English Diary 2

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28th. Guess my time has come; I was taken to the hospital this morning and put in a tent with ten more sick.

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September 16, 1864. Have been in here over two weeks; the doctor says I will pull through all right; I can't hear any news to put in my diary.

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18th. The doctor wanted to know this afternoon if I got my medicine; I told him that what I wanted was something to eat, instead of medicine.

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24th. The doctor told me that upwards of twelve thousand prisoners have died since we came here.

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28th. One month in the hospital today, but do not seem to improve; our rations are a little better here than in the pen.

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30th. Six men died in this tent since I came here; they say they are dying very fast.

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October 6, 1864. Father Hamilton, a Catholic priest, paid a visit to our tent today; he is a very fine old gentleman, and seemed to take considerable interest in me; he said he would call again tomorrow.

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7th, Father Hamilton called on me again this morning; he says that he is going to attend to the sick at this place, the most of whom are Catholics. He was surprised when I told him I came from "the old sod" and could read Latin; he thought I was too young to be in the army.

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8th. A little better this morning; Father Hamilton and two Sisters of Charity called on me today and gave me something nice to eat.

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9th. I turned on my bed of straw this morning and found that the man next to me was dead; this makes seven out of eleven.

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10th. I got the dead man's rations this morning and feel considerably better: there is great moaring here, day and night, occasioned by so much suffering; it would make you sick to see some of the men swollen as large as a barrell with the dropsy, and doubled up with rheumatism and scurvy, and a great number with arms and legs cut off; I got seven new tent mates today.

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11th. Father Hamilton called today and brought me an under shirt; he said I looked better.

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12th. One year a prisoner today.

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13th. The surgeons have their hands full taking off arms and legs.

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14th. Father Hamilton told me he sold his property in Savannah and bought sixteen hundred barrels of flour for the sick; that accounts for our getting wheat bread.

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15th. Another tent-mate died this morning; I don't seem to improve much; it is quite cool in the mornings now.

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17th. My diary is almost full; only a few leaves are now left. Walter Webb of my company was brought out here today; the poor fellow is almost dead.

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19th. Another tent-mate died this morning, I got hold of a new piece of pencil this morning — mine was hardly an inch long. Webb tells me that one hundred of our regiment are dead; Father Hamilton brought me some cold roast beef this morning, and oh! how good it was.

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20th. Webb called to see me this morning, but had to crawl on his hands and knees, as the cords of his legs are so drawn up that he cannot stretch them out.

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22d. Nothing to say, except that the groans of the sick and dying are terrible; they cry in their dying agony for a mother a wife, child or friend to come to them. Oh! Lord of Heaven, it is awful, awful! It would bring tears from a stone to hear the heartrending cries for a distant friend; some one will have a great deal to answer for.