_Memorandized at the time, Washington, 1865-'66_
[Of reminiscences of the secession war, after the rest is said, I have
thought it remains to give a few special words--in some respects at the
time the typical words of all, and most definite-of the samples of the
kill'd and wounded in action, and of soldiers who linger'd afterward,
from these wounds, or were laid up by obstinate disease or prostration.
The general statistics have been printed already, but can bear to be
briefly stated again. There were over 3,000,000 men (for all periods of
enlistment, large and small) furnish'd to the Union army during the war,
New York State furnishing over 500,000, which was the greatest number
of any one State. The losses by disease, wounds, kill'd in action,
accidents, &c., were altogether about 600,000, or approximating to that
number. Over 4,000,000 cases were treated in the main and adjudicatory
army hospitals. The number sounds strange, but it is true. More than
two-thirds of the deaths were from prostration or disease. To-day
there lie buried over 300,000 soldiers in the various National army
Cemeteries, more than half of them (and that is really the most
significant and eloquent bequest of the war) mark'd "unknown." In full
mortuary statistics of the war, the greatest deficiency arises from
our not having the rolls, even as far as they were kept, of most of the
Southern military prisons--a gap which probably both adds to, and helps
conceal, the indescribable horrors of those places; it is, however,
(restricting one vivid point only) certain that over 30,000 Union
soldiers died, largely of actual starvation, in them. And now, leaving
all figures and their "sum totals," I feel sure a few genuine memoranda
of such things--some cases jotted down '64, '65, and '66--made at the
time and on the spot, with all the associations of those scenes and
places brought back, will not only go directest to the right spot, but
give a clearer and more actual sight of that period, than anything else.
Before I give the last cases I begin with verbatim extracts from letters
home to my mother in Brooklyn, the second year of the war.--W.W.]
_Washington, Oct. 13, 1863_.--There has been a new lot of wounded and
sick arriving for the last three days. The first and second days, long
strings of ambulances with the sick. Yesterday the worst, many with bad
and bloody wounds, inevitably long neglected. I thought I was cooler and
more used to it, but the sight of some cases brought tears into my eyes.
I had the luck yesterday, however, to do lots of good. Had provided many
nourishing articles for the men for another quarter, but, fortunately,
had my stores where I could use them at once for these new-comers, as
they arrived, faint, hungry, fagg'd out from their journey, with soil'd
clothes, and all bloody. I distributed these articles, gave partly to
the nurses I knew, or to those in charge. As many as possible I fed
myself. Then I found a lot of oyster soup handy, and bought it all at
once.
It is the most pitiful sight, this, when the men are first brought in,
from some camp hospital broke up, or a part of the army moving. These
who arrived yesterday are cavalry men. Our troops had fought like
devils, but got the worst of it. They were Kilpatrick's cavalry; were
in the rear, part of Meade's retreat, and the reb cavalry, knowing the
ground and taking a favorable opportunity, dash'd in between, cut them
off, and shell'd them terribly. But Kilpatrick turn'd and brought them
out mostly. It was last Sunday. (One of the most terrible sights and
tasks is of such receptions.)
_Oct. 27, 1863_.--If any of the soldiers I know (or their parents
or folks) should call upon you--as they are often anxious to have my
address in Brooklyn--you just use them as you know how, and if you
happen to have pot-luck, and feel to ask them to take a bite, don't be
afraid to do so. I have a friend, Thomas Neat, 2d N.Y. Cavalry, wounded
in leg, now home in Jamaica, on furlough; he will probably call. Then
possibly a Mr. Haskell, or some of his folks, from western New York: he
had a son died here, and I was with the boy a good deal. The old man and
his wife have written me and ask'd me my Brooklyn address; he said he
had children in New York, and was occasionally down there. (When I come
home I will show you some of the letters I get from mothers, sisters,
fathers, &c. They will make you cry.)
How the time passes away! To think it is over a year since I left
home suddenly--and have mostly been down in front since. The year has
vanish'd swiftly, and oh, what scenes I have witness'd during that time!
And the war is not settled yet; and one does not see anything certain,
or even promising, of a settlement. But I do not lose the solid feeling,
in myself, that the Union triumph is assured, whether it be sooner or
whether it be later, or whatever roundabout way we may be led there;
and I find I don't change that conviction from any reverses we meet, nor
delays, nor blunders. One realizes here in Washington the great labors,
even the negative ones, of Lincoln; that it is a big thing to have just
kept the United States from being thrown down and having its throat cut.
I have not waver'd or had any doubt of the issue, since Gettysburg.
_8th September, '63_.--Here, now, is a specimen army hospital case:
Lorenzo Strong, Co. A, 9th United States Cavalry, shot by a shell last
Sunday; right leg amputated on the field. Sent up here Monday night,
14th. Seem'd to be doing pretty well till Wednesday noon, 16th, when he
took a turn for the worse, and a strangely rapid and fatal termination
ensued. Though I had much to do, I staid and saw all. It was a
death-picture characteristic of these soldiers' hospitals--the perfect
specimen of physique, one of the most magnificent I ever saw--the
convulsive spasms and working of muscles, mouth, and throat. There are
two good women nurses, one on each side. The doctor comes in and gives
him a little chloroform. One of the nurses constantly fans him, for
it is fearfully hot. He asks to be rais'd up, and they put him in a
half-sitting posture. He call'd for "Mark" repeatedly, half-deliriously,
all day. Life ebbs, runs now with the speed of a mill race; his splendid
neck, as it lays all open, works still, slightly; his eyes turn back.
A religious person coming in offers a prayer, in subdued tones, bent at
the foot of the bed; and in the space of the aisle, a crowd, including
two or three doctors, several students, and many soldiers, has silently
gather'd. It is very still and warm, as the struggle goes on, and
dwindles, a little more, and a little more--and then welcome oblivion,
painlessness, death. A pause, the crowd drops away, a white bandage is
bound around and under the jaw, the propping pillows are removed, the
limpsy head falls down, the arms are softly placed by the side,
all composed, all still,--and the broad white sheet is thrown over
everything.
_April 10, 1864_.--Unusual agitation all around concentrated here.
Exciting times in Congress. The Copperheads are getting furious, and
want to recognize the Southern Confederacy. "This is a pretty time to
talk of recognizing such--," said a Pennsylvania officer in hospital to
me to-day, "after what has transpired the last three years." After first
Fredericksburg I felt discouraged myself, and doubted whether our rulers
could carry on the war. But that has pass'd away. The war _must_ be
carried on. I would willingly go in the ranks myself if I thought it
would profit more than as at present, and I don't know sometimes but I
shall, as it is. Then there is certainly a strange, deep, fervid feeling
form'd or arous'd in the land, hard to describe or name; it is not a
majority feeling, but it will make itself felt. M., you don't know what
a nature a fellow gets, not only after being a soldier a while, but
after living in the sights and influences of the camps, the wounded,
&c.--a nature he never experienced before. The stars and stripes, the
tune of Yankee Doodle, and similar things, produce such an effect on
a fellow as never before. I have seen them bring tears on some men's
cheeks, and others turn pale with emotion. I have a little flag (it
belong'd to one of our cavalry regiments,) presented to me by one of the
wounded; it was taken by the secesh in a fight, and rescued by our men
in a bloody skirmish following. It cost three men's lives to get back
that four-by-three flag--to tear it from the breast of a dead rebel--for
_the name_ of getting their little "rag" back again. The man that
secured it was very badly wounded, and they let him keep it. I was with
him a good deal; he wanted to give me some keepsake, he said,--he didn't
expect to live,--so he gave me that flag. The best of it all is, dear
M., there isn't a regiment, cavalry or infantry, that wouldn't do the
like, on the like occasion.
_April 12_.--I will finish my letter this morning; it is a beautiful
day. I was up in Congress very late last night. The House had a very
excited night session about expelling the men that proposed recognizing
the Southern Confederacy. You ought to hear (as I do) the soldiers talk;
they are excited to madness. We shall probably have hot times here, not
in the military fields alone. The body of the army is true and firm as
the North Star.
_May 6, '64_.--M., the poor soldier with diarrhoea, is still living,
but, oh, what a looking object! Death would be a relief to him--he
cannot last many hours. Cunningham, the Ohio soldier, with leg amputated
at thigh, has pick'd up beyond expectation; now looks indeed like
getting well. (He died a few weeks afterwards.) The hospitals are very
full. I am very well indeed. Hot here to-day.
_May 23, '64_.--Sometimes I think that should it come when it _must_,
to fall in battle, one's anguish over a son or brother kill'd might be
temper'd with much to take the edge off. Lingering and extreme suffering
from wounds or sickness seem to me far worse than death in battle. I
can honestly say the latter has no terrors for me, as far as I myself am
concern'd. Then I should say, too, about death in war, that our feelings
and imaginations make a thousand times too much of the whole matter. Of
the many I have seen die, or known of, the past year, I have not seen or
known one who met death with terror. In most cases I should say it was
a welcome relief and release. Yesterday I spent a good part of the
afternoon with a young soldier of seventeen, Charles Cutter, of Lawrence
city, Massachusetts, 1st Massachusetts Heavy Artillery, Battery M. He
was brought to one of the hospitals mortally wounded in abdomen. Well,
I thought to myself, as I sat looking at him, it ought to be a relief to
his folks if they could see how little he really suffer'd. He lay very
placid, in a half lethargy, with his eyes closed. As it was extremely
hot, and I sat a good while silently fanning him, and wiping the
sweat, at length he open'd his eyes quite wide and clear, and look'd
inquiringly around. I said, "What is it, my boy? Do you want anything?"
He answer'd quietly, with a good-natured smile, "Oh, nothing; I was only
looking around to see who was with me." His mind was somewhat wandering,
yet he lay in an evident peacefulness that sanity and health might
have envied. I had to leave for other engagements. He died, I heard
afterward, without any special agitation, in the course of the night.
_Washington, May 26, '63_.--M., I think something of commencing a series
of lectures, readings, talks, &c., through the cities of the North, to
supply myself with funds for hospital ministrations. I do not like to
be so beholden to others; I need a pretty free supply of money, and the
work grows upon me, and fascinates me. It is the most magnetic as well
as terrible sight: the lots of poor wounded and helpless men depending
so much, in one ward or another, upon my soothing or talking to them,
or rousing them up a little, or perhaps petting, or feeding them their
dinner or supper (here is a patient, for instance, wounded in both
arms,) or giving some trifle for a novelty or change--anything, however
trivial, to break the monotony of those hospital hours.
It is curious: when I am present at the most appalling scenes, deaths,
operations, sickening wounds (perhaps full of maggots,) I keep cool and
do not give out or budge, although my sympathies are very much excited;
but often, hours afterward, perhaps when I am home, or out walking
alone, I feel sick, and actually tremble, when I recall the case again
before me.
_Sunday afternoon, opening of 1865_.--Pass'd this afternoon among a
collection of unusually bad cases, wounded and sick secession soldiers,
left upon our hands. I spent the previous Sunday afternoon there also.
At that time two were dying. Two others have died during the week.
Several of them are partly deranged. I went around among them
elaborately. Poor boys, they all needed to be cheer'd up. As I sat down
by any particular one, the eyes of all the rest in the neighboring cots
would fix upon me, and remain steadily riveted as long as I sat within
their sight. Nobody seem'd to wish anything special to eat or drink.
The main thing ask'd for was postage stamps, and paper for writing. I
distributed all the stamps I had. Tobacco was wanted by some.
One call'd me over to him and ask'd me in a low tone what denomination
I belong'd to. He said he was a Catholic--wish'd to find some one of the
same faith--wanted some good reading. I gave him something to read, and
sat down by him a few minutes. Moved around with a word for each. They
were hardly any of them personally attractive cases, and no visitors
come here. Of course they were all destitute of money. I gave small sums
to two or three, apparently the most needy. The men are from quite all
the Southern States, Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, &c.
Wrote several letters. One for a young fellow named Thomas J. Byrd, with
a bad wound and diarrhoea. Was from Russell county, Alabama; been out
four years. Wrote to his mother; had neither heard from her nor written
to her in nine months. Was taken prisoner last Christmas, in Tennessee;
sent to Nashville, then to Camp Chase, Ohio, and kept there a long time;
all the while not money enough to get paper and postage stamps. Was
paroled, but on his way home the wound took gangrene; had diarrhoea
also; had evidently been very low. Demeanor cool, and patient. A
dark-skinn'd, quaint young fellow, with strong Southern idiom; no
education.
Another letter for John W. Morgan, aged 18, from Shellot, Brunswick
county, North Carolina; been out nine months; gunshot wound in right
leg, above knee; also diarrhoea; wound getting along well; quite a
gentle, affectionate boy; wish'd me to put in the letter for his mother
to kiss his little brother and sister for him. [I put strong envelopes
on these, and two or three other letters, directed them plainly and
fully, and dropt them in the Washington post-office the next morning
myself.]
The large ward I am in is used for secession soldiers exclusively. One
man, about forty years of age, emaciated with diarrhoea, I was attracted
to, as he lay with his eyes turn'd up, looking like death. His weakness
was so extreme that it took a minute or so, every time, for him to talk
with anything like consecutive meaning; yet he was evidently a man of
good intelligence and education. As I said anything, he would lie a
moment perfectly still, then, with closed eyes, answer in a low, very
slow voice, quite correct and sensible, but in a way and tone that wrung
my heart. He had a mother, wife, and child living (or probably living)
in his home in Mississippi. It was long, long since he had seen them.
Had he caus'd a letter to be sent them since he got here in Washington?
No answer. I repeated the question, very slowly and soothingly. He could
not tell whether he had or not--things of late seem'd to him like a
dream. After waiting a moment, I said: "Well, I am going to walk down
the ward a moment, and when I come back you can tell me. If you have not
written, I will sit down and write." A few minutes after I return'd; he
said he remember'd now that some one had written for him two or three
days before. The presence of this man impress'd me profoundly. The
flesh was all sunken on face and arms; the eyes low in their sockets
and glassy, and with purple rings around them. Two or three great tears
silently flow'd out from the eyes, and roll'd down his temples (he was
doubtless unused to be spoken to as I was speaking to him.)Sickness,
imprisonment, exhaustion, &c., had conquer'd the body, yet the mind held
mastery still, and call'd even wandering remembrance back.
There are some fifty Southern soldiers here; all sad, sad cases. There
is a good deal of scurvy. I distributed some paper, envelopes, and
postage stamps, and wrote addresses full and plain on many of the
envelopes.
I return'd again Tuesday, August 1, and moved around in the same manner
a couple of hours.
_September 22, '65_.--Afternoon and evening at Douglas hospital to see
a friend belonging to 2d New York Artillery (Hiram W. Frazee, Serg't,)
down with an obstinate compound fracture of left leg receiv'd in one of
the last battles near Petersburg. After sitting a while with him,
went through several neighboring wards. In one of them found an old
acquaintance transferr'd here lately, a rebel prisoner, in a dying
condition. Poor fellow, the look was already on his face. He gazed long
at me. I ask'd him if he knew me. After a moment he utter'd something,
but inarticulately. I have seen him off and on for the last five months.
He has suffer'd very much; a bad wound in left leg, severely fractured,
several operations, cuttings, extractions of bone, splinters, &c. I
remember he seem'd to me, as I used to talk with him, a fair specimen of
the main strata of the Southerners, those without property or education,
but still with the stamp which comes from freedom and equality. I liked
him; Jonathan Wallace, of Hurd co., Georgia, age 30 (wife, Susan F.
Wallace, Houston, Hurd co., Georgia.) [If any good soul of that county
should see this, I hope he will send her this word.] Had a family; had
not heard from them since taken prisoner, now six months. I had written
for him, and done trifles for him, before he came here. He made no
outward show, was mild in his talk and behavior, but I knew he worried
much inwardly. But now all would be over very soon. I half sat upon the
little stand near the head of the bed. Wallace was somewhat restless.
I placed my hand lightly on his forehead and face, just sliding it over
the surface. In a moment or so he fell into a calm, regular-breathing
lethargy or sleep, and remain'd so while I sat there. It was dark, and
the lights were lit. I hardly know why (death seem'd hovering near,) but
I stay'd nearly an hour. A Sister of Charity, dress'd in black, with
a broad white linen bandage around her head and under her chin, and a
black crape over all and flowing down from her head in long wide pieces,
came to him, and moved around the bed. She bow'd low and solemn to me.
For some time she moved around there noiseless as a ghost, doing little
things for the dying man.
_December, '65_.--The only remaining hospital is now "Harewood," out in
the woods, northwest of the city. I have been visiting there regularly
every Sunday during these two months.
_January 24, '66_.--Went out to Harewood early to-day, and remain'd all
day.
_Sunday, February 4, 1866_.--Harewood Hospital again. Walk'd out this
afternoon (bright, dry, ground frozen hard) through the woods. Ward 6 is
fill'd with blacks, some with wounds, some ill, two or three with limbs
frozen. The boys made quite a picture sitting round the stove. Hardly
any can read or write. I write for three or four, direct envelopes, give
some tobacco, &c.
Joseph Winder, a likely boy, aged twenty-three, belongs to 10th Color'd
Infantry (now in Texas;) is from Eastville, Virginia. Was a slave;
belong'd to Lafayette Homeston. The master was quite willing he should
leave. Join'd the army two years ago; has been in one or two battles.
Was sent to hospital with rheumatism. Has since been employ'd as cook.
His parents at Eastville; he gets letters from them, and has letters
written to them by a friend. Many black boys left that part of Virginia
and join'd the army; the 10th, in fact, was made up of Virginia blacks
from thereabouts. As soon as discharged is going back to Eastville to
his parents and home, and intends to stay there.
Thomas King, formerly 2d District Color'd Regiment, discharged soldier,
Company E, lay in a dying condition; his disease was consumption. A
Catholic priest was administering extreme unction to him. (I have
seen this kind of sight several times in the hospitals; it is very
impressive.)
_Harewood, April 29, 1866. Sunday afternoon_.--Poor Joseph Swiers,
Company H, 155th Pennsylvania, a mere lad (only eighteen years of age;)
his folks living in Reedsburgh, Pennsylvania. I have known him for
nearly a year, transferr'd from hospital to hospital. He was badly
wounded in the thigh at Hatcher's Run, February 6, '65.
James E. Ragan, Atlanta, Georgia; 2d United States Infantry. Union
folks. Brother impress'd, deserted, died; now no folks, left alone
in the world, is in a singularly nervous state; came in hospital with
intermittent fever.
Walk slowly around the ward, observing, and to see if I can do anything.
Two or three are lying very low with consumption, cannot recover; some
with old wounds; one with both feet frozen off, so that on one only the
heel remains. The supper is being given out: the liquid call'd tea, a
thick slice of bread, and some stew'd apples.
That was about the last I saw of the regular army hospitals.
[ILLUSTRATION Here is a portrait of E.H. from life, by Henry Inman, in
New York, about 1827 or '28. The painting was finely copper-plated
in 1830, and the present is a fac simile. Looks as I saw him in the
following narrative.]
The time was signalized by the _separation_ of the society of Friends,
so greatly talked of--and continuing yet--but so little really
explain'd. (All I give of this separation is in a Note following.)