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                 DIARY
                   OF
            AN ENLISTED MAN

                   BY
          LAWRENCE VAN ALSTYNE
             SHARON, CONN.

            NEW HAVEN, CONN.
 THE TUTTLE, MOREHOUSE & TAYLOR COMPANY
                  1910

   Copyrighted 1910
          by
 LAWRENCE VAN ALSTYNE

             WITH LOVING REGARD
        FOR THE MEMORY OF MY PARENTS
 WHO WATCHED FOR AND EAGERLY READ THE DIARY
    AS FROM TIME TO TIME IT CAME TO THEM
         AND TO MY COMRADES-IN-ARMS
           WHETHER LIVING OR DEAD
  THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

PREFACE

In the multitude of books written about the Civil War, very little is
said of the enlisted man. His bravery and his loyalty are admitted and
that is about all. Of his everyday life, the very thing his family and
friends cared most to know about, there is hardly anything said.

It is to remedy this omission in some degree that the following pages
are published. They were written by an enlisted man and are mostly about
enlisted men. They are filled with details that history has no room for,
and for that reason may have an interest quite their own.

They were written at different times, in different places, and under a
great variety of circumstances and conditions. Some were written as the
line halted for rest while marching from place to place, some while
waiting for trains or other modes of transportation, but the most were
written by the light of a candle or a smoldering camp-fire while my
comrades, no more weary than I, were sleeping about me. All were written
amid scenes of more or less confusion, and many times of great
excitement. They were written because of a promise made to my parents
that I would make notes of my wanderings and of the adventures I met
with.

At first I found it an irksome task, taking time I really needed for
rest; but as time went on the habit became fixed, and I did not consider
the day's work done until I had written in my diary of the events that
came with it.

The diary was kept in small pocket notebooks, of a size convenient to
carry in my pocket, and be ever ready for use. There was never a lack of
subjects to write about. Events crowded upon each other so fast that
each day furnished plenty of material for the time I could give it. I
had never been far from home. The sights I saw were new and strange to
me and made deep impressions. These, as best I could, I transferred to
the pages of my diary, so the friends at home could, in a way, see the
sights I saw and that seemed so wonderful to me. When pages enough were
written for a letter, I cut them out and sent them home to be read by
any who cared to, after which they were strung together on a string and
saved for me to read again, should I ever return to do it. When I did
return I found the leaves had so accumulated as to make a large bundle.
There was no need for me to read them at that time, for the story they
told was burned too deep in my memory to be easily forgotten.

So I tied them in a bundle and put them away in an unused drawer of my
desk, where they lay, unread and undisturbed for the next forty-five
years.

But while the old diary lay hidden in my desk a new generation had crept
upon the stage. We no longer occupied the center of it. One by one we
had been crowded off, and our ranks were getting so thin we had to feel
around for the touch of a comrade's elbow. Every year there were more
comrades' graves to decorate, and every year there were fewer of us left
to decorate them. At last we had met an enemy we could not even hope to
conquer. With sadness we saw first one and then another called out, and
they did not return. They had answered the last roll call, and it was
only a question of a little time when the last name would be called, and
the muster-out rolls be folded up and filed away.

It was with a feeling of ever-increasing loneliness that I untied the
bundle and began to read the long-forgotten diary. In a little while I
was a boy again, one of that great company that helped to make history
read as it does. Almost half a century had suddenly rolled back and I
was with Company B--"Bostwick's Tigers" we were called, not altogether
on account of our fighting qualities, but because of the noise we
sometimes made. I was having my share of the fun that was going, and
was taking my share of the hard knocks as well.

I was never so absorbedly interested. I even forgot my meals. For weeks
I thought of little else and did little else than read and copy those
dim old pages. I read from them to any who would listen, and wondered
why it did not stir their blood as it did my own.

But the reason is plain. To the listener it was hearsay. To me it was
real. So it may be with the diary now it is printed. In the nature of
things it cannot be to others what it is to me. It is a part of my life.
My blood would not tingle as it does at the reading of another man's
life. It is what historians had neither time nor space to write, the
everyday life of an enlisted man in time of war.

                                                              L. V. A.

October, 1910.

CONTENTS

                                                                    PAGE

 CHAPTER I--THE RECRUITING CAMP                                        1

    First steps as a Soldier--The five-day furlough.

 CHAPTER II--THE JOURNEY SOUTH                                        16

    The march through Hudson--The stop in New York--Breakfast at
      "The Cooper Shop"--Arrival at Baltimore--When we first
      heard the "Long Roll."

 CHAPTER III--CAMP MILLINGTON, MD.                                    23

    School of the Soldier--On picket at Catonsville--Trip to
      Gettysburg--Dinner at Hanover--Meeting the 150th--Roast
      chicken--Stuart's Mansion Hospital.

 CHAPTER IV--ON BOARD THE ARAGO                                       61

    A morning on Chesapeake Bay--At Newport News--At Fortress
      Monroe--The journey South continued--Sickness and death on
      board--A burial at sea--Quarantined.

 CHAPTER V--QUARANTINE STATION, LA.                                   73

    Cooking graybacks--A big catfish--Starting a graveyard--The
      most trying circumstances war can bring.

 CHAPTER VI--CAMP CHALMETTE, LA.                                      80

    Spying out the land--Foiling an attempt at suicide--Clash
      with the 28th Maine--An interrupted sermon--Brownell's
      last words.

 CHAPTER VII--CAMP PARAPET, LA.                                       87

    Captain Bostwick gets married--In the hospital at last--Good
      care and treatment--The slow process of getting well--The
      Ponchatoula trip--Mosquitoes and alligators.

 CHAPTER VIII--PORT HUDSON, LA.                                      108

    Good-bye, Camp Parapet--Going up the river--Stop at
      Springfield Landing--Before the works--Capt. Gifford
      missing--The first assault--Stealing honey--Scared by a
      snake--The second assault--The "Forlorn Hope"--Captain
      Gifford comes back--Vicksburg surrenders--Port Hudson
      follows suit--The laying down of arms.

 CHAPTER IX--DONALDSONVILLE, LA.                                     149

    Leaving Port Hudson--Stop at Baton Rouge--At
      Donaldsonville--Living on the fat of the land--How sugar
      is made--Hickory Landing--Plaquemine--Baton Rouge.

 CHAPTER X--AT NEW ORLEANS, LA.                                      173

    Good-bye to the 128th--Down the river to New
      Orleans--Looking for General Grant--Finding General
      Grant--Joined the Corps de Afrique--Franklin's expedition
      to Texas--The return trip--Pilot Town, La.--Easy times.

 CHAPTER XI--BRASHEAR CITY, LA.                                      184

    Mustered into the service again--Waiting for orders--Up the
      Bayou Teche--Stealing a horse--Meeting the owner--At
      Mouton's Plantation--The return across the prairie--A sham
      battle--One kind of southern hospitality--Another kind of
      southern hospitality--Camp life at Brashear City.

 CHAPTER XII--THE LOUISIANA STEAM COTTON PRESS                       230

    In winter quarters--Dull times--The fortune-tellers--An old
      man's blessing--A pleasant surprise--Leave of absence--On
      board the steamer Creole--Seasick--Losing Henry
      Holmes--Wholesale visiting--Finding Henry Holmes.

 CHAPTER XIII--ON BOARD THE MCCLELLAN                                272

    The start for Dixie--The McClellan is not the Creole--A
      tough crowd--Man overboard--Martial law proclaimed--Arrest
      of the rioters--Storm at sea--Stop at Key West--In New
      Orleans again.

 CHAPTER XIV--THE RED RIVER CAMPAIGN                                 286

    Camping on The Laurel Hill--At Port Hudson again--Meeting
      the 128th--Up the Red River to Alexandria--Two trips to
      Grand Ecore--The river falling--The dam at Alexandria--The
      burning of Alexandria.

 CHAPTER XV--THE RED RIVER RETREAT                                   322

    Guarding the pontoon train--Sleeping on feathers--Killing
      the goose--Forced marching--The fight at Yellow
      Bayou--Crossing the Atchafalaya--Another forced march--A
      raw beef supper--Footsore and weary.

 CHAPTER XVI--CAMP AT MORGANZIA, LA.                                 332

    On picket with the western men--Smallpox appears--A pay-day
      misunderstanding--Building Fort Morgan--Fourth of July
      dinner--General Order 88--The army moving away.

 CHAPTER XVII--OUR LAST CAMP IN THE SOUTH                            346

    Leaving Morganzia--In camp near New Orleans--Good-bye,
      Dixie--Homeward bound.

CHAPTER I

The Recruiting Camp

    First steps as a Soldier--The five-day furlough.

_August 19, 1862._

HUDSON CAMP GROUNDS. I have enlisted! Joined the Army of Uncle Sam for
three years, or the war, whichever may end first. Thirteen dollars per
month, board, clothes and traveling expenses thrown in. That's on the
part of my Uncle. For my part, I am to do, I hardly know what, but in a
general way understand I am to kill or capture such part of the Rebel
Army as comes in my way.

I wonder what sort of a soldier I will make; to be honest about it, I
don't feel much of that eagerness for the fray I am hearing so much of
about me.

It seems to me it is a serious sort of business I have engaged in. I was
a long time making up my mind about it. This one could go, and that one,
and they ought to, but with me, some way it was different. There was so
much I had planned to do, and to be. I was needed at home, etc., etc. So
I would settle the question for a time, only to have it come up to be
reasoned away again, and each time my reasons for not taking my part in
the job seemed less reasonable. Finally I did the only thing I could
respect myself for doing,--went to Millerton, the nearest recruiting
station, and enlisted.

I then threw down my unfinished castles, went around and bid my friends
good-bye, and had a general settling up of my affairs, which, by the
way, took but little time. But I never before knew I had so many
friends. Everyone seemed to be my friend. A few spoke encouragingly, but
the most of them spoke and acted about as I would expect them to, if I
were on my way to the gallows. Pity was so plainly shown that when I had
gone the rounds, and reached home again, I felt as if I had been
attending my own funeral. Poor old father and mother! They had expected
it, but now that it had come they felt it, and though they tried hard,
they could not hide from me that they felt it might be the last they
would see of their baby.

Then came the leaving it all behind. I cannot describe that. The
good-byes and the good wishes ring in my ears yet. I am not myself. I am
some other person. My surroundings are new, the sights and sounds about
me are new, my aims and ambitions are new;--that is if I have any. I
seem to have reached the end. I can look backwards, but when I try to
look ahead it is all a blank. Right here let me say, God bless the man
who wrote "Robert Dawson," and God bless the man who gave me the book.
"Only a few drops at a time, Robert." The days are made of minutes, and
I am only sure of the one I am now living in. Take good care of that and
cross no bridges until you come to them.

I have promised to keep a diary, and I am doing it. I have also promised
that it should be a truthful account of what I saw and what I did. I
have crawled off by myself and have been scribbling away for some time,
and upon reading what I have written I find it reads as if I was the
only one. But I am not. There are hundreds and perhaps thousands here,
and I suppose all could, if they cared to, write just such an experience
as I have. But no one else seems foolish enough to do it. I will let
this stand as a preface to my diary, and go on to say that we, the first
installment of recruits from our neighborhood, gathered at Amenia, where
we had a farewell dinner, and a final handshake, after which we boarded
the train and were soon at Ghent, where we changed from the Harlem to
the Hudson & Berkshire R. R., which landed us opposite the gates of the
Hudson Fair Grounds, about 4 P. M. on the 14th. We were made to form in
line and were then marched inside, where we found a lot of rough board
shanties, such as are usually seen on country fair grounds, and which
are now used as offices, and are full of bustle and confusion. After a
wash-up, we were taken to a building which proved to be a kitchen and
dining room combined. Long pine tables, with benches on each side,
filled the greater part of it, and at these we took seats and were
served with good bread and fair coffee, our first meal at Uncle Sam's
table, and at his expense. After supper we scattered, and the Amenia
crowd brought up at the Miller House in Hudson. We took in some of the
sights of the city and then put up for the night.

The next morning we had breakfast and then reported at the camp grounds
ready for the next move, whatever that might be. We found crowds of
people there, men, women and children, which were fathers and mothers,
wives and sweethearts, brothers and sisters of the men who have enlisted
from all over Dutchess and Columbia counties. Squads of men were
marching on the race track, trying to keep step with an officer who kept
calling out "Left, Left, Left," as his left foot hit the ground, from
which I judged he meant everyone else should put his left foot down with
his. We found these men had gone a step further than we. They had been
examined and accepted, but just what that meant none of us exactly knew.
We soon found out, however. Every few minutes a chap came out from a
certain building and read from a book, in a loud voice, the names of two
men. These would follow him in, be gone a little while and come out,
when the same performance would be repeated. My name and that of Peter
Carlo, of Poughkeepsie, were called together, and in we went. We found
ourselves in a large room with the medical examiner and his clerks. His
salutation, as we entered, consisted of the single word, "Strip." We
stripped and were examined just as a horseman examines a horse he is
buying. He looked at our teeth and felt all over us for any evidence of
unsoundness there might be. Then we were put through a sort of gymnastic
performance, and told to put on our clothes. We were then weighed and
measured, the color of our eyes and hair noted, also our complexion,
after which another man came and made us swear to a lot of things, most
of which I have forgotten already. But as it was nothing more than I
expected to do without swearing I suppose it makes no difference.

The rest of the day we visited around, getting acquainted and meeting
many I had long been acquainted with. In the afternoon the camp ground
was full of people, and as night began to come, and they began to go,
the good-byes were many and sad enough. I am glad my folks know enough
to stay away. That was our first night in camp. After we came from the
medical man, we were no longer citizens, but just soldiers. We could not
go down town as we did the night before. This was Saturday night, August
17th. We slept but little,--at least I did not. A dozen of us had a
small room, a box stall, in one of the stables, just big enough to lie
down in. The floor looked like pine, but it was hard, and I shall never
again call pine a soft wood, at least to lie on. If one did fall asleep
he was promptly awakened by some one who had not, and by passing this
around, such a racket was kept up that sleep was out of the question. I
for one was glad the drummer made a mistake and routed us out at five
o'clock instead of six, as his orders were. We shivered around until
roll call and then had breakfast. We visited together until dinner. Beef
and potatoes, bread and coffee, and plenty of it. Some find fault and
some say nothing, but I notice that each gets away with all that's set
before him. In the afternoon we had preaching out of doors, for no
building on the grounds would hold us. A Rev. Mr. Parker preached, a
good straight talk, no big words or bluster, but a plain man-to-man talk
on a subject that should concern us now, if it never did before. I for
one made some mighty good resolutions, then and there. Every regiment
has a chaplain, I am told, and I wish ours could be this same Mr.
Parker. The meeting had a quieting effect on all hands. There was less
swearing and less noise and confusion that afternoon than at any time
before. After supper the question of bettering our sleeping
accommodations came up, and in spite of the good resolutions above
recorded I helped steal some hay to sleep on. We made up our minds that
if our judge was as sore as we were he would not be hard on us. We
spread the hay evenly over the floor and lay snug and warm, sleeping
sound until Monday morning, the 18th.

The mill of the medical man kept on grinding and batches of men were
sworn in every little while. Guards were placed at the gates, to keep us
from going down town. I was one of the guards, but was called off to
sign a paper and did not go back. Towards night we had to mount guard
over our hay. Talk about "honor among thieves," what was not stolen
before we found it out, was taken from under us while we were asleep,
and after twisting and turning on the bare floor until my aching bones
woke me, I got up and helped the others express themselves, for there
was need of all the cuss words we could muster to do the subject
justice. But that was our last night in those quarters.

The next day the new barracks were finished and we took possession. They
are long narrow buildings, about 100 feet by 16, with three tiers of
bunks on each side, leaving an alley through the middle, and open at
each end. The bunks are long enough for a tall man and wide enough for
two men provided they lie straight, with a board in front to keep the
front man from rolling out of bed. There are three buildings finished,
and each accommodates 204 men. We were not allowed either hay or straw
for fear of fire. As we only had our bodies to move, it did not take
long to move in. Those from one neighborhood chose bunks near together,
and there was little quarreling over choice. In fact one is just like
another in all except location. Walter Loucks and I got a top berth at
one end, so we have no trouble in finding it, as some do who are located
near the middle. These barracks, as they are here called, are built
close together, and ordinary conversation in one can be plainly heard in
the others. Such a night as we had, story-telling, song-singing, telling
what we would do if the Rebs attacked us in the night, with now and then
a quarrel thrown in, kept us all awake until long after midnight. There
was no getting lonesome, or homesick. No matter what direction one's
thought might take, they were bound to be changed in a little while, and
so the time went on. Perhaps some one would start a hymn and others
would join in, and just as everything was going nicely, a block of wood,
of which there were plenty lying around, would come from no one knew
where, and perhaps hit a man who was half asleep. Then the psalm singing
would end up in something quite different, and for a while one could
almost taste brimstone. I heard more original sayings that night than in
all my life before, and only that the boards were so hard, and my bones
ached so badly, I would have enjoyed every minute of it.

But we survived the night, and were able to eat everything set before
us, when morning and breakfast time came. After breakfast we had our
first lesson in soldiering, that is, the men of what will be Captain
Bostwick's company, if he succeeds in filling it, and getting his
commission, did. A West Point man put us through our paces. We formed in
line on the race track, and after several false starts got going,
bringing our left feet down as our instructor called out, "Left, Left,"
etc. A shower in the night had left some puddles on the track, and the
first one we came to some went around and some jumped across, breaking
the time and step and mixing up things generally. We were halted, and as
soon as the captain could speak without laughing, he told us what a
ridiculous thing it was for soldiers to dodge at a mud puddle. After a
turn at marching, or keeping step with each other, he explained very
carefully to us the "position of a soldier," telling how necessary it
was that we learn the lesson well, for it would be of great use to us
hereafter. He repeated it, until every word had time to sink in. "Heels
on the same line, and as near together as the conformation of the man
will permit. Knees straight, without stiffness. Body erect on the hips,
and inclining a little forward. Arms hanging naturally at the sides, the
little finger behind the seam of the pantaloons. Shoulders square to the
front. Head erect, with the eyes striking the ground at the distance of
fifteen paces." Every bone in my body ached after a little of this, and
yet our instructor told us this is the position in which a well-drilled
soldier can stand for the longest time and with the greatest ease. This
brings my diary up to this date and I must not let it get behind again.
There is so much to write about, it takes all my spare time; but now I
am caught up, I will try and keep so.

_August 20, 1862._

Capt. Bostwick came from Albany last night. He has his commission, and
is to be captain of Company B, his being the second company filled. I
can now style myself of Co. B, 128th N. Y. State Volunteers. He got us
together and gave us quite a speech. Told us what he would do, and what
he expected us to do. I imagine none of us know very well yet what we
will do. He said if he had not got his commission he would have gone in
the ranks with us. We gulped this down, but I doubt if many believed it.
But at all events we are one family now, and Ed. Bostwick is the head of
it. We have known him so long as just Ed. Bostwick, that it will take
some time to get used to addressing him as Capt. Bostwick. One of our
company, Jim Wasburn, who hails from Sharon, was put in the guard-house
three times yesterday for fighting. He ought to make a good soldier,
for he had rather fight than eat. He is a "mean dog," always picking at
some one smaller than himself. To-day he pushed Eph. Hammond over, as he
was getting some water from a pail. Eph. is one of our smallest men, but
he gave the bully a crack on the jaw that sent him sprawling, and took
the fight all out of him. One of the Poughkeepsie boys has gone on the
war path too. He began Sunday night by running past the guard, and then
waiting until arrested. Just as he got inside he gave his captor the
slip and hid in the barracks until the search was given up. Then he came
out and dodged past another guard and gave his pursuers a lively chase
over the fields before they caught him. He might be going yet if he had
not stopped and let them take him. He was brought in, put in the
guard-house, and before ten o'clock was out and down town, where he got
into some mischief and was locked up by the police. Yesterday he was
brought back under guard and again put in the guard-house, which by the
way is only a tent, with a soldier stationed by it. Last night, as I was
coming from the city I met him going down, and probably by this time he
is in jail again.

_6 p. m._ Have just drawn our coats, drawers, stockings and shoes. Ben
Rogers is here. He belongs to a Kinderhook company. Jim Rowe and John
Pitcher have just come. Twenty-five of the company are old
acquaintances, all from the same neighborhood. Besides, I have made lots
of new acquaintances here. Men are coming every day and almost by every
train, and the prospect of our regiment being soon filled seems good.
The President's call for 300,000 volunteers is being nobly responded to
here, and probably it is the same all over the North.

_August 21, 1862._

Last night I was one of those detailed for guard, and was put at one of
the gates. This morning at 8.30 was what they call "guard mount." The
men so detailed are divided into three squads, called first, second and
third reliefs. The first goes on at 8.30 and remains until 10.30. Then
the second relief goes on and stays until 12.30, when the third relief,
to which I belong, takes the place until 2.30. This goes on until each
relief has had four turns of two hours each on duty, and four turns each
of four hours' rest, when 8.30 A. M. again comes around and a new guard
is put in place of the old. The next day after being on guard, no duty
is required of them. Nothing very hard about that so far as I can see. I
begin to like it, and I am glad it is so, for there is no such thing as
calling the boss up to settle.

_August 22, 1862._

I caught cold last night, and feel a little slim to-day. Lew Holmes got
a pass for himself and me to go down town and that cured me. The run
about in Hudson with the nice fresh air of to-day, together with a
five-day furlough, which was given out to-night, has worked wonders for
those that were lucky enough to get them. It seems the men are all to
have a five-day furlough, but not all at once. The Amenia crowd drew
first prize. I am delighted to go, and yet there will be the good-byes
to say again, and I don't know after all whether I am glad or sorry.

_August 23, 1862._

_Night._ Home again. We left Hudson at 5 A. M. Were delayed in Chatham,
waiting for the Harlem train, long enough to make quite a visit with
brother William and his wife Laura. Uncle Daniel was there also. There
is little else talked of but the war. Men are arranging their business
so as to go, and others are "shaking in their boots" for fear they will
have to go. I don't waste any sympathy on this latter class. There are
some I would like to see made to go. They belong in the Southern army,
where all their sympathy goes.

I found our folks well and glad to see me. I have no sort of doubt of
that. Just as we had had supper, Obadiah Pitcher came with his buggy and
offered to take me to call on some friends; this I thought too good a
chance to lose, and we went south. We found so many, and there was so
much talking, it was Sunday morning when we came back.

_August 24, 1862._

_Sunday at home._ Herman and John, Betsy and Jane came to dinner. Such a
dinner, too, as mother cooked for us. Dear old soul, how I wished I
could eat enough to last until the war is over. Daniel McElwee came up
and wanted me to go with him to Mabbettsville and see Mr. and Mrs.
Haight. I put the best side of soldiering out, as Mrs. Haight wanted to
know how her boy was faring. This seems to me the saddest side of war.
Those that go have excitement enough to live on, but those that are left
can only wonder how it is with their loved ones, and imagine worse
things than may ever happen. I reached home in time to visit with father
and mother awhile and then went to bed tired out.

_August 25, 1862._

AMENIA UNION, N. Y. The days of my stay being numbered, I am improving
the time as best I can. Have been to John Loucks', Isaac Bryan's, Daniel
McElwee's, Hugh Miller's, Jason Hull's (where I had another good
dinner), and then came on to this place and put up at Mr. Dutcher's. Met
John Van Alstyne, who was on his way to Sharon, and was told I was a
fool for enlisting. Maybe I am, John, but I have lots of company.

_August 26, 1862._

Mary and I took a long ride, and then I left for Millerton. Saw the
effects of a railroad smash up at Cooper's Crossing. The engine and cars
were scattered along the front of the embankment and many of them only
good for kindling-wood. The carcass of a cow, the cause of the accident,
lay in one place and her hide in another. Attended a meeting at
Millerton, heard some patriotic speeches and saw lots of people who
seemed glad to see me. Was paid the town bounty of $100 and towards
night wended my way over the hills home again, and am writing about it
in my diary. This is my last night home. To-morrow we are due in Hudson
again. I have seen none of the others who came home with me. I suppose
each one, like myself, has crowded the time full of visiting, for who
knows when we will have another chance? We each try to act as if we had
no thought for the morrow, but it is hard work and not very successful.

_August 27, 1862._

Off for Hudson. The good-byes have been said again, may be forever. We
are at Pine Plains now. This time we go by horse power instead of the
cars. By "we," I mean Walter Loucks and myself who are chums in camp, as
we have long been chums at home. Herman and John[1] take us up. We have
a good team, a beautiful day, and have been stopped at nearly every
house long enough to say "how are you?" and "good-bye." As soon as we
stopped here, out came my diary and pencil. The habit is getting fixed,
and there is little danger of my forgetting it. The trouble is there is
so much to write about I will fill my book before I come to the real
thing. May be some one will some time be glad I wrote so much. It is
like blazing one's way through the woods. My trail can be followed, and
it behooves me to behave myself, for I claim all I write in my diary is
true.

_Night._ In camp at Hudson Fair Grounds again. We had dinner at Blue
Store, made several stops on the way, one at Wagonhagers Churchyard,
where Leah Loucks lies buried. We had supper at Miller's Hotel, where we
spent our first night in Hudson, and where Herman and John stay
to-night. It was just a little bit hard to crawl up into our bare board
bunk, after the nice soft beds we had slept in, but it is part of the
contract and we took the dose with as good grace as possible.

_August 28, 1862._

Have been down town and had my picture taken to send home by Herman and
John. Have also been drilling, and altogether have had a busy day. The
ladies of Hudson (God bless them) are going to give us a supper
to-night, and H. and J. are going to stay.

_Later._ It is all over, except an uncomfortable fullness. Biscuit and
butter, three kinds of cake, beef tongue, fruit of several kinds and
LEMONADE. We gave the ladies three cheers that must have been heard
across the river. There are lots of people here now. It seems as if I
knew half of them, too. We entertained our visitors until they had to
leave camp, and then had a prayer meeting and after it a stag dance,
both of which I attended.

_August 29, 1862._

Received $25.00 to-day, which is half the State bounty. Friends of the
soldiers are coming and going all the time. One day is much like
another, and yet there is an endless variety. We have guard mount in the
morning and then drill for a couple of hours. Then we are free to visit
with our friends. We have lots of them nowadays. No one seems to lack
for them. It reminds me of how well people are apt to speak of the dead.
While alive we say all sorts of mean things to them and about them, but
when they are gone it all seems forgotten and we only remember their
good qualities. Some way the very kind attention we receive reminds me
of that.

_August 30, 1862._

$25.00 more to-day. How the money comes in! Many people were here
to-day, some from our neighborhood. Between our camp duties and so much
visiting the time flies fast. The ladies of Hudson presented us with two
beautiful flags to-day, and Colonel Cowles with a horse, saddle and
bridle. It was estimated that five thousand visitors were in camp
to-day. We are the 128th Regiment the State of New York has sent out. I
wonder if such a time was made over each one. There was good speaking
when the presents were made and accepted. We certainly are having a
grand send-off.

_Night._ There is a circus in Hudson to-night, and the guards have their
hands full keeping the 128th in camp. Many get out, and the guard-house
is full of those who were caught making the attempt.

_August 31, 1862._

_Sunday._ Spent the day in camp and a very quiet day at that. A paper
has been circulated among us asking that the Rev. Mr. Parker, who
preached for us once, be sent with us as chaplain. I understand every
regiment has a chaplain (a minister) to look out for the spiritual
welfare of the regiment. Judging from this one, they must find plenty to
do.

_September 1, 1862._

A rumor is afloat that we leave here soon. The 128th is about full, and
no doubt we will go soon. But often a report is started by some one
without the least reason or foundation. They do it I suppose to see how
fast a lie will travel. Just the ordinary camp routine is all that came
along to-day.

_September 2, 1862._

We are all togged out with new blue clothes, haversacks and canteens.
The haversack is a sack of black enameled cloth with a flap to close it
and a strap to go over the shoulder, and is to carry our food
in,--rations, I should say. The canteen is of tin, covered with gray
cloth; in shape it is like a ball that has been stepped on and flattened
down. It has a neck with a cork stopper and a strap to go over the
shoulder. It is for carrying water, coffee or any other drinkable. Our
new clothes consist of light blue pants and a darker shade of blue for
the coats, which is of sack pattern. A light blue overcoat with a cape
on it, a pair of mud-colored shirts and drawers, and a cap, which is
mostly fore-piece. This, with a knapsack to carry our surplus outfit,
and a woollen blanket to sleep on, or under, is our stock in trade. I
don't suppose many will read this who do not know from observation how
all these things look, for it seems as if all creation was here to look
at them, and us.

_September 3, 1862._

Heigho! I'm a corporal!--whatever that may be. The appointments were
made to-day, and I just caught on to the bottom round of the ladder. As
I did not expect anything I suppose I should feel pleased. May be I do.
I am not sure how I feel nowadays. There is such a hubbub, I wonder we
don't all go crazy. Some say we leave Hudson to-night. None of us know
when or where we go, but there is a lot of guessing.

_Night._ Laura Loucks was in camp to-day. She is on her way home from
her sister's, in the western part of the state. She greeted me with
"There's another fool!" A great many good-byes were said to-day, and
tears enough shed to drown a cat.

_September 4, 1862._

We go to-day, sure; that is, if reports are true. The Government bounty
was paid to-day, and the oath of allegiance taken by the regimental
officers, as well as the men. Every day the net is drawn a little
tighter. No use in kicking now. We are bound by a bond none of us can
break, and I am glad to be able to say, for one, that I don't want to
break it. But it seems as if things dragged awfully slow. I suppose it
is because I know so little about the many details that are necessary
for the full organization of a regiment.

_Night._ Here yet. I wish we might go. We are all ready and the sooner
we go the more patriotism will be left in us. Too much of it is oozing
out through the eyes. People keep coming to have a last word, a last
good-bye and usually a last cry over it. I am heartily glad my folks
have sense enough to keep away, for it is all I can stand to see the
others. No doubt for many it is a last good-bye. In the nature of things
we cannot all expect to come back, but God is good, and he keeps that
part hidden from us, leaving each one to think he will be the lucky one.
To make matters worse, the change of water, food, and mode of living is
having its effects on many, myself among the number, and I feel pretty
slim to-night. I will spread my blanket on my soft pine board, and, if
my aching bones will let me, will try what a good sleep will do, for we
are of all men know not what to-morrow may have in store for us.

_September 5, 1862._

Still in Hudson. Was routed out twice last night, for no particular
reason as far as I can discover, unless it was to make a miserable night
still more miserable. After forming in line and standing there, half
asleep, for a while, the order, "Break Ranks" would come and we would go
back to our bunks, and so the night wore away. At 4.30 we were called
again, marched out for our morning ablutions, and then marched back
again, wide awake, but pretty cross and ugly. We signed receipts for one
month's pay in advance, and then had breakfast. We did nothing more
until dinner time and were then told to take our haversacks and canteens
with us. After dinner we were each given a day's supply of bread and a
canteen full of coffee, and told to be ready to march at any minute.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Herman C. Rowley and John C. Loucks.

CHAPTER II

The Journey South

    The march through Hudson--The stop in New York--Breakfast at "The
    Cooper Shop"--Arrival at Baltimore--When we first heard the "Long
    Roll."

_Six p. m._ On board the steamship Oregon, bound for New York City. We
had a busy time getting off. Crowds upon crowds of people lined the way
from the camp ground to the steamboat landing. The windows and the house
tops were also full. I don't see where so many people came from. Men,
women and children were waving flags, handkerchiefs or anything else
that would wave. They cheered us until hoarse. Bands played, every steam
whistle in Hudson was blowing, in fact every thing that could make a
noise did so. Through it all we marched, reaching out every little while
for a final handshake, and a last good-bye. Everyone seemed to know
everybody else. I presume I shook hands with a hundred that I never saw
before and may never see again. But the heartiness of it all, and the
sincerity showed so plainly, that by the time the landing was reached
the tears were washing the dust from our faces. I am glad it is over. No
matter what comes next, it cannot be more trying than that march through
Hudson.

_Later._ The sail down the Hudson is glorious. It is all new to me. As
soon as we were clear from the dock I got into the quietest place I
could find and told my diary about it. I wish I could better describe
the doings about me. This will do to remind me of it all, if I ever see
these scribblings again, and if not those that do see them may turn
their imagination loose, feeling sure that it cannot overdraw the
picture. But there is no use trying to write any more. Confusion
reigns, and I am going to put away my diary and take a hand in it.

_September 6, 1862._

NEW YORK CITY, and my first peep at it. We are in City Hall Park, but I
must go back and tell of our getting here. We had an all night's ride,
passing many large places. So many knew the names of them, we greenhorns
only had to listen to find out where we were all the time. Some did not
want to sleep, and the rest were not allowed to. The boatmen must be
glad to see the last of us. We passed laws for their observance as well
as for our own. The officers kept out of sight. I suppose they were
asleep somewhere. May be it is well for both them and ourselves that
they did not interfere, for the devil in each man seemed to have got
loose. We didn't try to run the steamer but we ran everything else in
sight. We took turns riding the walking beam. Some wanted to and the
rest had to, and the wonder is no one was killed, or at least crippled.
We landed at the foot of Harrison Street, and marched to the City Hall
Park, where I am now seated on the front porch of a tremendous great
building, writing about it in my diary. Everything is clean here, and
everything to me is new. I have never been in New York before, and I
don't suppose I shall see very much of it now. I am on business for the
boss, and cannot fool away the time running around the city, even if I
was allowed to, which I am not. The officers have us shut in here, with
a high picket fence, made of iron, around us on every side.
Soldiers,--real soldiers,--are on guard just outside, keeping a close
watch that none of us crawl under or jump over. We first had a good
wash, then a good breakfast, and then were let alone to read the papers,
or write letters or do anything we chose. I had a good nap. The stone I
lay on was but little harder than my bunk in the barracks at Hudson, and
it was a great deal warmer. The papers say the Rebs are expected to
attack Harpers Ferry to-day. Why couldn't they wait until we got there?
Maybe they have heard of us and are improving the time before we get
there. Captain Bostwick has gone home for a visit, saying he would meet
us in Washington.

_Night._ On the cars in Jersey City. Part of the regiment has gone on
another train, and we are to meet in Philadelphia. We marched on the
ferry-boat in double file, and were made to kneel on one knee, leaving
the other sticking up for the man ahead to sit on. If it was done for
our comfort it was a complete failure, but if it was to keep us from
running all over the boat it worked well. Before we left City Hall Park
I got a fellow on the outside to get me a bottle of blackberry brandy,
and when we were finally seated in the car I out with my bottle and gave
it a swing around my head to let the fellows see what I had, when it
slipped from my hand and went to smash on the floor. Much as some of us
needed it, we could only get a smell, as the fumes rose up to aggravate
us.

At Elizabeth, N. J., we halted for a few minutes. Crowds of people lined
the track, and although all were strangers to each other, we talked as
if we were old acquaintances. Henry House, of Company B, asked a young
lady to write him, and they exchanged names and addresses, promising
each to write to the other.[2]

_September 7, 1862._

PHILADELPHIA. _Sunday._ We were too crowded in the cars to see much, or
to do much, coming here. Most of us slept nearly all the way. I did for
one, but I had dreams of being trod on, and no doubt I was, for there
are some that never sleep, and are constantly on the move. We finally
stopped and were ferried across a river and landed in this city. We
then marched to a large hall called "The Cooper Shop," why, I don't
know. We were given a royal meal, breakfast I should call it, but it was
so dark, and I was so sleepy I hardly knew whether it was supper or
breakfast. Cold beef, sausage, bread and butter, cheese, and good hot
coffee. It was far ahead of any meal we have had so far. I am told that
the place is kept open night and day by some benevolent association, and
that no regiment passes through without getting a good square meal. If
soldiering is all like this I am glad I am a soldier. If the Rebs ever
get as far North as Philadelphia, I hope the 128th New York may be here
to help defend the "Cooper Shop." After breakfast we went out on the
sidewalk and slept until after daylight. We soon after started for a
railroad station, where we took a train for Baltimore. Our ride so far
has been one grand picnic. We have lots of fun. No matter what our
condition may be, there are some that see only the funny side, and we
have enough of that sort to keep up the spirits of all. All along the
way the people were out, and the most of them gave us cheers, but not
all, as was the case in Hudson. We are nearing the enemy's country. The
change in sentiment begins to show, and the farther we go, I suppose,
the less cheering we will hear, until finally we will get where the
cheers will all be for the other fellow, and we will find ourselves
among foes instead of friends.

_Later._ We are stuck on an up-grade. The engine has gone ahead with a
part of the train, and we are waiting for it to come back. The train men
say we are about forty miles from Baltimore. That means forty miles from
our fodder, and I for one am hungry now. That meal at the Cooper Shop
was good, but not lasting enough for this trip. The boys are out on the
ground having some fun and I am going to join them.

BALTIMORE, MD. We are here at last. Marched about two miles from where
the cars stopped, and are sitting on the sidewalk waiting to see what
will happen next. I hope it will be something to eat, for I am about
famished. Some of the men are about played-out. The excitement and the
new life are getting in their work. The day has been very hot, too, and
with nothing to eat since some time last night, it is not strange we
begin to wonder where the next meal is coming from, and when it will
come. Baltimore is not like New York. I know that much now, but I don't
know enough about either city to tell what the difference is. A
regiment, fully armed, escorted us here from the cars, and are either
staying around to keep us from eating up the city, or to keep the city
from eating us, I don't know which. Some act friendly, but the most of
the people look as if they had no use for us. _Later._--We have finally
had something to eat. My folks always taught me never to find fault with
the victuals set before me, so I won't begin now. But for that I should
say something right now. But whatever it was it had a bracing effect and
we soon started and marched through the city to high ground, which I am
told is "Stewart's Hill."

_September 8, 1862._

_Monday morning._ Our first night in Baltimore is over. We had
roll call, to see if we were all here, and then spread our blankets on
the ground and were soon sound asleep. Walt Loucks and I each having a
blanket, we spread one on the ground and the other over us. With our
knapsacks for a pillow, we slept as sound as if in the softest bed. The
dew, however, was heavy, and only for the blanket over us we would have
been wet through. As it was, our hair was as wet as if we had been
swimming. Sleeping on the ground, in clothing already wet with sweat,
and the night being quite cool, has stiffened our joints, so we move
about like foundered horses. Had the Rebs come upon us when we first got
up we couldn't have run away and we certainly were not in a condition to
defend ourselves. But this wore off after a little, and we were
ourselves again. As it was in Hudson, so it is here. All sorts of
rumors as to what we do next are going the rounds. I have given up
believing anything, and shall wait until we do something or go
somewhere, and then, diary, I'll tell you all about it.

_Night._ We put in the day sitting around and swapping yarns, etc. None
of us cared to go about, for we were pretty tired, after our hard day
yesterday. Shelter tents were given out to-day. One tent for every two
men. They are not tents at all, nothing but a strip of muslin, with
three sticks to hold them up. There are four pins to pin the corners to
the ground. Then one stick is put in like a ridge pole, and the other
two set under it. The ends are pinned down as far apart as a man is
long, and then the middle raised up. They may keep off rain, if it falls
straight down, but both ends are open, and two men fill it full. We have
got them up, each company in a row. It is a funny sight to stand on the
high ground and look over them. Lengthwise, it is like a long strip of
muslin with what a dressmaker calls gathers in it. Looked at from the
side it is like a row of capital A's with the cross up and down instead
of crosswise.

_September 9, 1862._

_Tuesday._ About midnight, an officer of some sort rode into camp with
some word that was the means of our being routed out by the "Long Roll,"
the first time any of us ever heard it. It appears the "Long Roll" is
only sounded when the quickest possible getting into line in fighting
trim is necessary, as when the enemy is about to pounce upon us, etc.
But we didn't hurry. One after another got up and all the time the
officers were shouting, and some of them swearing. I thought they had
all gone crazy. But finally we understood, and then down came our tents.
The quartermaster team rushed up with boxes of guns, which were broken
open and the guns handed out as fast as possible. Ammunition, too, was
passed out, and we were told to load up and defend ourselves. The
excitement was so great, and the ammunition so new to us, about half
the guns were loaded with the bullet end down. The cartridges are a
charge of powder, a big long bullet and a piece of paper. The paper is
rolled up with the powder in one end and the bullet in the other, and to
us, in the dark, both ends looked alike. But no great harm was done, for
no enemy appeared. Just what it was all for I don't know now, and quite
likely never will. We got a ration of bread and coffee and with our
guns--great heavy, clumsy things--and our tents added to our already
heavy load, started off on a brisk pace, which was kept up until some
began to fall out, completely exhausted. These were picked up by the
quartermaster and commissary wagons, and so we went for about six miles
along the road that is said to lead to Frederick. Then we halted, and
after the stragglers had caught up, started back again, soon turning off
in another direction on another road, and marched for about the same
distance, where we turned into a field, partly level, and the rest a
side hill. We halted when a little way from the road and were told we
were to go into permanent camp there. Baltimore is in plain sight,
although it is some way off. We were so tuckered out by our long tramp
in the hot sun and with the heavy loads on our backs, we were glad to
get up our tents, and after a coffee and bread supper, to turn in and
sleep.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] They did correspond, and after the war were married, and as far as I
ever knew or heard lived happily ever after.

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.

CHAPTER IV

On Board the Arago

    A morning on Chesapeake Bay--At Newport News--At Fortress
    Monroe--The journey south continued--Sickness and death on board--A
    burial at sea--Quarantined.

_November 15, 1862._

We are nearly out of sight of land. Wild ducks and geese cover the
water. The sun is just coming up, and seems to me I never saw such a
lovely morning. Besides the ducks and geese on the water, the air is
full of them, some alighting on the water and others rising from it.
They are so tame they only get out of the way of the boat, and if
shooting was allowed, hundreds could be shot from where I stand. I am
sore and stiff from my run to catch the boat, but I am thankful to be
here and take in these new sights on this glorious morning. Chaplain
Parker is on board and is pointing out places and vessels, and helping
us to enjoy it all.

_11 a. m._ We are sailing over the spot where the Monitor and Merrimac
fought. An eye-witness who is on board has been giving a vivid
description of it, to which I listened with the deepest interest.

_Noon._ We have landed at Newport News; so they call it, but there are
only a few shanties in sight, and beside each one is a huge pile of
oyster shells. The boys are here, having been brought off from the
Arago, which lies off shore. Oysters are plenty and cheap, and I am full
of them, the best I ever tasted, fresh from the water, and so large many
of them make two good mouthfuls. The Monitor, which saved the day when
the Merrimac came out of the James River, lies near by, and the wrecks
of the Cumberland and Congress which were sunk, show above the water.
The Arago lies just outside and at 2 P. M. we go on board. The only
white men I have seen are soldiers. The negroes and their shanties are
all I can see of Newport News.

_November 16, 1862._

_Sunday night._ The day has been cold and blustery. We have spent it in
reading tracts the chaplain gave out, writing letters and swapping
yarns. I am new to it all, and the boys have shown me all over the Arago
where they are allowed to go. Our sleeping quarters are between decks,
and are very similar to those on Hudson camp ground. That is, long tiers
of bunks, one above the other from the floor to the ceiling above, just
high enough for a man to sit up in and not hit his head. They are wide
enough for four, but a board through the middle separates each into
berths for two men each. They are the whole length of the room, with
just enough space to walk between them. Along the sides is a row through
which are small round windows which can be opened, and which give the
only light the room has. For ventilation, a huge bag hangs down from
above deck which ends up in a big tin or iron funnel which is kept away
from the wind and so is supposed to draw up the air from our bedroom
when it becomes heated. Where fresh air comes from I have not yet found
out, but suppose it drops down through several openings in the deck
above. A swap was made with one who bunked with Walter Loucks so my
crony and I could again be together. It is on the side, and has a window
in it. Walt has kindly given me the light side so I can keep up my
scribbling. What we are here for, or where we go from here, is not yet
told us. In fact I don't know as it is yet determined.

_November 17, 1862._

_Monday._ On shore again. The well ones are drilling and the sick are
enjoying themselves any way they can. Mail came to-day and I have a
long letter from home. Every mail out takes one from me and often more.
I have so many correspondents, I seldom fail to get one or more letters
by each mail. On the bank or shore, up and down as far as I have seen,
are negro shanties which look as if put up for a few days only. They dig
oysters and find a ready sale to the thousands upon thousands of
soldiers that are encamped on the plains as far as the eye can reach.
This gathering means something, but just what, we none of us know. A
case of black measles is reported on board ship and if true we may be in
for a siege of it. I hope I may get entirely well before it hits me.
Jaundice is quite common too, and many men I see are as yellow as can be
and look much worse than they appear to feel.

_November 18, 1862._

Orderly Holmes and myself have been on shore again. We went up the beach
and found a soldiers' graveyard. We got breakfast at a darky hut, mutton
chops and onions, hot biscuit and coffee, all for twenty-five cents. The
boat that takes us to and from the Arago is a small affair that used to
run up and down the James River. The Rebs have left their mark upon it
in the shape of bullet holes most everywhere, but most often on the
pilot-house.

_November 19, 1862._

Have been paid off; $24.70 I got, and we all went ashore and washed up.
The bunks on the Arago have been used so long by so many that they are
lousy and most everyone has them. I, however, have found none as yet. We
are kept on shore as much as possible, as a guard against disease, which
would surely come when so many are crowded in so small a space. As there
is no way to spend money here except for oysters, a great many gamble it