July 30th. 1864.
I hear tremendous explosions and repeated volleys of musketry in the direction of the Ninth Corps today. Can it be that Burnside’s mine has been exploded and that our forces now occupy Petersburg?
I see by the papers Secretary Chase has resigned. Mr. Chase is a politician, and is ambitious; he has worked three years, with all his mighty intellect, for the Presidency. In this he failed; he withdraws from the Cabinet to further his own schemes. I may judge him harshly, but I can not forget Fremont.
Can it be really true that my countrymen are despondent at the prospect of another “call” for men? Would they enjoy all the benefits to be derived from this war and share none of its perils? Are their lives too precious to be put in jeopardy? Have they become so degenerate as to make Mammon their idol?
Another appalling blunder has been perpetrated. Part of the Rebel works were blown up yesterday, and an assault was made by the Ninth Corps, which resulted in failure. Their works were carried, but, for want of support, could not be maintained.
July 28th, 1864.
I expect to visit the regiment some day this week. My friend, Mr. May, has promised to accompany me, and I anticipate much pleasure. I am told General Wilcox has been made a Major General, and is to take command of the Department of Ohio, headquarters at Cincinnati.
We expect a detachment of “invalids” from Washington to do hospital duty. Soldiers call them “condemned Yankees.” All detailed men are ordered to the front; they are packing up, getting ready to move tomorrow morning. Invalids and musicians are to man the hospitals, by order of Lieutenant General Grant. I pity the poor, unfortunate patients; boys make but poor nurses, and musicians are mostly boys.
July 26th, 1864.
It has been unusually quiet at the front the past week. It is the calm that precedes the storm. That storm will, doubtless, be a fearful one; the very earth will shake in terror when all Grant’s artillery opens up in concert. The signal is to be the springing of a mine or mines. All able-bodied soldiers, doing duty in hospitals, leave for the front today, their places being taken by musicians. Every man will be needed in the coming onslaught.
It is nearly supper time, and I, who never gave a thought to such matters in all my previous life, must go and see that the table is properly spread.
City Point, July 21st, 1864.
I have been sick with some form of fever for a few days past—just how many days, I have actually forgotten. I did not go to the hospital—Mr. Williams would not consent to that—as I could have good medical treatment and better care where I am. Yesterday I began to mend; today am feeling quite well, only rather weak. While I was sick the boys had things their own way, and a fearful way it was— nearly as bad as at first. Today I am sitting, or lying, where I can see the work is properly done and things “put to rights.” I saw Colonel Luce today. He tells me we—the Seventeenth—are going home in August to recruit, under the President’s last call. Good news, if true, but it fails to call up any enthusiasm on my part. “A burned child dreads the fire.” Possibly it may be true. The regiment has done no field duty since Spottsylvania, and has been changed to Engineers and Mechanics; besides, it is General Wilcox’s pet regiment. I am trying hard to make myself believe it. I do, almost. Soon as I am strong enough, I am promised a horseback ride to the regiment. There, if the above report is not generally believed, I will try and get a furlough. We have had one rainy day, and the weather is delightfully cool.
July 13th, 1864.
Another fond letter from my loving wife. Thank God, the way is once more opened. With all the trembling anxiety of her tender, loving heart apparent in every word, she asks, “What will become of you?”
Can you not see, my darling, that He who cares for sparrows has not overlooked your husband? She asks me next if I think I am treated fairly. To this I must reply, no, not quite fairly; not quite honorably. At the beginning of the spring campaign it was decided by the proper authorities that paroles, given on the field of battle, would not be recognized. This was the general rule that was adopted. As a general rule it was a good one, but there must be exceptions to all general rules. And General Burnside was quick to see our case was exceptional. If, then, as he decided, “under the circumstances their parole is good and must be respected,” I do not think it fair or honorable to place us in circumstances that render it impossible to comply with the conditions specified in our parole. Some of the men have become worn out and discouraged by the treatment they have received, and have returned to the ranks. Through the kindness of my officers I am permitted to “run at large” inside the lines, and do the best I can for myself. I did expect to be allowed to go home, as, at least, I have a moral right to do. I still think I may, should this campaign ever close, as it must eventually.
City Point, July 11th, 1864.
Two days have passed since I made the last entry in this journal, an unusual occurrence of late. The reason is, I have changed my employment, and my time has been occupied in learning the details of my new business. I am now with the Christian Commission. All the sick and wounded, except forty convalescents, have been removed from my ward.
I accompanied the last detachment to Alexandria. There are now here about one hundred delegates to the Christian Commission. Mr. Collier has been cooking for them since the hospital was established at this place. In his department all went smoothly, he being a good cook and a man of energy. Not so in the dining room. There, three wild young soldiers and two “colored people” rioted uncontrolled. The table was never set in time, and seldom washed. Spreads are not in use. Dishes, knives and forks are not properly cleaned; in fact, disorder reigns. A head was wanted; Mr. Collier naturally thought of his old tent mate and friend; he recommended me to the agent as “reliable;” agent desired an interview; it was granted; he looked me over, talked with me, “sized me up,” and here I am, running an eating house, with full powers to have my own way in everything. What will my little wife think—for I can call her little in comparison, as I weigh 190 pounds—at this strange business for such as me? I can only judge of my success by what I hear, for I have had no previous experience. Delegates mark the change with evident pleasure. The agent, an aristocratic member from New York City, compliments me on the change I have wrought. Today he expressed himself as “very pleased” with my arrangements.
“Act well your part,” is my adopted motto. I have already formed some agreeable acquaintances with delegates—have often been mistaken for one, myself. I am not ashamed to correct the mistake and acknowledge myself a private soldier. In a sense I am one of them, for I have worked in the same cause, the last two years, with all the strength that God has given me, and done a soldier’s duty, too.
City Point, July 9th, 1864.
What strange beings we mortals are—swayed to and fro by each passing emotion. At last I have received a letter from home, dated June 21st. It found me wallowing in the dark pool of despondency. I could not write—often did I make the effort and failed—could only conjure up images of evil. The only consolation I found was in ministering to the needs of others, and in this I found constant employ. All this a few cheering words from my darling has power to change. Hope, confidence and trust revive. The newspapers bring us, today, news strange and startling. The Alabama destroyed! Sherman defeated, and a “Rebel raid” in Maryland! Great excitement in Washington, etc.
July 3d, 1864.
We are within three miles of Washington. Have two hundred patients on board, all of the class called “bad cases.” The vessel is not a hospital boat, only a river transport. The men lie on hay on the floor— some without so much as a blanket under them. They, too, live on hope, and expect all their wants will be provided for in Washington. We have not half the needed help. I dressed wounds until 1 o’clock this morning—but am more than repaid by the expressions of gratitude by my patients.
July 2d. 1864.
No tidings yet from home. Everything is going favorably with me. Good health, a good position, numerous friends, abundant opportunity to do good, and will to do it, and yet I am very miserable. How can I endure this agonizing suspense? Were it not for the hope of hearing from my loved ones in three or four days, at farthest, I should, indeed, despair. There lies the secret: “Were it not for hope,” which keeps the heart from breaking in its sorrow.
I am requested to go to Washington with a boat load of wounded—must go immediately.
City Point, June 26th, 1864.
The day before yesterday I came from the front with a train of sick and wounded, two hundred in number, all from the Third Division. Were I to say the weather is excessively hot, my words would convey but a faint idea of the terrible, burning, consuming heat to which we have been subjected the last three days. Surely the “sky is brass, the sun a ball of fire.” I think of the hottest days, in harvest time, away north, in Michigan, and oh, how cool, compared with these. Sunstroke is an every-day occurrence, so common as to not excite remark. Typhoid fever prevails to an alarming extent; of the two hundred men from our division, one hundred five were sick, and over half of these were typhoid cases. Help to care for them is very scarce. Details have been made from the regiment and still more help is needed. I am giving my attention mostly to the sick. It may seem strange to an outsider, but there is a distinction made between wounded and sick men that is not only unjust, but cruel. A sick man gets little sympathy, and less of care, during an active campaign. The wounded must be cared for first, no matter how slight the wound, in one case, or how dangerous the illness in the other. All will be cared for here.
Dr. Bonine has given me charge of three wards, containing about one hundred patients, mostly sick. Mail comes regularly every day, and I shall count the minutes until I hear from home.
