearly one-half the regiment.

“Fall in for mail,” is the cry of our Postmaster. Not expecting as much pleasure as another letter would give me, I continued to write, listening, all the time, to hear whose names were called. Can it be? Yes, my name is called. Another dear letter. Oh, my sweet wife, would to God I could fold you in my arms and pillow your weary head upon my bosom, its rightful resting place.

All Michigan men in hospitals who want furloughs get them. I have no idea this campaign will end until Richmond is taken and Lee’s army is destroyed. Grant has fought all summer “on these lines,” and will continue the fight all winter if not successful. But the time is close at hand when military operations must, of necessity, be suspended. Furloughs will then be given, and I will avail myself of the first opportunity.