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

September 28th, 1864.

About two miles from the hospital, two large mortars are planted—one thirteen-inch, the other fifteen-inch bore. From them to Petersburg is two and onehalf miles. One evening—it was very dark—I happened to be looking in that direction, when I saw a thread of fire leap from the woods where the mortars lay concealed, describe a half circle against the darkened sky, ending in a lurid light far away over the city. After this came the rushing, roaring, screaming sound flying through the air in swift pursuit. If any harm was done it was all over with before the report reached me. Even so it was with my daughter’s dangerous illness. Before I heard the report, the worst was over. Then imagination did its worst and filled my mind with dread foreboding. Days passed: long, endless days; and sleepless nights, ere another message reached me. Thank God, she lives! My child is better.

It is 10 p. m., and the order is, “Pack up and be ready to march immediately.”

Blicks Station, Va., September 26th, 1864.

The Ninth Corps is in motion, being gradually withdrawn from the front. Various rumors are in circulation. That which seems to be the best authenticated is: “We go to Baltimore and report to General Burnside.” It is amusing to hear these matters discussed by men who are supposed to know nothing but to obey orders.

We have heard nothing definite from Burnside since his return from his pleasure trip to the Green Mountains. I am positive he will not serve longer in this army, and equally positive he will have a command somewhere, and that where he is, the Ninth Corps will go; soon as it can be spared from here with safety.

Paymasters are here, and will begin paying off today or tomorrow. There is some doubt about our regiment being paid this time. Our payrolls were wrong, and were sent back from Washington. I made them out anew, and they were sent off last Friday. If they receive prompt attention they may be returned in time. I cannot reconcile myself to the disappointment. I have had no pay in eleven months, and through no fault of my own. I am grieved for my family’s sake, and am really vexed at the wrong done me.

Then Fremont has “sold out?” What a miserable thing is his letter announcing the important fact. How much it reads like Vallandigham’s speech “ratifying” McClellan’s letter of acceptance.

Blicks Station, September 24th, 1864.

Another letter from home reached me this morning, giving me cause to thank God anew for His goodness and mercy in preserving, thus far, the lives of my dear family. It seems to me that, notwithstanding the sufferings we have endured the past two years, we have been highly favored by a kind Providence. We still remain an unbroken family, while others have fallen on our right hand and on our left. Although death has come so near we could almost feel his icy touch and see his grizzled visage, we have been spared. It is not for us to know why—short-sighted mortals that we are—we are led in safety through dangerous, crooked paths, but our past experience should teach us to trust, with unwavering faith, the hand that guides us. But, after all, how frail we mortals be, and powerless. I find it to be impossible to abate one jot of my anxiety in their behalf. I am keenly alive to all the embarrassments our situation exposes them to, and can only school myself to endure, for a brief period, by considering the sacredness of the cause in which we are engaged. My wife can never know how much the confidence she expresses in my integrity has strengthened me in my determination to deal justly. I acknowledge I have been tempted. The inducements held out to me have been strong. Thus far, I have been enabled to resist them. The knowledge that my wife expects better things of me, added to my own sense of right, has thus far kept me, but there are times when I need advice—encouragement. I want it—crave it—from my wife alone.

With men I am sufficiently self-reliant, asking no favors. With her it is different. I know she is sincere. I confide in her judgment; her intuition.

I am somewhat disappointed in McClellan’s letter of acceptance. I had given him credit for more manliness than he possesses. He accepts the nomination but repudiates the platform, which is the soul of the party that nominated him.

I do not know how it may be in the North, but he has lost his influence in the army. I have talked with many who were his friends, who now say they would as soon vote for Vallandingham. In fact, I hear none but boys, and a class of men whose only reason is, “d—n the man who won’t vote for McClellan, anyhow,” speak in his favor the last ten days. There is not the least excitement. Everyone seems to have settled down to the conviction that “Old Abe is the best we can do,” and acts accordingly.

Blicks Station, Va.,
September 22d, 1864.

Blicks is the name of a station on the new railroad, near our camp. A spur runs from this road to each camp, and storehouses are being built. Nothing is being done here at present but building and drill. All hands are busy. Not an idle man in all this army, that is able to do duty. Old fortifications are being strengthened and new ones built, and drilling is pushed with as much vigor as fortifications and railroads. Barely enough men are left in the rifle pits to watch the enemy; the rest are drilling—drilling—in squads, by companies, battalions, brigades, and, twice a week, an entire division at a time.

This place has become a camp of instruction for recruits. Some regiments are nearly full. The Fifty-fifth Massachusetts has received over two hundred “Yankees” direct from Germany.

Glorious news from the “Valley” today. A dispatch was read to the men on drill, giving the news of the day up to 6 p. m. of yesterday. The air was rent with shouts that could be heard for miles. We fully understand the importance of a genuine, decisive victory in that quarter. I am waiting, with feverish anxiety, the details of Sheridan’s achievements. We are having beautiful weather—rain enough to lay the dust, but not enough to make the roads muddy.

Camp Seventeenth Michigan,
Near Petersburg, Va.,
September 18th, 1864.

Another Sabbath day has come—another week has passed away. We, of the army, take little note of time. Eighteen days in succession our regiment has toiled, without intermission, on fortifications or on roads. Today is general inspection of arms, equipments, clothing, etc. The regiment musters one hundred twenty guns. It was a sad sight, to me, to see this little band of tried heroes march out and rally on their torn and battered colors. I thought of the hundreds who had given up their lives, a free offering on the altar of freedom; of others undergoing tortures more cruel than death in Rebel prisons. Of still others languishing on beds of sickness, far from home and kindred, with none but rough men to minister to their wants or speak a word of sympathy, and then I thought of my wife’s last letter, in which she said: “It grieves me to say the majority of people here are not over-fastidious as to the means used to bring about peace.”

I would like to tell it so that all our friends might hear and know that it is true, that we, the soldiers in the army, hold in contempt the man who would accept peace on any other terms than submission to law. We have fought too long; have suffered too much; too many precious lives have been lost, to falter now.

The Rebels themselves acknowledge all their hopes are based on a divided North; they are straining every nerve to hold out until after the fall elections, hoping their friends may triumph.

September 15th, 1864.

I have changed my quarters again. I was not needed at the hospital, there being as many nurses as patients. I cannot live here without some occupation. Captain Sudborough wished me to return to the regiment and assist him. This suited my inclination, and I went. I found the company books precisely as I left them, four months ago. I see plenty of work, and that is what I need—what I must have. I am always better satisfied when with the regiment. I left a nice house, but have another just as good. Soldiers soon learn to take care of themselves. The Ninth Corps held a grand review today, which, of course, means move.

Camp near Petersburg, Va.,

September 10th, 1864.

Charlie went to City Point this morning and found confusion there, as well as here. Last week the General Hospital was moved about a mile up the river to establish winter quarters. Today it is being moved back to City Point. I refer to the Ninth Corps hospital; the others have not been disturbed. It is said we are to leave this department soon. Selfishness prompts me to wish it may be true. The campaign will then be ended for us, and there will be a possibility of getting a furlough. The corps is engaged in building fortifications to protect our rear, in case of an attack from that quarter. Recruits are pouring in rapidly; said to average seven thousand daily. Charlie says they are being drilled all the way to City Point. Grant’s railroad, running in the rear of our lines, much of the way in sight of the Rebels, seems to annoy them exceedingly. Night before last they obtained a position from which they could shell a long bridge that spanned a ravine, and began to fortify. Last night our forces charged these works, carried them and captured the working party. I could plainly hear the shouts of triumph that announced their success. General Grant is making preparations for the fall rains. In wet weather the roads are impassable for loaded wagons. The railroad is completed and cars now run from City Point to the Weldon Road.

Camp Near Petersburg, Va.,

September 9th, 1864.

I wish my Northern friends could look in and see my new house, this morning. My comrade and I worked all day yesterday, trying to make it comfortable. But first let me introduce my comrade, Mr. Charles Blanchard, son of Judge Blanchard, of Tecumseh, Michigan. He is a young man of good manners and pleasing address, is intelligent, and a very agreeable companion. Everybody calls him Charley. Like myself, he is a paroled prisoner. Now for the house. To begin, we went to the woods and cut four armfuls of poles, which was our building material; then leveled off the ground, ditching around a piece eight feet by twelve. This for our building and front yard. Next in order was the bedstead. Four stakes were driven into the ground, four feet by six feet apart, with a pole across each end. Across these, small poles were fitted, close together, for our spring mattress. On top of these, a thick coating of pine boughs, in lieu of feathers; on top of all, our rubbers and blankets are spread, and our bed is made. A soft, voluptuous bed it is. We then set two poles in the center of each end, to support a ridge pole. Over this pole is thrown our canvas, which is stretched to cover six by eight feet, the lower ends two feet from the ground for ventilation. To the ends we affix other pieces of tent, when behold, the bed is made and the house enclosed.

All that is lacking now is a floor, table and pantry. Lumber is scarce; sawmills there are none. After dinner, away we go, on a voyage of discovery. About a mile from camp we run across a deserted encampment, where we find plenty of lumber. Two trips suffices. We now have lumber, but no nails. Leaving Charlie to saw the boards to the proper length (with a hatchet), I start off in another direction after hardware. About a mile and a half from camp I find where some quartermaster’s cook has made firewood of hardtack and other boxes. In the ashes I find plenty of nails. Our task is now easy and soon completed, and we have as nice, comfortable house as soldiers can ask for in this climate.

I am gaining in health and strength every day. May and June, or the work I did in those two months, nearly used me up. I have placed Baby Nells picture in my diary, beside that of my wife, and never open it without first looking at them. Of one thing I am quite certain; we are on the best of terms, are baby and I. At first she was a little shy, or so I fancied, and frowned on me, as babies do on strangers. But now she smiles every time I take her —and so do I. If I do not come home until my three years of service expires, she will be eighteen months old, and I do love little babies so very dearly.

September 8th, 1864.

Early next morning we resumed our march, and continued it until within a half mile of the place we vacated yesterday with so little ceremony. Here we set to work as though it had all been “part of the original plan,” and tonight have our hospital in good working order. This time there is no style. Judging by contraries, we will remain here for some time.

We did not leave the old ground a minute too soon. That very day the Rebels, in trying to shell the railroad, shelled our old camp. A half mile beyond was General Meade’s headquarters. They made it so hot he was compelled to get out in a hurry.

The Chicago convention has met and done exactly what everyone here expected it to do—nominated McClellan for the Presidency. My feelings for him are mixed—pity and contempt—pity that the once mighty McCIellan should fall so low; contempt that he allow ambition to ruin him. Henceforth “Little Mac” is powerless. Whether he accept or reject, there is no more magic in his name. Poor old dog Tray, your experience was identical with that of McCIellan. On the other hand, “Old Abe’s” prospects are brightening. Sherman is successful in “stumping” Georgia. His “speech” at Atlanta is working wonders here. Even Rebels are affected by it, and many have already “come over and joined our side.”

Some of our men are disposed to speak bitterly of the manner in which “volunteers are raised” in the North. I consider it magnanimous, in those patriotic men who are exposed to the draft, to allow the wives and widows of soldiers to contribute their mite toward buying substitutes. And there is some compensation in this. We want men who will fight. Most foreigners will do that; so will negroes. Copperheads’ will not; at least on our side. This money, with that wrung from the wives and widows of soldiers, will buy foreigners and negroes; and so we get the men.