114th New York on "Curious Casualties" at Port Hudson

Captain James Franklin Fitts, Co. F, 114th New York

(Photo located at The University of New Hampshire)

Over at Bivouac Books there is an account of Captain James Franklin Fitts of the 114th New York. Fitts' piece is on "Curious Casualties" and is pasted below directly from Bivouac Books site. Bivouac Books has a GREAT site with tons of great stories - its a must visit & read. Fitts submitted several works to several publications and partially wrote the regimental history on the 114th New York Infantry. I put the story below because several of the "Curious Casualties" Fitts talks about were wounded at Port Hudson.

Curious Casualties
by Capt. James F. Fitts, Co. F, 114th New York

Those who have had much experience with the effects wrought by missiles of modern warfare have been impressed by two curious facts; first, that a very slight wound is often sufficient to produce death; and second, that a human being may receive a most desperate and apparently fatal injury from these dreadful causes, and yet survive a long time, possibly just as long as though no wound had been received, and finally die from other causes. The experience of almost every soldier of the late war abounds in illustrations of these facts, and also of the other interesting fact that the most disfiguring and inconvenient wounds often do produce death. A few instances from my own observation may be set forth.

A soldier accidentally wounded in the great toe by the discharge of a musket, before Port Hudson in June, 1863, died while chloroform was being administered to him preparatory to amputation. It may be questionable in this case whether the fatal result is properly attributable to the nervous attack, the fright, or the effects of chloroform. It is well known that in rare cases the administration of this anesthetic is necessarily fatal.

Spent balls have sometimes produced death. At the Battle of Winchester, in September, 1864, the present writer was knocked down by a musket ball which did not even indent the skin. In some cases of this kind the shock of the nervous system has been sufficient to kill, without drawing a drop of blood.

At the assault on Port Hudson, on June 14, 1863, one of our soldiers in reserve saw a cannon ball, apparently spent, rolling over the ground near him. He carelessly reached out his foot to stop it. The result was a mangled foot which had to be amputated.

In marked contrast to the above were the following cases, all occurring within my personal knowledge:

A major of Connecticut volunteers, before Port Hudson, on the 27^th of May, 1863, was struck in the breast by a grape shot, which traversed the body and was taken out from the back. Contrary to expectation he did not die immediately and was laid aside without attention until he should die, but a couple of Days passed, and he still survived. He was sent down the river to New Orleans, with some hundreds of others, and lay there in the hospital for months. Still he did not die – would not die, and becoming well enough to travel was sent home. At that time it was not within the expectation of any person who knew anything about the case that he would ever be able to perform the slightest military duty again. And yet, on October 19, 1864, just sixteen months after the wound was received, the major was in command of his regiment at the bloody battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia. He escaped the perils of that day unharmed, and for aught I know to the contrary is alive and well now.

Not to speak too much in the first person, at the assault on Port Hudson, June 14, 1863, I was prostrated by a buckshot just above the hip. After being taken to the rear, the wound was probed by a surgeon, and the ball could not be found. “This is serious” he said, and his face expressed sincerity. I was laid aside to die, and others for whom something could possibly be done were placed on the table. Three days passed, and I lived; ate vigorously, and felt well, except for the condemnation of the surgeon, which seemed to settle it that I ought to have died within twenty-four hours. My persistency, not alone in living, but feeling well, excited renewed attention, and the case was reexamined. It was then discovered that the buckshot had struck a rib, followed its general course around to the front, and buried itself in the abdominal integuments so deeply that it could not be extracted. And there it lies today. A heavy feeling in that vicinity sometimes reminds me of it, and occasionally a pain from the spot where the shot entered; but my life has not been shortened a day by the wound.

Before Port Hudson, June 10, 1863, Corporal Medbury, of my company, on duty with a fatigue party constructing a military road, was seriously wounded by a minnie ball striking him just back of the shoulder joint. The wound was probed; the ball lay too deep to be extracted; the patient was considered as fatally hurt. He was sent down to New Orleans and taken to a hospital. A week later I found him there, with his arm in a sling, walking about, feeling cheerful and well, and expecting to recover entirely in a few days. In five days after that Medbury was confined to his bed; in two days he was dead! A post-mortem examination showed that the bullet had passed through one lung and half through the opposite one. The death was caused by gangrene – mortification – and was necessarily fatal from the first. The curious part of the matter was that a man should carry a fatal bullet in his body for two weeks, should apparently recover from the wound, and should shortly afterward die of it.

On the assault of Port Hudson, before referred to, a sergeant of my regiment was struck in the mouth by a buckshot. It took out every tooth on one side of the upper jaw, front, as clean as a dentist’s saw could have done it, and inflicted no other injury.

I saw after the surrender of Port Hudson, a colonel, who, during the siege had received a minnie ball in one cheek, just forward of the angle of the jaw. It had passed entirely through the face, through both cheeks, taking out at least four double teeth I its course, but happily escaping the tongue. The wound had entirely healed, and the disfigurement was great; but the gallant colonel could eat and talk as well as before.

At the St. James’ Hospital, New Orleans, on the pallet next to me, in June 1863, lay a captain of the Fourth Wisconsin Volunteers, helpless, and suffering with one of the strangest wounds I ever saw. He had received it on the 27^th of May, in command of his company of skirmishers, creeping over the ground in advance of the lines of assault, among the tangled forest and ravines before the enemy’s works. While working forward upon his hands and knees he was struck by a minnie ball just below the hip. The ball took a circular course round the leg, never touching bone, but running round through the muscles at least twice between the hip and knee; thence skipping the kneepan, it circled round twice in the same manner between knee and ankle, and was finally extracted near the foot. The wound was one of the most debilitating and confining, as well as painful, but not necessarily dangerous.

At the hospital in Winchester, in November, 1864, I saw among others, a soldier who had been shot by one of a squad of Mosby’s guerillas while out on reconnaissance. The wound was inflicted by a heavy navy revolver or carbine. The ball entered behind one eye, and apparently took a straight course through the head. It did not come out on the opposite side, and probing failed to discover it. The man was sent to the hospital and given up as one who was certain to die. Yet, when I saw him, almost two months had elapsed since the wound was inflicted; the sight in one eye was gone, but that of the other was perfectly good. The general health of the patient was good, and everything seemed to indicate a speedy recovery.

A surgeon of the Second New York Mounted Rifles told me that while before Petersburg, in 1864, a cavalryman came in on his horse one day from a skirmish, with one leg entirely torn off by a shell, and hanging from the seared and ragged stump was the dangling end of the great artery, effectively closed by the heat of the shell. It was impossible that the patient could live with such a wound. The great wonder was that he could have traveled a mile or two on horseback without bleeding to death; and it was quite as strange that he lived three days after being placed in the hospital.

• For those seeking more information on Captain James Franklin Fitts, his papers are located at the University of New Hampshire Library.

Port Hudson Prisoners

On August 9, 1863, the New York Times printed a piece from the Indianapolis Journal's August 3rd issue. The description of Confederate prisoners from Port Hudson is of interest. I put in bold the pieces about their clothing and condition.

From the Indianapolis Journal Aug. 3.

Yesterday afternoon about three hundred prisoners arrived vid the Jeffersonville Railroad from Port Hudson, and were escorted by a company of the Seventy-first regiment to Camp Morton. These fellows are not so very lean as we are apt to imagine rebel soldiers to look. They were not so thin, "by a jug full," as Hamlet's apothecary. On the contrary, they looked fat. We account for this in the fact that they have had but little to do for a good while past, and have had plenty to eat, for they of Port Hudson were not so foolish as to starve themselves on mule soup for the sake of a rotten Confederacy, as their deluded friends at Vicksburg. We have the story that they used to tantalize our troops by driving a herd of cattle over a bill every morning in full view of our men, ??? hinting they could ???soon be starved out. Their clothes, too, were good -- at least not ragged their clothes, too, were good -- at least not ragged; their sho???the ??? of ??? and altogether they were a pretty good-looking set of ohap??? To be sure their faces lacked the glorious radiance of the Union troops; the nasty stigma, of treason stuck out of them all over. As they trudged wearily along through the dust. We could not but pity the fate which had led such stout men to take up arms against the freest Government on earth. While we would not shield them from a single pang which their accursed crime has brought them; we could but ejaculate a prayer that the Father would interpose to crush the instigators and leaders of the rebellion, that these men and all others of their rank might be spared the punishment due all traitors.

Bringing up the rear of the procession was a fellow carrying a pretty heavy ball, with a chain attached to his ankle. He had been ugly, and was thus secured to insure his future good behavior, and as a warning to others who might feel disposed to follow his example.

The Delta Rifles, Part IV

This is the fourth posting of John McGrath's account of the Delta Rifles of the 4th Louisiana Infantry. The author briefly served as a Sergeant in the company before being elected a Lieutenant in the 13th Louisiana Infantry. This account of The Deltas appeared on January 13, 1922 of the Woman's Enterprise.

The Delta Rifles

Kid Gloves and a Bogus Officer - Organization of a

Regimental Band - First Appearance

Among the members of the Deltas were two who wore buff colored kid gloves at all times whether on guard, fatigue duty or dress parade and for what I know to the contrary while asleep, a practice that drew considerable unfavorable criticism from other members who thought private soldiers should be somewhat less pretentious or prone to showing their social status in civil life.

"Sergeant, you should make those blasted dudes discard kid gloves. Wearing them is to make less favored soldiers feel as if the wearers wished to show their superiority. Doggone them, some of us could buy the dudes and all they possess in the way of worldly goods and not spend more than a month's income," said one.

"No," said I, "the boys are vain, I'll admit, but they are willing and obedient soldiers and should be permitted to wear anything not prohibited by military orders or army regulations."

A few days after this conversation two of the boys approached my tent and handed me a small package which upon opening I found to contain a pair of buff colored gloves which had been purchased in New Orleans.

"What does this mean?" said I.

"Why, if kid gloves are to be worn by men in this company our sergeant is the one to wear them. We present them for the reason that you have been fair, impartical and just, treating all alike. You don't play favorites and we admire you for it," said they.

Of course I was highly gratified and somewhat proud to think I was held in such high esteem by my comrades but was to learn within a very short time that another motive and not respect for me had moved the donors in providing the gloves.

I said in my first paper that the Deltas were handsomely uniformed, our coats being copied from some French corps and my coat was adorned with silver stripes from cuff to elbow-two V shaped stripes each one inch wide while my rank was designated on my fatigue coat by chevrons after the style of American soldiers so I could pass as a commissioned officer when in uniform easily enough in an army such as we had at Camp Moore where no two companies were uniformed alike. A day or two after the presentation of the gloves the donors appeared and said: "Oh put on your gloves and come along and order us a drink." Thus importuned I reluctantly consented.

The Sutler's store was in a shack hastily thrown up, with a counter breast high made of rough pine planks and the goods were principally wines, liquors and tobacco and believe me, it was well patronized by the 9,000 or 10,000 officers and men in camp. Enlisted men could purchase liquor only on an order of a commissioned officer and it was for that reason the boys insisted on my masquerading as a lieutenant. Our captain would occasionally write orders but not often enough to suit the boys. So my gloves and uniform were often requisitioned.

Entering the Sutler's shack I learned close up to the counter placing my arms thereon and with all the assurance of a colonel ordered the bard tender to "Serve my men a drink." Seeing the kid gloves and tinsled coat sleeves the fellow complied without hesitation and continued to recognize me as an officer as long as I would respond to the appeal of the boys. Demands became so numerous and fear of detection so likely that I finally refused all appeals to "Let's go down to the Sutler's" and the boys were forced to adopt other ways of deceiving the bar man. However I never noticed signs of intoxication on any of the older men.

In one tent some five or six of our youngest and wildest lads, "birds of a feather" quartered together who in a spirit of mischief and total disregard for army rules and regulations caused more annoyance than the rest of the company combined. They were always missing roll calls at reveile, tardy in falling in for drills and other duties and withal were fine fellows generally. There was nothing small or mean in the make up of those lads, just pure mischief and that spirit kept them doing extra duty almost constantly. What punishment was meted out to the fun loving boys was within the ranks of our own company as it was unthinkable that members of the Deltas should be sent to the guard house to mix with the tough characters often confined therein. That I was kept buys by that crowd, protecting them, as it were, against their own acts goes without saying. My past experience had taught me that when the embryo stage was passed the youngsters would respond to the requirements of military life as promptly and as effeciently as the older soldiers, and that when the crucial tests of battle were to be applied none would respond to face what might be in store for them with more firmness and courage. That proved true by two of the five yielding their young lives on the field of battle. I protected the lads against their own recklessness as best I could for as the poet says "With all thy faults I love thee still." In peace the survivors of the wild lads were among the most elderly, useful and peace-lving citizens of Baton Rouge.

While at Camp Moore Colonel Allen and our captain devoted considerable time to the study of tactics and soon developed into well informed officers competent to drill equal to West Pointers, with a result that when we left few could maneuverer a company or regiment with more success.

While in that camp a band was organized under the leadership of Prof. Moses of Clinton which was considered one of the best bands in the Confederate service.

With the exception of two companies, the Lafourche Guard and Lake Providence Cadets, the Fourth Louisiana Regiment was composed of companies raised within a radius of sixty miles of Baton Rouge. There were two from East Feliciana, one from St. Helena, one from what is now Tangipahoa, one from Bayou Sara, one from Bruly Landing, one from Baton Rouge and the Delta Rifles from East and West Baton Rouge and Pointe Coupee, but accredited to West Baton Rouge.

With officers fairly well versed in military tactics, a find band, handsomely uniformed, equipped with the best arms with a personal above the average intelligence the Fourth Louisiana when it entrained to leave Camp Moore was as fin a regiment as Louisiana sent forth to represent her on the tented field.

To be continued...

Van Alystne's Diary, Part III

We continue with the diary of Lawrence Van Alystne was part of Co. B, 128th New York Infantry. His regiment was assigned to Louisiana in December of 1862. The 128th New York served in our state until July 1864, when it was transferred to Virginia. Van Alystne put together a book that included his diary he kept while serving in the 128th New York, Diary of An Enlisted Man(1910).

CHAPTER VI
Camp Chalmette, La.

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

January 4, 1863.

SUNDAY. Hip, Hip, Hurrah! The Laurel Hill, a steamer, has stopped at our camp and we have orders to pack up for a move. All that are able are to be taken to Chalmette, the old battle ground below New Orleans. Anywhere but this God-forsaken spot, say I. Chaplain Parker preached hot stuff at us to-day. Says we don't take proper care of ourselves, that we eat too often and too much. That made me laugh. Dominie, if you lived with us a while, ate at the same table and had the same bill of fare to choose from, I think you would tell another story. Poor man, it is getting on his nerves sure. But it sets me to wondering if our officers all think that way. If they blame us for the condition we are in, who brought these conditions about? Did we from choice herd in between decks like pigs, while the officers, chaplain and all had staterooms and a bed and good food to eat, well cooked and at regular hours? If they blame us for our condition to-day, I can only hope that at some time they may get just such treatment and fare and that I may be there to remind them it is their own fault. Chaplain Parker must do some tall preaching to make good what he has lost by that tongue lashing. It was uncalled for and a sad mistake.

January 5, 1863.

Chalmette. Monday. Said to be just below the city of New Orleans. We left quarantine about 11 p. M. and reached here about 8 this morning. Many were left behind, too sick to be moved. We have put up our tents, and have been looking about. It is a large camp ground and from all signs was lately occupied and was left in a hurry. Odds and ends of camp furniture are scattered about, and there are many signs of a hasty leave-taking. A few of us went back across the country to a large woods, where we found many trees covered with long gray moss, hanging down in great bunches from the branches. We took all we could carry to make a bed of, for it is soft as feathers.

Later. The doctor won't allow us to use our bed of moss. Says it would make us sick to sleep on it, and much worse than the ground. This is said to be the very ground where General Jackson fought the battle of New Orleans and a large tree is pointed out as the one under which General Packenham was killed. Ancient-looking breastworks are in sight and a building near our tents has a big ragged hole in the gable which has been patched over on the inside so as to leave the mark as it was made, which a native tells me was made by a cannon ball during the battle of New Orleans. The ground is level and for this country is dry. The high bank, or breastworks, cuts off the view on one side and a board fence cuts off a view of the river. Towards the city are enough trees to cut off an extended view in that direction, so we have only the swamp back of us to look at. But this beats quarantine and I wish the poor fellows left there were well enough to get here. There are several buildings on the ground, which the officers are settling themselves in, while a long shed-like building is being cleared out for a hospital. It has been used for that, I judge, and is far better than the one at quarantine. We brought along all that were not desperately sick and have enough to fill up a good part of the new hospital. Walter Loucks has rheumatism in his arms and suffers all the time. He and James Story are my tent mates. We have confiscated some pieces of board to keep us off the ground. Company B has been hard hit. We left seven men at Baltimore, seven at Fortress Munroe and seven at our last stopping-place. It seems to go by sevens, as I find we have seven here in our new hospital. This with the four that have died makes thirtytwo short at this time.

January 8, 1863.

To-day is the anniversary of the battle of New Orleans and is celebrated here like the Fourth of July at home. Drill has been attempted, but only about 200 men were fit for it and our camp duties are about all we are able to do.

January 9, 1863.

Were paid off to-day and the peddlers that hang out just across the guard line have done a thriving business. Walter gets worse every day. His courage seems to be giving out and it is pitiful to see him suffer.

January n, 1863.

Meeting to-day. Some way they have lost their force. We attend because we have to. The sermon at the quarantine is remembered. We seem to have lost faith, not in God, but in ministers. Colonel Smith with all his cursing has done more for our care and comfort than those that profess so much and do so little.

January 17, 1863.

Saturday. On account of my cough, which is worse when I lie down, I have walked about evenings or sat and chatted with others about the camp fire until tired enough to sleep, and last night crawled in near midnight where my two bedfellows were asleep. Soon after I got into a drowse from which I was awakened by a coughing spell and saw Walt standing by the help of the tent pole and groaning in agony. Soon I heard him say "I'll end it all right now," and with that he pitched over towards his knapsack and by the noise I thought he was after his revolver. I jumped across Jim, who lay asleep in the middle, and snatched the gun out of his hand before he had it out of the case. Out in the company street I threw the three revolvers and then grabbed for a sheath knife which I knew was there, getting hold of the handle just as he grabbed the sheath. By this time Story was in the game and we both had our hands full getting him down and quiet. I went for Dr. Andrus, who after lighting a candle and looking in Walt's eyes, told us to take him over to the hospital. The struggle had put him in agony and it was pitiful to see how he suffered. We staid with him the rest of the night and by morning he was helpless. Every joint seemed as stiff as if no joint was there. For the next five days I did little but watch him and help in any way I could to make him more comfortable. Then he and others were taken to the general hospital in the city, where they will at least be warm. We have had a cold rain and the camp is a bed of mud. The wind sifts through the cracks in this old shed and although a stove was kept running, it was too cold for comfort. I have slept but little in the last five nights, but the doctor has kept dosing me and I feel better than when this time with Walter began. Letters from home have made the world seem brighter and the men in it better.

January 18, 1863.

Sunday. Yesterday the chaplain's tent for public worship came and this morning we were all gathered there and the chaplain was praying, when snap went something in the top and down came the tent upon us. He didn't have time to say "Amen," to say nothing of the benediction. In the afternoon Isaac T. Winans, Jim Story and I went to see Walter and found him in a good bed and in a warm room. He is much better, but his wrists are swollen yet and look as if the joints had been pulled apart.

January 19, 1863.

It rained hard last night and before the tents got soaked up enough water sifted through to wet our blankets and we hardly slept at all for the cold. Not being called on for anything I lay all day and dosed, trying to make up for the miserable night. Isaac Brownell, of Company B, who has done more to keep up the spirits of the men than anything else, is down and very sick. He is a mimic and could mimic anyone or anything. His antics have made us laugh when we felt more like crying, and we are all anxious about him. A case of smallpox was discovered yesterday and the man put in an outbuilding, where he died this morning. Dr. Andrus so far has been alone, and he looks like death.

Later. He has given out and another doctor from the hospital is coming to take his place. The sick list grows all the time.

January 27,

Two doctors came to take the place of Dr. Andrus and they have had plenty to do. For several days the weather has been hot, which opens the pores in our tents so the first rain sifts right through. Last night it rained and we had another night of twisting and turning and trying to sleep and with very poor success. I cough so when I lie down that I keep up and going all I can, for then I seem to feel the best. Dr. Andrus still looks after us. He is getting better and we are glad, for he is the mainstay in the family. Brownell died this forenoon and I shall never forget the scene. He was conscious and able to talk and the last he said was for us to stick and hang. "But boys," said he, "if I had the power, I would start north with all who wanted to go and as soon as we passed over four feet of ground I would sink it."

January 28, 1863.

Cold day. Ice formed on puddles last night. I am staying in my tent, keeping as warm as I can. I begin to feel I am going to give out. I have kept out of the hospital so far and hope to die right here in my tent if die I must. But to-morrow may be warmer and my cough better, and under such conditions my spunk will rise as it always has. So good-bye, diary. I am going to try for a nap.

January 29, 1863.

For excitement to-day a man in the tent next ours tried to shoot himself. He is crazy. He rolled himself up in his blanket and then fired his revolver, on purpose maybe, and it may be by accident. At any rate he put a ball in the calf of his leg which stopped under the skin near his heel, and the doctor cut it out with a jackknife. He has acted half crazy for some time and should be taken care of before he kills himself or someone else.

January 30, 1863.

The 28th Maine Regiment has encamped close beside us. They are well advanced in the art of taking care of themselves, for they stole everything loose in a short time after their arrival. Have been vaccinated again. This makes the third time since we left Hampton Roads.

January 31, 1863.

One of the Maine men put a bayonet through Charlie Tweedy's arm as he came from the river with a pail of water. Charlie crossed his beat, which he had no right to do. But it made bad blood and quite a quantity flew from the noses of the Maine men and some Company B blood flew too. Tweedy is the smallest man in the regiment, and has been plagued by all hands until he is very saucy and on account of his size is allowed to do about as he pleases. But it didn't work on the Maine men and may teach the Bantam a lesson.

February 6, 1863.

Friday. The days are so much alike I have given up noting the doings of each as it comes. Since February 1st our meeting-house tent has been repaired and raised again. Rumor of a move came early in the week and has kept us guessing ever since. I think it means something, for the sick in camp hospital have been sent to the general hospital in New Orleans. The weather has been of all sorts. Cold and windy and then a thunder and lightning storm that shook the very earth. The hospital is filling up again, too. Twenty men from Company K were reported to-day, and five from Company B. I fear my turn is coming, for in spite of all Dr. Andrus does, my cough does not let up.

12th Connecticut at Port Hudson, Part II

We continue the account of Captain John W. Deforest of Co. D, 12th Connecticut Infantry at Port Hudson. Deforest's account of his regiment at Port Hudson was printed in the Harper's New Monthly Magazine in August of 1867.

II. A NIGHT ATTACK.

Our fighting at Port Hudson was not without its spice of variety. From time to time, as a relief to the monotony of being shot at every day a little, we made an attack and were shot at a good deal. On the 10th of June General Banks ordered a nocturnal reconnoissance on a grand scale, with the object, as I understood, of discovering where the enemy’s artillery was posted, so that it might be knocked out of position by our own batteries previous to delivering a general assault. The whole line, six or eight miles in length, advanced sharp-shooters, with instructions to be in position by midnight and then to open violently.

I had noticed premonitions of mischief during the day. A cavalry orderly from division headquarters had passed through our gully with dispatches for the brigade commander. And here I will honestly clear my breast of the confession that I dreaded the sight of these orderlies for the reason that they hardly ever made their appearance among us but we were shortly engaged in some unusual high cockolorum of heroism. It must be understood that by this time we had seen as much fighting as human nature can easily absorb inside of a month. Next after the orderly came another somewhat unwelcome personage, the adjutant, going from shanty to shanty with the message, “The colonel wishes to see the company commandants.” I distinctly remember the faces of the ten men who listened to the orders for the reconnoissance. They were grave, composed, businesslike; they were entirely and noticeably without any expression of excitement; they manifested neither gloom nor exultation. When the colonel had ceased speaking three or four purely practical questions were asked, and then the officers, separating without further conversation, returned quietly to their companies.

The orders which we received were singular, and to us at the time incomprehensible. Seven companies were to be formed at midnight behind the parapet, ready to advance at a moments notice. Three companies were to pass over the knoll, cross the ravine, carry the enemy’s works, and report their success, upon which they were to be supported by the others. The companies selected for the assault were the ones whose turn it would be to mount guard the next morning.

Knowing nothing then of General Banks's purpose to make the rebels unmask their artillery, and remembering that our companies did not average thirty men apiece while the apron to be attacked was held by two regiments, we looked upon our instructions as simple madness. Of course, however, we prepared to obey them, ordering the cartridge-boxes to be replenished, the canteens and haversacks filled, and the blankets slung. That is to say, we got ready to occupy the enemy’s position precisely as if we expected to carry it.

The night was warm, damp, cloudy, and almost perfectly dark. A little before the hour appointed for the attack the seven reserve companies formed line in perfect silence along the inner slope of our natural parapet. No one spoke aloud; there was a very little whispering; the suspense was sombre, heavy, and hateful. Then, as quietly as possible, but nevertheless with a tell-tale clicking of canteens against bayonets, the fighting companies climbed upon the knoll and commenced to file over it. Suddenly there was a screech of musketry from across the ravine, a hissing of bullets in flights over our heads, a crash of cannon to our right, whistling of grape, bursting of shells, shouts of officers, and groans of wounded. The rebels in front had caught the sound of the advance, and had opened upon it instantaneously with all their power. My lieutenant, leaning against a sapling, felt it struck by six bullets in something like as many minutes, so thickly did the fusillade fill the air with its messengers. Now, flowing with alarming rapidity considering the small force advanced, commenced the backward stream of wounded, a halting procession of haggard men climbing painfully over the parapet, and sliding down the steep bank to lie till morning upon the hard earth of the basin. In the darkness our surgeon could do nothing more than lay a little dressing upon the hurts and saturate them with water.

The clouds had by this time gathered into storm, and gleams of lightning showed me the sufferers. A group of two brothers, one eighteen the other sixteen, the elder supporting the younger, was imprinted upon my memory by this electric photography. The wounded boy was a character well known in the regiment, a fellow of infinite mischief, perpetually in the guard-house for petty rascalities, noisy, restless, overflowing with animal spirits, and like many such, a headlong, heroic fighter. Young Porter, as every body called him, was firing and yelling with his usual gayety when a bullet struck him in the groin. Turning to his brother he said, Bill, the d--d rebs have hit me; help me in. As he came over the rampart one of my men, not knowing that he was wounded, laughed out, Aha, Porter, you’ve come back early! D--n you, he replied, you go out there and you’ll come back early. Walking down the bank he groaned, Oh, my God! don’t walk so fast. I can't walk so fast. This d--d thing pains me clear up to my shoulder.

On examination it was found that a second ball had actually passed through his shoulder. So severe were this lads injuries that it was not supposed possible that he could live; but six weeks afterward, as we lay at Donelsonville, he rejoined the regiment, having run away from hospital and stolen a tent and a boat.

Within ten minutes from the commencement of the attack the three captains of the advancing companies were brought in disabled. I was leaning against the bank near the edge of the gully, thinking, I suppose, how disagreeable it was to be there, and how much better it was than to be outside, when, behold! that undesired messenger, the sergeant-major.

“Captain, he said, the Colonel directs that you take command of the skirmishers and push them across the ravine.”

Dreading it like a toothache, but nevertheless facing it as though I liked it, I ran a little to the left in search of a spot where the bullets were not flying too thick, and went over the parapet with a light step and a heavy heart. My first adventure in the blinding darkness was to roll into a rain-gulch, twenty feet deep, through the branches of a felled tree, tearing off my sword-belt and losing my sabre. I groped a moment for the last-named encumbrance, deemed so essential to an officers honor; but could not find it, and did not see it again until the end of the siege gave me a chance to seek it in safety. Parenthetically I will state that it is now hanging beside me, restored by sand-paper to something like its original brightness, but deeply pock-marked with the rust incurred in its four weeks of unprotected bivouac.

I had my revolver in my hand when I fell, and I still held fast to it at the close of my descent, as I have seen a child cling to a plaything while performing somersaults down stairs. Clambering out of the gulch, and directing my steps toward a spitting of musketry, I came upon Lieutenant Smith and six men of our Company D, who had established themselves in another of the many rainways which seamed the face of the hill-side.

“Forward, boys! I shouted. We must carry the works. Forward!”

I remember distinctly the desperate look -- seen by a lightning flash -- which the brave boys cast at me before they charged out of their cover. It seemed to say, “Are you, too, mad? Well, if it must be—“. In answer to our hurrah the enemy’s musketry howled and the air hissed with bullets. The first who reached the edge of our gulch fell groaning; and I had five men left with whom to storm Port Hudson. Satisfied that the attempt would be futile unless I could have at least one more soldier, I allowed the survivors to take cover, and wondered what General Banks would do if he were in my place.

“I don’t believe the men can be led any farther,” observed the Lieutenant.

“This is a new thing in our regiment, flinching from fire,” I remarked.

“Yes, but it has been pretty bad out here. It was tremendous when we first came over.”

“Where is the rest of the storming party?” I asked.

“God knows. A great many have been carried in. The rest, I suppose, are scattered all over the hill-side, fighting behind stumps.”

An occasional shot from the darkness around us corroborated this supposition. Evidently our storming column of six officers and ninety men had gone to pieces, some disabled and others having taken cover as skirmishers, while many no doubt had drifted back into the regimental bivouac. There is always a great deal of skulking in night fighting -- first, because darkness renders the danger doubly terrific; and second, because the officers can not watch the line.

“Stay where you are, Lieutenant, I said. I will report matters to the Colonel and be out again with orders.”

On my way in I found two men, each behind a tree with rifle ready, waiting for a flash from the hostile rampart as a target. I had not far to go to reach our head-quarters, for the skirmishers had only advanced a few yards down the hill-side. I felt decidedly ticklish about the legs, knowing that the muskets of our reserve were on a level with them, and not being sure that they might not break out with a volley. It was as ugly a little promenade as I ever undertook.

“Captain, the orders are explicit, said the Colonel in reply to my statement. Advance, take the enemy’s works, and report the fact.”

Thinks I to myself, I wish the person who gave the order had to execute it. Back I stumbled through the midnight to my tatter of a skirmish line, pondering over my task in despair. If any other man ever had so much to do, and so little to do it with, I should like to hear his story. To charge again was out of the question; my seven men had had all they wanted of that. Accordingly I gave orders to separate, take such cover as could be found, crawl ahead, and fire as skirmishers. It was all done except the crawling ahead. The men were willing enough to crawl, but not toward the enemy. I did not blame them. If any one advanced he was liable to be shot in the darkness, not only by the rebels but by his own comrades. I don’t believe that King David’s first three mighty ones would have made much progress under the circumstances. What added to our discouragement was the fact that no other regiment was firing. All around Port Hudson, at least as far as we could hear, there was dumb silence, except in front of the 12th Connecticut. Why this was I never knew, and can only guess a diversity of orders, or perhaps a wide-spread influenza of self-preservation.

Presently a storm of rain burst, and both sides ceased firing. I sat on a stump with my rubber blanket over my head, suffocating under the heat of it, and conscious of much moistness in the way of drippings. After an hour or so the rain stopped, and we renewed our musketry. So wore on the most uncomfortable, disgusting, irrational night that I can remember. At last daylight appeared: not sunrise, be it understood, but faint, dusky, misty dawn: a grayish imitation of light robed in fog. Lieutenant Allen of Company K now arrived from farther down the ravine, and went into the lines after the stragglers of his command. Reappearing in the course of a few minutes with a dozen men, he had to expose himself recklessly in order to shame certain demoralized ones into advancing over the fatal knoll behind us. He was admirable, as he walked slowly to and fro at his full height, saying, calmly, “Come along, men; you see there is no danger.” Old Putnam, galloping up and down Charlestown Neck to encourage the Provincials through the ricochetting of the British army, was not finer.

Now we recommenced firing with spirit and kept it up until after sunrise, thinking all the time how absurd it was, and wondering that we were not recalled. Just as the fog lifted and exposed us to the view of the enemy we heard from behind our rampart a shout, “Skirmishers, retire.” It was a good thing to hear; but it was easier said than obeyed. The 2d Alabama had a clean sweep into the gulch where we had collected, and it took all the stumps and jutting banks which we could find there to cover us. We were much in the condition of the Irishman in the runaway coach, who did not jump off because he had as much as he could do to hold on. But it was necessary to be lively; the fire was growing hotter every moment; the bullets were spatting closer and closer to our lurking-places. I claim some merit for superintending the evacuation so successfully as to have only one man hit in the process; although whether the men would not have got off just as well if left to themselves is of course an open question. I ordered one fellow up an almost invisible gutter, another through a thicket of blackberry-bushes, another along some tufts of high grass, and, in short, put my people on as many lines of retreat as the ground would admit. I had about fifteen soldiers, and I sent them in thirty different directions. One fine lad, the clerk of D Company, anxious to save the ordnance stores, for which his captain was responsible, undertook to carry off the muskets of five wounded men, and thereby drew upon himself an unusual amount of attention from the enemy. I ground my teeth with helpless rage and anxiety as I heard the balls strike like axes wielded by demons in the ground near him, he was lying upon his face, crawling slowly and pulling the muskets after him by a gun-strap. He had nearly reached the little log parapet when he gave a cry, They have hit me! Hands were extended to help him, and he was dragged over with no other harm than a flesh wound through the thigh, but without his precious charge of ordnance-stores. When I got in he was hopping about cheerfully and telling the adventures of the night to his comrades of the reserve companies. Poor, brave little Nash! Twenty months later, at Cedar Creek, he died on the field of honor.

I was now left alone with Lieutenants Allen and Smith. "Gentlemen, I said, you are officers; you are supposed to know enough to look out for yourselves; the devil take the hindmost.”

Smith disappeared among the blackberries, or perhaps went under ground, for I never saw him again till I got inside. Allen, over six feet high, bounded across the knoll with a length of stride which the rebel officers remembered after the surrender as having set them a laughing. I surveyed the ground before me, and pondered to the following purpose: “Here I am, a tolerably instructed man, having read The Book of the Indians, all of Coopers novels, and some of the works of Captain Mayne Reid. If I can’t he as cunning as a savage or a backwoodsman I ought to be shot.”

For my road of retreat I selected a faint grassy hollow, perhaps six inches deep, which wound nearly to the top of the knoll before it disappeared. From the stump which sheltered me, and which had already received one bullet and been barely missed by others, I made a spring to the foot of this hollow and dropped in it on my face at full length. I suspect that the grass completely sheltered me from the view of the rebels, for not a shot struck near me during my tedious creep to the summit of the hillock. And yet it was very short grass; I thought it contemptibly short as I scratched through it; an alderman would have found it no protection. I feel certain that my escape was owing entirely to the caution and dexterity with which I effected this to me memorable change of base; and even to this day I chuckle over my good management, believing that if the last of the Mohicans had been present he would have paid me his most emphatic compliments. I did not properly creep, knowing that it would not do to raise my back; I rather swam upon the ground, catching hold of bunches of grass and dragging myself along. My ideas meanwhile were perfectly sane and calm, but very various in character, ranging from an expectation of a ball through the spine to a recollection of Cooper’s most celebrated Indians. About a rod from the parapet the hollow disappeared and the herbage became diminutive. Here was the ticklish point; the moment I rose I would be seen. I sprang to my feet, shouted, “Out of the way!” thought of the bayonets inside, wondered if I should be impaled, made three leaps and was safe. I have seldom felt more victorious than at that instant when I became conscious that I had done the rebels. The repulse of the night seemed insignificant compared with the broad-day triumph of my escape from scores of practiced marksmen who were on the watch to finish me.

I immediately went to the Colonel and reported the skirmishing party all in. In this, however, I was mistaken, for about half an hour afterward an anxious voice outside informed us that another straggler had returned thus far from his adventurings in the ravine. A canteen of water and haversack of biscuit were thrown out to him, and he remained all day behind a stump, coming in safe at nightfall Of the hundred or so of officers and men engaged in this attack thirty-eight, or nearly two-fifths, were killed or wounded. The affair injured the morale of the regiment, for the men thought they had been slaughtered uselessly, and naturally concluded that there was a person above them somewhere who did not know what orders were good to issue. Even old soldiers rarely see the sense of being pushed out merely to draw the enemy’s fire. Our artillery now went to work upon the two pieces which had been unmasked to grape us, and soon had them silenced, with their wheels in the air and their muzzles pointing backward. The next day General Banks obtained another armistice to collect the dead and wounded of his skirmishing emprise. The rebels in our front crowded their parapet, pointing out where one of our men lay lifeless at the bottom of the ravine, and demanding news of our three wounded captains. They had learned their names during the attack from Mullen, our sergeant-major, a brave little fellow who had bean sent out with orders to the officers, and who, being unable to find them in the darkness, had shouted for them all over the hill-side. The dead man who was brought in to us was a horrible spectacle, swollen and perfectly black with putrefaction, filling our bivouac with an insupportable odor.

As the 14th of June has been well described by Captain Fitts I shall skip it, merely remarking that I would have been pleased to skip it at the time. This is the only fight that I ever went into with a presentiment that I should be hit; and perhaps the cause of the presentiment may be regarded as philosophically worthy of notice. Two days before the assault, as I was passing over a dangerous hillock immediately in rear of our bivouac, I heard the buzz of a Minie among the higher branches of the trees on my right, then heard it strike a fallen log close at hand, and then felt my right leg knocked from under me. The mind is capable of running several trains of thought at once. I was distinctly aware of the bullet singing on its way as merrily as a humble-bee in a flower-garden, and conscious of sending a hurried wish of spite after it, while I was desperately eager to pull up the leg of my trowsers and see if the bone was broken, remembering in a moment what a bad thing it was to have an amputation in such hot weather. Great was my gratification when I found that no permanent harm had been done. A hole in my dirty trowsers, a slight abrasion on the shin from which a few drops of blood flowed, and a large bruise which soon bloomed into blue and saffron, were the only physical results. My main feeling so far was exultation at the escape; the cause of the presentiment of evil was yet to come. When the accident became known in my company an old soldier, a German by birth, who had served in our regular army and in his own country, observed, “It is a warning!”

“What is that, Weber?” I asked.

“Oh, it is a foolish saying, Captain. But we used to say when a bullet merely drew blood that it was a forerunner of another that would kill.”

I am as little superstitious as a human being can well be, but Weber’s speech made me very uncomfortable until the 14th of June was over. I went into the assault with a gloomy expectation of the bullet that would kill, and hardly forgot it for a quarter of an hour together during the whole day. And when at night, after fifteen hours of exposure to fire, the regiment moved into the covered way and through it and beyond the reach of hostile musketry, I experienced a singular sense of elation at having balked my evil destiny. Yet I had contrived to behave about as well as usual, and had been honorably reported for gallantry at division head-quarters.

After the assault came twenty-four days more of sharp-shooting. We grew weak and nervous under the influences of summer heat, confinement, bad food, and constant exposure to danger. Men who had done well enough in battle broke down under the monotonous worry, and went to the rear invalided. From rain, perspiration, sleeping on the ground, and lack of water for washing, our clothing became stiffened and caked with inground mud. Lice appeared, increased, swarmed, infesting the entire gully, dropping upon us from the dry leaves of our bough-built shanties, and making life a disgrace as well as a nuisance. Excepting a three-days raid into our rear to cover foragers and hunt rebel raiders, the brigade had no relief for six weeks from the close musketry of the trenches. Nor did we have any of those irregular truces, those mutual understandings not to fire, which were known along other portions of the line. Every day we shot at each other across the ravine from morning to night. It was a lazy, monotonous, sickening, murderous, unnatural, uncivilized mode of being. We passed our time like Comanches and New Zealanders; when we were not fighting we ate, lounged, smoked, and slept. Some of the officers tried sharp-shooting as an amusement, but I could never bring myself to what seemed like taking human life in pure gayety, and I had not as yet learned to play euchre. Thus I had no amusement beyond occasional old newspapers and rare walks to the position of some neighboring battery or regiment. Meantime General Banks was preparing for another assault, and offering various glories volunteers for the forlorn-hope. I observed the regiments which had suffered most severely hitherto sent up very few names for the “Roll of honor”. For instance the 8th, one the most gallant organizations that I ever knew but which had already lost more than two-thirds of its numbers in our unhappy assaults, did not furnish a single officer or soldier. The thirty or forty who went from my regiment were a curious medley as to character, some of them being our very best and bravest men, while others were mere rapscallions, whose only object was, probably, to get the whisky ration issued to the forlorn-hope. I did not volunteer; our only field-officer was wounded, and I was the senior captain present; and I naturally preferred the chance of leading a regiment to the certainty of leading a company. There was no doubt that the brigade would be put in; on what occasion had it ever been left out? Once we were marched back to corps headquarters, formed in a hollow square, and treated to an encouraging speech from General Banks. One Colonel, who admired the discourse, remarked that it was fit to be pronounced in the United States Senate. Another Colonel, who did not admire it, replied that it was just fit. At the conclusion of the oratory our brigade commander called out, “Three cheers for General Banks!” whereupon the officers hurrahed loyally while the men looked on in sullen silence. Volunteers can not easily be brought to believe that any body but their Commander is to blame when they are beaten, and will not make a show of enthusiasm if they do not feel it.

Finally came news that Vicksburg had surrendered, and then a mighty hurrah ran around Port Hudson, like the prophetic uproar of rams horns around Jericho. “What are you yelling about?” an Alabamian called to us from across the ravine. “Vicksburg has gone up!” a score of voices shouted. “ Hell!” was the compendious reply, reminding one of Cambronne atWaterloo, as told by Victor Hugo. Then came quiet, flags of truce, treatings for terms, and capitulation. Grand officials at head-quarters got mellow together, while the lower sort mingled and prattled all along the lines. Bowie-knives were exchanged for tobacco and Confederate buttons for spoonfuls of coffee. It was, “How are you, reb?” and, “How are you, Yank?” and, “Bully for you, old boy!” and, “Now you’ve got us!” all through the a hot summers day. Never were fellows more friendly than the very fellows who but a few hours before were aiming bullets at each others craniums.

I soon discovered that the rebel officers, not without good reason, were exceedingly proud of their obstinate defense. They often alluded to the fact that they had held out until they were at the point of starvation, reduced to an ear of corn a day, and such rats and mule meat as the sharpest foraging might furnish. They had surrendered, they said, because Vicksburg had; yes, they bragged not a little of having outlasted Pendleton; at the same time their roll provisions would have been quite gone in three days more; and then they would have had to come down, Vicksburg or no Vicksburg. One of our captains accepted an invitation to dine with these gentlemen, and found broiled rat a better dish than he had expected.

“Well, you have cut the Confederacy in two,” said one officer to me. “But we shall not give up the contest, and I think we shall tire you out at last.”

Is he living now, I wonder, to see the fate of his prophecy?

The defense of Port Hudson was gallant, but the siege, I affirm, was no less so. On the day of the surrender we had ten thousand four hundred men for duty to watch and fight over a line of nearly eight miles in extent. We had at least four thousand killed and wounded, and not far from as many more rendered unserviceable by sickness. The total number of prisoners, able and disabled, combatants and non-combatants, amounted, as we are informed, I believe, by General Banks, to six thousand. Our victory had been no easy achievement, but it was no inconsiderable victory.

NY Times on the Destruction of Louisiana Countryside around Port Hudson

Yankee depredations in Louisiana is subject, in my opinion, that has fully been explored. Anytime I run across in relation to this topic is always interesting. A reported from the New York Times visited Port Hudson in February of 1864 and commented on the countryside surrounding the Union garrison there. I've included only part of the story that relates to the destroyed countryside. Notice the religious tone of facing judgement for rebellion in the reporter's story and notice how the reporter relishes in the abuse of the land.

New York Times

PORT HUDSON, La., Wednesday, Feb. 10, 1864

...All through the country it was found that old men, women and children are reduced to the most frightful suffering. To a people accustomed to all the luxuries which the markets of Europe and America could afford, how galling it must be to beg a little coffee of a poor Federal soldier! How hard it must be to be reduced to corn meal only! The wives of officers in the rebel army, of Colonels and Generals; those of men formerly styled the "Aristocracy of Louisiana," have approached our soldiers, saying, "Please, Sir, can you bring us a little coffee when you come again; we want some salt very badly, and our little children suffer for proper clothing." Although there are strict orders against supplying the rebels, male or female, yet the common promptings of our common humanity, lead our soldiers to share their rations with these starving aristocrats. To our own knowledge, families would have starved to death this Winter, were it not for the pity, the mercy of our soldiers.

We read in the Good Book, that men reap that which they sow; and the rebels, both men and women, have this truth brought home to them now. They sowed rebellion against the Government, and they are reaping starvation. One is the natural product of the other. Our loyal people in the North have no idea of the extent of suffering which sweeps over the revolted districts. This Winter, with its unusual cold and want, will be marked in the recollections of the ex-planters of Louisiana as the saddest period of their life. Were your correspondent an artist, he would paint a picture in which he would delineate the suffering of these rebels. It would be, in some measure, like one which he remembers having seen in his boyhood, representing Adam and Eve in the attitude of viewing at a great distance the pleasures and the bounties, the purity and sweetness of Eden, not forgetting the wiley serpent who had beguiled them, and which, with glaring eye and poisonous tongue, was pictured lying on the ground. The picture of these rebels would be thus: A splendid mansion in the distance, surrounded with beautiful trees and flowers; a coach and fine horses, with negro driver and footman, waiting at the gate; an immense plantation, with a vast number of slaves employed in "the cotton and the cane;" the driver, with his lash in hand, riding around; the "trader" and the auction for the sale of human "chattels;" the parting of families would be depicted by the child torn from its parent's arms; the iron shackels; the stocks; the sugar-mill; the cotton-gin; the loads of sugar and of cotton; and yonder the first gun of the war fired at Sumter belching confusion into and through plantations, sugar, cotton, slaves, planters, palaces and gardens; and then, over in a corner, alone, ragged, gaunt and mad, should stand the rebel and his wife; and a serpent, whose name should be Slavery, should be represented coiled around their feet. "Caught in their own Net" should be the name of the picture; or, if that would not do, call it "The Reward of Iniquity." In this picture we see the present condition of sugar-growing, cotton-raising, slave-breeding, sin-accursed Louisiana. But in the picture there should be a sign to represent a new and better order of things. Perhaps we have the subject here in Port Hudson. An American flag, and beneath it a new Yankee "church and school-house." This would be about as good a token as any.

In this connection it may be well to communicate an appropriate fact. Two nights ago, the first of a large number of newly-constructed regimental school-houses was dedicated, with appropriate services. Every shingle, and every plank, and every log of it had formerly been used in the interest of Slavery! Henceforth the cause of education, religion and justice shall be served by them.

The Delta Rifles, Part III

We continue John McGrath's account of the Delta Rifles of the 4th Louisiana Infantry. This is the coninuation of his story that ran in the December 16, 1921 edition of the Woman's Enterprise. Last time McGrath gave an account of the regiment up to its arrival at Camp Moore. This is where we pick back up...

The Delta Rifles

Get off at Last and Proceed to New

Orleans on the Way to Camp

Moore-Lost Liquor and First

Delta to Be Placed Und-

er Arrest - Stump

Grubbing.

...The long, hot trip ended at last on arrival at Camp Moore where we detained to the intense disgust and after earnest protest the order was obeyed to unload the camp equipage and private luggage. This was the first manual labor many of the "Kid Glove Company" ever performed and worst was to come for no sooner had the cars been unloaded than the boys were furnished axes and grubbing hoes and put to clearing up ground covered by scrub oak and other small growth for our tents and company street. Oh, the blistered hands and aching backs! Yet these young gentlemen complained less than aggregation of rough necks known as the Tiger Rifles would have done.

While the boys were thus engaged the officers' negroes were loaned to us to cook dinner which consisted of wheat bread, beef, beans, potatoes, rice and coffee, good substantial food but bless you, our dainty lads refused to eat it. For the first time since leaving home I became angry when on fellow after being served, threw the food on the ground remarking as he did so "Hell, I wouldn't feed my nigger such stuff as that." "No," said I, "dam you, if I do not miss my guess about this war the time will come when you would pick that food out of the sand and eat it." They one and all in time were glad enough to receive a ration of corn bread and a small piece of bacon for a day's allowance.

Tents pitched and everything in order, details were made from guard duty, drilling was begun and formation of a regiment accomplished, between and after which sports of all kinds were indulged in and the boys seemed quite contented with military life. Early during this period of activity the ranks began to lose some of its most popular men. The first loss was the promotion of four, Thomas Gibbs Morgan was commissioned a Captain in the Seventh Louisiana, Dudley Avery a Lieutenant in the Eighteenth, Ben Cooley a Lieutenant in the Fourteenth, Marshall Pope regimental surgeon while Henry Watkins Allen became Lieutenant Colonel of the Fourth to which regiment the Delta Rifles were attached.

Within a few days after our arrival companies from every section of the State arrived daily until there were some nine or ten thousand men being broken into military life. Soon an epidemic of measles accompanied by other diseases broke out, resulting in numerous deaths, some claim that as many as 800 died at Camp Moore from first to last, but a more conservative claim put deaths at 600. Some 25 or 30 regiments were at one time or another at that camp, say 30,000 men. Every man who died at that time and place died while in the service of the State and previous to being transferred to the Confederate States for immediately upon being mustered and accepted by the Confederacy the regiments were sent to Virginia, Kentucky or elsewhere.

While disease was playing havoc among the troops strange to say that, not a single man of the Delta Rifles experienced the least sickness during the stay of that company. The measles seemed to be confined to troops from country life.

While deaths were numerous the Deltas performed all required duties and between time indulged in all kinds of sports including boxing contest and the only matter of serious import was when called out to suppress a rioting of the company known as the Tiger Rifles. The for the first time ball cartridges were served and inserted into our guns.

It seems that the mutineers refused to perform duty as ordered and defied authority to do their worst and Gen. Tracy in command determined to subdue them. So the Delta Rifles were chosen to enforce obedience to the laws. Ranks formed we marched to where the Tigers were assembled, accompanied by the Adjutant General who ordered the mutineers to form ranks and obey orders. This they flatly refused to do but instead began cursing the Kid Glove Deltas and daring them to fire. We were then ordered to load and come to a ready and the Adjutant General taking out his watch notified the malcontents that he would give them just two minutes to form ranks and unless they obeyed in that time he would order us to fire up on them. At first they laughed and guyed him but noticing the firmness of the Deltas and believing they would fire at the command they were in ranks before the expiration of the two minute limit. Strange to say these toughs had a more friendly feeling for us than for any other troops in camp and many of them honored us as visitors and when we entrained to leave the Tigers turned out in full force to bid us a farewell.

On the 25th of May 1861 a Confederate officer from Richmond arrived in camp to muster the Fourth Louisiana Infantry into the Confederate service when ranks were formed, the roll called, each held up a hand while the oath of allegiance was administered and at last after several months in the service of the State we became Confederate soldiers and left for points assigned us next day.

McGrath's story of the Delta Rifles will continue in later posts...

Van Alystne's Diary, Part II

We continue with the diary of Lawrence Van Alystne was part of Co. B, 128th New York Infantry. His regiment was assigned to Louisiana in December of 1862. The 128th New York served in our state until July 1864, when it was transferred to Virginia. Van Alystne put together a book that included his diary he kept while serving in the 128th New York, Diary of An Enlisted Man(1910).

CHAPTER V
Quarantine Station, La.

Cooking gray-backs—A big cat-fish—Starting a grave yard—" The most trying circumstances war can bring."

TOWARDS night the Arago swung up to the bank near the big brick building and we went ashore and piled into it. It was built for storing cotton, and is fireproof. The lower floor is of brick and the upper one of iron and so cannot well burn. The bricks seem hard and cold and are water-soaked. Still we spread our blankets and got some sleep and woke up hungry. The cooks have established themselves between us and the river so as to be near water. We have room to stir about at any rate and some went in bathing, but the water is cold. The only good quality the body lice possess is a habit of letting go of us when we move and grabbing hold of our clothes. Taking advantage of this we took the camp kettles as soon as breakfast was cooked and boiled our clothes. Those that had no change—and that was the most of us—ran about to keep warm until our garments were cooked and then after a wring out put them on and let them dry as fast as the wind and sun would do it. By night we were dry and slept without a scratch, and strange to say none of us took cold. But not all would try this heroic remedy and consequently we expect to have to repeat the operation. A negro came across the river with his boat loaded with oranges. We bought the whole of them as fast as he could count them out, fifty cents for 100, and the doctor says eat all you want. The sick are in the wooden buildings outside, except in one, which the officers have taken. We acted like colts just turned loose and already are forgetting the close quarters we were in so long. Along the river is a narrow strip of hard ground and beyond that is a swamp which so far as I can see has no end. Sluggish streams flow with the tide back and forth from the river to the gulf, and between these the ground is covered with what is here called wild rice. Birds of all sorts are plenty; ducks and geese all feed upon the seeds that abound everywhere.

December 17, 1862.

Have explored the country up and down and back from the river to-day. Found much that is strange to me but met with no startling adventures.

December 18, 1862.

The officers gave a dance in the upper part of the storehouse last night and the iron floor was fine for dancing. All hands were invited to join in and all that felt able did. Two men died yesterday, and last night another, all fever patients. Two were from Company A, and the other from Company I. They were buried just back of the quarters on hard ground, for this place. A catfish was caught by one of Company A's men to-day, that looked just like our bullheads, only bigger. As he was pulling him in over the mud the line broke, and I got the head for hitting him with an axe before he got to the water. The head weighed 145/2 Ibs, and the whole fish 52 Ibs. A native that saw him said he was a big one, but not as big as they sometimes grow. My family had a meal from the head and Company A had fish for all their sick and part of the well ones.

December 19, 1862.

Fifteen cases of fever reported this morning. A dead man was taken out very early and buried in a hurry. This has given rise to the story that small-pox has come, too. It looks as if it might be so, for it's about the only thing we haven't got. Those that seemed strongest are as likely to be taken now as the weakest. I have been half sick through it all and yet I hold my own, and only for my sore throat and this racking cough would enjoy every minute.

December 20, 1862.

One day is so much like another that the history of one will do for several. I think about everything that can be done for our comfort is being done. There must be some reason for our being kept here and it is probably because of so much sickness. It would not do to take us where others would catch our diseases and yet it is tough lines we are having. Chaplain Parker does everything he can to keep up our spirits, even to playing boy with us. A new doctor has come to take the place of one that died while we lay off Newport News.

December 21, 1862.

Inspection of arms to-day and a sermon by the chaplain. We are thinking and talking of the letters we will get when we have a mail. Uncle Sam keeps track of us someway and sooner or later finds us. We have a regimental postmaster, who is expected every day from the city with a bag full. We have enough to fill him up on his return trip. The Arago is unloading all our belongings, which looks as if we were to stay here. Good-bye, Arago! I wish there was a kettle big enough to boil you and your bugs in before you take on another load. So many are sick the well ones are worked the harder for it. I still rank amoung the well ones and am busy at something all the time. Just now I have been put in place of fifth sergenat, who among other duties sees that the company has its fair share of rations, and anything else that is going. I also attend sick call every morning, which amounts to this. The sick call sounds and the sick of Company B fall in line and I march them to the doctor's office, where they are examined. Some get a dose of whiskey and quinine, some are ordered to the hospital and some are told to report for duty again. Dr. Andrus and I play checkers every chance we get. We neither play a scientific game, but are well matched and make some games last a long time. He is helping my throat and my cough is not so bad lately. Our quarters were turned into a smoke house to-day. An old stove without a pipe is going and some stinking stuff is burning that nothing short of a grayback can stand. It is expected to help our condition, and there is lots of chance for it.

Christmas, 1862.

Nothing much out of the ordinary has happened since I wrote last. A man went out hunting and got lost in the tall weeds. He shouted until some others found him and then had great stories to tell of narrow escapes, etc. Harrison Leroy died this morning. He was half sick all the way here and did not rally after coming ashore. Dr. Andrus poked a swab down my throat with something on it that burned and strangled me terribly. But I am much the better for it. We have all been vaccinated, and there is a marked improvement in the condition of those not in the hospital. The chaplain preached a sermon and Colonel Cowles made a speech. He thanked us for being such good soldiers under what he called the most trying circumstances war can bring. Loads of soldiers go up the river nearly every day. As the doctor allows them to pass the quarantine, I take it they are not in the fix we are.

December 26, 1862.

Leroy was buried early this morning. My part in it was to form the company and march it by the left flank to the grave. For fear this may not be plain I will add, that the captain and orderly are always at the right of the line when the company is in line for any purpose and that end of the line is the right flank. The tallest men are on the right also and so on down to the shortest, which is Will Hamilton and Charles Tweedy, who are on the left, or the left flank as it is called. This arrangement brings the officers in the rear going to the grave, but when all is over the captain takes command and marches the company back by the right. I got through without a break and feel as if I was an old soldier instead of a new one. But it is a solemn affair. Leroy was a favorite with us and his death and this, our first military funeral, has had a quieting effect on all. Last night the chaplain and some officers, good singers all, came in and we almost raised the roof singing patriotic songs. Speeches were made and we ended up with three cheers that must have waked the alligators out in the swamp. Sweet potatoes and other things are beginning to come in and as they sell for most nothing we are living high. But we are in bad shape as a whole. Mumps have appeared and twenty-four new cases were found to-day. Colonel Smith, our lieutenant-colonel, has been up the river to try and find out if better quarters could not be had and has not succeeded. He is mad clear through, and when asked where we were to go, said to hell, for all he could find out.

December 28, 1862.

We have had a rain and the hard ground made the softest kind of mud. It sticks to our feet and clothes, and everybody is cross and crabbed. The sun came out, however, and our spirits began to rise as the mud dried up. There was preaching and prayer meeting both to-day.

Our chaplain's courage is something wonderful and many of us attend the services out of respect to him when we had much rather lie and rest our aching bones. The captain of the Arago sent word he will be along to-night on his way to New York and would stop for letters. He will find some, judging from the writing that has been going on.

December 29, 1862.

John Van Hoovenburg, another Company B boy, is about gone. The men are getting discouraged and to keep their minds from themselves it is said drilling is to begin to-morrow. The seed sown on the Arago is bearing fruit now. Something to do is no doubt the best medicine for us. I know I should die if I laid around and talked and thought of nothing but my own miserable self.

January 1, 1863.

The Arago did call for our mail and the body of Lieutenant Sterling was put on board to go to his family in Pougtikeepsie. We gave the old ship three cheers, and then some one sang out three cheers for the lice you gave us. John Van Hoovenburg died last night. We made a box for him out of such boards as we could find. Though we did our best, his bare feet showed through the cracks. But that made no difference to poor Johnnie. The chaplain was with him to the end, says he was happy and ready to go. This is how we spend our New Year's day. We wish each other a happy New Year though just as if we were home and had a good prospect of one. After the funeral Walter Loucks and I went up the river quite a distance, so far it seemed as if our legs would not carry us back. Negro huts are scattered along. I suppose white people cannot live here and so the darkeys have it all. Some cultivate patches of ground and in one garden we saw peas in bloom. We bought a loaf of bread and a bottle of molasses of an old woman, and though the bread was not what it might have been, it tasted good. There are some orange trees, but no oranges. The darkies say they will blossom in about a month. A man in Company E, a sort of poet, who was always writing songs for the boys to sing, was cutting wood to-day and the axe flew off the handle and cut the whole four fingers from the right hand. There were no witnesses and some there are who say he did it so as to get a discharge. The doctor has dressed the hand and he is going about in great pain just now.

January 2, 1863.

Friday. Peter Carlo, the one who went through the medical examination at Hudson with me, died last night. He was found dead this morning and appeared to have suffered terribly. His eyes and mouth were staring wide open and his face looked as if he had been tortured to death. Companies A and B keep in advance on the sick list.

January 3, 1863.

Two more men died last night, but not from Company B. We sent off another mail to-day. I wish we might get some letters. We ought to have a lot of them when they do come.