Walt Whitman: Civil War Missionary

From: warfarehistorynetwork.com, 4-11-14

After his brother was wounded in battle, Whitman volunteered many hours helping wounded soldiers in Washington D.C.

In late December 1862, national poet Walt Whitman arrived in Washington D.C., intending to stay for just a few days. He ended up staying for the next ten years; for the first three, he was a regular visitor at the various military hospitals in and around the nation’s capital.

In “The Soldiers’ Missionary,” Roy Morris Jr.’s in-depth feature in the Spring 2014 issue of Civil War Quarterly Magazine, you’ll get to read all about Whitman’s interactions with the wounded soldiers.

Whitman’s time in Washington actually began with the wounding of his brother George at the Battle of Fredericksburg in late December 1862. At home in Brooklyn with his mother, they received unexpected news that his brother was on a list of regimental casualties published by the New York Tribune. Fearing the worst, Whitman and his mother threw together some belongings and hurried south to Washington.

While visiting his brother, Whitman was immediately struck by how many soldiers were hospitalized. “The mass of our men in our army are young,” he wrote in an article published in the New York Times. “It is an impressive sight to me to see the countless numbers of youths and boys, many of them already with the experiences of the oldest veterans.”

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Walt Whitman’s Civil War: Stories of the Wounded

By Roy Morris Jr., 3-1-17

Walt Whitman went to Washington in 1863 searching for his brother. He stayed throughout the war visiting wounded soldiers at military hospitals.

Walt Whitman arrived in Washington, D.C., in late December 1862, intending to stay for a few days. He wound up staying for the next 10 years. For the first three of those years, the great American poet was a regular visitor to the various military hospitals in and around the nation’s capital, where he devoted himself to bringing cheer and companionship to the thousands of suffering young soldiers confined to their beds with wounds, illness, or infection. By the end of the war, Whitman would personally make more than 600 visits to the hospitals and speak to some 100,000 soldiers during his rounds. In his own humble way, Whitman was also a war correspondent—not on the front lines of the battlefields, but in the rear, where the battles’ true costs were hidden away.

“A Sight in Camp”
Whitman’s time in Washington began with the wounding of his brother George at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia, in late December 1862. Walt was at home in Brooklyn with his mother on the morning of December 16 when he unexpectedly came across a list of regimental casualties in the New York Tribune. Among those listed was “First Lieutenant G.W. Whitmore [sic], Company D.” Fearing the worst, Walt threw together some belongings and hurried south to Washington, where the main Union hospitals were located.

For three days and nights Whitman searched in vain for his brother, trudging from hospital to hospital through streets clogged with dispirited Union soldiers and wild rumors of impending Confederate invasion. The futile period of searching, he told his mother, was “the greatest suffering I ever experienced in my life.” It did not help that Whitman’s pocket was picked in the train station in Philadelphia, leaving him literally penniless. At last someone suggested he go to Falmouth, outside Fredericksburg, where the Army of the Potomac was camped for the winter. There he found George in surprisingly good health, only slightly wounded by a piece of Confederate shrapnel that had pierced his cheek. George, for his part, was unfazed by his close brush with death and glorying in his promotion to captain of the 51st New York Infantry.

Whitman spent 10 days visiting his brother and the other soldiers in the regiment. He was struck immediately by how young many of the soldiers were. “The mass of our men in our army are young,” Whitman wrote in an article published in the New York Times. “It is an impressive sight to me to see the countless numbers of youths and boys, many of them already with the experiences of the oldest veterans.” Of the original 1,000 soldiers who had enlisted in George’s regiment at the start of the war, only about 200 still survived. Their patriotism, if not their numbers, remained high. “The men looked well to me,” Whitman noted in the Times article, “with the look of men who had long known what real war was, and taken many a hand in—a regiment that had been sifted by death.”

As a civilian, Whitman marveled at the men’s matter-of-fact attitude in the face of death. “Death is nothing here,” he wrote. “As you step out in the morning from your tent to wash your face you see before you on a stretcher a shapeless extended object, and over it is thrown a dark grey blanket—it is the corpse of some wounded or sick soldier of the regiment who died in the hospital tent during the night—perhaps there is a row of three or four of these corpses lying covered over. No one makes an ado.” He made notes for a new poem about one of the victims: “Young man, I think this face of yours the face of my dead Christ!” It would later become the basis of one of his most memorable poems, “A Sight in Camp.”

Whitman left Falmouth on December 28 aboard a government steamer bound for Washington. Traveling with him was a large contingent of seriously wounded soldiers headed for the various military hospitals in the rear. During the three-hour trip, Whitman went from man to man, collecting information to send to their families back home. It was the first humble step of a great one-man humanitarian enterprise. One of the men died before they docked at the Sixth Street wharf.

Back in Washington, Whitman found part-time work as a copyist in the paymaster’s office, where he saw firsthand the inadequate efforts by the government to aid wounded veterans. Each day he observed dozens of “poor sick, pale, tattered soldiers” climbing up five flights of stairs in search of back pay that was not always forthcoming. Many of the men had been honorably discharged from the Army, but without money to get home they were stuck in the hospitals and convalescent camps, surrounded by sick and dying comrades. Some were reduced to living on the streets.

The Shocking Conditions of Union Military Hospitals
With no particular plan or purpose, Whitman began visiting the hospitals. At first, it was merely to look in on the Brooklyn soldiers he had known before the war, but it soon became a daily routine. In the past, Whitman had occasionally gone to visit injured friends at the Broadway Hospital in New York, but nothing had prepared him for the sights, sounds, and smells of the army hospitals—they were literally a world unto themselves. By the end of 1862, there were approximately 35 hospitals in Washington, accommodating some 13,000 soldiers.

These hospitals, ranging in size from converted private mansions to filthy, mud-encrusted tents in contraband camps, were places to be feared by any thinking person. The great European medical advances in bacteriology and antisepsis were still tragically a few years in the future, and the cause and prevention of disease remained unknown. Typhoid fever, malaria, and diarrhea, the three most prevalent and deadly killers in the Civil War, tore through every hospital and camp, spread by infected drinking water, contaminated food, and disease-carrying mosquitoes. Meanwhile, the overworked and understaffed physicians continued to ascribe the soldiers’ ills to such fantastical causes as “malarial miasms, mephitic effluvia, crowd poisoning, sewer emanations, and poisonous fungi in the atmosphere.”

Sick soldiers could expect little in the way of help from their doctors. Indeed, many of the physicians made matters worse by violating the most basic of all medical tenets: First, do no harm. The doctors prescribed a bewildering and ineffective array of drugs at the first sign of illness. Diarrhea was treated with laxatives, opium, epsom salts, castor oil, ipecac, quinine, strychnine, turpentine, camphor oil, laudanum, blue mass, belladonna, lead acetate, silver nitrate, red pepper, and whiskey. Malaria called for large doses of quinine, whiskey, opium, epsom salts, iodide of potassium, sulfuric acid, wild cherry syrup, morphine, ammonia, cod liver oil, spirits of nitre, cream of tartar, barley water, and cinnamon. When all else failed, doctors harkened back to more medieval methods of treatment: bleeding, cupping, blistering, leeching, binding, and chafing.

Sharing hospital space with the ill were soldiers suffering from bullet and shrapnel wounds. Frequently, they were recuperating from amputations of their arms or legs and, more often than not, were also battling some sort of postoperative infection caused by the hospitals’ incredibly filthy conditions. Union surgeon W.W. Keen, a young Philadelphia physician who went through the war with the Army of the Potomac, left behind a vivid description of the typical operating procedures at the time. “We operated in old blood-stained and often pus-stained coats,” Keen wrote. “We used undisinfected instruments from undisinfected cases, and marine sponges which had been used in prior pus cases and had been only washed in tap water. If a sponge or an instrument fell on the floor it was washed and squeezed in a basin of tap water and used as if it were clean. The silk with which we sewed up all wounds was undisinfected. If there was any difficulty in threading the needle we moistened it with bacteria-laden saliva, and rolled it between bacteria-infected fingers. We dressed the wounds with clean but undisinfected sheets, shirts, tablecloths, or other old soft linen rescued from the family ragbag. We had no sterilized gauze dressing, no gauze sponges. We knew nothing about antiseptics and therefore used none.”

The predictable result of such hurried and horrific operations was postoperative infection. Pyemia, septicemia, erysipelas, osteomyelitis, tetanus, and gangrene were grouped together as “surgical fevers.” Pyemia, literally “pus in the blood,” was the most dreaded of all, with a mortality rate of 97.4 percent, but the other surgical fevers also claimed their deadly share of victims. Not without reason did Civil War soldiers fear doctors much more intensely than they feared the enemy. They had a greater chance of dying in the hospital than in the field.

Walt Whitman’s Hospital Visits
From the start, Whitman’s hospital visits were good therapy for him as well as the soldiers. The brave, uncomplaining young men who were fighting and dying for the Union cause restored his belief in the inherent strength and goodness of the American people. Coming on the heels of a half decade of personal drift and depression, Whitman’s experiences in Washington were nothing short of life altering. As he later told a friend, “There were years in my life—years there in New York—when I wondered if all was not going to the bad with America, but the war saved me: what I saw in the war set me up for all time—the days in the hospitals.”

Whitman prepared for his daily visits as carefully as a general prepared for a battle. He quickly found that outward appearance counted greatly with the men, and so he made it a point to bathe, dress, and eat a good meal each afternoon before starting his rounds. “In my visits to the hospitals,” he wrote, “I found it was in the simple matter of personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magneticism, that I succeeded and helped more than by medical nursing, or delicacies, or gifts of money.” He wore a cheerful, wine-colored suit, a pair of hand-polished black Moroccan boots, and a wide-brimmed hat with a gold-and-black drawstring and gold acorns at the bottom. He told his mother: “I fancy the reason I am able to do some good in the hospitals among the poor languishing and wounded boys, is, that I am so large and well—indeed like a great wild buffalo.” Small-town soldiers from the West and Midwest had never seen a man quite like him.

Realizing that the soldiers needed more than his mere presence to comfort and inspire them, Whitman began bringing a knapsack full of little treats for the men, anything he could beg, borrow, or buy to make their stay in the hospital a little easier. Fruit, tobacco, candy, jelly, pickles, cookies, wine, brandy, shirts, handkerchiefs, clean socks, and underwear all went into his gift bag. During warm weather he sometimes brought ice cream to the men as a special treat. These gifts he distributed quietly and informally, knowing instinctively that the proud young soldiers would automatically resist any hint of pity. He carefully kept track of his gifts in small pocket notebooks, jotting down whatever he had learned from the patients he visited—name, rank, company, regiment, bed number, ward, hospital, nature of wound, and names and addresses of parents and wives. He kept a ready supply of paper and pens on hand for those wanting to write home. If a man was too weak to write for himself, Whitman took down dictation or simply wrote the letter for him.

A characteristic entry from Whitman’s notebook reveals a typical morning in the hospitals: “Bed 53 wants some licorice; bed 6 (erisypelas) bring some raspberry vinegar to make a cooling drink with water; bed 18 wants a good book—a romance; bed 25 (a manly, friendly young fellow, independent young soul) refuses money and eatables, so I will bring him a pipe and tobacco, for I see how much he enjoys a smoke; bed 45 (sore throat and cough) wants horehound candy; bed 11, when I come again, don’t forget to write a letter for him. One poor German, dying—in the last stages of consumption—wished me to find him a German Lutheran clergyman. One patient will want nothing but a toothpick, another a comb, and so on.”

“Here Comes That Odious Walt Whitman”
Others were visiting the hospitals as well. At the time Whitman began his visits, there were 25 separate soldiers’ aid groups in operation—16 sponsored by the individual states—along with the United States Sanitary Commission and the Christian Commission. Whitman admired the Christian Commission, a purely voluntary organization he himself had briefly joined, but he did not think much of the Sanitary Commission, whose members were paid for their work. Nor did Sanitary Commission members think much of Whitman. One disapproving commissioner, Harriet Hawley, complained to her husband: “Here comes that odious Walt Whitman to talk evil and unbelief to my boys. I think I would rather see the evil one himself—at least if he had horns and hooves.”

The soldiers had a more favorable impression of their unconventional visitor. Union Colonel Richard Hinton, who met Whitman at Armory Square Hospital while recovering from a bullet wound suffered at Antietam, contrasted Whitman’s easy-going style with that of the starchy Sanitary Commission. “When this old heathen came and gave me a pipe and tobacco,” Hinton wrote, “it was about the most joyous moment of my life. Walt Whitman’s funny stories, and his pipes and tobacco were worth more than all the preachers and tracts in Christendom. A wounded soldier don’t like to be reminded of his God more than twenty times a day. Walt Whitman didn’t bring any tracts or bibles; he didn’t ask if you loved the Lord, and didn’t seem to care whether you did nor not.”

“The Great Army of the Sick”
To help finance his visits, Whitman fell back on his prewar training as a journalist. Like many other American writers, he had started working for newspapers as a boy, beginning as a printer’s apprentice on the Long Island Patriot at the age of 12. By the time the Civil War began in 1861, he had worked for 14 different newspapers, mostly in Brooklyn and New York City, but also including a brief stint as editor of the New Orleans Crescent in the late 1840s. Two years before the war, he had lost his most recent newspaper job, as editor of the Brooklyn Daily Times, for writing editorials defending the sexual rights of women.

Whitman published his first hospital dispatch, “The Great Army of the Sick,” in the February 18, 1863, edition of the New York Times. The article had a double purpose: to raise money for Whitman’s continued hospital visits, and to encourage others to join in the work. “A benevolent person, with the right qualities and tact,” he wrote, “cannot make a better investment of himself, at present, anywhere upon the varied surface of the whole of this big world, than in these military hospitals, among such thousands of most interesting young men. It is enough to make one’s heart crack.”

Whitman described one such heartbreaking encounter with a young Bridgewater, Massachusetts, soldier whom he found languishing at Campbell Hospital during one of his first visits. John Holmes, a 21-year-old shoemaker by trade and a member of the 29th Massachusetts Infantry, had been brought to the hospital suffering from a severe case of diarrhea. The disease, much more serious than modern versions of the complaint, affected 54 percent of all Union soldiers and a staggering 99 percent of all Confederates and eventually claimed the lives of nearly 100,000 men during the course of the war. Holmes himself was near death when Whitman found him lying untended in Ward 6 of the hospital. “He now lay, at times out of his head but quite silent,” Whitman reported, “asking nothing of anyone, for some days, with death getting a closer and a surer grip upon him; he cared not, or rather he welcomed death. His heart was broken. He felt the struggle to keep up any longer to be useless. God, the world, humanity—all had abandoned him.”

Whitman happened to pass Holmes’s bed on his way out of the ward, and noticed “his glassy eyes, with a look of despair and hopelessness, sunk low in his thin, pallid-brown young face.” The poet stopped and made an encouraging remark; Holmes did not reply. “I saw as I looked that it was a case for ministering to the affection first, and other nourishment and medicines afterward,” Whitman wrote. “I sat down by him without any fuss; talked a little; soon saw that it did him good; led him to talk a little himself; got him somewhat interested; wrote a letter for him to his folks in Massachusetts; soothed him down as I saw he was getting a little too much agitated, and tears in his eyes; gave him some small gifts and told him I should come again soon.” When Holmes mentioned that he would like to buy a glass of milk from the old woman who peddled it in the wards, Whitman gave him some money. The young man immediately burst into tears.

Whitman continued to look in on Holmes, who remained dangerously ill for several weeks before eventually recovering his health and rejoining his unit. “The other evening, passing through the ward,” Whitman wrote, “he called me—he wanted to say a few words. I sat down by his side on the cot in the dimness of the long ward, with the wounded soldiers there in their beds, ranging up and down. Holmes told me I had saved his life. It was one of those things that repays a soldiers’ hospital missionary a thousandfold—one of the hours he never forgets.”

“The Great Army of the Sick” was well received by readers and earned Whitman a congratulatory letter from managing editor John Swinton and an extra $50 for his work. Three weeks later, Whitman wrote a second article, “Life Among Fifty Thousand Soldiers,” for the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Unlike the Times piece, this article was geared toward hometown readers, and Whitman took pains to mention by name as many of the local soldiers as he could. “At a rough guess,” he wrote, “I should say I have met from one hundred fifty to two hundred young and middle-aged men whom I specifically found to be Brooklyn persons. Many of them I recognized as having seen their faces before, and very many of them knew me. Some said they had known me from boyhood. Some would call to me as I passed down a ward, and tell me they had seen me in Brooklyn. I have had this happen at night, and have been entreated to stop and sit down and take the hand of a sick and restless boy, and talk to him and comfort him awhile, for old Brooklyn’s sake.”

“Washington in the Hot Season”
In August 1863, Whitman published another article in the New York Times, “Washington in the Hot Season.” The long article gave readers a good description of the nation’s capital in the midst of the Civil War. “Soldiers you meet everywhere about the city,” Whitman wrote, “often superb looking young men, though invalids dressed in worn uniforms, and carrying canes or, perhaps, crutches. I often have talks with them, occasionally quite long and interesting. I find it so refreshing to talk with these hardy, bright, intuitive, American young men (experienced soldiers with all their youth.) There hangs something majestic about a man who has borne his part in battles, especially if he is very quiet regarding it when you desire him to unbosom. I now doubt whether one can get a fair idea of what this war practically is, or what genuine America is without some such experience as this I have had for the past seven or eight months in the hospitals.”

A longtime admirer of Abraham Lincoln, Whitman often caught a glimpse of the careworn president riding through the city in an open carriage. “I saw the president in the face fully,” he reported, “and his look, though abstracted, happened to be directed steadily in my eye. I noticed well the expression. None of the artists or pictures have caught the deep, though subtle and indirect expression of this man’s face. They have only caught the surface. There is something else there.” The two giants of the age only nodded to each other in passing; they never formally met. Whitman did attend a reception in the Blue Room at the White House following Lincoln’s second inauguration, where he observed the President in the receiving line. “I saw Mr. Lincoln, dressed all in black, with white gloves and a claw-hammer coat,” Whitman reported, “looking very disconsolate, and as if he would give anything to be somewhere else.” It was the last time he would see Lincoln alive. The president was assassinated two weeks later, an event that occasioned Whitman’s greatest poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”

Whitman published two other articles in the New York Times, “Our National City” and “Letter from Washington,” and the Brooklyn Union printed a short letter from him detailing the capital’s anxiety over the inconclusive military campaigning. He also worked sporadically on a new collection of poems, to which he gave the evocative title Drum-Taps. These poems ranged from the early recruiting poem “Beat! Beat! Drums!” to the poignant, semi-autobiographical poem “The Wound-Dresser,” in which he ruefully recalled his earlier bellicose writing: “Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,/But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself,/To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead.”

Return to Brooklyn
Whitman’s own robust health gave way in the face of repeated exposure to sick and dying soldiers, and he was forced to return home to Brooklyn in mid-1864 to recuperate from an undiagnosed illness—possibly hypertension complicated by a bad cold. It was a wonder he hadn’t gotten sick before he did. “O the sad, sad sights I see,” he told his mother, “the noble young men with legs and arms taken off—the deaths—the sick weakness—sicker than death, that some endure, after amputations, just flickering alive.” Nevertheless, he returned to Washington six months later to resume his hospital visits and reporting. His final newspaper articles summed up the wartime adventures of his brother George and his fellow 51st New York veterans. “The 51st,” he reported in the New York Times, “has been in seven general engagements, and sixteen skirmishes—acquiring a reputation for endurance, perseverance, and daring, not excelled by any in the whole army of the U.S.”

His last wartime article, “Return of a Brooklyn Veteran,” published in the Brooklyn Daily Union on March 16, 1865, recounted with pride George Whitman’s return from a Confederate military prison in Richmond and his four years of dangerous service on the battlefields of Maryland, North Carolina, and Virginia. “Of the officers that went with the regiment, not a single one remains,” Whitman wrote, “and not a dozen out of over a thousand of the rank and file. Most of his comrades have fallen by death. Wounds, imprisonment, exhaustion, &c., have done their work. His preservation and return alive seem a miracle. For three years and two months he has seen and been a part of war waged on a scale of amplitude, and with an intensity on both sides, that puts all past campaigning of the world into the second class.”

Of his own voluntary service as a witness to “war’s hell scenes,” Whitman maintained a lifelong modesty. “People used to say to me, Walt you are doing miracles for those fellows in the hospitals,” he told his young disciple Horace Traubel many years later. “I wasn’t. I was doing miracles for myself.” He never lamented his wartime service or what it cost him physically and emotionally. “I only gave myself,” he said. “I got the boys.” Half a decade before the war, he had written in Leaves of Grass, “I am the man, I suffer’d, I was there.” After the Civil War he could truly say that he had lived those words and helped, in his own way, to relieve the suffering.

Image 1: Walt Whitman, photographed by Mathew Brady in 1862.

Image 2: Bird’s-eye view of the Sixth Street Wharf at Washington, where Whitman arrived in early 1863. Wounded soldiers file from the paddle-wheeler John Brooks in the foreground.

Image 3: Convalescing soldiers and staff outside a Sanitary Commission lodge, one of 30 such facilities operated by the Commission in Washington during the war. Whitman didn’t think much of the Sanitary Commission.

From: warfarehistorynetwork.com

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Walt Whitman—The Civil War’s One-Man Sanitary Commission

By Roy Morris, Jr., 5-31-15

During the American Civil War, great American poet Walt Whitman was a sort of one-man Sanitary Commission—not that he would have put it that way.

When the American Civil War broke out in 1861, the great American poet Walt Whitman was a man on the skids, personally and professionally. His revolutionary book of poems, Leaves of Grass, had been largely overlooked, and Whitman was spending most of his time drinking with his fellow bohemians at Pfaff’s beer cellar in New York City.

Things changed dramatically in December 1862, after Whitman’s younger brother George was wounded while fighting in the Union Army at Fredericksburg, Virginia. Rushing to Washington, Walt spent days searching frantically for George in the overcrowded army hospitals in the nation’s capital. As it turned out, George was not badly wounded—he had merely been cut on the cheek by a Rebel shell fragment and was already back with his regiment, the 51st New York, by the time Walt discovered what had happened.

A Man With a Mission
The experience changed Whitman overnight. The sights and sounds of the hospitals stayed with him, and the poet returned to New York City only long enough to gather his possessions and return to Washington. He was now a man with a mission.

For the next two years, Whitman functioned as a sort of one-man Sanitary Commission, visiting the various hospitals and doing whatever he could to spread a little cheer to the patients confined there. His meager earnings as a government clerk went toward buying the soldiers’ humble but much appreciated gifts: fruit, ice cream, candy, cookies, pickles, brandy, wine, tobacco, books, stamps—anything that might make their stay in the hospital a little easier.

Mostly, Whitman gave of himself. “In my visits to the hospitals,” he recalled, “I found it was in the simple matter of personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, that I succeeded and helped more than by medical nursing or delicacies, or gifts of money, or anything else.” Over the course of the next three years, he personally visited tens of thousands of soldiers. His long white beard, plum-colored suit, and bulging bag of presents gave him a decided resemblance to Santa Claus, and the patients called after him at the end of each visit: “Walt, Walt, come again!”

The Good Gray Poet
Not everyone approved of Whitman’s assistance, particularly the members of the more formally run U.S. Sanitary Commission. One commission member, Harriet Hawley, the wife of a Union colonel, was outspoken in her disapproval. “There comes that odious Walt Whitman,” she wrote to her husband, “to talk evil and unbelief to my boys. I think I would rather see the Evil One himself—at least if he had horns and hooves. I shall get him out as soon as possible.”

Whitman, for his part, returned Mrs. Hawley’s dislike. He complained to his mother that Sanitary Commission members were mere “hirelings” who “get well paid & are always incompetent and disagreeable.” That was uncharacteristically harsh for the ordinarily sunny and good-natured poet. But the unending stream of human devastation eventually wore him down, and Whitman began suffering from headaches, insomnia, dizziness, and depression. “I have seen all the horrors of soldier’s life,” he wrote. “It is awful to see so much, & not be able to relieve it.”

The soldiers themselves begged to disagree that he had not done nothing to relieve their suffering, if only for a little while. One of them, 20-year-old Lewy Brown of Elkton, Maryland, who lost a leg at Rappahannock Station, spoke for many when he wrote to Whitman after the war: “There is many a soldier now that never thinks of you but with emotions of the greatest gratitude. I never think of you but it makes my heart glad to think I have been permitted to know one so good.”

Whitman remained humble about his hospital service. “I only gave myself,” he said simply. “I got the boys.” But in more ways than one, as Lewy Brown said, Whitman had truly lived up to his nickname: “the Good Gray Poet.”

From: warfarehistorynetwork.com

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My Heart Toward Home: Letters of a Family during the Civil War

Eliza Woolsey Howland & Georgeanna Woolsey Bacon

This is the story of a remarkable family during the Civil War. Seven daughters, one son, and their mother contributed their services to the Union cause. The book, based on the personal letters and diaries of the Woolsey family of New York, was written by Eliza Howland and Georgeanna Woolsey in 1898 but has never been published until now.

"My Heart Toward Home: Letters of a Family During the Civil War, is an important new source for Civil War reenactors and researchers. Based on the letters and journal entries of the Woolsey family of New York, it is a treasure-trove of primary source material."
Robin Schwartz, The Citizens' Companion

This edition includes photographs of the Woolsey family, an introduction by Daniel J. Hoisington, and an index.

ISBN 1-88920-07-9

From: edinborough.com

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Intersections of Religion and War: Examining a USCC Diary

By Savannah Labbe 9-26-16

While most don’t immediately associate religion with war, there is no doubt that it plays a role in most, the Civil War included. The Civil War brought with it new levels of death and destruction that the government was unprepared to deal with; it didn’t have the resources to adequately care for the influx of wounded soldiers, which was painfully evident after Bull Run when the number of soldiers needing medical care was more than the hospitals could handle. In the wake of the Battle of First Bull Run, the general public as well as the government saw the need for a civilian organization to help care for and comfort wounded soldiers. On November 14, 1861, a few months after the battle, the United States Christian Commission (USCC) was created by representatives of the Young Men’s Christian Association (YMCA) to fill this void. Its headquarters were set up in Philadelphia, and a layman named George Hay Stuart was appointed to head the Commission. The Commission was made up of volunteer delegates who were unpaid, though they were reimbursed for travel costs and other expenses they acquired while in the field. These delegates would go to the field for usually only a few months, during which time they were encouraged to keep a diary; many did just that.

A diary from a delegate that spent a few months in Louisville gives us a glimpse into his everyday life. The diary was issued by the USCC and bears their stamp on the front; the first few pages detail the duties of a delegate and provide other useful information and instructions. A delegate was expected to visit hospitals, camps, and battlefields to distribute supplies and religious materials. He was also supposed to speak to the men individually as well as collectively and hold meetings of prayer. In addition, the Commission provided the delegates with supplies such as stamps, envelopes, paper, clothing, food, and coffee for distribution to the soldiers.

After the instructions section the delegate’s diary entries begin. The entries in the journal I examined date from May 18, 1864 to July 7, 1864. He was in the field for a couple of months, which is reflective of the typical length of time the Commission preferred for its volunteers. In his diary the delegate recorded the smallest details about his life such as the weather conditions and his bathing habits. In addition to this, the reader also learns what duties the delegate performed on a day-to-day basis. Much of what the delegate wrote about involved talking to the men, visiting the hospital, and distributing religious tracts. For example, on May 24 he wrote that he distributed 200 religious tracts and would have distributed more if he had the resources to do so.

In addition to handing out religious tracts, the delegate also performed many other essential tasks. There are accounts of the delegate distributing woolen shirts and cotton drawers to the men as well as envelopes, paper, and stamps. At one point he described helping a wounded soldier write home, a simple task that provided the soldier with the precious ability to communicate with his loved ones. There are other instances in the diary in which the reader can imagine the impact the delegate would have had on the soldiers. In the June 22 and 23 entries he wrote about visiting Rebel prisoners. During this visit one prisoner in particular caught his attention; a Confederate, Holliday, who was wounded and paralyzed. The delegate provided him with a shirt, despite the fact that he was a Confederate. On the 23, he wrote of the death of Holliday and lamented at “what a penalty this nation is paying for its oppressive acts.” In addition to this, the delegate spent a lot of time in the field and in the hospital, comforting and attending to the wounded. For example, on June 19 he wrote that he “prayed with a man wounded in the bowels. He died in an hour.” In this way the delegate was able to do something of which the government and the hospital staff were incapable of: sitting with and comforting a dying soldier.

In this diary we see examples of the many services the USCC provided. These services brought comfort to the soldiers and filled a void that the government was incapable of filling. The earliest forms of dog tags were provided by the Commission, something that the government was unable to do. The USCC’s distribution of religious tracts, if nothing else, provided the men with reading material that was often seriously lacking or even nonexistent in most army camps. In addition, they provided much needed support to hospitals and distributed supplies that the men needed but that the government couldn’t supply. The USCC did many other things like this, and while some may have had an aversion to the religious nature of the organization, there is no question that they provided the soldiers with simple pleasures and comforts in a time of war to which they would not have had access otherwise.

Sources

Diary of a Missionary with the U.S. Christian Commission. Civil War Vertical File Manuscripts. Special Collections/Musselman Library, Gettysburg College, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Hovde, David M. “The U.S. Christian Commission’s Library and Literacy Programs for the Union Military Forces in the Civil War.” Libraries & Culture 24, no. 3 (1989): 295-316. Accessed September 10, 2016.

Katcher, Philip. “Union soldiers had a mixed verdict on the effectiveness of the U.S. Christian Commission.” America’s Civil War 15, no. 4 (September 2002): 12. Accessed September 10, 2016.

U.S. Christian Commission Dogtag. Civil War Vertical File Manuscripts. Special Collections/Musselman Library, Gettysburg College, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

Image: USCC headquarters in Germantown, VA. Photo via Library of Congress.

From: gettysburgcompiler.com

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Jane Boswell Moore and the Christian Commission

From: edinborough.com

EIGHTH CORPS HOSPITAL,
WINCHESTER, VA., August 31, 1864.
REV. J. N. M'Jilton, D. D.:

Dear Sir:--
On my return from daily distribution in Sheridan Hospital I received your kind letter, and hasten to thank you for the generous assistance and encouragement I have ever met with from you, in a task whose difficulties are known to few, and if aught from my pen can benefit the suffering, or appeal in their behalf, it shall not be wanting. Early in the spring we visited Wheeling, and collected some thirty boxes of stores and delicacies for the troops in the Valley, receiving also from Mr. Stewart a large assortment of books, leaflets, paper, &c. With these we visited General Siegel's army, near Winchester supplying the 12th West Va., the 1st Wheeling Battery, Snow's Maryland Battery, the 1st Va., the 54th Penn., 18th Conn., 34th Mass., and other regiments, with Hymn-books, papers, soldier's books, pickles, stationery, &,c. The army received marching orders before we left, and we had the satisfaction of bringing a mail of our own collection, (knapsacks and writing material having been sent to the rear) of thirteen hundred letters, some of them doubtless, the last the writers ever pen penned.

In May, by the advice of the Surgeon General, we took a large collection of stores up the James River, remaining ten weeks in the hospitals of the 10th and 18th. Corps, at Point of Rocks, on the Appomattox. After the battle of May the 20th, many of the wounded were brought here, and to not a few of these we supplied as well as others could supply, the places of mothers and sisters far away. In our little room, filled as it was with boxes, barrels, and cooking utensils, the Delegates had one delightful soldier's prayer-meeting, attended by some fifty of our patients. In the graveyard at the "Point," sleep many who were then the objects of our care. When the mine was exploded, and the disastrous charge made before Petersburg, a wide field was offered in the field hospitals of the 9th corps, within some two miles of Petersburg, and a tent being furnished us, through the kindness of the Medical Director, Dr. Prince, at General Burnside's request, we devoted ourselves more particularly to the relief of the sick and wounded of Gen. Ferrero's Division, (colored) and mostly from Maryland. The horrors of Gettysburg did not surpass those of that day-even yet I recall those woods, thickly strewn with the mangled and dying, some with arm and leg off, one with both eyes gone, some insensible, and others moaning, in an agony of pain. Only half an hour had elapsed since they had been wounded, and the war of musketry close by, sounding awfully in our ears, as halting our ambulance, Rev. Mr. Boole, of the Commission, my mother and self, made pail after pail of milk punch, and distributed it, with handkerchief's, bandages, canned peaches, wine, crackers, &c., to the sufferers. "I have not seen a lady for months," said one poor boy, who was ready to weep over the disasters of the day, "and it does seem sweet to see one in this awful place." Colored citizens of Baltimore cried to us to give them "only one cracker," and our hearts melted when the appeal was enforced by their directing our attention to the "stump" of an amputated arm, or leg. In the box there proved to be a few strap tracts, and books, and these were handed to those who could read. "Are those Testaments?" said a colored soldier, "do please give me one. I tried so hard, as I lay wounded on the field, to reach one, that had dropped from a dead soldier's pocket, but my wounds were so painful I could not crawl far enough." What a spectacle the Gospel of Peace so earnestly called for, in a spot more resembling hell than aught else on earth! As I moved in the midst of these appalling horrors, I heard many groans and prayers, one just brought from the "table" was saying with all the fervor of a departing soul, I shall never see my home again, but Lord, don't you forget me." Death reveled in their midst, and few had time to number or notice his victims. How delighted they were to know that we would bear their messages home to their native city, our much loved Baltimore.

As we hurried to and fro, a group of newly organized colored musicians, collected in the woods, and struck up, "My Maryland." We had not time then to thank them, but do it now. In this hospital we remained two weeks, ministering to their temporal wants, as well as writing letters, which most of them could not do themselves. Many of these are well worthy of publication; one with five severe wounds, wrote to his wife, "You must take things as they are. I am a soldier. Keep the faith"- and then passed away.

Through the assistance of Mr. Caton, a Delegate from Ohio, we were enabled to do much good, and the eagerness of the 30th and 39th U. S. colored regiment, in the Fourth Division, for reading and spelling books, cannot be described. They literally hungered and thirsted after instructions. And some carried books of large size through many a weary march. When I refused them to those who could not read, they looked up pleadingly, saying, "But I wants' to learn. I'se tryin all I can." Never shall I forget the words of one, brought in sun-struck, and laid on the earth, in the midst of great discomfort. I asked where his friends were, "Lady," said he, "my wife is sornewhar, and my mother is somewhar, but whar, I don't know." He seemed to feel his condition deeply; but a moment after, Jesus was mentioned. "Oh," said the poor untutored African, his eyes beaming as he spoke, "You may have all this world, but give me JESUS." And rarely have I heard such fervent, heart-felt prayers, as the man poured forth, in behalf of our distracted and bleeding land. Would that all Christians prayed thus!

Before going to the 9th Corps, the deadly malaria, so fatal in this region during the summer months, and frequent riding without regular food, from early morning until late at night, laid me on a sick bed, and I was removed at the suggestion of Dr. Pratt, of a Maine regiment, on board the hospital boat, "Matilda," lying in James river. Dr. Pratt was the Surgeon in charge, and through his care, though certainly not by his advice, I went again to the hospitals nearer Petersburg. In the 1st Maryland Dismounted Cavalry, at Deep Bottom, I found a number of sick, who preferred remaining there to being removed to Point of Rocks. They were needy and uncomfortable, and milk, tomatoes, jelly, stationery, &c., were very acceptable. The 1st, 4th, 7th and 8th Maryland regiments, we found in the "Maryland Brigade" of the Fifth Corps, and, says one, "may you be rewarded by the deep gratitude of thankful soldiers." Here, as in other Maryland regiments, we distributed Testaments, Hymn-books, papers, books, stationery, canned and dried fruits, condensed milk, handkerchiefs, &c. The 5th Maryland received Testaments and Hymnbooks very joyfully, and many of the forms that gathered round our ambulance, on that shadowless, burning plain, were so altered by exposure and hardships, that they would scarcely have been recognized at home. We could hardly refrain from tears, when in an opening in a dense wood, frequently shelled by the enemy, and on the very spot where a soldier had been killed two days before, the small remnant of the gallant 2nd and 3rd Maryland regiments, now, as one said; "a mere handful of men" surrounded us, and expressed their satisfaction drat some one from their State was looking after their interests in an especial manner. Money could not purchase the precious letters we since have received from them. "The Hymn-book you left," writes one, "has solaced many a lonely hour." "I greatly prize the Testament, especially as it was given by your hand." "We pray for you, that God may bless you, morning and night, and we thank God who put it into your heart to come among us."

Mr. Caton and myself had a narrow escape. Hearing that many of the colored soldiers from ignorance in writing, and directing, were unable to send their money safely to their friends; I offered to carry it in person, and deliver it freely, for those whose families resided in Baltimore, Some two thousand dollars, a number of watches, letters, likenesses, &c., were thus entrusted to our care, and conveyed to their friends. Some articles belonged to the fallen, and were received in tearful grief-the distress of one poor woman, whose husband had been killed, I shall never forget. One, whose arm was gone, wrote, "The night before, when I heard we was going into a fight, I went out by myself and prayed, and the only Best Friend I thought of, was the LORD."

Whilst receiving and directing the envelopes, which enclosed their payments, the Rebels opened a new and powerful battery upon us, and shell after shell whizzed through the air. We did not imagine ourselves in danger, until all at once a death-like stillness rested on the group, we in the ambulance did not see that on the ground beneath our wagon, and even under the horses, men were crouching for shelter; but we did hear the unearthly screeching of a shell, and with mute, pale faces waited for it to explode. But it passed directly over r our heads, and we were safe. Half an hour after we left, several exploded on that very spot.

We had previous received every kindness and assistance from Lieutenant General Grant, by whose special favor we were allowed to remain "Front" in General Burnside' Corps, and the anxiety thus shown by the Commander of our armies to have the wounded receive all the attention in his power, to our mind covers him with more honor than victories such as Vicksburg. By the way, the barrel of pickles furnished us through Mr. Bent, was taken in the midst, of a drenching rain, to some of General Sheridan's weary raiders as they were encamped at Haxall's Landing on James, river. The brave and chivalrous Col. Preston, of the 1st Vermont cavalry, tin cup in hand, dealt them out to his tired men, meeting our thanks with the reply, "No ladies, I feel that I cannot do too much for soldiers." And then he proposed; and they all gave three hearty cheers for their friends in Baltimore."
But a short time after, riding in the cars, I saw chronicled in the morning paper, the heavy loss of the 1st Vermont, and the death of the noble Colonel leading a charge at Coal Harbor.

Just before one of the battles of the Valley, we reached Winchester, and through the kindness of Dr. Manown, the Christian Surgeon of the Fourteenth Va., were furnished a room, &c., on Braddock street, near the West Va. or 8th Corps Hospitals. The afternoon of the 21st, we spent preparing pails of milk punch for the long trains of wounded corning in army wagons from the "Front."

Just about dark, they arrived, and we set to work supplying those on the street. It was a strange warlike scene--dark night settling over Virginia roads ; mud, cavalry and wagons-the last freighted with mangled, bleeding, but precious burdens. The night was raw and chilly, but we flitted to and fro, with flaming candles, and by the invaluable assistance of my faithful Brooklyn orderly, James Buckridge, supplied several hundreds. By and by we came to those containing the "Rebels," and the question was asked, " shall we supply them?" "Certainly," was my reply, "we have never made any distinctions, and as Christians, never shall." The sufferers had a night's ride of twenty-two miles to Martinsburg before diem. " But that punch did us a heap of good," said one, afterwards. Next night we supplied the wounded in forty seven wagons, though two of their agonized victims were dead when they arrived. The whole town seems to be full of hospitals, the Churches and many private dwellings being crowded, as well as the numerous tents of Sheridan, which, through the kindness of Capt. Mann, the courteous Quartermaster; we have been able to visit daily, and with constant supplies. In one ward is Isaac Price, of the Fifteenth Va., a soldier of thirty-eight years of age, with a wife and nine children, the eldest of whom, a lad of nineteen, is in the Tenth Va. But the greatest of calamities seems to have fallen upon him, for both his arms leave been amputated, yet he is cheerful and patient, always greeting us with a happy smile.

On the Church floor lay young Sergt. Smith, from N. J., shot through the lungs, and so agonized by the delirium of pain, that he vainly sought to tell us his father's name. What agony was in his tones as ire repeatedly exclaimed, "Oh I can't tell my father's name!" God grant that in the days of health he had made a loving friend of His heavenly Father, and went to be with him forever! "Thanks be unto God for that, I know and feel its truth!" exclaimed a Pennsylvania soldier named Jones, dying away from a destitute family, when I read to him of that fountain--

"Plunged beneath whose flood
Sinners lose all their guilty stains."

"What shall I read to you?" I asked Eli Davis, a member of the Fourteenth Va., mortally wounded. "I'm not much acquainted with books, and have no preference." But blessed be God, he was acquainted with Jesus, who revealed Himself to him as he lay there, wounded and without any outward agency, drew him to Himself. But the sweet prayer,

"Leave, oh leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me!"

found an echo in his heart, and when I read those lines of a favorite hymn,

"We speak of the realms of the blest,
That country so bright and so fair,
And oft are its glories confessed ;
But what must it be to be there!"

his face shone, he was very near that glory, "and," said he, "I long to go! I want to go to my Jesus." For weeks Gilbert Buchanan of the Tenth Va., has been my daily care. Earnestly he desired to live; he was so young and it was hard to die without the sight of father or mother, whom I had written to come and see their dying son. Oh what a sad case his was! how sick as he was, he counted the miles and the length of the journey, and then died without the sight of a familiar face.

Every day a little package of letters, written for the sick and dying, by my mother, goes into the mail box, and what histories they reveal!

When you give a package of stationery to the Commission, dear reader, do you ever think what messages will be written upon each page? Some parent will hear of the death of the first or youngest born; some stricken wife learn that strangers cared for and closed the eyes of a dying husband, while to others tidings of safety will be gladly sent. Do not then withhold your offering.

One more incident from the many, and I close. I want to show bow a little girl's gift was bestowed, and to whom. Among some articles received by me from the Baltimore Commission, was a handsome Needle Bag, of soft red, white, and blue material, enclosing a few pieces of candy and a Carte de Visite of the giver. A note dated Gettysburg Pa., February 25th, accompanied it and read as follows

DEAR SOLDIER :-I can't do much for you, as I am a very little girl, but I think about you and pray for you too. I hope you are good and pray for yourself. When we had the battle here, I saw how you had to suffer, and I pity you. I carried things to the sick soldiers, and, if you were here, would do it for you. I send my picture that you may see how small I am. Good bye.
LITTLE CARRIE FAHNESTOCK.

Perhaps Carrie thought she would never hear of her offering again. We shall see. On the Church floor lay a bright black eyed boy, named George Hill, a clear little fellow whom our good Dr. Manown carried in his arms from the wagon, the night the wounded came in. "It's a child's weight," said the Dr., as he tenderly guarded the maimed hero, " And I'm only a child," answered the clear treble voice. Where could Carrie have found a fitter recipient for her present. This is Georgie's reply:

WARD T, SHERIDAN HOSPITAL,
November 5th, 1864.
DEAR LITTLE CARRIE: -- I am quite a little boy, and my name is Georgie Hill, Co. K, 13th West Virginia. I have been a soldier boy fourteen months, and was wounded in the leg with a minnie ball on the 19th of October, near Cedar creek, Va. I was carried to Newtown, and lay in a tent, and on the 20th, the Dr. took my right leg off. My father is dead, but I have a mother, three brothers and one sister in Mason Co., Va. Three of my brothers are dead, all soldiers, one died in the Mexican War, one at the siege of Vicksburg and one in the hospital at Gallapolis. Ohio. Mrs. and Miss Moore, who were at Gettysburg after the battle, are here taking care of us, and Miss Moore gave me your dear little present. She told me I must keep it as long as I live, to remember the time I lay wounded on the Church floor in Winchester, and I will. Yesterday they brought me to this hospital where the sick are all in tents, and I find mine very cold this windy day. I don't like it half so well as a house, and if I could, would not have left the warm Church. I was afraid Miss Moore would not know what tent I was in here, and so I should miss the nice things she brings round, but she found me to-day right in her ward. She got me a little puzzle box with seven pieces of wood, and if you know how, you can make squares, triangles, and funny figures. At first I could not put them all back into the box. I shall play with it when I go home, before I get my wooden lea, and am able to run round. We do suffer a great deal. One poor boy died next to me in the Church. He was in so mach pain, he could not tell where he lived nor his father's name. He was shot through the lungs and could hardly breathe. I heard him cry, "Oh I Lord help me! I can't tell my father's name! " I have not been home for fourteen months, and don't know when I shall get there. I have not heard from my mother for two months. Either she does not get my letters or I don't get hers, I don't know which. I am going to eat the candy after dinner--(I had some difficulty in convincing him of the propriety of waiting.) A lady brought me some pudding but it has lemon in it, and I don't like lemon, so I keep looking at the candy. Miss Moore asks if there is anything else I want to say. But I never wrote to you before, so you must excuse me, good bye Carrie.
Your little friend,
GEORGE HILL.

I hope Carrie will do more for the soldiers. I cannot close without acknowledging the kind assistance of Mr. Brackett, the Delegate from Maine, in charge of the station, who has furnished us with such articles as were at the Commission room. To Dr. Brock, also, I am indebted, as well as the suffering soldiers. May the time so soon come when we shall no more need to perform such acts of mercy! That the blessing of God may rest indeed and in truth, upon all who have aided us in our labor of Christian love, is my most earnest prayer, and upon none more than yourself.
I remain dear Sir, yours very truly,
JANE BOSWELL MOORE.

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With the Army of the Cumberland

By Mrs. Sophia McClelland

It was in the early autumn of 1861; regiments of soldiers from the North and West were daily passing through Louisville, Kentucky, to points below on the Louisville and Nashville Railroad. I drove down to the depot, and on passing out of the yard from the train of cars, noticed several of the soldiers lying on the platform, some of whom seemed very ill; I had them removed to some vacant rooms over a warehouse on the opposite corner from the depot, Broadway and Ninth Street : then, driving as rapidly as possible to my residence, gathered up as many blankets, comfortables, and pillows as the carriage could hold, and returned to the newly-improvised hospital. In the neighborhood I procured provisions for the men's supper, and candles to give them light for the evening.

This was the beginning, and the general impression seemed to be that in three or four months the trouble would be all over. But every day added to the numbers in the hospital. Regiments were continually marching through and leaving their sick; skirmishes were frequent on the Nashville Road, and there were those coming to be cared for who were disabled by wounds as well as sickness. We were obliged to depend on soldiers taken from the convalescent wards for nurses, who, though most kind, were unskilled and in most cases illy adapted for their duties, requiring patient training and drilling to render them efficient.

After the battle of Fort Donelson, we took down a party of physicians and clergymen and six ladies as nurses, also a quantity of hospital stores from the sanitary rooms, for the use of the wounded and sick. The expenses of this company were borne by private funds.

General Wm. Nelson had his headquarters at Evansville. Indiana. It was necessary to obtain from him a pass to enter within his lines, which extended to Dover, the point nearest reached to Fort Donelson. He refused an audience to our messengers, though backed by credentials from leis personal friend, Dr. Robert Murray, medical director of the department. They called again, when he consented to see them for a few moments, but sent this message: "You will say it is simply impossible to grant passes. I have refused every application, and mean to."

At this report I decided to make a personal appeal, although any friends made every effort to dissuade me, using for argument Nelson's ungracious speech and gruff manners. He was sitting at a table at one end of the long parlor of the hotel. I approached him, supported on either side by any friends, the two gentlemen with whom he had had an interview only a few moments before. General Nelson was a man of commanding presence; he seemed not only tall but very large. He had black hair and eyebrows, with piercing eyes, which he bent on me from the moment we glassed the sentry at the door. Indeed, his countenance was fierce and forbidding as if to intimidate.

After the introduction, he said, "Madam, call you tell me what you want?"

"Yes, general, I have come to ask you for passes."

"Speak louder. I am a little deaf."

"Passes for my little company within your lines; we desire to reach Fort Donelson. You have already been made acquainted with the object of our errand, to care for and healing the sick and wounded soldiers of Kentucky where they may have the attention necessary for their comfort and recovery."

"That is all very well, madam, but we leave no place for ladies," said the general.

"General," said I, "we have not come to be entertained, but on a mission of mercy. .. All we ask of you is; transportation and liberty within the lines to take, care of our wounded."

"But, madam, there are no conveniences, no rooms you can occupy. All these boats you see coming down the river are filled with soldiers, besides officers and crew.''

"General, we will only ask for a chair or two that we may place in some out

"Madam. there are no chairs. No doors to the rooms, nothing but men; everything has been taken out to lighten the craft."

"But, general, we can stand ---."

Then a fearful pause ensued, my heart heating audibly to my own ears, and I was trembling in every nerve so that I could scarcely stand. During this time General Nelson's face remained immovable, while he steadily and sternly gazed into my eyes. After what might have been a few moments of time, though it seemed ages, he said:

"Well, you are a determined woman, and the first one I ever saw who knew what she wanted, and could tell it in a few words."

He then turned to his private secretary, who was sitting at his table, anal made a remark in a low tone; then, recollecting for the first time his position as host, invited us to be seated. The secretary wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, and placing it in a yellow envelope, touched a bell. The orderly, of making his appearance, was directed where to carry it. I received the pass, and was consigned to the care of one of the most courteous officers in the Federal service, Colonel Hazen, of the Forty-first Ohio.

In justice to General Nelson, I will say it was never my privilege to meet with greater consideration than he extended to our little company. During the two hours of waiting for our boat he seemed the graceful, polished gentleman; laughed and made merry over the sallies of wit and humor, and withal showed a sympathetic tenderness and solicitude for his sick soldiers that went far to remove the previous prejudice I had formed of his austerity. Poor fellow! His tragic death occurred a few months afterwards result of a quarrel with General Jeff. C. Davis. The circumstances of the difficulty are well known. We should judge leniently of those faults of character which, had they been curbed, might have been trained into virtues, and hold in remembrance only his lofty patriotism and undaunted courage.

We reached Smithland, Kentucky, but could get no boat to take us to the fort, nor could we obtain an overland conveyance of any description. We were looked upon with suspicion. Some even hinted that we were spies. We could not buy food. No one would sell to us nor give us shelter; even at the miserable place they called a hotel, they refused to allow us to sit down. We walked all over the town, followed by one or two persons, who, by a motion or sign, indicated their suspicions to any one who seemed disposed to favor it. Therefore, there was nothing for us to do but, to leave the place, and from the aspect of affairs, to do that as quickly as possible seems most prudent. We applied for admission on the government boat, "Silver Moon," and shortly reached Paducah.

What a scene was there presented! The river as far up as the eye could reach was covered by a fleet of steamers, with gay colors flying and bands of music playing, laden down to the water's edge, with soldiers. Each regimental band played its own favorite airs, but all had a note for "The Girl I Left behind Me."

General W. T. Sherman was then in Paducah, to whom I reported for duty, and from him I received orders to go to Mound City and Cairo, take from the hospitals there all the sick and wounded, and leave them at the points nearest their lines. This would make place for others who were expected soon, as a battle seemed impending. He also directed us to draw commissary stores and other supplies at Cairo, and report on our return to Paducah, where we would then take aboard all the wounded prisoners for whom we could find place.

"And now, my dear madam," said General Sherman, "I desire to say to you that the prisoners are to receive the same attention as our own men; no distinction is to be made in the management or treatment of the prisoners by the surgeons or nurses."

Then turning to Dr. McDougal, the venerable medical director, he inquired of him what quantity of medical supplies would be necessary for us to take for the use of 150 sick and wounded, for nine days.

[Copy of General Sherman's order:]
HDQRS. DISTRICT of CAIRO,
Feb. 22, 1862.
Mrs. Dr. McClelland, of Louisville, will take charge of two boats, "Hastings" and "Fannie Bullitt," going to Mound City for the wounded and sick. She will be assisted by Drs. J. H. Holister, Wm. Haydock, and T. McGregor, also Rev. F. M. Bushnell and a volunteer corps of five lady nurses. Male nurses will be taken from convalescent wards or from volunteers. These physicians will return immediately to their posts, or to their several homes as they desire. I am, etc.,
W. T. SHERMAN, Brig. Gen. Comd.

We were obliged to wait at Paducah for our boats. Every available craft was used ill the service, not only for the transportation of troops and supplies, but to convey a large number of people who were anxious about their friends, and also sightseers who had curiosity to visit the scene of battle. We busied ourselves for two days in aiding the surgeons and citizens, who were untiring in their efforts to relieve the suffering. Churches, stores, and school

I was becoming impatient and restless in waiting, therefore determined to take the boat that first arrived, and trust to chance to have the other one overtake us. We brought on board about sixty prisoners; half of them were wounded men, the others were suffering from the effects of measles and colds from exposure. They coughed almost incessantly, and there was not all ounce of opiate or sedative to be found this side of Cairo. It was in the evening and nearly dark when we reached Cairo. We had very few provisions and our needs were extremely pressing. In order to get our order on the commissary honored it was necessary to report at headquarters at once. The, to make matters still more desperate, our boxes of sanitary stores. containing bedding, clothing, and bandages, had gone astray; wehad been placed in such straits for the bandages that some of us had taken our underclothing and torn it into strips to bind up the wounds of the suffering soldiers.

A long line of cars from Chicago had just come in, and for fifty minutes continued drilling back and forth until it was quite dark. There were no lamps or lights on the wharf, save here and there what seemed a flaming torch of some resinous substance which only partially lighted all the vicinity. As soon as the cars stopped long enough, I climbed through and over them to the other side. The mire was knee deep. At every step, I was obliged to extricate one foot before I could plant the other down. I lost one congress gaiter in the mire, and was obliged to present myself at headquarters with one shoe ob and the of other foot covered with a badly soiled stocking. I received a pair of heavy army shoes, and endeavored to hunt up the representative of the Sanitary Commission of the Northwest. I worked all that Sunday morning.

Crowds assembled at the wharves of the several towns as our boats passed. and we were greeted with cheers. Deputations of ladies were allowed to come on, who brought many needed delicacies -- milk, fresh. butter, and home made biscuits. Oh, what a feast it was for the wounded and sick when the ladies distributed it to all. Federal and Confederate alike!

Surely it was a picture worthy of the skill of an artist of the realistic school. On reaching Louisville the military authorities took charge, and the sick were removed to the different hospitals.

From: edinborough.com

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Bridgeport Women Answer the Call

By Shirley T. Wajda, PhD

On April 15, 1861, the women of Bridgeport created the nation’s first soldiers’ aid society. News of the April 12 attack on Fort Sumter had quickly reached the citizens of Connecticut, and just as quickly, Connecticut’s women mobilized for war.

The Ladies’ Soldiers’ Aid Society in Bridgeport initially supported the Sixth Connecticut Regiment, but the needs of the war effort were many and constant throughout the war. The society met every week and its members, needing money to purchase cloth and other necessities, went from door to door to “try to wake up every one to a sense of sacred duty that devolved upon us all.” Newspapers reported the war and the government called men to the war, but these women took it upon themselves to become active participants in the war effort.

Clothing and bedding went to the soldiers, while soldiers’ families received cloth, clothing, and bedding, food and fuel. In the first year the society provided hospitals with 5,928 articles of clothing and bedding, 212 pairs of slippers, 80 dressing gowns, 108 bottles of brandy and wine (considered medicinal), 132 pounds of tea, sugar, and crackers, 69 pounds of soap and candles; 56 bottles of camphor, laudanum, and other drugs; 225 pounds of dried fruits, 110 quarts of jellies, and 2,086 “miscellaneous articles.” In later years the society arranged for free railroad transport of fresh vegetables and other provisions — some 1,500 barrels and boxes —to many Connecticut regiments along the Atlantic Coast.

The Bridgeport women did not cease their efforts when the war ended. The society, then 150 strong, renamed itself the Ladies’ Soldiers’ Monument Association, raising $10,000 toward the city’s Civil War monument. Dedicated in 1876, Bridgeport’s Soldiers Monument stands in Seaside Park, a testimony to the service of the city’s men and the devotion of the city’s women.

Shirley T. Wajda, PhD, currently an independent historian living in the Connecticut Western Reserve, is the creator and organizer of Viennapedia, a wiki devoted to the history and culture of her hometown, Vienna, Trumbull County, Ohio.

Image: The Influence of Woman, Harper's Weekly, 1862

From: connecticuthistory.org

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Connecticut Sanitary Fair

From: connecticuthistory.org

On July 25, 1864, the Stamford Ladies Soldiers’ Aid Society held a Sanitary Fair. Sanitary Fairs were established in response to the needs of Civil War soldiers beyond what the government could supply. The United States Sanitary Commission, a civilian organization, was authorized by the government in 1861. The primary objective of the commission was to collect supplies, provide support to soldiers’ homes, transport the sick, supply food, and to provide services to discharged soldiers.

The Stamford Ladies Soldiers’ Aid Society held their fair to raise money for medical supplies for men in Union hospitals by selling a stamp that they had issued at a cost of 15 cents. These stamps were not the usual postage stamp but a drop letter stamp in which mail would be held at the post office and called for by the addressee.

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Crisis Management during the American Civil War: The Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society

By Nick Streifel

The American Civil War was one of the deadliest periods in American history. Over 600,000 Americans perished during the conflict, more than all other US wars combined. With many of the nation’s men off fighting, women at home looked for ways to contribute to the Union cause. The same patriotic urge that sent men to war was also felt at home, but women could not go off to battle. Instead, many became nurses, tending to the injured and battered; others took a different approach to aid. One such example came from Connecticut’s women in the form of a massive charity organization—the Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society.

Composed almost entirely of women, the Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society banded together charity organizations from around the state and funneled goods directly to soldiers both on the field and recovering in hospitals. Heralded at the time as a remarkable feat of patriotism, the Soldiers’ Aid Society provided an outlet for women to not only help the troops, but also to operate one of the largest charity organizations in the country.

Organizing the Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society
Sarah S. Cowen, a formidable and dedicated woman who knew how to raise awareness for her cause, organized the society in May of 1861—making it one of the first of its kind. She peppered state newspapers, such as the Hartford Courant, with fliers introducing the society and detailing its goal—“the supplying of Connecticut volunteers with articles of necessity and comfort not provided by the government.”

The effort proved a rousing success. People donated clothing, towels, pillows and pillow cases, boots, food, blankets, medical supplies, money, alcohol, and countless other items. Churches also saw the opportunity to contribute, making up almost half of the total funding for the society in 1861. Under the advisement of Governor Buckingham, the Soldiers’ Aid Society split-up donations among towns, assigning specific towns to provide goods to specific Connecticut regiments. Participating towns set up donation centers(run almost entirely by local women volunteers) that provided greater access to potential donors.

The society eventually grew large enough that many doctors on the frontlines began to recognize its name. To correctly gauge the demand for certain goods, Cowen and company asked many of these doctors to put in requests for what they needed most. This communication allowed the Soldiers’ Aid Society to ask for certain goods in their monthly reports. With these networks established, organizers had an efficient system of collection and distribution that lasted for the remainder of the war.

The Civil War Comes to an End
In addition to being one of the first of its kind, the Soldiers’ Aid Society was also one of the last such organizations to close down after the war. It was not until July of 1865 that the Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society ultimately closed its doors. In a heartfelt tribute, the Hartford Courant said goodbye to the honored ladies on July 17, 1865:

"It will be the source of lasting happiness to the noble women who have given so much time to this far-reaching charity, to remember hereafter the beneficent part taken by them in the war for the Union. Already the Legislature of Connecticut has in suitable terms thanked the patriotic women for their services, in ministering to the welfare of its defenders; the soldiers, with hearts overflowing with gratitude; have thanked them; and future generations will thank them, recording their acts of personal sacrifice and generous devotion to stimulate those who come after to the practice of similar virtues."

When the society’s last meeting closed, members announced to the managing body that $2,962.37 had been raised from January to June alone, an amount Cowen never imagined her charity organization reaching (especially considering that in its first six months the society only took in around $500 in cash donations).

In retrospect, it may seem as though the Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society served as just another domestic outlet for women to participate in the war effort. When examined more closely, however, much more becomes clear. Even if the charitable aspects of the organization reinforced traditional roles for women during times of war, the Hartford Soldiers’ Aid Society provided an opportunity for Connecticut women to run an organization without the leadership of men. These women may have been influencing the war by acting within the limitations of the domestic sphere, but their success helped promote increased opportunities for women to take on responsibilities outside the home. The need for aid allowed women to take up managerial positions, something normally not afforded to them in times of peace, and the manner in which these women operated the society became a shining example of women excelling at more than just managing a household.

Nick Streifel is an undergraduate student at Central Connecticut State University currently working towards a History (Secondary Education) degree with a focus on the Civil War in Connecticut.

Image: Detail from "Our Women in the War," wood engraving by Winslow Homer in "Harper's Weekly," September 1864.

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Clara Barton: American Red Cross Founder

From: womensmemorial.org

The suffering of wounded and sick soldiers moved Clarissa Harlowe Barton, who later became famous as Clara Barton, founder of the American Red Cross, to become involved in war relief work. At the start of the war, Barton was a 39-year-old spinster, one of a small number of women working full time as a copyist in the US Patent Office in Washington, DC. When Barton learned that in many cases the wounded suffered because military hospitals were short of supplies, she used her own money to purchase pickled vegetables and homemade jellies to supplement the standard military diet of hardtack and salt pork. She also collected bandages, salves, medicine, bed sheets and even tobacco and whisky to help boost the soldiers’ morale.

Because it wasn’t proper for a single lady to visit Army camps and hospitals unescorted, Clara took her 50-year-old married sister, Sally Vassall, with her on her visits to local military hospitals. But Clara wanted to do more; she wanted to nurse soldiers who fell on the battlefields. For months, however, her fear that she would shame her family prevented her from trying to get to the front. Finally, Clara’s 80-year old father, a veteran of the War of 1812, freed his daughter of her worries. On his deathbed, he instructed her to go and do what she could to help the wounded. “The soldiers will know you are a decent woman as soon as they lay eyes on you,” he said.

Next, Clara had to find an Army sponsor, an officer willing to sign the military passes she would need to travel to the battlefield. Persistently, she visited numerous officers until she finally spoke with COL Daniel H. Rucker, head of the Quartermaster Depot in Washington, DC. When Clara told him that she had collected “three warehouses of supplies,” Rucker wrote her a pass allowing her to take the supplies she had collected to the front at Fredericksburg, VA. She reached Fredericksburg after the battle, but was able to assuage much suffering by passing out food, medicine and bedding supplies. After that, Barton never again had trouble getting a military pass.

During the Battle of Antietam, Barton worked in a surgery ward set up in a farmhouse close to the front lines. The farmhouse was under fire much of the time. Confederate shells burst overhead, crashed into the surrounding trees and exploded in the nearby barn and outbuildings. Stray bullets peppered the walls of the farmhouse. One of these bullets ripped through the sleeve of Barton’s dress. The farmhouse floor shook so much that the operating tables jarred and rolled while Barton and the doctor struggled to keep their patients on them. Barton’s first battle did nothing to discourage her; she continued to nurse at the battles of Marye’s Heights, the Wilderness Campaign, Hilton Head and Battery Wagner. After the war, Clara Barton worked to establish the American wing of the International Red Cross.

The information found in this article comes from "A Women of Valor: Clara Barton and the Civil War" by Stephen B. Oates published in New York, by The Free Press in 1994.

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The Chicago Branch of the U.S. Sanitary Commission

By Theodore J. Karamanski

Created in October 1861, the Chicago branch (later known as the Northwestern branch) of the United States Sanitary Commission was a privately funded effort to improve the morale, logistical support, and medical care of men serving in the Union Army during the Civil War. Judge Mark Skinner, a leading War Democrat, was the president, but as with most antebellum charities the officers relied upon “benevolent ladies” to handle the day-to-day operations of the organization. In the spring of 1862, the Chicago branch's operations were taken over by Mary A. Livermore and Jane C. Hoge, who quickly emerged as effective executives and able fundraisers. Under their direction, the Chicago branch sent a steady stream of medical supplies and food to the front.

The Chicago branch also established several Soldier's Rests, where troops in transit were treated to coffee and sandwiches. In July 1863, a Soldier's Home was founded to house men too sick or wounded to return to their homes. To fund these activities Hoge and Livermore organized Sanitary Fairs in 1863 and 1865. These popular charity bazaars became a model copied in most northern cities and succeeded in raising hundreds of thousands of dollars for the war effort. The Chicago office became the funnel through which most aid from the Midwest reached the front. After the war the movement for women's suffrage in Illinois was spearheaded by the women who first came to public service as managers and nurses with the Sanitary Commission.

From: encyclopedia.chicagohistory.org

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Susan Blackford Nurses The Wounded At Lynchburg

From: civilwarhome.com

The South had no organization comparable to the Sanitary Commission, but a Women's Relief Society dedicated itself to collecting money to help sick and wounded soldiers, and thousands of Southern women volunteered for, nursing duty. Mrs. Arthur Hopkins for example not only contributed some $200,000 to hospital work but went to the front and was wounded at Seven Pines; others, like Mrs. Ella Newsom and Miss Kate Cumming, worked indefatigably in the makeshift hospitals of the Confederacy; Mrs. Phoebe Yates Pember-superintendent of a division of the vast Chimborazo Hospital in Richmond-was tireless in hospital and nursing home and even at the front.

Mrs. Blackford  was a member of one of Virginia's first families, wife to the distinguished Charles Blackford, judge advocate under Longstreet.

        May 7, 1864. The wounded soldiers commenced arriving on Saturday, and just as soon as I heard of it, which was before breakfast, I went to see Mrs. Spence to know what I could do for them. She said the ladies had been so shamefully treated by the surgeons that she was afraid to take any move in the matter. I told her I would go and see Dr. Randolph and ask him if we could not do something. I went down and did so at once and asked him what we could do. He said we might do anything we pleased in the way of attention to them; send or carry anything to them we wished and he would be glad of our help. As soon as I reported to Mrs. Spence what he said she started messengers in every direction to let it be known and I went to eleven places myself. We then determined to divide our provisions into two divisions: the bread, meat, and coffee to be sent to the depot, the delicacies to the hospitals. The reception of wounded soldiers here has been most hospitable. You would not believe there were so many provisions in town as have been sent to them.

        On Saturday evening I went up to Burton's factory, where most of the wounded were taken, and found the committee of ladies who had been selected, of whom I was one, just going in with the supper. I went in with them. We had bountiful supplies of soup, buttermilk, tea, coffee, and loaf bread, biscuits, crackers, and wafers. It did my heart good to see how the poor men enjoyed such things. I went around and talked to them all. One man had his arm taken off just below the elbow and he was also wounded through the body, and his drawers were saturated with blood. I fixed his pillow comfortably and stroked his poor swelled and burning arm. Another I found with his hand wounded and his nose bleeding. I poured water over his face and neck, and after the blood ceased to flow wiped his pale face and wounded hand which was black from blood and powder. They were very grateful and urged us to come and see them again.

        On Sunday evening news came that six hundred more would arrive and Mrs. Spence sent me word to try and do something. The servants were away and I went into the kitchen and made four quarts of flour into biscuits and two gallons of coffee, and Mrs. Spence gave me as much more barley, so I made, by mixing them, a great deal of coffee. I am very tired.

        May 12th. My writing desk has been open all day, yet I have just found time to write to you. Mrs. Spence came after me just as I was about to begin this morning and said she had just heard that the Taliaferro's factory was full of soldiers in a deplorable condition. I went down there with a bucket of rice milk, a basin, towel, soap, etc. to see what I could do. I found the house filled with wounded men and not one thing provided for them. They were lying about the floor on a little straw. Some had been there since Tuesday . and had not seen a surgeon. I washed and dressed the wounds of about fifty and poured water over the wounds of many more. The town is crowded with the poor creatures, and there is really no preparations for such a number. If it had not been for the ladies many of them would have starved to death. The poor creatures are very grateful, and it is a great pleasure to us to help them in any way. I have been hard at work ever since the wounded commenced coming. I went to the depot twice to see what I could do. I have had the cutting and distribution of twelve hundred yards of cotton cloth for bandages, and sent over three bushels of rolls of bandages, and as many more yesterday. I have never worked so hard in all my life and I would rather do that than anything else in the world. I hope no more wounded are sent here as I really do not think they could be sheltered. The doctors, of course, are doing much, and some are doing their full duty, but the majority are not. They have free access to the hospital stores and deem their own health demands that they drink up most the brandy and whiskey in stock, and, being fired up most the time, display a cruel and brutal indifference to the needs of the suffering which is a disgrace to their profession and to humanity.

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The Baroness Von Olnhausen Nurses At Alexandria

From: civilwarhome.com

One of the women who responded to Dorothea Dix's call for volunteers was Mary Phinney, who had married a German emigre, Baron Gustav von Olnhausen. On her husband's death she moved to Illinois, and from there went to nurse at the Mansion House Hospital in Alexandria. After the war she traveled in Germany, then returned to a nursing career. Her picture of conditions in the hospitals is doubtless exaggerated, yet that many of the doctors were incompetent and corrupt and that the regular medical service looked with disdain on women nurses is abundantly clear.

Miss Dix, who had been appointed by the President head of the army nurses, took me from Washington to Alexandria to the Mansion House Hospital. She told me on the journey that the surgeon in charge was determined to give her no foothold in any hospital where he reigned, and that I was to take no notice of anything that might occur, and was to make no complaint whatever might happen. She was a stern woman of few words.

There seemed to be much confusion about the Mansion House-which before the war was a famous hotel-and every part of it was crowded. She left me in the office and went in search of Dr. S. The sight of the wounded continuously carried through on stretchers, or led in as they arrived from the boats that lay at the foot of the street on which the hospital stood (this was just after that awful Cedar Mountain battle [August 1862), seemed more than I could bear, and I thought Miss Dix would never come. At last she appeared, with Dr. S., who eyed me keenly and, it seemed to me, very savagely, and gave me in charge of an orderly to show me to the surgical ward, as it was called. It consisted of many small rooms, with a broad corridor, every room so full of cots that it was only barely possible to pass between them. Such a sorrowful sight; the men had just been taken off the battle-field, some of them had been lying three or four days almost without clothing, their wounds never dressed, so dirty and wretched. Some one gave me my charges as to what I was to do; it seemed such a hopeless task to do anything to help them that I wanted to throw myself down and give it up. Miss Dix left me, and soon the doctors came and ordered me to follow them while they examined and dressed the wounds. They seemed to me then, and afterwards I found they were, the most brutal men I ever saw. They were both volunteers, and one was a converted Jew who was constantly proclaiming it.

So I began my work, I might say night and day. The surgeon told me he had no room for me, and a nurse told me he said he would make the house so hot for me I would not stay long. When I told Miss Dix I could not remain without a room to sleep in, she, knowing the plan of driving me out, said, "My child" (I was nearly as old as herself), "you will stay where I have placed you." In the mean time McClellan's army was being landed below us from the Peninsula. Night and day the rumbling of heavy cannon, the marching of soldiers, the groaning of the sick and wounded were constantly heard; and yet in all that time I never once looked from the windows, I was so busy with the men.

One of the rooms of the ward was the operating-room, and the passing in and out of those who were to be operated upon, and the coming and going of the surgeons added so much to the general confusion. I doubt if at any time during the war there was ever such confusion as at this time. The insufficient help, the unskilful surgeons, and a general want of organization were very distressing; but I was too busy then and too tired for want of proper sleep to half realize it. Though I slept at the bedsides of the men or in a corner of the rooms, I was afraid to complain lest I be discharged. I was horribly ignorant, of course, and could only try to make the men comfortable; but the staff doctors were very friendly and occasionally helped me, and some one occasionally showed me about bandaging, so by degrees I began to do better. The worst doctor had been discharged, much to my joy, but the other one, despite his drinking habits, stayed on. After the morning visit it was no use calling upon him for anything, and I had to rely on the officer of the day if I needed help. I know now that many a life could have been saved if there had been a competent surgeon in the ward.

At this time the ward was full of very sick men and sometimes two would be dying at the same time, and both begging me to stay with them, so I got little sleep or rest. Moreover, I had no room of my own. Occasionally a nurse would extend the hospitality of the floor in hers, and I would have a straw bed dragged in on which to get a few hours' sleep. This, with a hurried bath and fresh clothes, was my only rest for weeks. It was no use to complain. The surgeon simply stormed at me and said there was no room;, while Miss Dix would say, "You can bear it awhile, my child; I have placed you here and you must stay." I was at that time her only nurse in the Mansion House. Later she succeeded in getting rid of all the others and replacing them With her own.

Alexandria, March, 1863
I thought it best not to trouble you with an account of how we have been living lately,-everything cut off, nothing but coffee (so poor and with hardly ever milk) and dry bread for breakfast; for dinner bread and meat (and such meat! always the tail or neck or some other nasty part), and at night coffee and bread again. Being hungry is nothing to being so insulted. We knew we had a right to all our rations; and while Dr. S. was here we always urged Mrs. B. to ask him, and so put us out of the power of these cooks. They hate us because we are decent women and will fight for the soldiers' rights, thus cutting off their resources. For some reason she never would; she thought he would believe us selfish or something.

One day it was past all bearing. I was positively so hungry I could have eaten cat's meat. I sat over the fire after supper, tired and hungry and wondering if the good I did was balanced by my suffering (more from insults than anything else), when all at once it struck me to go to Dr. Page myself. it was eight o'clock; I found him alone, and he listened to all my story. He seemed so surprised at it, said we had not even one privilege we were entitled to, called the Steward-who is just the meanest, hatefullest (oh, help me to a word, I don't care if it is profane) man that ever lived-and told him that in future we were to draw our own rations and have our own cook. I felt so elated, and when I announced it next morning the women actually embraced me. . . .

When our own battles were settled, then it was time, when good feeding had given us a little strength, to put in for our patients; so last Sunday morning I opened fire. Dr. C. has that department, so I attacked him; but. he was mad when I told him the patients would starve only for the nurses, who had to buy everything the sickest men ate. He denied it, and said he knew his nurse did not do it. So she was called, and said she did; then the others were called; and, at last, we had about every nurse and doctor in the house growling and snarling. Dr. C. said they had everything according to the new diet table; some of the doctors denied it and some of them backed him up; at last we all adjourned to some underground room (the bread-room) to read the table list, when it proved that they got nothing in the quantity even that was ordered there; and as to quality, Lord help them! How I wish you could have heard the row! It went on all day; even in the evening everybody was called up and talked to; and the result is that it has been a little better this week, though far from the mark, and soon (if it grows less every day) it will be back to the old standard, for that wretch H. or somebody will miss the money and get it back if possible.

So you see our path is not all rose-leaves, and you can see, too, one of the many impositions put upon the noble fellows who are throwing away their lives for such men as these. Are all men naturally bad? That's going to be the only religious question I shall study in the future. I guess this war will make me religious, for one. I am getting a good deal more patient and forgiving than I used to be, but I'll never forgive the Rebels who kill them.

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