Camp Millington, Md.
School of the Soldier--On picket at Catonsville--Trip to
Gettysburg--Dinner at Hanover--Meeting the 150th--Roast
chicken--Stuart's Mansion Hospital.
_September 10, 1862._
CAMP MILLINGTON. We were too tired last night to look about and see
where we were. This morning we were ourselves again, and began to take
stock of our surroundings. We are in a newly seeded field, sloping
generally to the east, though the upper part of it is nearly level. The
place is called Millington, so we have named our camp, "Camp
Millington." We pitched our tents in such a hurry that it had not a very
orderly appearance, and after breakfast we divided up into companies,
and each has tried to beat the other in slicking up.
We have quite an extended view. Towards the east we can see for miles
across a sandy plain clear to the waters of Chesapeake Bay. Baltimore
lies to the north. In other directions little but trees can be seen.
Right in front runs a large brook, which turns the wheels of a flour
mill, from which loads of flour are constantly being taken. Back of the
mill, and not far from it, runs a railroad, said to be the Baltimore and
Ohio. All day long, trains have been running, and the most of them
loaded with soldiers. Some go towards Baltimore and some the other way.
If I knew what it all means I would tell, but we are all strangers to
the place and there is no use asking questions. Guards are posted on
every side of us, and outside of that another line of guards called
pickets are posted. We were called up and talked to by Major Parker. A
whole lot of rules were given out, which, if they are observed, will
make the 128th a model regiment and each member of it a gentleman. I
have sewed on my corporal stripes to-day, having carried them in my
pocket until now. The only difference I have yet found out between a
corporal and a private soldier is that a corporal does not have to stand
guard. If we are really going to stay here I expect the next thing will
be learning how to march, taking up the lesson where we left off in
Hudson. From the way the regiment that escorted us through Baltimore
handled themselves, I can see we have a whole lot to learn yet.
_September 11, 1862._
We heard heavy firing this morning, from the direction of the city,
which we at first thought must be fighting going on there, but which we
afterwards learned was practice for the gunners at Fort Henry, and on
the gunboats, both of which lie somewhere off in that direction. We kept
on cleaning up our camp ground to-day and it begins to look real nice. A
running vine, which was all over the ground, has poisoned a great many,
although some that handled it the most did not get any. Philip Allen's
face looks like a bladder. The doctor has fixed up a wash that he says
will soon cure it. We had just about enough to do to-day to give us a
good appetite. A storm is brewing, and we are wondering what it will do
to us with only a strip of muslin to keep it off.
_September 12, 1862._
The storm came. A soaking rain in the night; it soaked every one of us.
I suppose the officers fared better, for they have tents like houses,
but we, the shelter-tent brigade, certainly took all that came. I got up
from a puddle of water. The water ran down the hill, under our tents,
and under us. This softened the ground so we sank right in. The ground
is a red color, and we are a sight to behold. By looking at a man's
trousers it is easy to tell whether he slept on his back or on his side.
In one case he has one red leg, and in the other, two. I think it would
improve the appearance if the whole trousers were soaked in the mud.
This sickly blue is about the meanest color I can think of. I guess the
Government had more cloth than color. One fellow says there was only one
kettle of dye. The officers' clothes were dipped first, then the
privates' coats, and last the pantaloons. No matter what question comes
up there are some who can explain and make it all clear. A part of
Company B was sent out on picket duty to-day. I don't know where or what
their duties are. All sorts of war stories are in the air. One paper
tells of a great battle and the next one contradicts it. I guess it is
done to make sale for papers. Newsboys rush into camp yelling "Extra"
and we rush at them and buy them out. But it gives us something to talk
about, and that is worth much to us.
_September 13, 1862._
_Saturday._ Washing day. All who are not on duty were let out to go in
the stream below the mill and wash. We took off our clothes and rubbed
and scrubbed them, until one color, instead of several, prevailed, and
then we sat around and waited for them to dry in the sun. From the looks
of the wash-water, the clothes should look better than they do. They
fitted rather snug when we got into them, but we will soon stretch them
out again.
_Night._ A letter from father! So far as I know, he never wrote a letter
before. I do not remember that I ever saw his handwriting until now. I
expected to hear from him through others, but of getting a letter direct
from him, I never even thought. Another was from my sister, Mrs. Loucks.
They are all well, getting along first-rate without me. I guess I was
not of so much account as I thought. However, I am delighted to hear
about them. Captain Bostwick returned this P. M. and has told me all the
home news. I almost feel as if I had been home, he told me so much about
every thing I wanted to know, and best of all brought me father's
letter. I will answer that letter right off, now, and then go to bed,
where many of the company already are.
_September 14, 1862._
_Sunday._ My first day on duty as corporal of the guard. Two hours on
and four off duty gives me lots of time to write, and as it may interest
our folks to know what guard duty really is, I will describe it as best
I can. An officer of the guard, a sergeant of the guard, four corporals,
and four times as many privates as there are posts to guard, are
detailed the night before. In the morning at 8 A. M. the fife and drum
sounds the call for guard-mount, and the whole detail reports at
guard-headquarters, which is wherever the call is sounded from.
Three-quarters of the detail go on duty and the other quarter, called
supernumeraries, have nothing at all to do, unless a man on duty is
taken sick, when a supernumerary takes his place. The corporal then on
duty goes with the one just going on with the first relief, and marches
to post No. 1, where the guard calls out, "Who comes there?" The
corporal says, "Relief." "Advance Relief," says the guard on post, when
he is replaced by a man from the new guard, and he takes his place in
the rear, marching on to the next post, where the same ceremony is
repeated until the last post is reached. The new guard is then on duty
and the corporal marches the old guard to headquarters, where they are
discharged and are free from all duty for the next twenty-four hours.
The corporal of the relief now on post remains at guard headquarters for
two hours, unless some trouble on the line happens, in which case the
guard cries out "Corporal of the guard!" giving the number of post. The
corporal then goes direct to that post, and if the trouble be such as he
cannot cope with, he calls "Sergeant of the guard!" In case it be too
serious for the sergeant, the officer of the guard is called in the same
way, and he is supposed to be able to settle the trouble, whatever it
may be. At the end of two hours, the second relief goes on, and then the
third in its turn, after which the first relief goes on again. This
keeps on until 8 A. M. the next morning, when a new guard is mounted and
the old one goes off. This gives each corporal and his relief four
turns of duty of two hours each, and sixteen hours to lie around
headquarters and do pretty much as he pleases. The sergeant and the
officer of the guard rarely have anything to do but pass away the time
in any lawful manner. But they must be ready, on call, at all times.
Train-load after train-load of troops keeps going past. The North must
get empty and the South get full at this rate. Mosquitoes and flies are
very troublesome. We must cover up head and hands at night, or if the
blanket gets off we must scratch all the next day. Some don't mind it,
but the most of us do, and if the pests would go where they are often
told to go, they would get a taste of what they are giving us.
We have a sutler now. No peddlers are allowed on the camp grounds. It is
buy of him now or go without. For change, he uses cards with his stamp
on, good for from three to twenty-five cents, at his tent, and good for
nothing at any other place. Report says we are to have a chaplain by
next Sunday, and that it is the Rev. Mr. Parker, who preached for us at
Hudson. I hope he will bring along all his patience and forbearance. He
will need it. Bad as we are, I don't suppose we are worse than the
average, but I think we must average pretty well up. We will know if he
comes, and won't have to watch the almanac to tell when Sunday comes.
_September 15, 1862._
_Monday._ Two men in the guard-house. We are improving. Baltimore
whiskey got into the camp some way and these men found it. At dress
parade to-night, a dispatch was read to us saying a great battle had
been fought and a great victory won by McClellan. We gave three cheers
that must have reached the scene of battle. It has set us up
wonderfully.
_September 16, 1862._
_Tuesday._ We are getting right down to business now. Have company-drill
and will soon drill with the whole regiment together. To-day we
practiced the double-quick, which is nothing more than a run. The day
was hot and these heavy clothes buttoned around us made us sweat, and
one man gave out. He fell down and several fell over him, stopping the
work long enough for us to catch breath. He was put under a tree and by
the time we were through was able to walk back to camp. I went into the
mill to-day and asked for a job. The miller said he thought I had about
all the job I could attend to. That is the nearest approach to a joke I
have heard from a native. They are the dumbest set of people I ever met.
At least they seem so to me. The country is queer, too. There are no
roads here. They are all turnpikes. Many of the houses set so far back
from the road, and shade trees are so plenty, that they are not seen
unless one goes on purpose. To the west and south the country looks like
a forest, but there are no forests here, only scattering trees all over
the fields and along the roads. The people are Dutch, mostly, and the
rest are negroes,--"Niggers" they are universally called here. Money has
another name, too. I bought a bundle of straw for a bed, which I was
told was a "fip" for a bundle. I tied up a bundle and was then told it
would be a "levy," all of which meant that if the man bound it up it was
a "fip" and if I bound it it would be a "levy," which is two fips. I
found out at last that a "fip" was sixpence and a "levy" was a shilling.
Two fellows got too much of the sutler's whiskey to-day. They forged an
order for it, and as a punishment each had a placard pinned to his back,
with the nature of his offense printed in large letters, and were
marched about the camp until sober.
_September 17, 1862._
Two letters to-day, and two papers, all from home. Seems as if I had
been there for a visit. I wonder if my letters give them as much
pleasure? I expect they do. It is natural they should. I know pretty
nearly what they are about, but of me, they only know what I write in
my letters, and in this, my everlasting letter, as I have come to call
my diary. It is getting to be real company for me. It is my one real
confident. I sometimes think it is a waste of time and paper, and then I
think how glad I would be to get just such nonsense from my friends, if
our places were changed. I suppose they study out these crow's tracks
with more real interest than they would a message from President
Lincoln. We are looking for a wet bed again to-night. It does not rain,
but a thick fog covers everything and the wind blows it in one side of
our tents and out the other.
Maybe I have described our life here before, but as no one description
can do it justice I am going to try again. We are in a field of 100
acres, as near as I can judge, on the side of a hill, near the top. The
ground is newly seeded and wets up quickly, as such ground usually does.
We sleep in pairs, and a blanket spread on the ground is our bed while
another spread over us is our covering. A narrow strip of muslin, drawn
over a pole about three feet from the ground, open at both ends, the
wind and rain, if it does rain, beating in upon us, and water running
under and about us; this, with all manner of bugs and creeping things
crawling over us, and all the while great hungry mosquitoes biting every
uncovered inch of us, is not an overdrawn picture of that part of a
soldier's life, set apart for the rest and repose necessary to enable
him to endure several hours of right down hard work at drill, in a hot
sun with heavy woollen clothes on, every button of which must be
tight-buttoned, and by the time the officers are tired watching us, we
come back to camp wet through with perspiration and too tired to make
another move. Before morning our wet clothes chill us to the marrow of
our bones, and why we live, and apparently thrive under it, is something
I cannot understand. But we do, and the next day are ready for more of
it. Very few even take cold. It is a part of the contract, and while we
grumble and growl among ourselves we don't really mean it, for we are
learning what we will be glad to know at some future time.
Now I am about it, and nothing better to do, I will say something about
our kitchen, dining room and cooking arrangements. Some get mad and cuss
the cooks, and the whole war department, but that is usually when our
stomachs are full. When we are hungry we swallow anything that comes and
are thankful for it. The cook-house is simply a portion of the field we
are in. A couple of crotches hold up a pole on which the camp kettles
are hung, and under which a fire is built. Each company has one, and as
far as I know they are all alike. The camp kettles are large sheet-iron
pails, one larger than the other so one can be put inside the other when
moving. If we have meat and potatoes, meat is put in one, and potatoes
in the other. The one that gets cooked first is emptied into mess pans,
which are large sheet-iron pans with flaring sides, so one can be packed
in another. Then the coffee is put in the empty kettle and boiled. The
bread is cut into thick slices, and the breakfast call sounds. We grab
our plates and cups, and wait for no second invitation. We each get a
piece of meat and a potato, a chunk of bread and a cup of coffee with a
spoonful of brown sugar in it. Milk and butter we buy, or go without. We
settle down, generally in groups, and the meal is soon over. Then we
wash our dishes, and put them back in our haversacks. We make quick work
of washing dishes. We save a piece of bread for the last, with which we
wipe up everything, and then eat the dishrag. Dinner and breakfast are
alike, only sometimes the meat and potatoes are cut up and cooked
together, which makes a really delicious stew. Supper is the same, minus
the meat and potatoes. The cooks are men detailed from the ranks for
that purpose. Every one smokes or chews tobacco here, so we find no
fault because the cooks do both. Boxes or barrels are used as kitchen
tables, and are used for seats between meals. The meat and bread are cut
on them, and if a scrap is left on the table the flies go right at it
and we have so many the less to crawl over us. They are never washed,
but are sometimes scraped off and made to look real clean. I never yet
saw the cooks wash their hands, but presume they do when they go to the
brook for water.
_September 18, 1862._
Mr. Parker came last night, and is to be our chaplain. He is the one who
preached for us at Hudson Camp Ground, and the one we asked to have for
chaplain of the 128th. He can sing like a lark, and we are glad he is
here. There are many good singers in the regiment. There is talk of
organizing a choir or club, and no doubt the Dominie will join it. We
have more good news from the front. McClellan seems to fit the place he
is in. It is reported that George Flint and Elihu Bryan have been taken
prisoners. I know them well, but don't remember the regiment they went
out in.
_September 19, 1862._
Reports are that a great battle has been fought at Antietam, and a great
victory won. Do they tell us this to keep up our courage, or has the
beginning of the end really come? To-morrow we have the promise of going
on picket duty. Good! anything for a change. It will give me something
to write about in my diary, if nothing more. Things are getting rather
monotonous, and any change will be good for us, provided it is not for
the worse. Prayer meeting every night now. Chaplain Parker seems in dead
earnest. He wants us all to be ready to die. Then, he says, if death
don't come, we will be in better shape to live. Very few of the officers
attend prayer meeting, though they encourage the men to do so.
_September 20, 1862._
In spite of the fact that we are sumptuously fed, I have long longed for
a good square meal off a clean table. This morning, early, I sneaked
away to a farm house I had often looked at, and wondered if the people
there would contract to fill me up for such a consideration as I could
afford. I told them I was not begging, but would like to buy a
breakfast. The lady was willing, and I was soon sitting in a chair at a
clean table with a clean table-cloth and clean dishes on it. And such a
breakfast! I forgot who or where I was. The smell of the victuals made
me ravenous, and I ate until I could eat no more. They were pleasant
people and seemed to enjoy seeing me eat. I felt guilty because I had
not asked my friends to go with me, but I wanted first to investigate on
my own hook, for I was not at all sure of getting anything when I set
out, in which case I was going back to camp in time for breakfast, and
say nothing about it. But when the hostess would not take anything for
the hearty meal I had eaten, I was glad I had not brought my family with
me. I gave them my heartiest thanks and returned to camp to find Company
B getting ready for picket duty, and I was soon in my place ready for
anything.
_10 a. m._ We are about six miles from Camp Millington, at a village
called Catonsville. That is, the company is broken up into squads, and
the one I am with is here, and in my charge as corporal. I am to keep
one man on post and change him for another every two hours. Not a very
hard job for any of us. The people seem very pleasant, and as the day is
not very hot we are simply having a picnic. We are to pick up travelers
who cannot give a good account of themselves and hold them until the
officer of the guard comes round, and let him decide what to do with
them. Coming here we passed Louden Park Cemetery, a beautiful place, and
the largest of its kind I ever saw. Shade trees all over it, great fine
monuments and vaults as large as small houses. I guess only rich people
are buried there, for I saw no common headstones. But then I suppose we
only saw a part of it, and the best part at that.
_Night._ The day has passed quietly. Nothing startling happened. The
people have treated us royally, gave us all the peaches we could eat,
and also gave us the credit of being the best behaved of any detail that
has been here.
_9 p. m._ Some firing was heard on the post next ours, and which is the
farthest out of any. I went out to learn what it meant. It seems a man
came along and when halted, jumped the fence and ran for a piece of
woods near by. Mike Sullivan started out to capture him. They shot at
each other, but the man got away. Mike got a lot of slivers stuck in his
face by a bullet hitting a post he was passing as the shot was fired.
This is the only excitement we have had up to this time, midnight.
_September 21, 1862._
_Sunday morning._ Nothing happened during the night. We bought a good
breakfast of a family who make a business of feeding the soldiers that
come here, for I was told there is a detail here every day. I wish it
might be us every time. As soon as the new guard arrives we are to go
back to camp and camp fare again.
_2 p. m._ In camp again. It seems hotter and dirtier than ever after our
day in the country. Before we left Catonsville we filled our haversacks
with great luscious peaches. Those that ripen on the tree the people
cannot sell, so they gave us all that would fall with a gentle shake of
the tree. How I wished I could empty my haversack in your lap, mother.
On the way to camp we met a drove of mules, said to be 400 of them,
loose, and being driven like cattle. They were afraid of us and all got
in a close bunch, and the 400 pairs of ears all flapping together made a
curious sight. We were told they came from Kentucky and are for use in
the army. They were all bays, with a dark stripe along the back and
across the shoulders, looking like a cross laid on their backs. It
hasn't seemed much like Sunday. But Sunday doesn't count for much in
the army. Many of our hardest days have been Sundays. But I am sleepy,
having been awake all last night. It is surprising how little sleep we
get along with. I, who have been such a sleepy-head all my life, get
only a few hours' sleep any night, and many nights none at all. I
suppose we will sometime get accustomed to the noise and confusion, that
so far has had no end, night or day.
_September 22, 1862._
_Monday._ Knapsack-drill to-day,--something new to me, though I am told
it is to take place every Sunday morning when in camp. As we were not
here yesterday, it was put off until to-day. We marched out to the drill
ground with our knapsacks on, expecting to practice as usual, except
that we were loaded that much heavier. As all our belongings were in our
knapsacks, they were quite heavy. We formed in column by companies and
were told to "unsling knapsacks." We all had to be coached, but we
finally stood at attention with our knapsacks lying on the ground wide
open before us. Then the colonel, the major and the captain of the
company being inspected, marched along and with the tip of their swords
poked over the contents, regardless of how precious they might be to us.
And such a sight as they saw! Besides our extra underclothing, some
clean and some unclean, there were Bibles, whiskey bottles, novels,
packs of cards, love letters and photographs, revolvers and dirk knives,
pen and ink, paper and envelopes and postage stamps, and an endless
variety of odds and ends we had picked up in our travels.
As soon as the inspection was over with Company A, they were marched
back to camp and so all along the line until Company B, the last of all,
was reached. When we got back to camp some of the companies had been
there long enough to get asleep. Nothing more was required of us, and we
put in the time as we chose, provided always that we observed the camp
regulations.
I may never have so good a chance, so I will try and explain some of the
things we have learned to do and how we do it. Begin with roll call. The
orderly sergeant, Lew Holmes, has our names in a book, arranged in
alphabetical order in one place, and in the order in which we march in
another. If it is simply to see if we are all here, he sings out "Fall
in for roll call" and we get in line, with no regard to our proper
places, and answer to our names as called from the alphabetical list. If
for drill, "Fall in for drill!" and then we take our places with the
tallest man at the right, and so on, till the last and shortest man is
in place on the left. We are then in a single line, by company front.
The orderly then points at the first man and says "One," which the man
repeats. He then points to the second man and says "Two," which is also
repeated. So it goes down the line, the one, two, being repeated, and
each man being careful to remember whether he is odd or even. When that
is done, and it is very quickly done, the orderly commands, "Right
face!" The odd-numbered men simply swing on the left heel one quarter of
the way around and stand fast. The even-numbered men do the same, and in
addition step obliquely to the right of the odd-numbered man, bringing
us in a double line and one step apart, which distance we must carefully
keep, so that when the order "Front!" is given, we can, by reversing the
movement of "Right face!" come to our places without crowding. When
coming to a front, the line is not apt to be straight and the order
"Right dress!" is given, when the man on the right stands fast and the
one next to him puts himself squarely by his side. The next moves back
or forth until he can just see the buttons on the coat of the second man
to his right,--that is, with his head erect, he must look past one man
and just see the buttons on the coat of the second man from him. That
makes the line as straight as you can draw a string. "Left face!" is the
same thing reversed. In marching, one has only to keep step with the
one next in front of him. If this is done, the blame for irregular time
all comes upon the file leaders, which are the two in front; they must
keep step together. If Company B is going out to drill by itself it is
now ready. If, however, the entire regiment is to drill together, as it
has a few times, Company A marches out first, and as the rear passes
where Company F is standing the latter falls in, close behind; and so
each company, until Company B, which is the left of the line, and the
last to go, falls in and fills up the line. Why the companies are
arranged in the line as they are is a mystery I have so far failed to
find out. From right to left they come in the following order: A, F, D,
I, C, H, E, K, G and B. A is said to have the post of honor, because in
marching by the right flank it is ahead, and meets danger first if there
be any. Company B has the next most honorable position, because in
marching by the left flank it is in the lead. There is a great advantage
in being in the lead. On a march the files will open, more or less, and
when a halt is ordered the company in the lead stops short. The other
companies keep closing up the files, and by the time the ranks are
closed "Attention!" may sound, and another start be made. The first
company has had quite a breathing spell, while the last has had very
little, if any. If I were to enlist again, I would try hard to get in
Company A, for all the marching we have so far done has been by the
right flank. Company A at the head and Company B bringing up the rear.
When we reach the field we are generally broken up into companies, each
company drilling in marching by the front, wheeling to the right and
left, and finally coming together again before marching back to camp.
_September 23, 1862._
_Tuesday._ Another inspection to-day. This time our guns and
accoutrements were inspected, and much fault was found because we had
not kept our guns from rusting. Only a few got off without a scolding,
and these were some that seem to love a gun and care for it as they
would a baby. This, with our everyday drill, and a general cleaning and
scouring up of our guns and the brass on our belts and cartridge boxes,
has kept us busy all day long. I had kept the inside of my gun clean, so
I only had the outside to scour up. Little by little we learn our
lesson, learn to put the best on top, and little by little the screws of
discipline are turned on.
_September 24, 1862._
_Wednesday._ New tents were given us to-day. "A" tents they are called;
I suppose because they are in the shape of a letter A. They are like the
roof of a house cut off at the eaves, and one gable split open for us to
enter, with strings sewed fast to one side and buttonholes in the other
so we can close them up tight. A detail from each company has been
clearing up the ground and laying out for an all-winter stay. The
officers have moved back to the more level portion of the field, which
brings our lines of tents on much better ground than before. A long and
wide street has been laid out and is being graded off, on the west side
of which the officers' tents are ranged, the colonel's tent in the
middle and a little in the rear of the tents of the captains and
lieutenants, which are directly in front of their respective companies.
On a line with Colonel Cowles' tent are those of the lieutenant colonel
(which by the way has no occupant yet, he being off somewhere on
detached service), the major, quartermaster, adjutant, surgeon and
chaplain. Back of these is a big tent called the Hospital, which so far
has not been of much use. Then in front of all these are the companies'
quarters, the ten company streets running off at right angles to the
broad street along which the company officers' tents are now being
placed. A wide space is left in front of Colonel Cowles' tent, and runs
clear through camp, nothing being on it but a flag-pole, which is to
stand directly in front of the colonel's tent and in line with the
tents of the company officers. So many hands make light work of any
job, but I am only telling how it is to be, for only the laying out is
completed and the grading begun.
We that were not detailed for the work were taken out to the great sandy
plain toward what I am told is Chesapeake Bay and given a lesson in
battalion-drill.
The 135th N. Y. was with us, and from the crowds of people who were
there I suppose battalion-drill is something worth seeing. But it was
anything but fun for us, and we came back to camp hungry, tired, and
with as much dust on us as would stick. We were glad enough to crawl
into our old shelter tents. It is well I wrote the most of the day's
doings before we went out, for it is hard work to put this little finish
to it. Good-night, diary.
_September 25, 1862._
_Thursday._ On picket duty at Catonsville again. The people and the
peaches are just as good as ever. We are glad enough of this outing,
after our hard day yesterday. The six-mile walk has given us good
appetites and the prospects of a good feeding when dinner time comes
makes us feel like colts turned out to grass.
_Night._ Some of my squad, when off duty, went visiting the posts
farther out, and having found some whiskey, got gloriously drunk. The
sober ones have to do double duty, and the drunks are locked in an empty
omnibus which stands beside the road. What sort of punishment will fit
their offense I don't know. They have been so happy this afternoon, they
can afford to be made miserable for a day or two. They are sound asleep
now, unmindful of coming consequences. The fine record we made when here
before has gone all to pieces and that is really the worst thing about
it.
_September 26, 1862._
_Friday._ Camp Millington again. A sort of trial called a court-martial
has been held and the boys who celebrated yesterday, are meditating
upon it in the guard-house, which by the way is a mule-stable on the end
of the sutler's shop. Our old tents were taken down and our new ones are
up. Each one is trying to outdo the other in making them look homelike.
Boards are in great demand for flooring, and already complaints are
coming in from the natives, that every loose board or one that could be
loosened from their fences or outbuildings is missing, and they have
reason to think they came this way. We are delighted with our new tents.
Each holds four men. Walter Loucks, George and Jim Story and myself make
up our family. We have to lay straight, and at that there is no room to
spare. But we are protected from rain, and the heavy dews that are
almost as bad, and best of all, we can shut up tight and keep out the
mosquitoes. Those that do get in we can smoke out in short order.
A rumor is afloat that another regiment has been raised in Dutchess
County and is to come here. We think ourselves soldiers now and are
planning how we will entertain the greenhorns when they come.
_September 27, 1862._
_Saturday._ We are looking for the Dutchess County regiment as if their
coming was an assured fact, yet it is only a rumor, and even that cannot
be traced very far. Aside from our daily drill, which is not much fun,
we manage to get some amusement out of everything that comes along. We
visit each other and play all sorts of games. Fiddling and dancing take
the lead just now. The company streets, now that the ground has been
smoothed off, make a good ballroom. A partner has just been swung clear
off the floor into a tent, onto a man who was writing a letter, and from
the sound is going to end up in a fight. "Taps" are sounded at 9 P. M.,
which is a signal for lights out and quiet in the camp.
_September 28, 1862._
_Sunday night._ Meeting to-day. Chaplain Parker preached. He asked those
who would stop swearing to hold up their hands, and so far as I could
see every hand went up. After inspection in the morning we had nothing
to do except to go to meeting and dress parade, which I believe we are
to have regularly. We march to the parade ground, which is just back of
our camp quarters, and form in line. The colonel, with the major and
adjutant on his right and left, station themselves in front, the colonel
opposite the colors, which are in the center, between Companies C and H.
The fifer and drummer pass along in front and back again when the
colonel puts us through the manual of arms. A great many civilians come
out and it must be a pretty sight, provided the orders are well
executed. If we do well, nothing is said, but if not, we are cautioned
to do better next time.
How I wish I could peep in on the old folks at home to-night! I imagine
just how they are sitting around, talking, perhaps of me, or better yet,
writing me a letter.
There is no use denying that I am homesick. I have been such a
home-body, and my home life has been so pleasant.
The comforts of my home, though humble, have been many, and I have never
missed them as I do to-night. I have only been away a short time, but it
seems longer to me than all my life before. It has been crowded so full
of strange and stirring events that it seems as if I would go crazy
unless I can see and talk with our folks about it. Mr. Parker says
confession is good for the soul, and I believe it, for after confessing
to my diary as I have I feel better already. I will crawl in now and
perhaps dream of home, which I often do, and which while it lasts, is
just as good as being there.
_September 29, 1862._
CAMP MILLINGTON, BALTIMORE. On account of the heat we were not taken out
for drill to-day. We have cleaned up our quarters, for since getting
our new and comfortable tents we are quite particular about appearances.
There is a friendly rivalry as to which of the ten companies shall have
the neatest quarters. All being exactly alike to start with, it depends
upon us to keep them neat and shipshape. The cooks have tents as well as
we, and altogether we are quite another sort from what we were a week
ago. It has been a regular clean-up day with us. The brook below us has
carried off dirt enough from our clothing and bodies to make a garden.
While we were there close beside the railroad, a train loaded with
soldiers halted, and while we were joking with the men, someone fired a
pistol from another passing train, and a sergeant on the standing train
was killed--whether it was by accident or purposely done, no one knows;
or whether the guilty one will be found out and punished, no one of us
can tell. But I wonder so few accidents do happen. There are hundreds of
revolvers in camp and many of them in the hands of those who know no
better how to use them than a child.
_September 30, 1862._
Battalion-drill to-day. It was just as hot as yesterday, and some say
hotter. The lieutenant colonel, James Smith, came last night, and has
taken charge of our military education. He has been in the service, and
was in the battle of Antietam. Some say he is a West Pointer. At any
rate we have a drill-master who understands his business. One thing that
has already made him dear to us is that he makes the officers come to
time just as well as the men. He told them, in so many words, that they
had as much to learn as we. If he holds out as he has started off, he
will stand well with the rank and file, however he may stand with the
officers. Hurrah for Colonel Smith!
_October 1, 1862._
_Wednesday._ Another hot day. How hot I don't know, but it wilted me. I
tumbled down, completely used up while at drill. Several others did the
same. We seem to be getting over it to-night, as the air cools off. The
nights are cool, and that is all that keeps us from melting. Not cool
enough, however, to stop the mosquitoes. The heat, together with our
changed condition of living, is beginning to get in its work. Several
are in the hospital.
_Later._ There is great excitement in Company B to-night. Orderly
Sergeant Lewis Holmes, the one we voted to be our orderly, is to be set
back and a corporal named Gilbert Kniffin is to be put in his place. As
soon as the companies were organized at Hudson, we were allowed to vote
which of the five sergeants of Company B should be orderly sergeant. We
did not know then, but have since learned that the orderly sergeant
stands next in the line of promotion to the commissioned officers.
Kniffin is only a corporal, but he has friends at home who have
influence, and this influence has been brought to bear so heavy that
this move has been decided upon.
_9 p. m._ It is all over, and Lew Holmes is still orderly sergeant of
Co. B, 128th N. Y. Vols. We, the enlisted men of the company, talked the
thing over and decided we would not put up with it. We did not know if
we would be able to prevent it, but we finally decided we would stand by
Holmes, and fight the thing to a finish, whatever the outcome might be.
When we spoke to Captain Bostwick he acted as if he was ashamed of
himself, but he said the change had already been made and could not be
unmade. We told him we could unmake it, and would, or die in the company
street. So the matter rested until time for roll call, when Kniffin came
out with the book and called the name of William H. Appleby, the first
name on the list. To his honor be it said, he remained silent, and was
immediately put in the mule-stable, which was our guard-house. The next
man's name was called, and he went to join Appleby. This went on until
the guard-house was full, when a council of the company officers was
held, after which the captain gave us a lecture, telling us what
insubordination meant, and that the whole regiment, if necessary, would
be used to enforce obedience. We had agreed not to talk back, but to
simply refuse to answer to our names when called by Corporal Kniffin, or
in any way acknowledge him as orderly sergeant, so we said nothing. The
men were brought back from the guard-house, and Kniffin again called
William H. Appleby. He did not answer and was again put in the
guard-house. After a few more had been sent to keep him company another
halt was made, the prisoners were again brought out, and the captain
called the roll, when every man responded promptly. We were then ordered
to break ranks and so the matter stands. But we have won our first
battle, we feel sure of that, although we are warned that a company, and
if necessary the whole regiment, will be called upon to shoot any who do
not answer roll call in the morning. My name is so near the bottom of
the list it was not reached, and so I had nothing to do but look on and
listen, but I am as determined as any, and I flap my wings and crow just
as loudly as William H. Appleby does.
_October 2, 1862._
_Thursday._ Holmes called the roll this morning and we hear no more
about being shot for mutiny. It may possibly come later, but from all I
can see and hear the trouble was entirely a company affair and did not
reach beyond it. If Colonel Smith, who is said to be very strict on
discipline, had taken a hand in it, we might have fared worse, but I
doubt if he would allow such a cowardly trick to be played on so good a
soldier as Holmes is, and has been, to say nothing of jumping a corporal
over the heads of five sergeants, who have all been prompt and faithful
in the discharge of their duties. Our first real sick man was sent to
the hospital to-night, one of Company B, from Dover.
_October 3, 1862._
_Friday._ Battalion-drill again to-day. That and talking about the new
orderly is all I have to record to-day. The whole thing has blown over,
evidently. If the cause had been just, I suppose there would have been
some way to bring us to terms, but as it now appears, I think the
company officers are ashamed of their part, and Kniffin, if he ever gets
to be orderly sergeant, will have to come up by the regular route.
_October 4, 1862._
_Saturday._ Battalion-drill again. Learning to be a soldier is hard
work. There has been no rain lately and the sun has dried up everything.
There are no green fields here as we have at home. The ground is sandy,
and where there is grass, it is only a single stem in a place, with bare
ground all round it. So many feet tread it all to dust, which the wind
blows all over us, but mostly in our faces and eyes. The road past our
camp is a mire of the finest dust, and as hard to travel through as so
much mud. We eat it with our rations, and breathe it all the day long.
It covers everything, in our tents as well as outside. Our clean new
tents are already taking on the universal muddy, red color of everything
in sight. The only good thing about it is, it serves every one alike,
piling upon the officers just as it does on the men. We are getting to
feel quite proud of ourselves as soldiers. We learn fast under the
teaching of Colonel Smith. The 135th N. Y. and a Mass. regiment are with
us on battalion-drill and sometimes several other regiments, so that we
about cover the large plain out near the bay. We get tougher and harder
every day. The fodder we so often find fault with, and the hard work we
are doing, is making us hard, like the work and the fare is.
_October 5, 1862._
_Sunday._ On picket again to-day. We are at a new place, on the road to
Frederick, but not as far out as Catonsville. It is plain to see it is
only for practice, for we are only a little way from camp, and the other
posts are far beyond us. Cavalry pickets are said to be farther out
still. May be it is to give us a rest, for that it certainly does. We
are out of the dust, our duties are light and the day after picket is
also a day of rest. We also get fresh vegetables, which are a treat for
us nowadays.
_Night._ We have had a day of rest. Two hours on post and the next four
at liberty to loaf in the shade, is not hard work. We are in a lonely
place, no houses near us, but we have had what we needed, a real
rest-up.
_October 6, 1862._
_Monday._ Back in Camp Millington, and the rest of the day is ours. A
letter from Miss Hull, in answer to one written her mother. It was full
of home news, and I feel as if I had been there. My homesick fit has
left me, but it was a terror while it lasted. I believe it is more
common than we think. I see many faces yet that look just as mine felt.
Like me they keep it to themselves, or possibly tell it to their
diaries, as I did to mine. I am not the only one who keeps a diary.
There are plenty of others who do, and others still who say they can
remember enough of it without writing it down. In the afternoon
Lieutenant Dutcher invited me to go for a walk. We followed the
Baltimore & Ohio R. R. for about a mile and came to abandoned camp
grounds nearly all the way. We found some housekeeping necessities which
we brought back with us. After dress parade, we visited about until
roll call, and are going to bed early, for to-morrow the grind begins
again. Good-night.
_October 7, 1862._
_Tuesday._ On duty at a place called "Monitor Mills." Have three men
with me. It is only a little way out of camp, and all we have to do is
to stay here for twenty-four hours, and change the guard every two
hours. I have no idea why it is, but it is fun compared to drilling, and
I am glad to be here.
A soldier has just gone from here who was in the battle of Antietam. He
filled us full of tall stories, some of them so tall they would hardly
go down. But if the half he said is true, we know little of real
soldiering. Life in camp, he says, is a picnic compared with field duty.
If he was as good at fighting as he is at talking about it, the
Rebellion should have been squelched long ago. He made me think of some
men I know, who can hardly wait to get at the Rebs, and yet who have
managed to shirk everything they can in the way of duty or danger.
_October 8, 1862._
_Wednesday._ Have loafed about camp all day. Have not been out for drill
since Saturday. But I am finding no fault. The weather keeps hot and
dry, and the boys were a sight to behold when they came in from drill.
Hot, dirty, tired and hungry. What would we do without the brook running
past us? I wonder it doesn't choke up with the dirt it washes from us.
To-day has been election day in Baltimore, and to-night the city seems
to be on fire. We have a fine view of the city by day, and of the lights
by night. To-night everything seems to be ablaze, and we are wondering
what it can mean. We will know in the morning when the papers come.
_October 9, 1862._
_Thursday._ Bonfires in honor of the election of Mr. Chapin, for Mayor
of Baltimore, was what so mystified us last night. The latest reports
said there were riots in the city and it was being burned by the
rioters. It was quite a relief to find out the truth, although we knew
the city was there as soon as daylight appeared. The first death in our
regiment occurred to-day in the hospital at Baltimore; it was that of
John H. Smith, Hudson, N. Y. He was sick when we came here and was
taken to the hospital at once. There are a few sick in our camp
hospital, but nothing very serious as yet. At dress parade, a notice was
read that we had been placed in General Emory's Brigade. I am sorry I
cannot remember what other regiments make up the brigade, but I know the
150th N. Y. was not one. The Dutchess County regiment, lately organized,
is the one hundred and fiftieth that New York has sent out, and we are
greatly in hopes they may be with us all through the war.
_October 10, 1862._
_Friday._ The air is full of rumors to-day that we are to go somewhere,
and that very soon, yet no one seems to be able to trace them.
Experience has taught us that we won't know for certain when we go until
we start, nor where we go until we get there. Train-loads of soldiers
keep going past, and have been going past nearly every day since we came
here. Seems to me I never saw such a dry place. Everything is so coated
with dust it is impossible to tell its original color. From appearances,
the country all about us is dried up and dead. A wounded soldier has
been here from the hospital. He was at Antietam--was shot through the
arm, which is still in a sling. But the most wonderful thing was that as
he was going off the field another ball hit him, or rather hit a pocket
Testament in his breast pocket, and was stopped against the back cover,
after going through the front cover and the rest of the book. He had
both the ball and the Testament to show. What a sermon could be preached
with that book and bullet for a text!
_October 11, 1862._
_Saturday._ Before daylight. We have been turned out, for some purpose,
and are standing in line with our guns and accoutrements on.
_Later._ Are back in quarters, waiting to see what comes next. It has at
last begun to rain and has every appearance of keeping it up. I don't
suppose it will interfere with our movements, though it can make it
unpleasant for us.
_8 a. m._ The papers have come, and say Stuart's Cavalry have invaded
Pennsylvania, and are taking all the horses they can lay hands on.
_Later._ We have orders to pack up two days' rations, and have just been
given forty rounds of ammunition. Begins to look like business now. We
are in line waiting for further orders, and I am improving the time by
keeping my diary right plump up to the minute. One man is missing,
absent without leave. Not a soul of us knows which way we are to go or
what for. If we were mounted I would think we were going to stop
Stuart's horse-stealing, but as we are on foot that can hardly be.
_Noon._ At the foot of Biddle Street, Baltimore, waiting for
transportation. From all I can learn, our movements depend on dispatches
from some higher authority, yet to be received. Major Foster's horse
fell and hurt the major's leg, but he has caught up with us, though he
has quite a limp.
_Night._ Here we sit, or stand, just as we choose, still waiting for a
train. It has rained nearly all day, and we are wet and cold, and
everyone is cross, even to the officers. Just then our regimental
postmaster caught up with us, and gave me a letter from Mrs. Loucks,
also one from uncle Daniel. My sister says a box of good things is on
the way for us. Too bad it didn't come before we left. No telling
whether we get it now or not. Well, such is war.
_October 12, 1862._
_Sunday._ Relay House Station, on the Northern Central R. R. Just where
that is I haven't yet found out. We stood up or laid down in the street
from noon yesterday until 3 A. M. this morning, when cars came and we
went on board. They are box cars, no seats, but they have a roof, and
that is what we most needed. We shivered and shook so our teeth
chattered when we first got on board, and it was 5 A. M. before the
train started. We were no longer curious to know where we were going. We
were wet, cold, hungry and thirsty, and from lying on the pavements were
so stiff we could hardly get on our feet. The major had to give it
up--his leg was hurt worse than he thought. We are sorry not to have him
along, for next to Colonel Smith, he is the most soldierly soldier in
the regiment. Our two days' rations are gone and we are wondering when
we will get another feed.
_Noon._ We are at Hanover Junction, Pa. We now feel sure we are after
the rebel horse thieves, but unless we get a faster move on than this,
they will get away with all the horses in the country before we get
there. We are waiting for further orders from General Wool. The 144th N.
Y. just stopped here, on their way to Baltimore. They are just out, and
to hear them complain about being kept on the cars a whole day and night
made us laugh.
_5 p. m._ We are full once more. Doesn't seem as if we could ever get
hungry again after the feed we have just had. We are at Hanover, Pa. As
the train stopped it seemed as if the whole population were standing
beside the track, and nearly everyone had a basket of eatables or a pail
of coffee. Men, women and children were there and they seemed to enjoy
seeing us eat, even urging us to eat more, after we had stuffed
ourselves, and then told us to put the rest in our haversacks. But they
are terribly scared at the near approach of the rebel cavalry. We told
them to fear no more. We were there, and the memory of the feast we had
had would make us their special defenders. They distributed tracts among
us, some of them printed sermons, and wound up by asking us to join them
in singing the long-meter doxology. We not only sang it, we shouted it;
each one took his own key and time, and some,--I for one,--got through
in time to hear the last line from the others. We left them with cheers
and blessings that drowned the noise of the train, and I prayed that if
I ever got stranded it might be in Hanover.
GETTYSBURG, PA. _Night._ The train has stopped outside the village, and
a citizen says the Rebs are just out of the village on the opposite
side. It is pitch dark and the orders are to show no lights and to keep
very still. I have a candle and am squatted in the corner of the car
trying to keep my diary going.
The officers are parading up and down along the train trying to enforce
the order to be quiet. I am hovering over my candle so it won't be seen,
for I must write, for fear I won't get a better chance.
_October 13, 1862._
_Monday._ Orders got too strict for my candle and I had to put it out.
We made so much noise that the doors were shut on us finally and we were
in pitch darkness in a closed car, with only room to lay down in. As the
noise could be traced to no one in particular we kept it up until tired
out and then slept as well as the circumstances would allow. Company B
has a new name, "Bostwick's Tigers." It seems the colonel sent to find
out who was making such a noise and was told it was Bostwick's
tigers.[3] However, morning finally came, and the people of Gettysburg
came down with a good breakfast, which in spite of our Hanover stuffing
we began to need. They say the Rebs have gone on about five miles beyond
the place. Lew Holmes and I got permission to go into the village, and I
took the opportunity to write a letter home and to catch up with my
diary.
_Night._ Just as I had written the above a horseman dashed into town and
said the Rebels were on the way back to attack us. We ran for it and got
back in time to fall in place, and had marched back into the village
when another order stopped us and we remained all day long in the
streets, not daring to leave for fear of an order to fall in. About 5
o'clock we were marched out of the village into open fields, to the
north, I think, but as the sun has not shown himself all day, it may be
in any other direction. Here we were broken into companies and guards
posted. Not being on the detail for guard, Walt Loucks, Len Loucks, Bill
Snyder and myself have hauled up a lot of cornstalks beside a fence and
I have written up my diary while they have made up the beds. Good-night.
_October 14, 1862._
_Tuesday._ Well, I have had a good sleep, if I did have a hard time
getting it. Our cornstalk bed which promised so well, did not prove so.
The stalks were like bean poles, and the ears big in proportion. After
turning and twisting every way, Walt and I left the others and started
on an exploring expedition. It was pitch dark, and we had to feel our
way, but finally came to a building. We felt along until we came to a
door and went in. It appeared to be an empty barn, but soon after we
spread our blankets and got into bed we found we were in a henroost. We
got outside much quicker than we got into the building and soon after
came against another building. This we felt our way around, and on the
opposite side found it to be a house, and the people not yet gone to
bed. We urged them to let us sleep on the floor by the fire, but while
the man seemed willing, the wife objected, and there was nothing to do
but try elsewhere. Finally we decided to try and find the cornfield
again, and by taking the back track we succeeded in getting back where
we started from. We made a bed under the fence and at last got asleep,
being too tired to be very particular. We were not going to say anything
about our adventure, but the others woke up first and in some way found
out about it. We had breakfast, the stragglers were called in, and were
soon in line waiting for the order to march.[4]
_2 p. m._ In Hanover, Pa., again. About 8 o'clock we marched through
Gettysburg and tumbled into the cars. We soon reached Hanover, where we
have since been. Along towards noon, we began to wonder if we would get
another such feed as they gave us on Sunday. Somehow the people didn't
seem as glad to see us as they did then. In fact they seemed rather to
avoid us. Not all, for some were handing out everything eatable they
had. Rather than ride these free horses to death, Snyder and I decided
on another plan and it worked beautifully. We saw a house where the
people were ready to sit down to the table--a man and a woman were
already at the table--when we set our guns by the door and walking in,
took seats at the table without as much as saying "by your leave." I
passed my plate to the man, who all at once seemed to see a funny side
to our impudence and burst out laughing. We had a good dinner and a
jolly good time, and felt as if we had gotten even with one of them at
any rate.
_Night._ Have stopped, and the report is that a bridge is broken down
somewhere ahead of us and that we must stay here all night; a lonesome
dismal spot, not a house in sight and only the remains of our army
rations for supper.
_October 15, 1862._
Have laid on the ground alongside the track resting and sleeping,
waiting for the bridge to be repaired so we can go home.
_October 16, 1862._
_Thursday, 5 a. m._ The cars shrink, or the men swell, for certainly
everybody had less room last night than before. Cross and crabbed, sore
in every joint, and mad at everything and everybody, we crawled out of
our beds (?) and shook ourselves together. In spite of strict orders to
the contrary, some fresh pork and some poultry found its way past the
guards during the night. The owners needn't come looking for it, they
would find only bristles and feathers if they did. I suppose the
partaker is as bad as the thief, but I didn't feel guilty at all for
accepting a slice of pork. I soon found a canteen with no owner, melted
it apart over a fire and fried my pork and divided with my chums. There
was no question about its being fresh, for we had no salt to make it
otherwise. About 9 o'clock we tumbled into the cars and with no more
adventures reached Camp Millington late in the afternoon. Can any one
imagine our surprise and our great delight at finding the 150th N. Y. in
camp right across the road from our camp? In a twinkling we were
together. Discipline went to the winds. The officers tried to make a
show of authority, but might as well have ordered the wind not to blow.
All being from the same neighborhood, we were one great happy family,
reunited after a long separation. I doubt if there is a man in either
regiment who has not a friend, if not a brother, in the other. They have
passed through about the same experiences in the recruiting camp and
passed over the same route to this place. They knew the same people we
knew and could give us late information about them. My own brother, John
Van Alstyne, the same John who scolded me for enlisting, who called me a
"fool" and lots of other bad names, had made the same sort of a fool of
himself and was here with Uncle Sam's uniform on. Dozens of others I
knew almost as well, and the same was the case all through, officers and
men alike. As soon as the first round of handshaking was over and our
volleys of questions about home and home people were answered, we took
our turn at answering as to where we had been and what we had done, and
how we liked it, etc., etc. Then we couldn't help standing up a little
straighter, and showing as best we could the superiority of old bronzed
soldiers like us over raw recruits like them. We had just returned from
a sally against the enemy. The enemy had run off and given us no chance
to show what we might have done, but that was no fault of ours. But soon
the pangs of hunger, which had been forgotten for the time, came back,
and as soon as the 150th took in the situation, over the fences and into
their deserted camp they went, and soon everything eatable that their
camp contained was transferred to ours, and soon afterwards to our
stomachs. And how much good it did them to see us eat! They bought out
the sutler and fed us until we could eat no more. And then we smoked and
talked and chatted until late into the night. Surely I have never seen
so much supreme satisfaction crammed into so small a space of time. But
we finally separated and have quieted down, and now that I have written
up my diary I will crawl in with my snoring comrades.
_October 28, 1862._
CAMP MILLINGTON, BALTIMORE. _Tuesday._ From the time of our home-coming
and the royal welcome given us by the 150th, I have only made notes
which I will try now to write out. Nothing out of the ordinary routine
of a soldier's life in camp has transpired. I am getting more and more
used to this, and the trifling occurrences that at first made such deep
impressions are soon forgotten now. Still, as some one may read this who
will never know of the details of a soldier's life in any other way, I
shall try and keep to my promise to tell the whole story.
The box of good things that was mentioned in the letter I received while
we lay in the street at Baltimore, waiting for a train to take us to
Gettysburg, came a few days after our return to camp. In it was a great
big package for me. I opened it and there lay the roasted body of our
old Shanghai rooster. He was minus head, feet and feathers, but I knew
him the minute I laid eyes on him.
I at once began to figure how many stomachs like ours he would fill, and
then gave out that many invitations. All came, and brought their plates.
With mouths watering, they stood about as I prepared to carve.
At the first cut I thought I smelled something, and at the next was sure
I did. The old fellow, tough as he was, was not able to stand close
confinement in such hot weather, and had taken on an odor that took away
all appetite for roast chicken. Terribly disappointed, we wrapped him up
again, and taking him out of camp, gave him as near a military funeral
as we knew how. He was a brave old bird. I have seen him whip Cuff,
mother's little guardian of the garden patch. "He sleeps his last sleep.
He has fought his last battle. No sound shall awake him to glory again."
Requests for passes to visit the camp of the 150th are the pests of the
commanding officers of our regiment, and the same can be said of the
150th. As soon as guard-mount is over, and the other details for camp
duty made, the old guard (those who were on duty the day before, and who
are excused from all duty except dress parade for the next twenty-four
hours) try for a pass to visit the city or the 150th, the two
attractions now. John Van Alstyne often visits me, as well as others
with him with whom I am well acquainted. These visits I return as often
as I can get away. Our camp ground has been laid out in regular order
and the company streets graded and made to look very respectable. There
is a broad street, along one side of which are the officers' tents, the
colonel's in the center. Back of these are the quartermaster's and the
commissary's stores, the sutler's tent and the mules and horses. In
front of the colonel's tent is the flagstaff, and running out from the
street are ten shorter streets, one for each company, with cook-houses
or tents at the bottom. Men are detailed every day to clean up and keep
in order all these and are called supernumeraries. When it rains we that
are not on duty lie in our tents and amuse ourselves in any way we can,
or visit from tent to tent as the fancy takes us. In fair weather we
have either company-drill or battalion-drill, and every now and then the
regiments are put together for brigade-drill. Any of it is hard work,
but it is what we are here for, and we find little fault. The weather is
chilly. I notice but little difference in the weather here and as we
usually have it at home. There we expect it, while here we do not and
that I suppose makes it seem harder to put up with.
One of our company, Elmer Anderson, deserted and enlisted in an
artillery regiment a few days ago. He came into camp showing his papers
and was arrested and put in the guard-house. What the outcome will be I
don't know, but it seems as if there should be some way of preventing
such things. Sunday mornings we have what we call knapsack-drill. Why
they save this for Sunday I don't know, but I suppose there is some
reason for it. We pack our knapsacks, brush up our guns, clothes, shoes,
etc., and march to the drill ground and form in columns by companies.
Company A on the right and B on the left. This brings Company A in front
and the first company to be inspected, after which they march back to
camp and are through for the day. Company B being the last, it is
something like an hour we stand there with our knapsacks open before us
on the ground, everything in them exposed to view of the passer-by, who
is the inspection officer and the captain whose company he is
inspecting. With his sword tip he pokes over our belongings, and if any
dirty socks or handkerchief or any other article a soldier ought not to
have is found, a lesson is read to him on the spot and repeated in
plainer terms by the captain afterwards. As we must take everything we
own or have it stolen while we are away, we take a great many chances. I
shall never forget the first inspection. We knew nothing of what was
coming, and such an outfit as that inspection officer saw I don't think
any other one ever did. Little by little we learn the lesson, learn to
put the best on top, for not all knapsacks have their contents stirred
up. A great deal of allowance was made for us at first, but as we go
along the screws of discipline are slowly but surely turned on, and
finally I suppose it will be easy to obey. That one word, "obey," seems
to be all that is required of us. No matter how unreasonable an order
seems to us, we have only to obey it or get in trouble for not doing it.
_November 1, 1862._
Have sent home my diary and am beginning another. I must be more brief,
for the great mass just sent off covers but little ground and will tire
the patience of any who read it. A cold I took the night we lay in
Baltimore seems determined to make me sick. I have quite a sore throat
and some days feel as if I must give up. Dr. Cook of the 150th has seen
me and thinks I should be reported to our doctor. There is talk of our
going farther south and I hope we may, for the ground is getting pretty
cold here.
_November 2, 1862._
Feel slim to-day, but am still able to do duty. There is so little to
write about, as long as we make no change. I am going to wait for
something to turn up worth noting.
_November 5, 1862._
Something has happened. Last night, just as we were settling down for
the night, orders came for a move. Dr. Andrus came round looking us over
and ordered me to the hospital, as well as several others. Where the
regiment is going is a secret from us yet. While the tents were coming
down and packing up was going on, an ambulance drove in and with others
I did not know I was carted to what I understand is called "Stewart's
Mansion Hospital." It is in the city, and I think near the place of our
first night's stay in Baltimore. I was assigned a bed and for the first
time since leaving home took off my clothes for the night. It seemed so
strange I was a long time getting sleepy.
I am in a large room full of clean cots, each one with a man in it more
or less sick. Not being as bad off as many others, I have written some
letters for myself and some for others who wished me to do so. The room
is warmed by two big stoves and if I knew where the regiment was, I
would be willing to put in the winter right here. Nurses, men detailed
for that purpose, are here just to wait on us and ladies are coming and
going nearly all the time. They bring us flowers and are just as kind as
they can be. I am up and dressed and have been out seeing the grounds
about the place. One building is called the dead house, and in it were
two men who died during the night. As none were missing from the room I
was in, I judge there are other rooms, and that the one I was in is for
those who are not really sick, but sickish. John Wooden of our company
is probably the sickest man in the ward. John Van Alstyne came in just
at night to see how I came on. Snow is falling and the natives call it
very unusual weather for the time of year.
_November 8, 1862._
Snow going fast. A day more like May than November. Hear the regiment is
on a vessel off shore waiting for something, I don't know what.
_November 9, 1862._
_Sunday._ Four men died last night. A major from one of the regiments
came to see some of his men here. He doesn't enthuse much over the
conditions on board ship.
_Night._ Hear the vessel with the 128th has sailed. I am left behind,
but I am getting along so nicely I will surely be able to go soon. Am a
little weak and have a troublesome cough, but upon the whole am much
better.
_November 10, 1862._
Two more deaths last night. As I have nothing better to do I will
describe what I saw of a military funeral. It was an artilleryman in a
plain pine box over which the U. S. flag was thrown. His comrades with
guns reversed went first. Then came the gun-carriage with the coffin
strapped on and six horses hitched to it. After a prayer by the chaplain
the procession started in order as follows: First, the fife and drum,
playing the dead march. Then an escort of guards, after which the body,
followed by the horse the man had ridden, led by a soldier. He was
saddled and bridled and his dead master's boots were strapped in the
stirrups heels foremost, with his sword hanging from the pommel of the
saddle. A corporal was in charge of the whole. At the grave, three
volleys were fired across the open grave after the body was lowered, and
then the procession marched back in reverse order, the fife and drum
playing a lively march. The soldiers' graves are as close to each other
as possible and a pine board giving the man's name and that of the
command to which he belonged is placed at the head of each.
_November 11, 1862._
John Van has been over again and says his regiment is going into winter
quarters in the city outskirts. I hear the 128th has sailed for Fortress
Monroe. The papers are all headed, "Removal of McClellan," and everyone
is giving his opinion of the change. I say nothing because I know too
little about it to venture an opinion. I went out and treated myself to
a good square meal to-day and begin to think I was more hungry than
sick, for I feel fit and ready for anything. Chaplain Parker has been
here to see his boys, as he calls them. Says he left the regiment off
Fortress Monroe on board the Arago. He reports them well and in fine
spirits.
_November 13, 1862._
Yesterday and to-day I have been fixing to get away from here and join
the regiment. Captain Wooden's mother from Pine Plains came in to-day
and I am full of home news. I kept her answering questions as long as
she staid. Dr. Andrus says I must not think of going yet, but if I get a
chance I'll show him. Doctors don't know it all. I have had such good
care and such nice warm quarters I am really myself again, only not
quite as strong as I was once. My clothes don't fit very close yet, and
if the looking-glass in the ward-room is correct I have had something
that has made me look rather slim.
_November 14, 1862._
_Friday._ Dr. Andrus is going to-day. He says I ought not to think of
leaving here yet. But he does not forbid it, so if I get a chance I
shall try it. I have burned my big pile of letters and discarded every
thing my knapsack was stuffed with except what belongs to Uncle Sam.
_3 p. m._ Mail in and a five-dollar bill came in a letter from home. I
went right out and bought a pair of boots with it, which beat the low
shoes I have so far worn.
_7 p. m._ On board the steamer Louisiana. I had a hard time getting
here, making two miles in twenty minutes with my gun and accoutrements
all on. Dr. Andrus went and as soon as the chance came I sneaked out and
started. I was just in time, as the gang-plank was being pulled aboard
when I came to it. Dr. Andrus was on deck and saw me and had them wait
until I was on board. Then he scolded some and made me get into a berth
where he covered me up in blankets and made me drink a cup of hot stuff
which he prepared. I was nearly roasted by this treatment, but I am away
from the hospital and on the way to be with the boys again and so did
not complain.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] The name stuck to us ever after, and came from this silly
circumstance.
[4] I was in Gettysburg in 1909 and was told by people who remembered
our visit in 1862, that there were no Rebels anywhere near Gettysburg
except in the imagination of the people, who were scared out of their
senses.