Team Of Rivals Part 36

Even the revised telegram conveyed the accusation that would be leveled by McClellan and his supporters for years to come: victory would have been achieved but for the government's failure to reinforce an overpowered McClellan. Even after the defeat at Gaines' Mill, however, McClellan's troops remained a strong and resilient force. In the days that followed, they fought hard and well, inflicting more than five thousand casualties at Malvern Hill while suffering only half that number. In truth, McClellan was psychologically defeated. "He was simply out-generaled," Christopher Wolcott concluded. Instead of counterattacking, he continued to retreat from Richmond until his exhausted troops reached a safe position eight miles down the James at Harrison's Landing. Equally depleted, Lee's troops returned to Richmond, and the Peninsula Campaign came to an end. The Confederates had successfully secured their capital and gained an important strategic victory. It would take nearly three more years and hundreds of thousands more deaths for the Union forces to come as close to Richmond as they had been in May and June 1862.

CHAPTER 17

"WE ARE IN THE DEPTHS"

THE DEFEAT ON THE Peninsula devastated Northern morale. "We are in the depths just now," George Templeton Strong admitted on July 14, 1862, "permeated by disgust, saturated with gloomy thinking." In Washington, columnist Cara Ka.s.son observed the frustration written on every face, manifesting an anxiety greater than the aftermath of Bull Run, "for the present repulse is more momentous." Count Gurowski agreed, calling the Fourth of July holiday "the gloomiest since the birth of this republic. Never was the country so low." Even the normally stoical John Nicolay confided to his fiancee, Therena, that "the past has been a very blue week.... I don't think I have ever heard more croaking since the war began."

For the irrepressibly optimistic Seward, who had fervently hoped the capture of Richmond might signal an end to the war, the turn of events was shattering. "It is a startling sight to see the mind of a great people, saddened, angered, soured, all at once," he confided to f.a.n.n.y, who was in Auburn with her mother for the summer. "If I should let a shade of this popular despondency fall upon a dispatch, or even rest upon my own countenance," he realized, "there would be black despair throughout the whole country." He begged her for letters detailing daily life at home-the flowers in bloom and the hatching of eggs-anything but war and defeat. "They bring no alarm, no remonstrances, no complaints, and no reproaches," he explained. "They are the only letters which come to me, free from excitement.... Write to me then cheerfully, as you are wont to do, of boys and girls and dogs and horses, and birds that sing, and stars that shine and never weep, and be blessed for all your days, for thus helping to sustain a spirit."

Chase was equally shaken and despondent. "Since the rebellion broke out I have never been so sad," he told a friend. "We ought [to have] won a victory and taken Richmond." Furthermore, Kate, who had gone to Ohio to visit her grandmother, was not in Washington to console him. "The house seemed very dull after you were gone," he told her in one of many long letters cataloguing the events of that summer. He described his sojourn to see General McDowell, who had been knocked unconscious by a bad fall from his horse; told her of an unusual cabinet meeting, a pleasant dinner party at Seward's with the Stantons and the Welles, a meeting with Jay Cooke, and a visit from Bishop McIlvaine. He queried her about her summer clothes, her lace veil, and a diamond she had ordered. In addition to commonplace matters, he provided her with confidential military intelligence about the Peninsula Campaign, delineating the flow of the Chickahominy and the position of the various divisions so she could visualize the course of the battle.

Kate was thrilled by her father's lengthy epistles, which she interpreted as "a mark of love and confidence." Her appreciation, he replied, was "more than ample reward for the time & trouble of writing." She must trust that she would always have his love and that he would continue to "confide greatly in [her] on many points." He was pleased, as well, with the quality of her letters, which finally seemed to meet his exacting standards. "All your letters have come and all have been good-some very good."

However, Kate's letters that summer concealed her unhappiness over the troubled course of her romance with William Sprague. The young couple had been close to an engagement before Sprague received some nasty letters retelling and likely embellishing the story of Kate's dalliance with the young married man in Columbus who had become obsessed with her when she was sixteen. Though Sprague was guilty of far greater indiscretions himself, having fathered a child during his twenties, it seems he was so taken aback by the rumors of Kate's behavior that he broke off the relationship. "Then came the blank," he later recalled. "Wherever there is day there must be night. In some countries the day is almost constant, but the night cometh. So with us it came."

Kate, unaccustomed to defeat and ignorant of Sprague's reasons for ending the courtship, was plunged into dejection. Sensing that something was wrong, Chase told Kate that if anything disappointed him, it was her failure to disclose her deepest personal concerns, to confide in him as he confided in her. "My confidence will be entire when you entirely give me yours and when I...am made by your acts & words to feel that nothing is held back from me which a father should know of the thoughts, sentiments & acts of a daughter. Cannot this entire confidence be given me? You will, I am sure be happier and so will I."

Hoping to raise her spirits, Chase arranged for Kate and Nettie to visit the McDowells' country home, b.u.t.termilk Farm, in upstate New York. The quiet routine of country life did not suit Kate, who craved distraction from her sorrows. Mrs. McDowell, observing that Kate's "health and spirit" were suffering, kindly agreed to let her accompany friends to Saratoga in search of a more active social life. "Trust nothing I have said will alarm you," she a.s.sured Chase upon Kate's departure; but he, of course, could not help fretting over his beloved daughter.

Even more than Chase or Seward, Edwin Stanton was afflicted with troubles in the summer of '62. "The first necessity of every community after a disaster, is a scapegoat," the New York Times noted. "It is an immense relief to find some one upon whom can be fastened all the sins of a whole people, and who can then be sent into the wilderness, to be heard of no more." In the secretary of war, disgruntled Northerners found their scapegoat. "Journals of all sorts," the Times reported, "demand his instant removal."

The drumbeat began with McClellan, who told anyone who would listen that Stanton was to blame for the Peninsula defeat. "So you want to know how I feel about Stanton, & what I think of him now?" he wrote Mary Ellen in July. "I think that he is the most unmitigated scoundrel I ever knew, heard or read of; I think that...had he lived in the time of the Saviour, Judas Iscariot would have remained a respected member of the fraternity of the Apostles & that the magnificent treachery & rascality of E. M. Stanton would have caused Judas to have raised his arms in holy horror & unaffected wonder." A week later, McClellan wrote that he had "the proof that the Secy reads all my private telegrams." In fact, he took pleasure in the thought that "if he has read my private letters to you also his ears must have tingled somewhat." Nor did his suspicions stop him from reiterating his loathing for the former friend whom he now considered "the most depraved hypocrite & villain."

Democrats, unwilling to fault McClellan, were the loudest in their denunciations of Stanton. Spearheaded by the Blairs, conservatives charged that Stanton had abandoned both his Democratic heritage and his old friendship with McClellan. Two navy officers, speaking with Samuel Phillips Lee, Elizabeth Blair's husband, claimed "there had been treachery at the bottom of our Richmond reverse," spurred by "Stanton's political opposition to McClellan." Democrat John Astor could not refrain from cursing at the mere mention of Stanton's name. "He for one believes," Strong reported, "that Stanton willfully withheld reinforcements from McClellan lest he should make himself too important, politically, by a signal victory." Sanitary Commission member Frederick Law Olmsted expressed similar emotions. "If we could help to hang Stanton by resigning and posting him as a liar, hypocrite and knave," he wrote, "I think we should render the country a far greater service that we can in any other way."

The New York Times promised not to engage in the "very fierce crusade" against Stanton, but begged the president, "if we are to have a new Secretary of War, to give us a Soldier-one who knows what war is and how it is to be carried on.... If Mr. Stanton is to be removed, the country will be rea.s.sured, and the public interest greatly promoted, by making Gen. McClellan his successor. Even those who cavil at his leadership in the field, do not question his mastery of the art of war." As the weeks went by, and the pressure to replace him mounted, Stanton must have wondered how long Lincoln would continue to support him.

Beyond the distracting personal attacks, Stanton was tormented by the long lines of ambulances that rolled into the city each morning carrying the injured and the dead from the peninsula. All his life, Stanton had been unnerved in the presence of death. Now he was surrounded by it at every turn. Sometimes he took it upon himself to deliver the news to stricken families. Mary Ellet Cabell, whose father, Colonel Charles Ellet, was fatally wounded in Memphis, long recalled the moment when Stanton appeared at her family's home in Georgetown to tell of Ellet's heroism during the battle. "I have heard that this powerful War Minister was harsh and unfeeling; but I can never forget the tenderness of his manner" as he delivered the news with "tears to his eyes."

Stanton's own family was touched by death as well. In early July, his youngest son, James, entered the final stage of the smallpox precipitated by an inoculation six months earlier. The Stantons had planned to spend the Fourth of July holiday on a cruise with General Meigs and his family, but their child's illness occupied Ellen Stanton night and day. On July 5, a messenger called on Stanton in the War Department to report that "the baby was dying." He immediately began the three-mile drive to the country house where his family was staying for the summer. The child clung to life for several days, finally succ.u.mbing on July 10. For Stanton, who loved his children pa.s.sionately, the death was devastating, particularly bitter in light of the overwhelming pressures at work that had kept him from his family for many weeks. Under the weight of public censure and private tragedy, his own health began to suffer.

WHILE HIS CABINET REELED in the aftermath of the Peninsula defeat, Lincoln was faced with the grim knowledge that the ultimate authority had been his alone. Nonetheless, as Whitman had observed following the debacle at Bull Run, Lincoln refused to surrender to the gloom of defeat: "He unflinchingly stemm'd it, and resolv'd to lift himself and the Union out of it." While the battle was still ongoing, Lincoln had found time to write a letter to a young cadet at West Point, the son of Mary's cousin Ann Todd Campbell. The boy was miserable at the academy and his mother was worried. "Allow me to a.s.sure you it is a perfect certainty that you will, very soon, feel better-quite happy-if you only stick to the resolution you have taken to procure a military education. I am older than you, have felt badly myself, and know, what I tell you is true. Adhere to your purpose and you will soon feel as well as you ever did. On the contrary, if you falter, and give up, you will lose the power of keeping any resolution, and will regret it all your life." The boy stayed at West Point, graduating in 1866.

Now, in the wake of the Peninsula battle, confronted with public discontent, diminishing loan subscriptions and renewed threats that Britain would recognize the Confederacy, Lincoln demonstrated that his own purpose remained fixed. He decided to call for a major expansion of the army. Two months earlier, Stanton, a.s.suming that victory would soon be achieved, had made the colossal mistake of shutting down recruiting offices. To call for more troops now on the heels of defeat, Lincoln realized, might well create "a general panic." But the troops were essential. Seward devised an excellent solution. He journeyed to New York, where a conference of Union governors was taking place. After consulting privately with the governors and securing their agreement, he drafted a circular that they would endorse asking the president to call for three hundred thousand additional troops. The president would be responding to a patriotic appeal rather than initiating a call on his own.

While Seward worked out the details from his suite at the Astor House, he was kept abreast of the military situation by telegrams from Lincoln. Fearing that their recruiting efforts might prove insufficient, Seward telegraphed Stanton for permission to promise each new recruit an advance of twenty-five dollars. The money "is of vital importance," he wrote. "We fail without it." Stanton hesitated at first. "The existing law does not authorize an advance," he replied. But finally, trusting Seward's judgment, he decided to make the allocation on his own responsibility.

That summer, Seward traveled throughout the North to help build up the Union Army. He set a precedent within his own department by entreating all those between eighteen and forty-five to volunteer, pledging that their positions would be waiting for them when they returned. A large percentage answered Seward's call. In Auburn, the Sewards' twenty-year-old-son, William Junior, was appointed secretary of the war committee responsible for raising a regiment in upstate New York. A half century later, William remembered "the Ma.s.s Meetings held in all the princ.i.p.al towns," the fervent appeals for volunteers, the quickened response once the government announced that unfilled quotas would by met by a draft. New recruits "filled the hotels and many private houses, occupied the upper floors of the business blocks, leaned against the fences, sat upon the curb stone," he recalled. They came on foot and in horse-drawn wagons. "The spectacle was so novel and inspiring that our citizens gave them a perfect ovation as they pa.s.sed, canons were fired-bells rung and flags displayed from almost every house on the line of march."

Young William Seward had no intention of recruiting others without volunteering himself. His decision to enlist aroused trepidation in the Seward household, for William's new wife, Jenny, was expecting their first child in September. Jenny a.s.sured her husband that she would "be able to pa.s.s through her troubles," but she worried that his departure might jeopardize his mother's fragile health. In fact, although Frances had been heartbroken years before when Gus, now an army paymaster in Washington, had joined the Mexican War, her pa.s.sionate feelings against slavery now outweighed her maternal anxiety. "As it is obvious all men are needed I made no objection," Frances told Fred.

While the call was out for fresh reserves, Lincoln decided to make a personal visit to bolster the morale of the weary troops who had fought the hard battles on the Peninsula. Accompanied by a.s.sistant Secretary of War Peter Watson and Congressman Frank Blair, he left Washington aboard the Ariel early on the morning of July 8, 1862, beginning the twelve-hour journey to McClellan's new headquarters at Harrison's Landing on the James River. "The day had been intensely hot," an army correspondent noted, the temperature climbing to over 100 degrees. Even soldiers who lay in the shade of the trees found small respite from the "almost overpowering" heat. By 6 p.m., however, when General McClellan and his staff met the president at Harrison's Landing, the setting sun had yielded to a pleasant, moonlit evening.

News of the president's arrival spread quickly through the camp. Soldiers in the vicinity let out great cheers whenever they glimpsed him "sitting and smiling serenely on the after deck of the vessel." Lincoln's calm visage, however, masked his deep anxiety about McClellan and the progress of the war.

Equally troubled, the defeated McClellan had spent the hours before Lincoln's arrival drafting what he termed a "strong frank letter" delineating changes necessary to win the war. "If he acts upon it the country will be saved," he told his wife. McClellan handed the letter to Lincoln, who read it as the two sat together on the deck. Known to history as the "Harrison's Landing" letter, the doc.u.ment imperiously outlined for the president what the policy and aims of the war should be. "The time has come when the government must determine upon a civil and military policy," McClellan brazenly began, warning that without a clear-cut policy defining the nature of the war, "our cause will be lost." Somewhat resembling in att.i.tude Seward's April 1 memo of fifteen months earlier, the presumptuous memo was even more astonishing in tone, as it came from a military officer.

"It should not be at all a war upon population," McClellan proclaimed, and all efforts must be made to protect "private property and unarmed persons." In effect, slave property must be respected, for if a radical approach to slavery were adopted, the "present armies" would "rapidly disintegrate." To carry out this conservative policy, the president would need "a Commander-in-Chief of the Army-one who possesses your confidence." While he did not specifically request that position for himself, McClellan made it clear that he was more than willing to retake the central command.

To McClellan's disappointment and disgust, Lincoln "made no comments upon [the letter], merely saying, when he had finished it, that he was obliged to me for it." Clearly, the president did not remain silent because he failed to grasp the political significance of the general's propositions. In the days that followed, his actions would manifest his rejection of the general's political advice. For the moment, however, Lincoln had come to see and support the troops, not to debate policy with his general.

For three hours, the president reviewed one division after another, riding slowly along the long lines of cheering soldiers. He was relieved to find the army in such high spirits after the b.l.o.o.d.y weeklong battle, which had decimated their ranks, leaving 1,734 dead and 8,066 wounded. "Mr. Lincoln rode at the right of Gen. McClellan," an army correspondent reported, "holding with one hand the reins which checked a spirited horse, and with the other a large-sized stove-pipe hat" that he repeatedly tipped to acknowledge the cheers of the troops. His attempts to coordinate the reins and doff his tall hat were not entirely successful. His legs almost became "entangled with those of the horse he rode...while his arms were apparently liable to similar mishap." One soldier admitted in a letter home that he had to lower his cap over his face "to cover a smile that overmastered" him at the "ludicrous sight." Still, he added, the troops loved Lincoln. "His benignant smile as he pa.s.sed on was a real reflection of his honest, kindly heart; but deeper, under the surface of that marked and not all uncomely face, were the unmistakable signs of care and anxiety.... In fact, his popularity in the army is and has been universal."

As Lincoln approached each division, the "successive booming of salutes made known his progress," until finally, "his tall figure, like Saul of old," came into view, provoking wild applause. The tonic of the president's unexpected visit to the enervated regiments was instantaneous. As Lincoln reviewed the "thinned ranks of some of the divisions" and came upon regimental colors "torn almost to shreds by the b.a.l.l.s of the enemy," the Times noted, he "more than once exhibited much emotion," affording the fatigued soldiers "the a.s.surance of the nation's hearty sympathy with their struggle."

Returning to the steamer, Lincoln conferred again with McClellan. Making no mention of McClellan's letter, which remained in his pocket, he set sail for Washington the next morning. "On the way up the Potomac," the New York Herald reported, "the boat was aground for several hours on the Kettle Shoals, and the whole party, including the President, availed themselves of the opportunity to take a bath and swim in the river."

The visit invigorated the spirits of all who accompanied Lincoln. Frank Blair's sister Elizabeth noted that "Frank was as heart sick as man could be when he went off to the Army but he & the President came back greatly cheered." Despite Lincoln's enthusiasm for the mettle of the soldiers, however, his opinion of General McClellan had not improved. Less than forty-eight hours after his return, he summoned General Henry Halleck to Washington to a.s.sume the post of general in chief that McClellan had hoped would be his. Halleck's victories in the West, largely due to Grant, had made him a logical choice for the post. Known as "Old Brains," he had written several books on military strategy that were widely respected.

Even before McClellan heard the news, he suspected an unwelcome turn of events. "I do not know what paltry trick the administration will play next," he wrote his wife on the day after Lincoln's visit. "I did not like the Presdt's manner-it seemed that of a man about to do something of which he was much ashamed. A few days will however show, & I do not much care what the result will be. I feel that I have already done enough to prove in history that I am a General."

Although Halleck's appointment met with widespread approval, the clamor for further changes was undiminished. Radicals called for McClellan's dismissal, while conservatives continued their a.s.sault on Stanton. The arguments on both sides were heated. In a hotel lobby, Senator Chandler of Michigan called McClellan a "liar and coward," provoking a friend of McClellan's to angrily counter: "It is you who are the liar and the coward." The charges against Stanton were equally caustic, portraying him as brusque, domineering, and unbearably unpleasant to work with. Nonetheless, Lincoln was determined, as Browning advised, to "make up his mind calmly [and] deliberately," to "adhere firmly to his own opinions, and neither to be bullied or cajoled out of them."

In fact, not once during the vicious public onslaught against the secretary of war did Lincoln's support for Stanton waver. During the hours he had spent each day awaiting battlefront news in the telegraph office, Lincoln had taken his own measure of his high-strung, pa.s.sionate secretary of war. He concluded that Stanton's vigorous, hard-driving style was precisely what was needed at this critical juncture. As one War Department employee said of Stanton, "much of his seeming harshness to and neglect of individuals" could be explained by the "concentration and intensity of his mind on the single object of crushing the rebellion."

And, as always, the president refused to let a subordinate take the blame for his own decisions. He insisted to Browning "that all that Stanton had done in regard to the army had been authorized by him the President." Three weeks later, Lincoln publicly defended the beleaguered Stanton before an immense Union meeting on the Capitol steps. All the government departments had closed down at one o'clock so that everyone could attend. Commissioner French believed he had "never seen more persons a.s.sembled in front of the Capitol except at an inauguration, which it very much resembled." Lincoln sat on the flag-draped platform with the members of his cabinet, including Chase, Blair, and Bates, as "the ringing of bells, the firing of cannon, and music from the Marine Band" heralded the speakers. After a speech by Treasury Registrar Lucius Chittenden, Lincoln turned to Chase, who sat beside him. "'Well! Hadn't I better say a few words and get rid of myself?' Hardly waiting for an answer, he advanced at once to the stand."

"I believe there is no precedent for my appearing before you on this occasion," he affably began, "but it is also true that there is no precedent for your being here yourselves." Reminding his audience that he was reluctant to speak unless he might "produce some good by it," Lincoln declared that something needed to be said, and it was "not likely to be better said by some one else," for it was "a matter in which we have heard some other persons blamed for what I did myself." Addressing the charge that Stanton had withheld troops from McClellan, he explained that every possible soldier available had been sent to the general. "The Secretary of War is not to blame for not giving when he had none to give." As the applause began to mount, he continued, "I believe he is a brave and able man, and I stand here, as justice requires me to do, to take upon myself what has been charged on the Secretary of War."

French was profoundly moved by Lincoln's speech. "He is one of the best men G.o.d ever created," he a.s.serted. Chase, too, was impressed by the "originality and sagacity" of the address. "His frank, genial, generous face and direct simplicity of bearing, took all hearts." The great rally concluded to the strains of "Yankee Doodle Dandy" and a salute of sixty-eight guns, two for each state in the Union. Reported fully in every newspaper, Lincoln's defense of his beleaguered secretary brought the campaign against Stanton to an end.

AS THE SUMMER PROGRESSED, Lincoln and his family found some respite from the pressure and grief that had seemed so relentless throughout the cruel spring. At last, Mary's intense depression began to lift. Reporters noted that she had begun riding with her husband once more in the late afternoons. On Sundays, she returned to Dr. Gurley's church, though a parishioner seated behind her observed that "she was so hid behind her immense black veil-and very deep black flounces-that one could scarcely tell she was there."

Commissioner French reported that "she seemed to be in excellent spirits" as she prepared to take up residence for the summer at the Soldiers' Home, situated on almost 300 acres in the hills three miles north of the city. Created in the 1850s as a retirement community for disabled veterans, the Soldiers' Home consisted of a main building that could accommodate 150 boarders, an infirmary, a dining hall, and administrative offices. The property also encompa.s.sed a number of s.p.a.cious cottages, including the two-story brick house where the Lincoln family would stay. Known as the Anderson Cottage, it had served as a country residence for George Riggs, founder of the Riggs Bank, before the federal government purchased the property.

Buchanan had been the first president to summer at the Soldiers' Home, where the cooling breeze brought relief from the oppressive heat of the city. Surrounded by abundant flowers, shrubs, and trees, it seemed almost "an earthly paradise," one visitor recalled. The beautiful gravel walks and winding carriage ways, all of which were open to the public, had become a choice destination for Washingtonians out for weekend rides in their carriages. Another visitor in the summer of 1862 claimed he had seen nothing in the capital more charming than "this quiet and beautiful retreat," from which "we look down upon the city and see the whole at a glance"-the Capitol dome, "huge, grand, gloomy, ragged and unfinished, like the war now waging for its preservation," the Potomac River, "stretching away plainly visible for twelve miles, Alexandria, Arlington, Georgetown, and the long line of forts that bristle along the hills."

At Mary's urging, Lincoln agreed to settle in with his family for the summer, riding his horse the three miles to the White House each morning and returning at night. "We are truly delighted, with this retreat," Mary wrote her friend f.a.n.n.y Eames, "the drives & walks around here are delightful, & each day, brings its visitors. Then too, our boy Robert [home from Harvard], is with us, whom you may remember. We consider it a 'pleasant time' for us, when his vacations, roll around, he is very companionable, and I shall dread when he has to return to Cambridge." For Tad, whose companionship and daily routine had been obliterated by the death of his brother and the banishment of the Taft boys, the Soldiers' Home was a G.o.dsend. His lively, cheerful disposition earned him the affection of the soldiers a.s.signed to guard his father. They dubbed him a "3rd Lieutenant," allowing him to join in their drills during the day and their meals around the campfire at night.

In the evenings, the Lincolns could entertain guests on the wide porch overlooking the grounds or in a formal parlor illuminated by gas lamps. Relaxing in his slippers, Lincoln was fond of reciting poetry or reading aloud from favorite authors. Though intermittent cannonfire was audible in the distance, the idyllic retreat provided precious privacy and s.p.a.ce for conversation among family and friends. For Lincoln, the historian Matthew Pinsker observes, the soldiers a.s.signed to his security detail "helped him recreate some of the spirit of fraternity that he had once enjoyed as a younger politician and circuit-riding attorney in Illinois."

It was during this restorative summer that Mary formed what one newspaper termed a "daily habit of visiting the hospitals in the District." The hospitals became her refuge, allowing her a few hours of reprieve from her private grief. "But for these humane employments," a friend who often accompanied her to the hospital wards recalled her saying, "her heart would have broken when she lost her child." It is clear in the recollections of Walt Whitman, who worked as a nurse in the hospital wards, that the harrowing experience made one's "little cares and difficulties" disappear "into nothing." After ministering each day to the hundreds of young men who had endured ghastly wounds, submitted to amputations without anesthesia, and often died without the comfort of family or friends, Whitman wrote, "nothing of ordinary misfortune seems as it used to."

In the days after the Peninsula Campaign, the New York Daily Tribune reported, the numbers of sick and wounded pouring into the city were enough "to form an immense army." Every morning, steamers arrived at the Sixth Street Wharf carrying hundreds of injured soldiers, many "horribly wounded." As crowds gathered around, the soldiers disembarked, some carried on stretchers, others stumbling along on crudely made crutches. Ambulances stood by, ready to transport them to the dozen or more hastily outfitted hospitals that had sprung up in various parts of the capital.

In the effort to meet the soaring demand for hospital s.p.a.ce, the federal government had embarked on a ma.s.sive project of converting hotels, churches, clubs, school buildings, and private residences into military hospitals. The old Union Hotel, where congressmen and senators had boarded during earlier administrations, became the Union Hotel Hospital. A visitor noted that "the rooms in which the politicians of the old school used to sit and sup their wine" were now crowded with patients lying on cots. Louisa May Alcott, who worked there as a nurse, observed that "many of the doors still bore their old names; some not so inappropriate as might be imagined, for my ward was in truth a ball-room, if gunshot wounds could christen it." The Braddock House, where it was said that "General George Washington held his Councils of War," was also pressed into service, with some of the same old chairs and desks.

The second floor of the Patent Office, under the guidance of Interior Secretary Caleb Smith's wife, Elizabeth, was likewise transformed into a hospital ward accommodating hundreds of patients. It presented "a curious scene," Whitman noted, with rows of "sick, badly wounded and dying soldiers" lying between "high and ponderous gla.s.s cases, crowded with models in miniature of every kind of utensil, machine or invention." In addition, "a great long double row" of cots ran "up and down through the middle of the hall," with extra beds placed in the gallery. Especially "at night, when lit up," the impromptu ward presented a bizarre spectacle with its "gla.s.s cases, the beds, the sick, the gallery above and the marble pavement under foot."

In mid-June, the Methodist Episcopal Church on 20th Street offered its chapel for conversion to a hospital. Five days later, government carpenters and mechanics were hard at work covering pews with timbers to support a new floor upon which hundreds of beds would be placed. As in other church hospitals, the pulpit and a.s.sorted furnishings were safely stored under the floor, while the bas.e.m.e.nt was turned into a laboratory and kitchen. Taken together, these makeshift government hospitals accommodated more than three thousand patients, still only a fraction of the beds that would be needed in the months and years ahead.

In preparation for her hospital visits, Mary filled her carriage with baskets of fruit, food, and fresh flowers. She cleaned out the strawberries in the White House garden and procured a donation from a wealthy merchant, impressed by "the quiet and unostentatious manner" of her ministrations, for $300 worth of lemons and oranges, so necessary to prevent scurvy. For hours, she would distribute the fruit and delicacies, placing fresh flowers on the pillows of wounded men to mask the pervasive stench of disinfectant and decay.

She sat by the side of lonely soldiers, talked with them about their experiences, read to them, and helped them write letters to their families at home. One wounded soldier discovered the ident.i.ty of the kindly woman who had written to his mother explaining that he had been "quite sick," but was recovering, only after Mary's letter had reached his home with the first lady's signature.