HOME AND COUNTRY
The family and home life of Clara Barton occupy of necessity a smaller
place in this narrative than they rightfully deserve. Reference has
been made in the early pages of this work to Clara Barton’s advent into
a home which for several years had believed itself complete. It must
not be inferred on that account that the little late arrival was other
than heartily welcome. Nor must the fact that her more than normal
shyness and introspection during her childhood made her a problem be
understood as indicating any lack of sympathy between her and any
member of her household. On the contrary, her childhood memories were
happy ones, and her affection for every member of the household was
sincere and almost unbounded. Nor yet again must it be supposed that
her long absences from home weaned her heart away from those who were
entitled to her love. Love of family and pride of family and sincere
affection for every member of the home group were manifest in all her
correspondence. She left her home and went out into the world while
she was still a child in her own thought and in the thought of her
family. She became a teacher while she was still wearing the “little
waifish” dresses of her childhood. She had to do a large part of her
thinking and planning apart from the companionship of those she loved
best. But she loved them deeply and sincerely. The members of her
family receive only incidental mention in this narrative, and, with her
advent into wider fields of service, they must drop increasingly into
the background and out of view. In order, however, that we may have in
mind their incidental mention, let us here record the condition of her
immediate family at the time of the outbreak of the Civil War.
Her eldest sister Dorothy, born October 2, 1804, became an invalid and
died unmarried April 19, 1846, aged forty-one.
Her brother Stephen, born March 20, 1806, married November 24,
1833, Elizabeth Rich, and died in Washington, March 10, 1865, aged
fifty-nine years. At the outbreak of the Civil War he was living in
Hertford County, North Carolina, whither he had gone in 1854. He had
established a large sawmill there, and gathered about it a group of
industries which by 1861 had become the most important concern in the
village. Indeed, the village itself had grown up about his enterprise,
and took its name, Bartonville, from him. When the war broke out,
he was past the age for military service. At the beginning of the
struggle, however, he had no mind to leave the South. While he was a
Union man, and every one knew it, he had been long enough in the South
to appreciate the position of the Southern people and had no mind
needlessly to wound their feelings. His mill, his store, his blacksmith
shop, his lands, his grain, his cattle, had been accumulated by him
through years of toil, and he desired to stay where he was and protect
his property. He did not believe--no one believed--that the war was
going to last so long. There was no service which at the beginning he
could render to the Northern cause. So he remained. As the war went on,
his situation grew less and less tenable, and, in time, dangerous. He
sent his helpers North, some twenty of them. They made their way amid
perils and hardship, reached Washington where Clara Barton rendered
them assistance, and ultimately the most of them entered the Union
army. But earlier than this, in 1861 and at the beginning of 1862, his
family was growing increasingly anxious about him, and very desirous,
if possible, that he should get away. He was warned and threatened; at
one time he suffered a night assault by a mob. Bruised and battered
though he was, he fought them off single-handed and remained in the
South.
Her younger brother David, born August 15, 1808, married, September
30, 1829, Julia Ann Maria Porter, lived to the age of eighty, and died
March 12, 1888. At the outbreak of the war David and Julia Barton had
four children--their twin daughters Ada and Ida, born January 18, 1847,
the one son, Stephen Emery, born December 24, 1848, and in 1861 a lad
of twelve, and the daughter Mary, born December 11, 1851.
With her brother David, his wife Julia and his four children, Clara was
in continuous correspondence. His family lived in the old home, and she
kept in constant touch with them. Her sister-in-law Julia was very dear
to her, and perhaps the best correspondent in the family.
Her sister Sarah, born March 20, 1811, married, April 17, 1834, Vester
Vassall, and died in May, 1874. At the outbreak of the war both the
children of this marriage were living. The younger son Irving, died
April 9, 1865. The elder son, Bernard Barton Vassall, born October 10,
1835, married, October 26, 1863, Frances Maria Childs, and died March
23, 1894. Mrs. Vassall is still living.
With this family Clara’s relations were those of peculiar intimacy.
Her sister and her sister’s children were very dear to her. Irving was
a young man of fine Christian character, not physically strong enough
to bear arms, and was in Washington in the service of the Government
during the war. Bernard married Clara’s dear friend and assistant at
Bordentown. He was a soldier and during the war his wife Fannie lived
for a considerable time in Washington.
Clara Barton’s mother, Sarah or Sally Stone, born November 13, 1783,
died July 10, 1851, aged sixty-eight. Her death occurred while Clara
was studying at Clinton, and the expressions of solitude in Clara’s
diary at the time of her perplexities over her love affairs, were
induced in part, though perhaps unconsciously, by her loneliness after
her mother’s death.
Clara’s relations to her father were always those of peculiar nearness
and sympathy. In her childhood he was more constantly her companion
than her mother ever was. When Clara was away from home, nothing more
surely gave her concern than news from her brother or sister that
“father,” or from her nieces and nephews that “grandpa,” was not as
well as usual. Her diaries and her letters are burdened with her
solicitude for him. In the latter part of 1861 his health gave occasion
for some concern, but he seemed to recover. She made a journey to
Worcester and Oxford in December, but returned to Washington before
Christmas, taking with her boxes and trunks of provisions for the
soldiers which she wished to deliver if possible at Arlington, so as
to be closer to the place of actual need. Her nephew, Irving Vassall,
was with her on the return journey. The letter which preserves the
account of this expedition is interesting as recording her account of a
Sunday spent with the army. What took her there was her determination
to deliver her goods to the place of need before she returned to her
home in Washington. She was still learning military manners and the
ways of camp life, and was giving herself unsparingly to the collection
of supplies. She was assisting in hospital work in Washington, and
definitely planning to have a hospital there assigned to herself. As
yet, apparently, she had no definite plan to go herself directly to the
battle-field.
November and the early part of December were mild. Day by day she
thanked God for every ray of sunshine, and night by night she lifted up
her heart in thanksgiving that the boys, who were sleeping on the bare
ground with only single threads of white canvas above them, were not
compelled to suffer from the rigors of cold. On December 9, 1861, she
wrote the following which was a kind of prayer of thanksgiving for mild
weather:
December 9, 1861
The streets are thronged with men bright with tinsel, and the
clattering hoofs of galloping horses sound continually in our ears.
The weather is bright and warm as May, for which blessing I feel
hourly to thank the great Giver of all good gifts, that upon this vast
army lying like so many thousand herds of cattle on every side of our
bright, beleaguered city, with only the soil, for which they peril
life, beneath, and the single threads of white canvas above, watching
like so many faithful dogs, held by bonds stronger than death, yet
patient and uncomplaining. A merciful God holds the warring, pitiless
elements in his firm, benignant grasp, withholds the rigors of early
winter, and showers down upon their heads the genial rays of untimely
warmth changing the rough winds of December to the balmy breezes of
April. Well may we hold thanksgiving and our army unite in prayer and
songs of praise to God.
Her diary at this period is irregular, and I have not yet discovered
a definite record of her journey from Washington and back, except in
her letter to the wife of an army surgeon, which she wrote on the day
before Christmas, 1861:
WASHINGTON, D.C., December 24th, 1861
MY DARLING COUSIN:
How naughtily I have neglected your cheering little letter, but it has
been all my hands and none my heart which have done the naughty thing.
I have wanted so to write you all the time, and intruders _would_
come between us and would have all my time. It was not always people.
Oh, no,--work and care, and an o’ergrown correspondence intruded upon
me, but I always solace myself with the thought that, if my friends
will only have a _little patience_ with me, it will all come
right, and their turn will come at last, and after a time the best of
them learn me, and then in my easy, hurrying, slipshod way we come
to be correspondents for aye. In the course of a year I say a great
deal of nonsense to my correspondents, but I cannot always say it
when my head and heart are the fullest of it. But first let me hasten
to tell you what _cannot fail of being exceedingly gratifying_
to you, viz., that I am in a “_habit_” of receiving _daily
visits from your husband_. But I was a long time in getting about
it, however. I sent twice to his hotel, the great Pandemonium wherein
he is incarcerated, before Sunday, but could get no tidings all the
time. I was fearful he _was_ here and I missing him, and then
I was almost certain that he was _not able_ to be here; but at
length I could risk it no longer and wrote a hurried little note and
dropped in the office for him, and sure enough it brought him. I
was so _glad_ to see him and so much _better_ too, it is
_splendid_; but then he had been trying to find me, and I in the
meantime had, along with all Washington, removed! Just think of it,
but I removed out of a burden of care to perfect ease and yet can
_command_ just as much room as I desire in case I need, and if
I have no need of it am not troubled with it--only that I have the
trouble of furnishing, at which Doctor may inform you I am making very
slow progress. I have so many things in Massachusetts _now_ that
I want; my walls are perfectly bare, not a picture, and I have plenty
to furnish them. It is vexatious that I didn’t “know to take them”
when I was there. I fear to allow others to pack them.
I suspect that, after the daily letter of your husband, inimitable
correspondent and conversationist that he is, there is nothing left
for me to relate of our big city, grown up so strangely like a gourd
all in a night; places which never before dreamed of being honored by
an inhabitant save dogs, cats, and rats, are converted into “elegantly
furnished rooms for rent,” and people actually live in them with all
the city airs of people really living in respectable houses, and I
suspect many of them do not _know_ that they are positively
living in sheds, but we, who have become familiar with every old roof
years agone, know perfectly well what shelters them. Well, the present
aspect of our capital is a wide, fruitful field for description, and I
will leave it for the Doctor; he will clothe it in a far richer dress
than I could do.
Perhaps you wish to know somewhat about my journey with my big trunks.
Well, it was perfectly quiet; nothing like an adventure to enliven
until we reached Baltimore, to which I had checked my baggage as the
nearest point to Annapolis, for which place I could not get checks,
but to which I had determined to go before proceeding to Washington. I
delivered my checks to the expressman, took receipts, and gave every
conductor on the train to understand that _my baggage_ was
to be taken through the city in the same train with myself (for we
disconnect and come through Baltimore in horse-cars); but just imagine
my vexation when, as our train commenced to move off, I saw my baggage
just moving by slow teams _up_ the street in the direction of our
train. It had no checks, and I must not become long separated from
it; the train was in motion and I could not leave it. I had no idea
what would be done with it, whether retained in Baltimore, sent to
Annapolis junction, or forwarded to Washington. I had to think fast,
and you remember it was Saturday night. Relay House was the nearest
station. I left the train there (Irving went on to Washington), and
proceeded directly to the telegraph office and telegraphed back to
Baltimore describing the baggage and directing it to come on the
next train one hour later. They had just time to get it aboard, and
on the arrival of the train I found it in the baggage car, took that
train, and proceeded “nine miles to the junction,” stopped too late
for Annapolis that night, chartered the parlor and sofa,--every room
in the house filled with officers,--and as good luck would have it a
train (special) ran down from Annapolis the next day about eleven,
for a regiment of Zouaves, and I claimed my seat, and went, too,
and the first any one knew I presented myself at the Headquarters
of the 21st. You will have to imagine the cordial, affable Colonel
springing from his seat with both hands extended, the extremely polite
Lieutenant-Colonel Maggie, always in full dress with the constantly
worn sword, with eyes and hair so much blacker than night, going
through a succession of bows and formalities, which _I_, a
simple, home-bred, unsophisticated Yankee didn’t know what upon earth
to do with, completely confounded!--till the clear, appreciative,
knowing twinkle of our “cute” Major Clark’s eyes set things right
again; and almost the last, our honest, modest “Cousin” Fletcher
coming up away round on the other side for his word, and not one
among them all to whom I could extend a more cordial greeting. Please
tell Grandma that he hasn’t broken a limb; his horse fell with him
and hurt his shoulder, but it is nearly well now. I was just in time
for a seat between the Colonel and Lieutenant-Colonel at dinner, and
accompanying them to the Chapel to listen to the opening discourse of
their newly arrived chaplain, Rev. Mr. Ball, Unitarian. He addressed
the men with great kindness of manner, beseeching them to come near to
him with all their trials, burdens, and temptations, and let him help
to bear them. He was strong to bear, patient to hear, and willing to
do, and his arm, and his ear, and his heart were theirs for all good
purposes. There was many a glistening eye among that thousand waiting
men, still as the night of death; for a regiment of soldiers can be
the stillest living thing I ever looked at. The 21st are in the main
good, true men, and I was glad that a man of gentle speech and kind
and loving heart had come among them.
Next morning brought some of our good Worcester ladies from the 25th
to our Camp, among whom was the daughter-in-law of your neighbor Mr.
Denny. A beautiful coach and span of horses were found, and a cozy,
but rather gay, party of us started for the Camp of the 25th, and
here we found your excellent pastor, Mr. James, the best specimen of
a _true_ soldier that I ever saw; nothing too vast for his mind
to grasp, nothing too trivial (if needful) to interest him, cheerful,
brave, and tireless, watching like a faithful sentry the wants of
every soldier, and apparently more than equal to every emergency.
What a small army of _such_ men were sufficient to overcome all
our present difficulties! You should see his tent; it was a cold,
raw day, more so than any which has followed it, but the moment I
was inside I found myself _so warm_ and my feet grew warm as if
I were standing over a register, and I could not see where the heat
came from; but my curiosity was irrepressible, and I had to ask an
explanation of the mystery,--when Mr. James raised a little square
iron lid, like the door of a stove (which I believe it was), almost
hidden in the ground, in among the dried grass, and to my astonishment
revealed a miniature volcano blazing beneath our very feet. The whole
ground beneath his tent seemed to be on fire, with currents of air
passing through which fed the flame, and took away the smoke. There
was, of course, no dampness in the tent, and I could see no reason
why it should be less healthy, or comfortable indeed (excepting small
space), than any house, and such piles of letters and books and
Neddy’s picture over the table, and the quiet little boy, following
close and looking up in his master’s face, like any pet, all presented
a scene which I wished his intelligent and appreciative wife, at
least, could have looked in upon. Oh, yes, I must not “forget” to
mention the conspicuous position which _Grandma’s mittens_
occupied upon the table. Mr. James put them on to show what a nice fit
they were and wondered what “Grandma” would say if she were to look in
upon him in his tent.
Clara Barton was still in Washington through January and apparently
through February, 1862. Not always was she able to include pleasant
weather among the occasions of her thanksgiving. Every now and again a
pitiless storm beat down upon the soldiers, who were poorly provided
with tents and blankets. Frequently she met among the soldiers in
Washington some of her old pupils. She was never able to look upon
armies as mere masses of troops; she had to remember that they were
individual men, each capable of suffering pain in his own person, and
each of them carrying with him to the front the anxious thought of
loved ones at home. This was the burden of a letter which she wrote on
January 9, 1862:
WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan’y 9th, 1862
Thursday morning
MY DARLING SIS FANNIE:
In spite of everything, I shall this moment commence this note to you,
and I shall finish it as soon as I can, and when it is finished, I
shall send it. In these days of “Proclamations,” this is mine.
I am truly thankful for the institution of ghosts, and that mine
haunted you until you felt constrained to cry out for “relief”--not
that I would have invoked discomfort upon you, or welcomed it when it
should come, but your letter was _so_ welcome, how _could_ I
in mortal weakness be so unselfish as not to hail with joy _any_
“provoking cause”? You perceive that my idea of ghosts is not limited
to graveyards and tombs, or the tenants thereof; indeed, so far from
it, the most troublesome I have ever known were at times the inmates
of living and moving bodies habiting among other people, coming
out only occasionally like owls and bats to frighten the weak and
discourage the weary. I am rejoiced to know that you are comfortable
and happy, and that your school is not wearing you--you are perfectly
right, never let another school be a burden of care upon you; you
will do all your duty without any such soul-vexing labors. I envy
you and Miss Bliss your long social intellectual evenings; please
play I am there sometimes. I will be so quiet, and never disturb
a bit, but, dear me, I am in rougher scenes, if in scenes at all.
My head is just this moment full to aching, bursting with all the
thoughts and doings of our pet expedition. A half-hour ago came to
my room the last messenger from them, the last I shall have in all
probability until the enemy’s galling shot shall have raked through
the ranks of my dear boys, and strewn them here and there, bleeding,
crippled, and dying. Only think of it! the same fair faces that only
a few years ago came every morning, newly washed, hair nicely combed,
bright and cheerful, and took their places quietly and happily among
my scholars,--the same fair heads (perhaps now a few shades darker)
that I have smoothed and patted in fond approval of some good deed
or well-learned task, so soon to lie low in the Southern sands,
blood-matted and tangled, trampled under foot of man and horse, buried
in a common trench “unwept, uncoffined, and unknown.” For the last two
weeks my very heart has been crushed by the sad thoughts and little
touching scenes which have come in my way. It tires me most when one
would get a few hours’ leave from his regiment at Annapolis, and come
to me with some little sealed package, and perhaps his “warrant” as
a non-commissioned officer, and ask me to keep it for him, either
until he returns for it, or--_when I should read his name in the
“Black List,” send it home_. And by the time his errand were well
done, his little hour would be up and, with a hearty grasp of the
hand, an earnest, deep-toned “good-bye,” he stepped from my presence,
marching cheerfully, bravely out--“To die,” I said to myself, as my
soul sunk within me, and the struggling breath would choke and stop,
until the welcome shower of tears came to my relief. Oh, the hours I
have wept alone over scenes like these, no mortal knows! To any other
friend than you, I should not feel like speaking so freely of such
things, but you, who know how foolishly tender my friendships are, and
how I loved “my boys,” will pardon me, and not think me strange or
egotistical. But I must forget myself, and tell you what the messenger
said. It was simply that they were all on board; that, when he left,
the harbor was full, literally crammed with boats and vessels, covered
with men, shouting from every deck. At every breeze that lifted
the drooping flag aloft, a shout went up that deafened and drowned
every other sound, save the roar of the cannon, following instantly,
drowning them in return. The....
Well, just as I knew it would be when I commenced twenty days ago to
write you, some one interrupted me, and then came the returning hours
of tedious labor, and a thrice-told quantity has held me fast until
now. I have been a great deal _more_ than busy for the past three
weeks, owing to some new arrangements in the office, mostly, by which
I lead the Record, and hurry up the others who lag.
Our city has known very little change, since I commenced my first
sheet, although everybody but the wise people have looked intently for
something new, and desperately dreadful, some “forward movement” or
backward advance, but nothing of the kind has happened, doubtless much
to our credit and comfort. No private returns from the “expedition”
yet, but the Commandant of the Post at Annapolis, who just left me a
moment ago, says that the Baltic will leave there this P.M.
to join them in their landing wherever it may be.
Colonel Allen’s death was a most sad affair: his regiment was the
first to embark at Annapolis, a splendid regiment 1200 strong. But a
truce to wars, so here’s my white flag, only I suppose you “don’t see
it,” do you? By this time you are reveling in the February number of
the “Atlantic.” So am I. I have just laid down “A. C.” after a hurried
perusal; not equal to “Love and Skates,” though; what a capital thing
that is! But the “Yankee Idyll” caps all that has yet been done or
said. I _cannot_ lay _that_ down, and keep it there; it
_will_ come up again, the thoughts to my mind, and the pages to
my hand.
“Old Uncle S,--says he, I guess,
God’s price is high, says he.”[6]
Who ever heard so much, so simply and so quaintly expressed?--there
are at least ten volumes of good sound Orthodoxy embodied just there
in that single stanza. But “Port Royal” mustn’t be eclipsed. The
glories of that had been radiating through my mind, however, since its
first appearance in the “Tribune” (if that were the first; it was the
first I saw of it), and I thought it so beautiful that I shouldn’t be
able to relish another poem for at least six weeks, and here it is, so
soon bedimmed by a _rival_. Oh, the fickleness of human nature,
and human loves, a beautiful pair they are, surmounted by the Godlike
“Battle Hymn”[7] tossing over all. What did our poets do for subjects
before the war? It’s a Godsend to them, I am certain, and they equally
so to us; sometimes I think them the only bright spot in the whole
drama.
Well, here I am at _war_ again. I knew’t would be so when I
signed that treaty on the previous page. I’m as bad as England; the
fight is in me, and I will find a pretext.
I have not seen our North Oxford “Regulars” for some time owing to
the fact that a sea of mud has lain between me and them for the last
three weeks, utterly impassable. A few weeks ago Cousin Leander
called me to see a member of his “mess” who was just attacked with
pleuritic fever. I went, and found him in hospital. He was cheerful
(a fine young man) and thought he should be out soon. Work and storm
kept me from him three days, and the fourth we bought him a grave in
the Congressional Burying Ground. Poor fellow, and there he lies all
alone. A _soldier’s_ grave, a sapling at the head, a rough slab
at the foot, nine shots between, and all is over. He waits God’s bugle
to summon him to a reënlistment in the Legion of Angels.
Well, it’s no use, I’ve broken the peace again, and I _can’t_
keep it. I hope you live in a more peaceful community than I do, and
are consequently more manageable and less belligerent....
CLARA
The foregoing letter dealt almost wholly with national affairs. Family
matters were giving her little concern during the twenty days in which
this unfinished missive lay on her desk. But scarcely had she mailed it
when she received this letter concerning her father:
NORTH OXFORD, MASS., January 13, 1862
MY DEAR CLARA:
I sat up with Grandpa last night and he requested me to write to you
and tell how he was. Some one has to sit up with him to keep his fire
regulated. He takes no medicine, and says he shall take _no_
more. He is quite low-spirited at times, and last night very much so.
Complains of pains in his back and bowels; said he should not stop
long with us, and should like to see you once more before he died. He
spoke in high terms of Julie and of the excellent care she had taken
of him, but said after all there was no one like you. I think he fails
slowly and is gradually wearing out. A week ago he was quite low; so
feeble that he was unable to raise himself in bed; now he is more
comfortable and walks out into the sitting-room ’most every day. He
cannot be prevailed upon to go to bed, but sits in his great chair and
sleeps on the lounge. When he was the sickest I notified Dr. Darling
of his situation and he called. Grandpa told him his medicine did
not help or hurt him. Doctor left him some drops, but said he had no
confidence in his medicine and he did not think it would help him.
His appetite is tolerably good for all kinds of food, and what he
wants he will have. I hardly know what to write about him. I do not
wish to cause unnecessary alarm, and at the same time I want you to
fully understand his case. As I said before, he gets low-spirited and
disconsolate, but I think he may stand by us some months longer, and
yet, he may be taken away at any moment. Of course every new attack
leaves him feebler and more childish. He wants to see you again and
seems quite anxious about it, but whether about anything in particular
he did not say....
SAM BARTON
Thus, at the beginning of February, 1862, she was called back to
Oxford. Her father, who had several times seemed near to death, but
who had recovered again and again, was now manifestly nearing the
end. She was with him more than a month before he died. His mind was
clear, and they were able to converse about all the great matters which
concerned them and their home and country. He made his final business
arrangements; he talked with the children who were there, and about
the children who were away. He was greatly concerned for Stephen, at
that time shut in by the Confederate army. Even if the Northern armies
could reach him, as they seemed likely to do before long, neither Clara
nor her father felt sure that he would leave. There was an element of
stubbornness in the Barton family, and Stephen was disposed to stand
his ground against all threats and all entreaties. Clara and her father
felt that the situation was certainly more serious than even Stephen
could realize. To invite him to return to Oxford and sit down in
idleness was worse than useless, and he could not render any military
service. Not only was he too old, but he had a hernia. But she felt
sure that if he were in Washington there would be something that he
could do; and, as was subsequently proved, she was right about it.
There were no mails between Massachusetts or Washington and the place
of his residence, but Clara had opportunity to send a letter which she
hoped would reach him. She wrote guardedly, for it was not certain into
whose hands the letter might fall. Sitting by her father’s bedside she
wrote the following long epistle:
NORTH OXFORD, March 1st, 1862
MY DEAR EXILED BROTHER:
I trust that at length I have an opportunity of speaking to you
without reserve. I only wish I might talk with you face to face, for
in all the shades of war which have passed over us, we must have taken
in many different views. I would like to compare them, but as this
cannot be, I must tell you mine, and in doing so I shall endeavor
to give such opinions and facts as would be fully endorsed by every
friend and person here whose opinions you would ever have valued. I
would sooner sever the hand that pens this than mislead you, and you
may _depend_ upon the _strict fact_ of everything I shall
say, remembering that I shall overcolor nothing.
In the first place, let me remove the one great error, prevalent
among all (Union) people at the South, I presume,--viz., that this
is a war of “Abolitionism” or abolitionists. This is not so; our
Government has for its object the restoration of the Union _as it
was_, and will do so, unless the resistance of the South prove so
obstinate and prolonged that the abolition or overthrow of slavery
follow as a _consequence_--never an object. Again, the idea of
“_subjugation_.” This application never originated with the
North, nor is it tolerated there, for an instant; desired by no one
unless, like the first instance, it follows as a necessity incident
upon a course of protracted warfare. Both these ideas are used as
stimulants by the Southern (mis)leaders, and without them they could
never hold their army together a month. The North are fighting for
the maintenance of the Constitutional Government of the United States
and the defense and honor of their country’s flag. This accomplished,
the army are ready to lay down their arms and return to their homes
and peaceable pursuits, and our leaders are willing to disband them.
Until such time, there will be found no willingness on the part of
either. We have now in the field between 500,000 and 600,000 soldiers;
more cavalry and artillery than we can use to advantage, our navy
growing to a formidable size, and all this vast body of men, clothed,
fed, and paid, as was never an army on the face of the earth before,
perfectly uniformed, and hospital stores and clothing lying idly by
waiting to be used; we feel no scarcity of money. I am not saying
that we are not getting a large national debt, but I mean to say
that our people are not feeling the pinchings of “war-time.” The
people of the North are as comfortable as you used to see them. You
should be set down in the streets of Boston, Worcester, New York,
or Philadelphia to-day, and only by a profusion of United States
flags and occasionally a soldier home on a furlough would you ever
mistrust that we were _at war_. Let the fire bells ring in any of
those cities, and you will never miss a man from the crowds you have
ordinarily seen gather on such occasions. We can raise another army
like the one we have in the field (only better men as a _mass_),
arm and equip them for service, and still have men and means enough
left at home for all practical purposes. Our troops are just beginning
to be effective, only just properly drilled, and are now ready to
commence work in earnest or just as ready to lay down their arms when
the South are ready to return to the Union, as “loyal and obedient
States”; not obedient to the _North_, but obedient to the laws
of the whole country. Our relations with foreign countries are
amicable, and our late recent victories must for a long time set at
rest all hope or fears of foreign interference, and even were such an
event probable, the Federal Government would not be dismayed. We are
doubtless in better condition to meet a foreign foe, along with all
our home difficulties to-day, than we should have been all together
one year ago to-day. Foreign powers stand off and look with wonder
to see what the Americans have accomplished in ten months; they will
be wary how they wage war with “Yankees” after this. I must caution
here, lest you think there is in all I say something of the spirit
of “brag.” There is not a vestige of it. I am only stating plain
facts, and not the hundredth part of them. I do not feel exultant,
but humble and grateful that under the blessing of God, my country
and my people have accomplished what they have; and even _were_
I exulting, it would be _for_ you, and not over, or against you,
for “according to the straightest of your sect,” have you lived a
“Yankee.” And this brings me to the point of my subject; here comes my
request, my prayer, supplication, entreaty, command--call it what you
will, only _heed it_, at once. COME HOME, not home to
Massachusetts, but home to _my_ home; I want you in Washington.
I could cover pages, fill volumes, in telling you all the anxiety
that has been felt for you, all the hours of anxious solicitude that
I have known in the last ten months, wondering where you were, or if
you were at all, and planning ways of getting to you, or getting you
to me, but never until now has any safe or suitable method presented
itself, and now that the expedition has opened a means of escape, I
am tortured with the fear that, under the recent call of the State,
you may have been drafted into the enemy’s service. If you are
still at your place and this letter reaches you, I desire, and most
sincerely advise, you to make ready, and, when the opportunity shall
present (which surely will), place yourself, with such transportable
things as you may desire to take, on board one of our boats, under
protection of our officers, and be taken to the landing at Roanoke,
and from thence by some of our transports up to Annapolis, where
either myself or friends will be waiting for you, then go with me to
Washington and call your days of trial over;--for so it can be done.
If we could have known when General Burnside’s expedition left, that
it was destined for your place, Sam would have accompanied them, and
made his way to you on the first boat up your river; as it is, he
is coming now, hoping that he may be in time to reach you, and have
your company back. I want in some way that this and other letters
reach you before he does, that you may make such preparations as
will be necessary, and be ready, whenever he shall appear, to step
on board and set your face toward a more peaceful quarter. You will
meet a welcome from our officers such as you little dream of, unless
perchance you have already met them. If you have, you have found
them gentlemen and friends; you will find scores of old friends in
that expedition, all anxious to see you, would do anything to serve
you if you were with them, but don’t know where to find you. There
are some down on the Island, among General Burnside’s men, who have
your address, but they would scarcely be on our gunboats. There are
plenty of men there who have not only your name in their pockets,
but your memory in their hearts, and would hail you with a brother’s
welcome. General Butler came in at Hatteras with a long letter in his
possession relating to you, and if he had advanced so far, he would
have claimed you. I don’t know how many of our prominent Worcester
men have come or sent to me for your address, to make it known among
our troops if ever they reached you, that they might offer you any
aid in their power. No one can bear the idea of our forces going near
you without knowing all about you, and claiming and treating you as a
brother; you were never as near and dear to the people of Worcester
County as you are to-day. I have seen the tears roll over more than
one man’s face when told that Sam was going to see and take something
to you, and bring you away if you would come. “God grant he may” is
the hearty ejaculation which follows. I want to tell you who you
will find among the officers and men composing the Expedition near
you; Massachusetts has five regiments--21st, 23rd, 24th, 25th, 27th;
the 21st and 25th were raised in Worcester, the former under Colonel
Augustus Morse, of Leominster, formerly Major-General Morse, of the
3rd Division, State Militia: he is detached from the regiment and
is commandant (or second in command now) of the post at Annapolis.
It is he who will send Sam free of cost to you. He is a good, true
friend of mine, and tells me to send Sam to him, and he will put him
on the track to you. He will also interest both General Burnside and
Commander Goldsburgh in both of you and leave nothing undone for your
comfort and interest. In the meantime he is waiting to grasp your
hand, and share his table and blanket with you at Annapolis. So much
for him; the other officers of the regiment are Lieutenant-Colonel
Maggi, Major Clark (of Amherst College, Professor of Chemistry),
Dr. Calvin Cutter as surgeon (you remember Cutter’s Physiology),
Adjutant Stearns, Chaplain Ball, etc. etc. all of whom know me, are
my friends, and will be yours in an instant; among the men are scores
of boys whom you know. You can’t enter _that_ regiment without
a shout of welcome, unless you do it _very slyly_. Then for the
25th, Colonel Upton, of Fitchburg, Lieutenant-Colonel Sprague, of
Worcester, Major Caffidy, of W., Chaplain Reverend Horace James, of
the Old South, Cousin Ira’s old minister, one of the bravest men in
the regiment, one of my best friends, and yours too; Captain I. Waldo
Denny, son of Denny the insurance agent. The Captain has been talking
about you for the last six months, and if he once gets hold of you
will be slow to release you unless you set your face for me; the old
gentleman (his father) has been very earnest in devising plans all
through the difficulties to reach, aid, or get you away as might be
best. He came to me in Washington for your address and all particulars
long months ago, hoping that he could reach you through just some such
opening as the present. I state all this because it is due you that
you should know the state of feeling held towards you by your old
friends and acquaintances whether you choose to come among them or
not. Even old Brine was in here a few minutes ago, and is trying to
have Sam take a hundred dollars of _his_ money out to you, lest
you should need it and cannot get it there; the old fellow urged it
upon me with the tears running down his cheeks. There is no bitterness
here, even towards the Southerners themselves, and men would give
their lives to save the Union men of the South. The North feel it to
be a necessity to put down a rebellion, and there the animosity ends.
Now, my advice to you would be this; if you do not see fit to follow
it, you will promise not to take offense or think me conceited in
_presuming_ to advise you; under ordinary circumstances I would
not think of the thing, as you very well know. I get my privilege
merely from the different standpoint I occupy. No word or expression
has ever come from you, and you are regarded as a Union man closed
in and unable to leave, standing by your property to guard it. This
expedition is supposed to have opened the way for your safe exit or
escape to your native land, friends, and loyal Government, and if now
you should take the first opportunity to leave and report yourself
at your own Government you would find yourself a hundred times more
warmly received than if you had been here naturally, all the time. So
far as lay in the power of our troops your property would be sacredly
protected, far more so than if you remained on it in a manner a
little hostile or doubtful. I am not certain but the best thing for
Mr. Riddick would be for you to leave just in this way, and surely I
would have his property harmed no more than yours. I have understood
Mr. Riddick to be a Union man at heart like hundreds of other men whom
our Government desires to protect from all harm and secure against
all loss. This being the case, the best course for both of you which
could be adopted, in my judgment, is for you to leave with our troops.
This will secure the property against them; they would never harm a
hair of it intentionally knowing it to belong to you, a Union man
who had come away with them, and you could so represent the case
of Mr. Riddick that his rights and property would be respected by
them. _He would be infinitely more secure for such a move on your
part_, while his connection with you would, I trust, be sufficient
to secure your property from molestation by his neighbors, who would
be slow to offend or injure him. If you leave and your property be
_un_officially injured by our troops, the Federal Government
must be held responsible for it, and if, after matters are settled,
and business revives, you should find your attachment to your home so
strong as to desire to return, I trust you could do so, as I would by
no means have you do anything to weaken the goodly feeling between you
and your friend, Mr. Riddick, for whom we have all learned to feel the
utmost degree of grateful respect, and I cannot for a moment think
that he would seriously disagree with my conclusions or advice. At all
events, I am willing he should know them, or see or hear any portions
of this letter which might be desired. I deal perfectly fairly and
honestly with all, and I have written or said nothing that I am or
shall be unwilling to have read by either side. I am a plain Northern
Union woman, honest in my feelings and counsels, desiring only the
good of all, disguising nothing, covering nothing, and so far my
opinions are entitled to respect, and will, I trust, be received with
confidence. If you will do this as I suggest and come at once to me at
Washington, you need have no fears of remaining idle. This Sam will
tell you of when you see him, better than for me to write so much.
Washington had never so many people and so much business as now. Some
of it would be for you at once.
You must not for a moment suppose that you would be offered any
position which would interfere with any oath you may have given,
for all know that you must have done something of this nature to
have remained in that country through such times, unharmed, and all
know you too well to approach you with any such request, as that you
shall forfeit your word. Now, what more can I say, only to repeat
my advice, and desire you to consult Mr. Riddick in relation to the
matter (if you think best) and leave the result with you, and you with
the good God, whom I daily desire and implore to sustain, guide, keep,
and protect you in the midst of all your trials and isolation.
I sent a short letter to you some weeks ago, which I rather suppose
must have reached you, in which I told you of the failing condition
of our dear old father. He is still failing and rapidly; he cannot
remain with us many days, I think (this calls me home); his appetite
has entirely failed; he eats nothing and can scarcely bear his weight,
growing weaker every hour. He has talked a _hundred volumes_
about you; wishes he could see you, knows he cannot, but hopes you
will come away with Sam until the trials are ended which distress our
beloved country. Samuel will tell you more than I can write.
Hoping to see you soon I remain
Ever your affectionate sister
CLARA
It was beside her father’s death-bed that Clara Barton consecrated
herself to work at the battle-front. She talked the whole problem
over with him. She told him what she had seen in the hospitals
at Washington, and that was none too encouraging. But the thing
that distressed her most of all was the shocking loss of life and
increase of suffering due to the transportation of soldiers from the
battle-field to the base hospitals in Washington. She saw more of this
later, but she had seen enough of it already to be appalled by the
conditions that existed. After Fredericksburg she wrote about it in
these terms:
I went to the 1st Division, 9th Corps Hospital; found eight officers
of the 57th lying on the floor with a blanket under them, none over;
had had some crackers once that day. About two hundred left of the
regiment. Went to the Old National Hotel, found some hundreds (perhaps
four hundred) Western men sadly wounded, all on the floors; had
nothing to eat. I carried a basket of crackers, and gave two apiece
as far as they went and some pails of coffee; they had had no food
that day and there was none for them. I saw them again at ten o’clock
at night; they had had nothing to eat; a great number of them were to
undergo amputation sometime, but no surgeons yet; they had not dippers
for one in ten. I saw no straw in any hospital, and no mattresses, and
the men lay so thick that gangrene was setting in, and in nearly every
hospital there has been set apart an _erysipelas_ ward.
There is not room in the city to receive the wounded, and those that
arrived yesterday mostly were left lying in the wagons all night
at the mercy of the drivers. It rained very hard, many died in the
wagons, and their companions, where they had sufficient strength, had
raised up and thrown them out into the street. I saw them lying there
early this morning; they had been wounded two and three days previous,
had been brought from the front, and after all this lay still another
night without care, or food, or shelter, many doubtless famished
after arriving in Fredericksburg. The city is full of houses, and
this morning broad parlors were thrown open and displayed to the view
of the rebel occupants the bodies of the dead Union soldiers lying
beside the wagons in which they perished. Only those most slightly
wounded have been taken on to Washington; the roads are fearful and
it is worth the life of a wounded man to move him over them. A common
ambulance is scarce sufficient to get through. We passed them this
morning four miles out of town, full of wounded, with the tongue
broken or wheels crushed in the middle of a hill, in mud from one
to two feet deep; what was to be done with the moaning, suffering
occupants God only knew.
Dr. Hitchcock most strongly and earnestly and indignantly remonstrates
against any more removals of broken or amputated limbs. He declares
it little better than murder, and says the greater proportion of them
will die if not better fed and afforded more room and better air. The
surgeons do _all_ they _can_, but no provision had been made
for such a wholesale slaughter on the part of any one, and I believe
it would be impossible to comprehend the magnitude of the necessity
without witnessing it.
Clara Barton knew these matters better in 1863 than she did at the
beginning of 1862, but she knew something about them when she reached
her father’s bedside, and he entered intelligently and with sympathy
into the recital of her story. He had been a soldier and he understood
exactly the conditions which she described. Her old friend Colonel
De Witt, formerly a member of Congress from her home district, also
appreciated what she had to say. On a day when her father was able to
be left, she went with Colonel De Witt to Boston to call on Governor
John A. Andrew. She had much to tell him about conditions and life in
the hospitals, and also something concerning leaks which she knew to be
occurring in Washington and vicinity, and of treasonable organizations
operating close to the capital, in constant communication with the
enemy. A few days after this call the Washington papers contained
an account of the arrest of twenty-five or thirty Secessionists at
Alexandria, and the disclosure of just such a “leak” and plot as she
had related to Governor Andrew:
Sunday Chronicle, March 2nd, 1862
Important Arrests at Alexandria.--Quite a sensation was produced
in Alexandria on last Thursday evening by the arrest of some
twenty-five or thirty alleged secessionists, who are charged with
being concerned in a secret association for the purpose of giving aid
and comfort to the rebels. The conspiracy, it seems, was organized
under the pretended forms of a relief association, and comprised
all the treasonable objects of affording relief to the enemy. It is
further stated that a fund was obtained from rebel sympathizers for
the purpose of supporting the families of soldiers in the service of
the “Confederate States,” on the identical plan of the noble Relief
Commission of Philadelphia, established with such different motives.
It has also been engaged in the manufacture of rebel uniforms, which
were distributed among the subordinate female associations. The
purpose of the plotters was also to furnish arms and munitions of
war. A considerable quantity has been discovered packed for shipment,
consisting of knapsacks and weapons. Letters were found acknowledging
the receipt through the agency of the association of rifles and
pistols in Richmond....
Among the papers secured are many letters implicating persons
heretofore unsuspected.
The parties were brought to this city on Friday, and lodged in the old
Capital prison. As they passed along the avenue, under the guard of
soldiers, they appeared to be quite indifferent as to their fate and
the enormity and baseness of the crime with which they are charged.
The majority of them presented a very respectable appearance, and were
followed to jail by an anxious crowd of men and boys.
Clara Barton asked her father his opinion of the feasibility of her
getting to the front. He did not discourage the idea. He knew his
daughter and believed her capable of accomplishing what she set out to
do. Moreover, he knew the American soldier. He felt sure that Clara
would be protected from insult, and that her presence would be welcome
to the soldiers.
Having thus been favorably introduced to Governor Andrew, and her story
of the secret operations of Secessionists near Washington having been
confirmed, she felt that she could write the Governor and ask him for
permission to go to the very seat of war. She had been sending supplies
to Roanoke, and Newbern, North Carolina, and she wished very much that,
as soon as her father should have passed away, she might be permitted
to go with her supplies and perform her own work of distribution. From
her father’s bedside she wrote the following letter to Governor Andrew:
NORTH OXFORD, Mar. 20, 1862
TO HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN A. ANDREW, Governor
of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Governor Andrew will perhaps recollect the writer as the lady who
waited upon him in company with Hon. Alexander De Witt, to mention the
existence of certain petitions from the officers of the Massachusetts
Regiments of Volunteers, relating to the establishment of an agency in
the City of Washington.
With the promise of Your Excellency to “look after the leak” came a
“lessening of my fears,” and the immediate discovery of the truly
magnificent rebel organization in Alexandria, and the arrest of
twenty-five of the principal actors, including the _purchasing
committee_, brought with it not only entire satisfaction, but a
joy I had scarce known in months. Since September I had been fully
conscious in my own mind of the existence of something of this kind,
and in October attempted to warn our Relief Societies, but, in the
absence of all proof, I must perforce _say_ very little. I
should never have brought the subject before you again, only that I
incidentally learned that our excellent Dr. Hitchcock has taken back
from Roanoke other papers relating to the same subject, which will
doubtless be laid before you, and, as I have an entirely different
boon to crave, I find it _necessary_ to speak.
I desire Your Excellency’s permission to go to Roanoke. I should
have proffered my request weeks earlier, but I am called home to
witness the last hours of my old soldier father, who is wearing out
the remnant of an oak and iron constitution, seasoned and tempered
in the wild wars of “Mad Anthony.” His last tale of the Red Man is
told; a _few_ more suns, and the old soldier’s weary march is
ended,--honorably discharged, he is journeying home.
With this, my highest duties close, and I would fain be allowed to go
and administer comfort to our brave men, who peril life and limb in
defense of the priceless boon the fathers so dearly won.
If I know my own heart, I have none but right motives. I ask neither
pay nor praises, simply a soldier’s fare and the sanction of Your
Excellency to go and do with my might, whatever my hands find to do.
In General Burnside’s noble command are upwards of forty young men who
in former days were my pupils. I am glad to know that somewhere they
have learned their duty to their country, and have come up neither
cowards nor traitors. I think I am safe in saying that I possess
the entire confidence and respect of every one of them. For the
_officers_, their signatures are before you.
If my request appear unreasonable, and must be denied, I shall submit,
patiently, though sorrowfully, but trusting, hoping better things. I
beg to submit myself
With the highest respect,
Yours truly
CLARA H. BARTON
John A. Andrew was one of the great war governors. Massachusetts is
one of the States that can always be proud of the record of its chief
executive during the dark days of the Civil War. He responded promptly
to Clara Barton’s appeal. On the day of her father’s funeral she
received the following letter from Governor Andrew:
COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS
EXECUTIVE DEPARTMENT
BOSTON, March 24th, 1862
MISS CLARA H. BARTON,
North Oxford, Mass.
I beg to assure you, Miss Barton, of my cordial sympathy with your
most worthy sentiments and wishes; and that if I have any power to
promote your design in aid of our soldiers I will surely use it.
Whenever you may be ready to visit General Burnside’s division I will
cheerfully give you a letter of introduction, with my hearty approval
of your visit and my testimony to the value of the service to our sick
and wounded it will be in _your_ power to render.
With high respect I am,
Your ob. servant
JOHN A. ANDREW
This letter seemed a practical assurance that Clara Barton was to be
permitted to go to the front. She had the Governor’s virtual promise,
conditioned, of course, upon recommendations from proper authorities,
and she thought she had sufficient influence with the surgeon, Dr.
Hitchcock, to secure the required recommendation. Through an official
friend she took up the matter with Dr. Hitchcock, but in a few days his
letter to the Doctor came back to Clara by way of the Governor. Dr.
Hitchcock did not believe that the battle-field was a suitable place
for women. Among Clara Barton’s papers the letter to Dr. Hitchcock is
found bearing his comment and the Governor’s brief reference with which
the letter was forwarded to Clara Barton. This closed, for the time
being, her prospect of getting to the front:
BOSTON, March 22, 1862
DR. HITCHCOCK,
DEAR SIR:
A friend of mine, Miss Clara H. Barton, is very desirous of doing what
she can to aid our sick and wounded men at Roanoke, or Newbern, and
I to-day presented a letter from her to Governor Andrew asking that
she might be sent there by the State. Governor Andrew said he would
confer with you relative to the matter. I presume Miss Barton will
write to you. She has been a resident of Washington and the petitions
you brought for me to present to the Governor were for her appointment
as an agent at Washington. She now desires to go to the Burnside
expedition.
I need not say that she would render efficient service to our sick and
wounded and would not be an encumbrance to the service.
Truly yours
J. W. FLETCHER
This letter bears written on its back these endorsements by Dr. Alfred
Hitchcock and Governor Andrew:
I do not think at the present time Miss Barton had better undertake to
go to Burnside’s Division to act as a nurse.
ALFRED HITCHCOCK
March 25th, 1862.
Respectfully referred for the information of Miss Barton.
J. A. ANDREW
March 25, /62.
Old Captain Stephen Barton died at last, aged almost eighty-eight.
The entries in Clara Barton’s diary on these days are brief and
interesting:
_Thursday, March 20, 1862._ Wrote Governor Andrew, and watched by
poor, suffering Grandpa. Sent a letter to Irving by the morning mail.
_Friday, March 21, 1862._ At 10.16 at night, my poor father
breathed his last. By him were Misses Grover, Hollendrake, Mrs. Vial,
David, Julia, and I.
_Saturday, March 22, 1862._ David and Julia went to Worcester.
Mrs. Rich here. Sent letters to Irving, Judge, Mary, Dr. Darling.
_Sunday, March 23, 1862._ Call from Deacon Smith.
_Monday, March 24, 1862._ Mrs. Rich went to Worcester for me.
Left a note for Arba Pierce to make a wreath for poor Grandpa’s coffin.
_Tuesday, March 25, 1862._ At two P.M., commenced the
services of the burial, Rev. Mr. Holmes of Charlton officiating. House
and grounds crowded. Ceremony solemn and impressive. At evening Cousin
Jerry Stone came and brought me a letter from Governor J. A. Andrew.
This was all she found time to write in the diary. Of the letters she
wrote to her cousin, Corporal Leander A. Poor, relating to her father’s
death, one has been recovered:
NORTH OXFORD, March 27th, 1862
Thursday Afternoon
MY DEAR COUSIN LEANDER:
Your welcome second letter came to me this noon--doubtless before this
you have learned the answer to your kind inquiry, “How is Grandsire?”
But if not, and the sentinel post is mine, I must answer, “All is
well.” Down under the little pines, beside my mother, he rests
quietly, sleeps peacefully, dreams happily. The old soldier’s heavy
march is ended, for him the last tattoo has sounded, and, resting upon
the unfailing arms of truth, hope, and faith, he awaits the “reveille
of the eternal morning.”
“Grandsire” had been steadily failing since I came home. For more
than thirty days he did not taste a morsel of food, and could retain
nothing stronger or more nourishing than a little milk and water--for
over ten of the last days not that, simply a little cold water, which
he dared not swallow. And still he lived and moved himself and talked
strongly and sensibly and wisely as you had always heard him. Who ever
heard of such constitutional strength?
You will be gratified to know that he arranged all his business to
his entire satisfaction some days previous to his death. After being
raised up and writing his name, he said to me, “This is the last day I
shall ever do any business; my work in this world is done.”
He remained until Friday, the 21st [of March], sixteen minutes
past ten o’clock at night. He spoke for the last time about five
o’clock, but made us understand by signs until the very last, when he
straightened himself in bed, closed his mouth firmly, gave one hand to
Julia, and the other to me, and left us.
Clara Barton’s hopes of going to the front received a severe
disappointment when Governor Andrew returned Dr. Hitchcock’s
communication with the refusal to endorse her application. But she
was nothing if not persistent. Almost immediately after her receipt
of the Governor’s letter, she began again seeking to bring influence
to bear on a Massachusetts captain (Denney), whose wife she had come
to know. In this she gives more detail of the so-called “leak” in
stores, which had been sent more or less recklessly for the benefit of
troops, and without the prepaying of express charges. An organization
of Confederate sympathizers had been formed to purchase these goods
from the express company, and slip them through the lines. In some way
she had found this out, and so as to be morally certain of it before
the exposure and arrest of the conspirators, she had relied upon
advance information that she possessed of this system to commend her to
Governor Andrew, and he was, evidently, favorably impressed. But she
encountered the red tape of the surgeons who were not willing that she
should go to the battle-field.
No immediate results came from her continued efforts to secure
permission to go to the front. She still remained in New England
through the month of May, but in June returned to Washington and
remained there until the 18th of July.
She had already been receiving supplies from her friends in New
Jersey as well as from Massachusetts. She now went to Bordentown and
from there to New York, Boston, Worcester, and Oxford. This journey
was made for the purpose of ensuring a larger and continuous supply
of provisions, for she had now obtained what she long had coveted,
her permission to go to the front. Authority, when it finally came,
was direct from the Surgeon-General’s office, and it gave her as
large liberty as she could well have asked. The following passes and
authorizations were all issued within twenty-four hours. Just how she
obtained them, we do not know. In some way her persistence triumphed
over all official red tape, and when she secured her passes they were
practically unlimited either as to time or destination. The following
are from the official records:
SURGEON-GENERAL’S OFFICE
July 11, 1862
Miss C. H. Barton has permission to go upon the sick transports in any
direction--for the purpose of distributing comforts for the sick and
wounded--and nursing them, always subject to the direction of the
surgeon in charge.
WILLIAM A. HAMMOND
Surgeon-General, U.S.A.
SURGEON-GENERAL’S OFFICE
WASHINGTON CITY, July 11, 1862
SIR:
At the request of the Surgeon-General I have to request that you give
every facility to Miss Barton for the transportation of supplies for
the comfort of the sick. I refer you to the accompanying letter.
Very respectfully
R. C. WOOD, A.S. Gen’l.
MAJOR D. H. RUCKER, A.Q.M.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
OFFICE OF DEPOT QUARTERMASTER
WASHINGTON, July 11, 1862
Respectfully referred to General Wadsworth, with the request that
permission be given this lady and friend to pass to and from Acquia
Creek on Government transports at all times when she may wish to visit
the sick and hospitals, etc., with such stores as she may wish to take
for the comfort of the sick and wounded.
D. H. RUCKER, Quartermaster and Col.
H’D QRS. MIL. DIV. OF VA.
WASHINGTON, D.C., July 11, 1862
The within mentioned lady (Miss Barton) and friend have permission to
pass to and from Fredericksburg by Government boat and railroad at all
times to visit sick and wounded and to take with her all such stores
as she may wish to take for the sick, and to pass anywhere within
the lines of the United States forces (excepting to the Army of the
Potomac), and to travel on any military railroad or Government boat to
such points as she may desire to visit and take such stores as she
may wish by such means of transportation.
By order of Brig.-Gen’l Wadsworth, Mil. Gov. D.C.
T. E. ELLSWORTH, Capt. and A.D.C.
INSPECTOR-GENERAL’S OFFICE, ARMY OF VIRGINIA
WASHINGTON, D.C., August 12, 1862
No. 83
To Whom it may Concern:
Know ye, that the bearers, Miss Barton and two friends, have
permission to pass within the lines of this army for the purpose of
supplying the sick and wounded. Transportation will be furnished by
Government boat and rail.
By command of Major-General Pope
R. JONES, Asst. Inspector-General
It is said that when Clara Barton finally succeeded in getting
permission to go to the front, she broke down and burst into tears.
That is possible, but her diary shows no sign of her emotion. Nor is it
true, as has been affirmed, that, as soon as she received her passes,
she rushed immediately to the front. Her self-possession and deliberate
action at this moment of triumph are thoroughly characteristic of her.
Instead of going to the front, she went to New Jersey and New England,
as has already been intimated. She had no intention of going to the
front until she had assurance of supplies which she could take with
her and could continue to receive. She was no love-lorn, sentimental
maiden, going with unreckoning and hysterical ardor into conditions
which she did not understand. She was forty years old, and she knew
what hospitals were. She also knew a good deal about official red tape
and the reasonable unwillingness of surgeons to have any one around the
hospital unless she could earn her keep. With a pocket full of passes
which she now possessed, she could go almost anywhere. To be sure, it
was necessary to get special passes for particular objects, but in
general all she had to do was to present these blanket credentials, and
particular permission for a specific journey was promptly forthcoming.
Indeed, she seldom needed that when her lines of operation were
definitely established, but at the beginning she took no chances.
Among the other friends whom she gained while she was procuring these
certificates was Assistant Quartermaster-General D. H. Rucker. He
proved an unfailing friend. Never thereafter did she go to him in vain
with any request for transportation for herself or her goods.
Her first notable expedition in supplies started from Washington on
Sunday, August 3, 1862, just as the people were going to church.
Frequent mention has been made of the fact that this occurred on
Sunday, and some incorrect inferences have been drawn from it. Clara
Barton had too large a conception of the sacredness of her task to
have waited until Monday for a thing that needed to be done on Sunday.
On the other hand, she had too much religion of her own, and too much
regard for other people’s religion, to have chosen deliberately the
day and hour when people were going to church as that on which she
would mount a loaded truck and conspicuously take her journey to the
boat. She began her arrangements to go to Fredericksburg on Wednesday,
July 30th, as her diary shows. But it was Friday afternoon before her
arrangements were complete, including the special passes which she had
to procure from General Polk’s headquarters. Saturday she started, but
the boat was withdrawn, and it was due to this delay that she rode on
top of her load on Sunday morning. She was taking no chances concerning
her load of provisions; she knew that her welcome at the front and
her efficiency there depended upon her getting her supplies there as
well as herself. So she climbed over the wheel and sat beside the
mule-driver as he carted her provisions to the dock. The boat conveyed
her to Acquia Creek where she stayed all night, being courteously
treated by the quartermaster. On Monday she went on to Fredericksburg,
where she visited the general hospital, located in a woolen factory.
There she witnessed her first amputation. The next day she visited
the camp of the 21st Massachusetts. She distributed her supplies, and
found where more were needed. Returning, she reached Washington at six
o’clock Tuesday night. The next few days she had conferences with the
Sanitary Commission, and suggested some improvement in the methods of
supplying the hospitals.
She found the Sanitary Commission quite ready to coöperate with her,
and obtained from them without difficulty some stores for the 8th and
11th Connecticut Regiments. She took time to write the story of her
visit to Fredericksburg, and to secure its full value in additional
supplies.
This was the way she spent her time for a full month after she secured
her passes. She visited the friends who were to supply her with the
articles she was to need; she visited the front and personally oversaw
the method of distributing supplies; she placed herself in sympathetic
relationship with the Sanitary Commission, whose work was next of kin
to her own, and she wrote letters that were to bring her a still
larger volume of resources for her great work. A more businesslike,
methodical, or sensible method of procedure could not be imagined than
that which her diary and letters disclose.
How she felt about going to the front at this time is finely set forth
in a letter to her cousin, Corporal Leander A. Poor, who was sick in a
hospital at Point Lookout, Maryland, and whom she succeeded in getting
transferred to a hospital in Washington. She did not expect to be there
when he arrived, for she was committed to her plan of getting to the
front. Not that she expected to stay continuously; it was her purpose
to come and go; to get relief directly where it was needed, and to keep
her lines of communication open. This letter shows that she labored
under no delusion concerning the difficulties of transportation. She
was going in with her eyes open.
WASHINGTON, D.C., Aug. 2, 1862
Saturday P.M.
OH, MY DEAREST COUZ:
Can you believe it! that this afternoon’s mail takes an order from the
Surgeon-General for you to report in Washington (provided the state of
your health will permit)? I have just seen the order written.
You are to report to Dr. Campbell, Medical Director, and he is to
assign you to some hospital. Now I want you assigned near me, but am
not certain that I can influence it in the least,--but I’ll try! I can
tell you the ropes and you can help pull them when you go to report.
At the Medical Director’s, I have an especial friend in the person
of Dr. Sheldon, one of the _chargés des affaires_ of the
Institution. I will acquaint him with the facts before your arrival
either by a personal interview or a note, and then, when you go to
report to Dr. Campbell, see first, if possible, Dr. Sheldon, and ask
him if he can assist you in getting assigned to some hospital near
me (7th Street) or in the vicinity of the Post-Office, he knows my
residence, having called upon me.
My choice would be the “Armory Square,” a new hospital on 7th Street
a few rods the other side of the Avenue from me, on the way to the
Arsenal, you will recollect, just opposite the Smithsonian Institute,
on the east side of 7th. This is designed as a model hospital, but
perhaps one difficulty will be that it is intended more exclusively
for extreme cases, or desperately wounded who can be conveyed but
little distance from the boat. There are in it _now_, however,
some very slight cases, some whom I visit every day. The chaplain,
E. W. Jackson, is from Maine, near Portland,--and I would not be
surprised if more Maine men were in charge there, too.
After this I have not much choice in any of the hospitals near me. E
Street Church is near, and so many of the churches, and perhaps being
less in magnitude they are less strict. I don’t even know if you
will be allowed to see me before making your report to the Medical
Director, and there is one bare possibility that I may be out on a
scout when you arrive. Lord knows the condition of our poor wretched
soldiers down in the army; all communication cut off to and from,
they must be dying from want of care, and I am promised to go to them
the first moment access can be had, but this would not discourage
you, for I should come home again when the poor fellows were a little
comfortable.
I am not certain when you can come, probably not until some Government
boat comes up; one went down yesterday, and if I had had your order
_then_, I should have come for you, but to start in one now after
this I might miss you, as they only go some once a week or so.
All sorts of rumors in town,--that we are whipping the rebels, they
are whipping us, Jackson defeated, Pope defeated. But one thing I do
suppose to be true, viz., that our army is isolated, cut off from
supplies of food, and that we cannot reach them with more until they
fight their way out. This is not generally believed or understood,
but your cousin both understands and believes it. People talk like
children about “_transporting supplies_” as if it were the
easiest thing imaginable to transport supplies by wagon thirty miles
across a country scouted by guerrilla bands. Our men _must_ be on
part rations, tired and hungry, fighting like tigers, and dying like
dogs. There! Doesn’t that sound impatient. I won’t speak again.
Of course you will write me instantly and tell me if you are able to
come, and when as nearly as possible, etc., etc.
I will enclose $5.00 lest you may need and not have.
Your affectionate Cousin
CLARA H. BARTON
Washington, D.C.
Thus did Clara Barton at her father’s death-bed consecrate herself to a
work more difficult than any woman had at that time undertaken for the
relief of suffering caused by the war. Other women were equally brave;
others, equally tender in their personal ministrations; but Clara
Barton knew the difficulties of transportation and the awful agonies
and loss of life endured by men through neglect and delay and the
distance of the hospital from the battle-field. She was ready to carry
relief right behind the battle lines. She had not long to wait for her
opportunity.
[6] From James Russell Lowell’s second series of “Biglow Papers,” then
appearing in the _Atlantic_.
[7] A reference to Julia Ward Howe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic,”
then new.