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

Peebles House, October 28th, 1864.

Contrary to expectations, we are back again in our old camp. I confess I am disappointed. I can form no idea, at present, of the result of the movement, as I know nothing of Butler’s operations the last two days. I conclude it was only a feint, on our part, to draw part of Lee’s forces from Richmond, out of Butler’s way. Be that as it may, to me it was a failure. The “Fighting Second,” commanded by the “invincible Hancock,” was to have the honor of attacking, while the Fifth and Ninth were to draw their attention to other points. The attack was made, and the Rebels were driven before them, like chaff before the wind, until our forces struck the railroad. Then they rebounded like a rubber ball.

October 8th, 1864.

I received a letter from home this evening, freighted with love and wifely endearments. As I read that comforting letter, my heart overflowed with gratitude to the Giver of all Good for the bestowal of this, His most precious gift to man. I rejoice at the safe arrival of my “relic.” I valued it more than money. I had marked several pieces which were my favorites. Among them was one entitled “We Miss Thee at Home.” The first time I sang it was in company with Mr. Collier and two other good singers. I was never in better trim for singing than on that night. We had sung several of my favorite pieces and were passing the otherwise tedious hours very pleasantly. But this was too much for me. My voice, before so clear, suddenly thickened and became hoarse. My eyes, before so strong, refused to trace the “mystic words.” I could only see my poor, grief-stricken wife, as, solitary and alone, she mourned her absent mate.

But I must return from these “dreamy wanderings” to record the rugged scenes of cruel war. The Ninth Corps is again on the “war path.” It started this morning, at daylight, on a reconnoissance toward the South Side Railroad. When I last heard from them —at 3 p. m.—they had advanced one mile, driving the enemy before them, which brings them to within one mile of the road. Yesterday I could plainly hear the engines whistle defiantly. The Seventeenth remained in camp to receive pay. I have drawn for eleven months, which will relieve the most urgent needs of my family and enable them to tide over “the coming winter.” One might infer, from what I have written this summer, that I had been a “man of business.” Well, I have had a hand in nearly everything that floats. My parole bars me from “regular duty,” and, taking advantage of it, I have followed my inclination in the main, only being careful to “keep within the lines.” My Captain commands the regiment, and this makes me some extra work, as I do all his writing. Our business relations are satisfactory. He treats me with unvarying kindness.

We have drawn our fall clothing today. It came in good time, for most of our men were thinly clad. The weather, which only three days ago was very hot, has suddenly taken cold—so cold we actually had a frost this morning; hardly discernible, ’tis true, but still a frost, and we were fain to get up early to “gather ’round the fire, and we piled the rails on higher” until we fairly turned night into day. All to little purpose, however, for, like “poor Harry Gill,” my teeth did “chatter, chatter still.”

Our recruits who came to us recently say it is not nearly as cold here as in Michigan when they left. The General and his staff are having brick fireplaces built in each of their tents. Privates cannot afford this luxury, as brick houses are scarce in this part of the country. Unfortunately for us, the houses are all of wood, and their chimneys, when torn down, will not supply the officers with brick. Most of the houses, too, are occupied by their owners, they not having been notified of our contemplated visit.

But hark! what causes all this uproar? More good news, I think, for I seldom have heard such cheering. “What is it, Amos?” “Don’t know; guess Burnside’s come, er the boys ‘ave scart up a rabbit.” “More good news from Sheridan,” says Charley. “He’s had another big fight with Early, whipped him, took nineteen pieces of artillery, seven thousand prisoners, most of his supply train, and, at last accounts, was following him up close, bound to capture his whole army or follow him into Richmond.” I expect this is slightly exaggerated, but the news is good. I wonder if the noise disturbs the Johnnies?

October 26th, 12 o’clock m. Active preparations still continue. All detailed men are ordered to their regiments. Cooks, clerks and grooms, and even commissary sergeants, are ordered to carry guns, or have them on hand in case of emergency. “We will not move until night, if then. All Michigan men who are sick in hospitals are to have furloughs. I have made out several today.

4 o’clock p. m. The General is striking tent; will probably be off in the night. We are ready to march at “tap of drum.” All surplus stores, everything that might in any way impede our march, has been sent to City Point. Of the men, those who are so fortunate as to be sick, be it ever so little, are on their way to Michigan. I have been at Headquarters nearly all day making out furloughs. It is an agreeable task, even when I am not personally interested. Many of the poor fellows have not been home since they enlisted, and would not now, had not furloughs been given by wholesale.

7 o’clock p. m. We have just been notified we march at 3 o’clock tomorrow morning.

Peebles House, October 25th, 1864.

We will probably, leave here tomorrow morning. Where we go no one knows, but all feel that something startling is about to happen. Appearances indicate a long and rapid march. All baggage not absolutely needed is to be sent to City Point. Instead of wagons, pack horses are to be used. We are to carry three days’ cooked rations in our haversacks, and five days’ uncooked in our knapsacks. A pontoon bridge is to accompany us.

Peebles House, October 15th, 1864.

The army, at this point, is pursuing a course of “masterly inactivity.” Even the work of fortifying, which has been carried on with so much vigor the past five months, is partially suspended. The hostile armies, separated by only a few rods of forbidden ground, are silently watching each other. Not a shot is fired, by day or night, along the front. The pickets, in some places not more than ten rods apart, are on the best of terms, exchanging newspapers, trading rations for tobacco, etc.

From the top of a hill but a few rods from here the Rebel camp is plainly visible. By the aid of a field glass I can see the “Johnnies” lounging lazily in camp or at work on their fortifications. But, for all this seeming quiet, we are in constant expectation of the storm that is liable to burst upon us at any moment. General Grant, with Secretaries Stanton and Fessenden, are at Ninth Corps headquarters tonight. Generally, where Grant goes a blow is to be struck. He is almost omnipresent. Today we hear of him with Sheridan, in the Valley; tomorrow he is closeted with the President; before we have time to turn around, he is back in City Point.

Our officers are, during this temporary quiet, freely indulging in those refined tastes which army life is so well calculated to develop, by engaging in such innocent amusements and gentle recreations as horse racing, gambling, and their usual accompaniments, commissary whiskey, midnight revels and broken noses.

Part of this I have seen; the rest is told me by a “reliable gentleman” on duty at headquarters. Of course, he does not make public what he sees, as it would cost him his position and do no good. Last Saturday a very exciting contest came off between two blooded horses, owned by two “bloods,” both Brigadier Generals. Another match is announced for tomorrow and another for Saturday. With such examples, is it any wonder that gambling is on the increase? So far as my observation goes, nine men of every ten play cards for money.

I received a letter from home today, filled with gloomy forebodings.

Sometimes, almost unconsciously, I give way to gloomy thoughts, bordering on despair, where hope lies buried. With me, such moods are of short duration. Can it be possible my darling wife has breathed the tainted air from the “slough of despondency” for two long years? Come up with me, dear one, and together let us climb the mountain of hope. Lean fearlessly on your husband, for he is strong in faith and will lead you gently up, above the dark, murky clouds of doubt, to bask in the bright sunshine of trust and confidence. Viewed from this height, how bright the prospect. Home treason lies powerless, bound hand and foot by a free people’s choice. Armed treason, that hideous monster, is fiercely struggling in dying agony. Its heart still beats at Richmond; but Grant, and Sherman, and “Glorious Phil” are sapping its life blood. When the heart shall cease to beat, the extremities must die.

October 14th. 1864.

I saw Colonel Luce this morning. He is much improved in health, and takes command of the regiment tomorrow. There are rumors in circulation that our regiment is to be broken up. It is said our recruits are to be transferred to the First Michigan Sharpshooters, both officers and men, while the old members are to be retained at Division Headquarters as provost guard, clerks, orderlies, etc.

Peebles House, October 13th, 1864.

The evenings are all my own, to pass as best I may, when in camp. When I can get candles I write either to wife or children, or jot down some straggling thought in my diary. But candles are hard to get. Government furnishes only about one inch per day, and sutlers sell at seventy-five cents a pound, or two for a quarter. When I have no light, my evenings are spent in “wandering to and fro,” dreaming of my Northern home. I live, at present, a very secluded life, although surrounded by human beings. I have few sympathies in common with most men—or so it seems. Perhaps it is because all the sympathies of my nature, all the emotions of my soul, are constantly flowing, in one unceasing tide, back to my distant fireside. How my impatient spirit chafes at the long delay. Fain would I lash the lagging wheels of time into more furious pace. What power there is in love—even human love. If I have any virtues that other men have not, they all are born of love. If fewer vices, love is. the shield. Daily I strive to be that which the fond imagination of my loving wife doth paint me. Oh, from the darkness of our sorrow may new light break forth, new strength to do and suffer, if need be, new resolves and freshest hopes.

Colonel Luce, whom we have looked for since last Saturday, has just arrived. I have not seen him, but can now hear his voice as he inquires, with fatherly solicitude, as to the well-being of his men. He is one of the kindest, most indulgent of commanders; too indulgent, perhaps, but his men obey him cheerfully. I refer to the rank and file of the regiment; with officers he is sufficiently exacting.

Camp near Petersburg, Oct. 7th.

It lacks nine days of four months since I first beheld, through sulphurous smoke and leaden hail, the tall spires of Petersburg. It was the time the Ninth Corps made their first charge and were repulsed. Since that time we have made several advances— always by the left flank—until now we extend from river to river around the city. But we are not discouraged. In fact, we were never one-half so confident as now. We are fulfilling, to the letter, the old injunction to “make haste slowly.” Experience tells us the taking of a city, a victory where the enemy, “runs away and lives to fight another day,” only prolongs the contest. Their armies must be destroyed. Grant has hit upon the right plan. What if Copperheads do say “Grant cannot take Petersburg.” We know better. His operations here are but part of a plan that is literally destroying Lee’s army. It embraces Butler, on the James; Sheridan, in the Shenandoah Valley; Sherman, in Georgia. All are acting in concert, controlled by one master spirit, who rules and guides the whole.

For a time I feared Grant had met his match in Lee. But, as the plot thickens and the current of events brings out and develops his deep-laid plans, I see the hoary-headed traitor struggling with desperate but futile energy to disengage himself from the toils of his relentless foe. In speaking of Grant last spring I said, “I suspend judgment for the present.” Since that time he has exhibited qualities that prove him to be, with scarcely a rival, the military genius of the age. We talk of Sherman’s campaign in Georgia; of Grant’s campaign in Virginia; of Sheridan in the Valley; of Mobile and Charleston. There has been but one campaign, and that is Grant’s campaign against the rebellion. The whole—north, south, east and west—had been guided and directed, under God, by his far-seeing mind. I believe we have at last found the man who is capable of directing the energies of this country, and of leading us on to victory and peace.

October 6th. 1864.

We have come to a standstill once more, and are making ourselves “comfortable.” We have a splendid position, and are fortifying. We moved past the low, swampy country, and are now on high, sandy ground about four miles southwest of Petersburg. We have fitted up a very nice and comfortable camp. We have learned, by experience, that it pays as a sanitary measure. Old soldiers never sleep on the ground if they can get as many as two poles to sleep on. This is one reason why we enjoy better health than recruits.

I have sad news from Arthur Mathis. The poor boy has not long to live, and must die among strangers. It seems needless cruelty to keep him here, so far from friends and relatives who would gladly minister to his wants and smooth his pathway to the tomb.

Payment was suspended by our late move, and, as our pay rolls are returned “Approved,” we come in with the rest.