Complete Prose Works Part 3

THE WOUNDED FROM CHANCELLORSVILLE

_May '63_.--As I write this, the wounded have begun to arrive from Hooker's command from b.l.o.o.d.y Chancellorsville. I was down among the first arrivals. The men in charge told me the bad cases were yet to come. If that is so I pity them, for these are bad enough. You ought to see the scene of the wounded arriving at the landing here at the foot of Sixth street, at night. Two boat loads came about half-past seven last night. A little after eight it rain'd a long and violent shower. The pale, helpless soldiers had been debark'd, and lay around on the wharf and neighborhood anywhere. The rain was, probably, grateful to them; at any rate they were exposed to it. The few torches light up the spectacle. All around--on the wharf, on the ground, out on side places--the men are lying on blankets, old quilts, &c., with b.l.o.o.d.y rags bound round heads, arms, and legs. The attendants are few, and at night few outsiders also--only a few hard-work'd transportation men and drivers. (The wounded are getting to be common, and people grow callous.) The men, whatever their condition, lie there, and patiently wait till their turn comes to be taken up. Near by, the ambulances are now arriving in cl.u.s.ters, and one after another is call'd to back up and take its load. Extreme cases are sent off on stretchers. The men generally make little or no ado, whatever their sufferings. A few groans that cannot be suppress'd, and occasionally a scream of pain as they lift a man into the ambulance. To-day, as I write, hundreds more are expected, and to-morrow and the next day more, and so on for many days.

Quite often they arrive at the rate of 1000 a day.

A NIGHT BATTLE OVER A WEEK SINCE

_May 12_.--There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville, (second Fredericksburgh,) a little over a week ago, Sat.u.r.day, Sat.u.r.day night and Sunday, under Gen. Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a glimpse of--(a moment's look in a terrible storm at sea--of which a few suggestions are enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting had been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the latter part, was resumed at night, and kept up with furious energy till 3 o'clock in the morning. That afternoon (Sat.u.r.day) an attack sudden and strong by Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a great advantage to the southern army, and broken our lines, entering us like a wedge, and leaving things in that position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at night made a desperate push, drove the secesh forces back, restored his original lines, and resumed his plans. This night scrimmage was very exciting, and afforded countless strange and fearful pictures. The fighting had been general both at Chancellorsville and northeast at Fredericksburgh. (We hear of some poor fighting, episodes, skedaddling on our part. I think not of it. I think of the fierce bravery, the general rule.) One corps, the 6th, Sedgewick's, fights four dashing and b.l.o.o.d.y battles in thirty-six hours, retreating in great jeopardy, losing largely but maintaining itself, fighting with the sternest desperation under all circ.u.mstances, getting over the Rappahannock only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over.

It lost many, many brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance.

But it was the tug of Sat.u.r.day evening, and through the night and Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the early summer gra.s.s so rich, and foliage of the trees--yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool gra.s.s. Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed--quite large s.p.a.ces are swept over, burning the dead also--some of the men have their hair and beards singed--some, burns on their faces and hands--others holes burnt in their clothing.

The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the immense roar--the musketry so general, the light nearly bright enough for each side to see the other--the crashing, tramping of men--the yelling--close quarters--we hear the secesh yells--our men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight--hand to hand conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often charge upon us--a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater poems on--and still the woods on fire--still many are not only scorch'd--too many, unable to move, are burned to death.

Then the camps of the wounded--O heavens, what scene is this?--is this indeed _humanity_--these butchers' shambles? There are several of them.

There they lie, in the largest, in an open s.p.a.ce in the woods, from 200 to 300 poor fellows--the groans and screams--the odor of blood, mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the gra.s.s, the trees--that slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see them--cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is shot by a sh.e.l.l, both in the arm and leg--both are amputated--there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown off--some bullets through the breast--some indescribably horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out--some in the abdomen--some mere boys--many rebels, badly hurt--they take their regular turns with the rest, just the same as any--the surgeons use them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded--such a fragment, a reflection afar off of the b.l.o.o.d.y scene--while all over the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid the woods, that scene of flitting souls--amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds--the impalpable perfume of the woods--and yet the pungent, stifling smoke--the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at intervals so placid--the sky so heavenly the clear-obscure up there, those buoyant upper oceans--a few large placid stars beyond, coming silently and languidly out, and then disappearing--the melancholy, draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads, the fields, and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or land--both parties now in force--ma.s.ses--no fancy battle, no semi-play, but fierce and savage demons fighting there--courage and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none.

What history, I say, can ever give--for who can know--the mad, determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little squads--as this--each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal purports? Who know the conflict, hand-to-hand--the many conflicts in the dark, those shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods--the writhing groups and squads--the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols--the distant cannon--the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths--the indescribable mix--the officers'

orders, persuasions, encouragements--the devils fully rous'd in human hearts--the strong shout, _Charge, men, charge_--the flash of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear and clouded heaven--and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up--those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm--to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet--but death has mark'd him--soon he falls.)

UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER

Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story? Of many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-cla.s.s desperations--who tells?

No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the library, norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers.

Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives them.

Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds, thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, gra.s.s and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats, flits from the scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less, far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent round him--the eyes glaze in death----none recks--perhaps the burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth, unburied and unknown.

SOME SPECIMEN CASES

_June 18th_.--In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry--a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness--shot through the lungs--inevitably dying--came over to this country from Ireland to enlist--has not a single friend or acquaintance here--is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the sleep of death)--has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could live twelve hours--(yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.

(Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier--one long, clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near.

_W.H.E., Co. F, 2nd N.Y._--His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced, rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. W., of Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small sum of money. The doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his side, and he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk much, as he grew deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. (The same lady above, Mrs. W., sent the men a large package of tobacco.)

J. G. lies in bed 52, ward I; is of company B, 7th Pennsylvania. I gave him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I offer'd it--refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and was very fond of having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him. He was evidently very grateful, but said little.

J.T.L., of company F, 9th New Hampshire, lies in bed 37, ward I. Is very fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money. Has gangrene of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose three toes. Is a regular specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty, New England countryman, impressing me with his likeness to that celebrated singed cat, who was better than she look'd.

Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses are excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs.

Wright--a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital, Alexandria--she is a perfect nurse.)

In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine--sick with dysentery and typhoid fever--pretty critical case--I talk with him often--he thinks he will die--looks like it indeed. I write a letter for him home to East Livermore, Maine--I let him talk to me a little, but not much, advise him to keep very quiet--do most of the talking myself--stay quite a while with him, as he holds on to my hand--talk to him in a cheering, but slow, low and measured manner--talk about his furlough, and going home as soon as he is able to travel.

Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the foot--poor young man, he suffers horridly, has to be constantly dosed with morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes--I give him a large handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted in the morning, as he generally feels easier then, and can eat a little breakfast. I write two letters for him.

Opposite, an old Quaker lady sits by the side of her son, Amer Moore, 2d U. S. artillery--shot in the head two weeks since, very low, quite rational--from hips down paralyzed--he will surely die. I speak a very few words to him every day and evening--he answers pleasantly--wants nothing--(he told me soon after he came about his home affairs, his mother had been an invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his condition.) He died soon after she came.

MY PREPARATIONS FOR VISITS

In my visits to the hospitals I found it was in the simple matter of personal presence, and emanating ordinary cheer and magnetism, that I succeeded and help'd more than by medical nursing, or delicacies, or gifts of money, or anything else. During the war I possess'd the perfection of physical health. My habit, when practicable, was to prepare for starting out on one of those daily or nightly tours of from a couple to four or five hours, by fortifying myself with previous rest, the bath, clean clothes, a good meal, and as cheerful an appearance as possible.

AMBULANCE PROCESSIONS

_June 23, Sundown._--As I sit writing this paragraph I see a train of about thirty huge four-horse wagons, used as ambulances, fill'd with wounded, pa.s.sing up Fourteenth street, on their way, probably, to Columbian, Carver, and Mount Pleasant hospitals. This is the way the men come in now, seldom in small numbers, but almost always in these long, sad processions. Through the past winter, while our army lay opposite Fredericksburg, the like strings of ambulances were of frequent occurrence along Seventh street, pa.s.sing slowly up from the steamboat wharf, with loads from Aquia creek.

BAD WOUNDS--THE YOUNG

The soldiers are nearly all young men, and far more American than is generally supposed--I should say nine-tenths are native-born. Among the arrivals from Chancellorsville I find a large proportion of Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois men. As usual, there are all sorts of wounds. Some of the men fearfully burnt from the explosions of artillery caissons.

One ward has a long row of officers, some with ugly hurts. Yesterday was perhaps worse than usual. Amputations are going on--the attendants are dressing wounds. As you pa.s.s by, you must be on your guard where you look. I saw the other day a gentlemen, a visitor apparently from curiosity, in one of the wards, stop and turn a moment to look at an awful wound they were probing. He turn'd pale, and in a moment more he had fainted away and fallen to the floor.

THE MOST INSPIRITING OF ALL WAR'S SHOWS

_June 29._--Just before sundown this evening a very large cavalry force went by--a fine sight. The men evidently had seen service. First came a mounted band of sixteen bugles, drums and cymbals, playing wild martial tunes--made my heart jump. Then the princ.i.p.al officers, then company after company, with their officers at their heads, making of course the main part of the cavalcade; then a long train of men with led horses, lots of mounted negroes with special horses--and a long string of baggage-wagons, each drawn by four horses--and then a motley rear guard.

It was a p.r.o.nouncedly warlike and gay show; the sabres clank'd, the men look'd young and healthy and strong; the electric tramping of so many horses on the hard road, and the gallant bearing, fine seat, and bright faced appearance of a thousand and more handsome young American men, were so good to see. An hour later another troop went by, smaller in numbers, perhaps three hundred men. They too look'd like serviceable men, campaigners used to field and fight.

_July 3_.--This forenoon, for more than an hour, again long strings of cavalry, several regiments, very fine men and horses, four or five abreast. I saw them in Fourteenth street, coming in town from north.

Several hundred extra horses, some of the mares with colts, trotting along. (Appear'd to be a number of prisoners too.) How inspiriting always the cavalry regiments. Our men are generally well mounted, feel good, are young, gay on the saddle, their blankets in a roll behind them, their sabres clanking at their sides. This noise and movement and the tramp of many horses' hoofs has a curious effect upon one. The bugles play--presently you hear them afar off, deaden'd, mix'd with other noises. Then just as they had all pa.s.s'd, a string of ambulances commenc'd from the other way, moving up Fourteenth street north, slowly wending along, bearing a large lot of wounded to the hospitals.

BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG

_July 4th_.--The weather to-day, upon the whole, is very fine, warm, but from a smart rain last night, fresh enough, and no dust, which is a great relief for this city. I saw the parade about noon, Pennsylvania avenue, from Fifteenth street down toward the capitol. There were three regiments of infantry, (I suppose the ones doing patrol duty here,) two or three societies of Odd Fellows, a lot of children in barouches, and a squad of policemen. (A useless imposition upon the soldiers--they have work enough on their backs without piling the like of this.)

As I went down the Avenue, saw a big flaring placard on the bulletin board of a newspaper office, announcing "Glorious Victory for the Union Army!" Meade had fought Lee at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, yesterday and day before, and repuls'd him most signally, taken 3,000 prisoners, &c.

(I afterwards saw Meade's despatch, very modest, and a sort of order of the day from the President himself, quite religious, giving thanks to the Supreme, and calling on the people to do the same.)

I walk'd on to Armory hospital--took along with me several bottles of blackberry and cherry syrup, good and strong, but innocent. Went through several of the wards, announc'd to the soldiers the news from Meade, and gave them all a good drink of the syrups with ice water, quite refreshing--prepar'd it all myself, and serv'd it around. Meanwhile the Washington bells are ringing their sun-down peals for Fourth of July, and the usual fusilades of boys' pistols, crackers, and guns.

A CAVALRY CAMP

I am writing this, nearly sundown, watching a cavalry company (acting Signal service,) just come in through a shower, making their night's camp ready on some broad, vacant ground, a sort of hill, in full view opposite my window. There are the men in their yellow-striped jackets.

All are dismounted; the freed horses stand with drooping heads and wet sides; they are to be led off presently in groups, to water. The little wall-tents and shelter tents spring up quickly. I see the fires already blazing, and pots and kettles over them. Some among the men are driving in tent-poles, wielding their axes with strong, slow blows. I see great huddles of horses, bundles of hay, groups of men (some with unbuckled sabres yet on their sides,) a few officers, piles of wood, the flames of the fires, saddles, harness, &c. The smoke streams upward, additional men arrive and dismount--some drive in stakes, and tie their horses to them; some go with buckets for water, some are chopping wood, and so on.

_July 6th_.--A steady rain, dark and thick and warm. A train of six-mule wagons has just pa.s.s'd bearing pontoons, great square-end flatboats, and the heavy planking for overlaying them. We hear that the Potomac above here is flooded, and are wondering whether Lee will be able to get back across again, or whether Meade will indeed break him to pieces. The cavalry camp on the hill is a ceaseless field of observation for me.

This forenoon there stand the horses, tether'd together, dripping, steaming, chewing their hay. The men emerge from their tents, dripping also. The fires are half quench'd.

_July 10th_.--Still the camp opposite--perhaps fifty or sixty tents.

Some of the men are cleaning their sabres (pleasant to-day,) some brushing boots, some laying off, reading, writing--some cooking, some sleeping. On long temporary cross-sticks back of the tents are cavalry accoutrements--blankets and overcoats are hung out to air--there are the squads of horses tether'd, feeding, continually stamping and whisking their tails to keep off flies. I sit long in my third story window and look at the scene--a hundred little things going on--peculiar objects connected with the camp that could not be described, any one of them justly, without much minute drawing and coloring in words.

A NEW YORK SOLDIER