Few men were so deeply impressed by our Civil War as was Whitman. It
aroused all his patriotism, all his sympathies, and, as a poet, tested his
power to deal with great contemporary events and scenes. He was first
drawn to the seat of war on behalf of his brother, Lieutenant-Colonel
George W. Whitman, 51st New York Volunteers, who was wounded by the
fragment of a shell at Fredericksburg. This was in the fall of 1862. This
brought him in contact with the sick and wounded soldiers, and henceforth,
as long as the war lasts and longer, he devoted his time and substance to
ministering to them. The first two or three years of his life in
Washington he supported himself by correspondence with Northern
newspapers, mainly with the "New York Times." These letters, as well as
the weekly letters to his mother during the same period, form an intensely
pathetic and interesting record.
They contain such revelations of himself, and such pictures of the scenes
he moved among, that I shall here quote freely from them. The following
extract is from a letter written from Fredericksburg the third or fourth
day after the battle of December, 1862:--
"Spent a good part of the day in a large brick mansion on the banks of the
Rappahannock, immediately opposite Fredericksburg. It is used as a
hospital since the battle, and seems to have received only the worst
cases. Out of doors, at the foot of a tree, within ten yards of the front
of the house, I notice a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, etc.,
about a load for a one-horse cart. Several dead bodies lie near, each
covered with its brown woolen blanket. In the door-yard, toward the river,
are fresh graves, mostly of officers, their names on pieces of
barrel-staves, or broken board, stuck in the dirt. (Most of these bodies
were subsequently taken up and transported North to their friends.)
"The house is quite crowded, everything impromptu, no system, all bad
enough, but I have no doubt the best that can be done; all the wounds
pretty bad, some frightful, the men in their old clothes, unclean and
bloody. Some of the wounded are rebel officers, prisoners. One, a
Mississippian,--a captain,--hit badly in leg, I talked with some time; he
asked me for papers, which I gave him. (I saw him three months afterward
in Washington, with leg amputated, doing well.)
"I went through the rooms, down stairs and up. Some of the men were dying.
I had nothing to give at that visit, but wrote a few letters to folks
home, mothers, etc. Also talked to three or four who seemed most
susceptible to it, and needing it."
"December 22 to 31.--Am among the regimental, brigade, and division
hospitals somewhat. Few at home realize that these are merely tents, and
sometimes very poor ones, the wounded lying on the ground, lucky if their
blanket is spread on a layer of pine or hemlock twigs, or some leaves. No
cots; seldom even a mattress on the ground. It is pretty cold. I go around
from one case to another. I do not see that I can do any good, but I
cannot leave them. Once in a while some youngster holds on to me
convulsively, and I do what I can for him; at any rate, stop with him and
sit near him for hours, if he wishes it.
"Besides the hospitals, I also go occasionally on long tours through the
camps, talking with the men, etc.; sometimes at night among the groups
around the fires, in their shebang enclosures of bushes. I soon get
acquainted anywhere in camp, with officers or men, and am always well
used. Sometimes I go down on picket with the regiments I know best."
After continuing in front through the winter, he returns to Washington,
where the wounded and sick have mainly been concentrated. The Capital
city, truly, is now one huge hospital; and there Whitman establishes
himself, and thenceforward, for several years, has but one daily and
nightly avocation.