History of the Second Massachusetts Regiment of Infantry: A prisoner's diary: A paper read at the officers' reunion in Boston, May 11, 1877

In Short

This work is a personal narrative transcribed from the author’s 1862 pocket diary, recording his time as a wounded prisoner of war following the Battle of Cedar Mountain. It captures the harrowing transit through makeshift field hospitals, the squalor of confinement, and the eventual exchange that secured his freedom. By refusing to polish the raw, immediate observations of his younger self, the author provides a rare, unvarnished look at the indignities, camaraderie, and grim endurance required to sustain one’s humanity in the face of near-total annihilation.

The Story

The narrative begins in August 1862, as the Second Massachusetts Regiment marches toward the front. The author, a captain, captures the youthful idealism and the grueling physical reality of the march before the regiment is suddenly thrust into the "furious and incessant roll and crash" of battle at Cedar Mountain. Left for dead on the field with a shattered foot and leg, he is discovered by Confederate soldiers. His initial interaction with his captors—marked by a mix of opportunistic theft and surprising acts of mercy—sets the tone for his long ordeal. He is stripped of his dignity but manages to keep a small diary, which becomes his only anchor.

The arc of the narrative follows his slow, painful descent into the prison system. He is moved by wagon and rail through "avalanches" of wounded men, enduring constant exposure and the indifference of his captors. His descriptions of the hospitals are visceral: he lies on filthy cots, surrounded by the dying, and observes the "leaden vacuity of ennui" that consumes those trapped in the "hell" of confinement. Throughout, he maintains a sharp, analytical gaze, detailing the character of fellow prisoners—ranging from the brave and simple-hearted to the selfish and broken—while constantly scanning his environment for signs of the war’s broader progress.

The middle of the account is dominated by his struggle against the despair of indefinite incarceration. He experiences moments of near-death, the indignity of being shackled while wounded, and the psychological weight of knowing his friends have been killed in action. Yet, he finds resilience in small, defiant acts, such as securing extra water or negotiating his own parole. His interactions with the hospital staff, particularly the temperamental Dr. Hay, illustrate the volatile and often arbitrary nature of his captors’ power.

As the narrative nears its conclusion, the possibility of a prisoner exchange transforms the atmosphere of the wards. The author’s relentless insistence on his rights as an officer leads to his eventual transfer to Libby Prison. Though this facility is arguably worse than the hospitals, it is the threshold to freedom. The final movement of the story is one of profound relief and sudden transition. Upon boarding a flag-of-truce boat, he experiences the visceral joy of seeing the American flag. The journey home is a blur of gratitude, ending in Washington, where he sheds his tattered, bullet-riddled rags for a new uniform. The story closes with a reflection on the transformative power of his experience, acknowledging that while the war would continue to demand much of him, he had successfully reclaimed his identity from the "waters of oblivion."

How It Unfolds

The march to battle The regiment moves toward the front under a brutal sun, struggling against heat and exhaustion. The author observes the men’s mounting tension as they near the enemy lines, sensing the impending violence in the air.

The field of fire The narrative shifts to the chaos of the fight, where the author is struck down and left among the dead. He survives the first night by sharing a blanket with a fallen enemy soldier, beginning a long period of forced intimacy with the reality of death.

The hospital trail Transported in crowded, jolting wagons, the author documents the horrific conditions of field hospitals. He navigates a landscape of mud, blood, and constant administrative indifference, clinging to his small diary to maintain a sense of self.

The prison ordeal Confined in increasingly dismal settings, the author observes the varied ways men cope with suffering and impending death. He battles the psychological erosion of captivity, finding solace only in the hope of the Union’s eventual victory.

The path to exchange Persistent and often confrontational, the author forces the bureaucracy to acknowledge his status as a prisoner of war. He secures his parole, experiences the final, tense moments before boarding the transport boat, and ultimately returns to the Union lines.

The People

The author, Samuel M. Quincy, serves as the narrative’s observant, resilient center. He is a man of intellectual discipline who uses writing to avoid sinking to the level of his captors. His primary foil is the "brutal" reality of his environment, which tests his Christian values and his belief in the Union cause.

Lieutenant Stephen Perkins appears early as a close, dear friend who shares the author’s passion for tea and intellectual camaraderie. His death at Cedar Mountain hangs over the narrative, serving as a poignant reminder of the "battle of life" lost by so many.

Dr. Hay, the medical director in charge of the hospitals, is a mercurial figure—at once a professional surgeon and a man who "talked fire and fury." He represents the arbitrary, often cruel nature of the Confederate military administration, yet he occasionally displays a grudging respect for the author’s persistence.

Captain Bush, a fellow prisoner, stands out for his stoic dignity. Despite being wounded in the arm, he suffers the indignity of being shackled, yet he uses his remaining strength and a simple stick to resist, embodying the quiet, indomitable spirit of the Union officers.

In Its Own Voice

The author describes the intense, relentless nature of the combat he witnessed at Cedar Mountain:

Then commenced the furious and incessant roll and crash of musketry, leaving, as Copeland expressed it, no interval in which a single other shot could have been inserted.

Reflecting on his time in captivity, the author captures the profound sense of isolation he felt while walled off from the world:

To lie a crippled and helpless butt for the exulting Philistine and his women ten thousand times worse than himself, while such tremendous history is being made of which we can only guess at the reality, is a living death.

What It's Really About

At its core, this account explores the struggle to maintain one’s moral and intellectual integrity under conditions designed to strip it away. The author is preoccupied with the tension between individual agency and the "leaden" weight of war. He asks whether a person can remain a "gentleman" and a "freeman" when reduced to the status of a hostage. The text is also a meditation on the shared humanity of soldiers; the author consistently finds more common ground with the rank-and-file Confederate soldiers he encounters than with the officers and civilians who exhibit performative cruelty. It is a testament to the idea that, even in the most dehumanizing circumstances, the act of witnessing—recording one’s reality—is an essential form of resistance.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the human side of history—beyond the tactical maps and casualty lists—will find this book deeply compelling. It feels immediate, not because of high-flown rhetoric, but because it captures the mundane details of survival: the search for a dry spot to sleep, the taste of hardtack, the fear of smallpox, and the desperate need for a wash. There is a raw, unpolished quality to the writing that makes the author’s transition from a wounded captain in the mud to a "shiny blue-and-brass" officer in Washington feel remarkably vivid.

Those who prefer a smooth, heavily edited memoir may find the fragmented, sometimes dark entries of his diary challenging. The author does not shy away from the gruesomeness of hospital life or the period-specific attitudes that define his perspective. However, these difficulties are exactly what give the work its power. It is an honest document of a man who refused to let his experience become "oblivion." What stays with the reader is not just the horror of the Libby prison, but the author’s stubborn insistence that his suffering was a "part of the general history" of his regiment—a personal sacrifice made meaningful by the camaraderie of those who served alongside him.