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LAST OF THE WAR CASES

_Memorandized at the time, Washington, 1865-'66_

[Of reminiscences of the secession war, after the rest is said, I have
thought it remains to give a few special words--in some respects at
the time the typical words of all, and most definite-of the samples
of the kill'd and wounded in action, and of soldiers who linger'd
afterward, from these wounds, or were laid up by obstinate disease or
prostration. The general statistics have been printed already, but can
bear to be briefly stated again. There were over 3,000,000 men (for
all periods of enlistment, large and small) furnish'd to the Union
army during the war, New York State furnishing over 500,000, which was
the greatest number of any one State. The losses by disease, wounds,
kill'd in action, accidents, &c., were altogether about 600,000, or
approximating to that number. Over 4,000,000 cases were treated in the
main and adjudicatory army hospitals. The number sounds strange, but
it is true. More than two-thirds of the deaths were from prostration
or disease. To-day there lie buried over 300,000 soldiers in the
various National army Cemeteries, more than half of them (and that is
really the most significant and eloquent bequest of the war) mark'd
"unknown." In full mortuary statistics of the war, the greatest
deficiency arises from our not having the rolls, even as far as they
were kept, of most of the Southern military prisons--a gap which
probably both adds to, and helps conceal, the indescribable horrors
of those places; it is, however, (restricting one vivid point only)
certain that over 30,000 Union soldiers died, largely of actual
starvation, in them. And now, leaving all figures and their "sum
totals," I feel sure a few genuine memoranda of such things--some
cases jotted down '64, '65, and '66--made at the time and on the spot,
with all the associations of those scenes and places brought back,
will not only go directest to the right spot, but give a clearer and
more actual sight of that period, than anything else. Before I give
the last cases I begin with verbatim extracts from letters home to my
mother in Brooklyn, the second year of the war.--W.W.]

_Washington, Oct. 13, 1863_.--There has been a new lot of wounded and
sick arriving for the last three days. The first and second days, long
strings of ambulances with the sick. Yesterday the worst, many with
bad and bloody wounds, inevitably long neglected. I thought I was
cooler and more used to it, but the sight of some cases brought tears
into my eyes. I had the luck yesterday, however, to do lots of good.
Had provided many nourishing articles for the men for another quarter,
but, fortunately, had my stores where I could use them at once for
these new-comers, as they arrived, faint, hungry, fagg'd out from
their journey, with soil'd clothes, and all bloody. I distributed
these articles, gave partly to the nurses I knew, or to those in
charge. As many as possible I fed myself. Then I found a lot of oyster
soup handy, and bought it all at once.

It is the most pitiful sight, this, when the men are first brought in,
from some camp hospital broke up, or a part of the army moving. These
who arrived yesterday are cavalry men. Our troops had fought like
devils, but got the worst of it. They were Kilpatrick's cavalry; were
in the rear, part of Meade's retreat, and the reb cavalry, knowing the
ground and taking a favorable opportunity, dash'd in between, cut them
off, and shell'd them terribly. But Kilpatrick turn'd and brought them
out mostly. It was last Sunday. (One of the most terrible sights and
tasks is of such receptions.)

_Oct. 27, 1863_.--If any of the soldiers I know (or their parents or
folks) should call upon you--as they are often anxious to have my
address in Brooklyn--you just use them as you know how, and if you
happen to have pot-luck, and feel to ask them to take a bite, don't
be afraid to do so. I have a friend, Thomas Neat, 2d N.Y. Cavalry,
wounded in leg, now home in Jamaica, on furlough; he will probably
call. Then possibly a Mr. Haskell, or some of his folks, from western
New York: he had a son died here, and I was with the boy a good deal.
The old man and his wife have written me and ask'd me my Brooklyn
address; he said he had children in New York, and was occasionally
down there. (When I come home I will show you some of the letters I
get from mothers, sisters, fathers, &c. They will make you cry.)

How the time passes away! To think it is over a year since I left
home suddenly--and have mostly been down in front since. The year has
vanish'd swiftly, and oh, what scenes I have witness'd during that
time! And the war is not settled yet; and one does not see anything
certain, or even promising, of a settlement. But I do not lose the
solid feeling, in myself, that the Union triumph is assured, whether
it be sooner or whether it be later, or whatever roundabout way we
may be led there; and I find I don't change that conviction from any
reverses we meet, nor delays, nor blunders. One realizes here in
Washington the great labors, even the negative ones, of Lincoln; that
it is a big thing to have just kept the United States from being
thrown down and having its throat cut. I have not waver'd or had any
doubt of the issue, since Gettysburg.

_8th September, '63_.--Here, now, is a specimen army hospital case:
Lorenzo Strong, Co. A, 9th United States Cavalry, shot by a shell last
Sunday; right leg amputated on the field. Sent up here Monday night,
14th. Seem'd to be doing pretty well till Wednesday noon, 16th,
when he took a turn for the worse, and a strangely rapid and fatal
termination ensued. Though I had much to do, I staid and saw all. It
was a death-picture characteristic of these soldiers' hospitals--
the perfect specimen of physique, one of the most magnificent I ever
saw--the convulsive spasms and working of muscles, mouth, and throat.
There are two good women nurses, one on each side. The doctor comes in
and gives him a little chloroform. One of the nurses constantly fans
him, for it is fearfully hot. He asks to be rais'd up, and they put
him in a half-sitting posture. He call'd for "Mark" repeatedly,
half-deliriously, all day. Life ebbs, runs now with the speed of
a mill race; his splendid neck, as it lays all open, works still,
slightly; his eyes turn back. A religious person coming in offers a
prayer, in subdued tones, bent at the foot of the bed; and in the
space of the aisle, a crowd, including two or three doctors, several
students, and many soldiers, has silently gather'd. It is very still
and warm, as the struggle goes on, and dwindles, a little more, and a
little more--and then welcome oblivion, painlessness, death. A pause,
the crowd drops away, a white bandage is bound around and under the
jaw, the propping pillows are removed, the limpsy head falls down, the
arms are softly placed by the side, all composed, all still,--and the
broad white sheet is thrown over everything.

_April 10, 1864_.--Unusual agitation all around concentrated here.
Exciting times in Congress. The Copperheads are getting furious, and
want to recognize the Southern Confederacy. "This is a pretty time to
talk of recognizing such--," said a Pennsylvania officer in hospital
to me to-day, "after what has transpired the last three years." After
first Fredericksburg I felt discouraged myself, and doubted whether
our rulers could carry on the war. But that has pass'd away. The war
_must_ be carried on. I would willingly go in the ranks myself if I
thought it would profit more than as at present, and I don't know
sometimes but I shall, as it is. Then there is certainly a strange,
deep, fervid feeling form'd or arous'd in the land, hard to describe
or name; it is not a majority feeling, but it will make itself felt.
M., you don't know what a nature a fellow gets, not only after being a
soldier a while, but after living in the sights and influences of the
camps, the wounded, &c.--a nature he never experienced before. The
stars and stripes, the tune of Yankee Doodle, and similar things,
produce such an effect on a fellow as never before. I have seen them
bring tears on some men's cheeks, and others turn pale with emotion.
I have a little flag (it belong'd to one of our cavalry regiments,)
presented to me by one of the wounded; it was taken by the secesh in a
fight, and rescued by our men in a bloody skirmish following. It cost
three men's lives to get back that four-by-three flag--to tear it from
the breast of a dead rebel--for _the name_ of getting their little
"rag" back again. The man that secured it was very badly wounded, and
they let him keep it. I was with him a good deal; he wanted to give me
some keepsake, he said,--he didn't expect to live,--so he gave me that
flag. The best of it all is, dear M., there isn't a regiment, cavalry
or infantry, that wouldn't do the like, on the like occasion.

_April 12_.--I will finish my letter this morning; it is a beautiful
day. I was up in Congress very late last night. The House had a
very excited night session about expelling the men that proposed
recognizing the Southern Confederacy. You ought to hear (as I do) the
soldiers talk; they are excited to madness. We shall probably have hot
times here, not in the military fields alone. The body of the army is
true and firm as the North Star.

_May 6, '64_.--M., the poor soldier with diarrhoea, is still living,
but, oh, what a looking object! Death would be a relief to him--he
cannot last many hours. Cunningham, the Ohio soldier, with leg
amputated at thigh, has pick'd up beyond expectation; now looks indeed
like getting well. (He died a few weeks afterwards.) The hospitals are
very full. I am very well indeed. Hot here to-day.

_May 23, '64_.--Sometimes I think that should it come when it _must_,
to fall in battle, one's anguish over a son or brother kill'd might
be temper'd with much to take the edge off. Lingering and extreme
suffering from wounds or sickness seem to me far worse than death in
battle. I can honestly say the latter has no terrors for me, as far
as I myself am concern'd. Then I should say, too, about death in war,
that our feelings and imaginations make a thousand times too much of
the whole matter. Of the many I have seen die, or known of, the past
year, I have not seen or known one who met death with terror. In most
cases I should say it was a welcome relief and release. Yesterday I
spent a good part of the afternoon with a young soldier of seventeen,
Charles Cutter, of Lawrence city, Massachusetts, 1st Massachusetts
Heavy Artillery, Battery M. He was brought to one of the hospitals
mortally wounded in abdomen. Well, I thought to myself, as I sat
looking at him, it ought to be a relief to his folks if they could see
how little he really suffer'd. He lay very placid, in a half lethargy,
with his eyes closed. As it was extremely hot, and I sat a good while
silently fanning him, and wiping the sweat, at length he open'd his
eyes quite wide and clear, and look'd inquiringly around. I said,
"What is it, my boy? Do you want anything?" He answer'd quietly, with
a good-natured smile, "Oh, nothing; I was only looking around to see
who was with me." His mind was somewhat wandering, yet he lay in an
evident peacefulness that sanity and health might have envied. I had
to leave for other engagements. He died, I heard afterward, without
any special agitation, in the course of the night.

_Washington, May 26, '63_.--M., I think something of commencing a
series of lectures, readings, talks, &c., through the cities of the
North, to supply myself with funds for hospital ministrations. I do
not like to be so beholden to others; I need a pretty free supply of
money, and the work grows upon me, and fascinates me. It is the most
magnetic as well as terrible sight: the lots of poor wounded and
helpless men depending so much, in one ward or another, upon my
soothing or talking to them, or rousing them up a little, or perhaps
petting, or feeding them their dinner or supper (here is a patient,
for instance, wounded in both arms,) or giving some trifle for a
novelty or change--anything, however trivial, to break the monotony of
those hospital hours.

It is curious: when I am present at the most appalling scenes, deaths,
operations, sickening wounds (perhaps full of maggots,) I keep cool
and do not give out or budge, although my sympathies are very much
excited; but often, hours afterward, perhaps when I am home, or out
walking alone, I feel sick, and actually tremble, when I recall the
case again before me.

_Sunday afternoon, opening of 1865_.--Pass'd this afternoon among
a collection of unusually bad cases, wounded and sick secession
soldiers, left upon our hands. I spent the previous Sunday afternoon
there also. At that time two were dying. Two others have died during
the week. Several of them are partly deranged. I went around among
them elaborately. Poor boys, they all needed to be cheer'd up. As
I sat down by any particular one, the eyes of all the rest in the
neighboring cots would fix upon me, and remain steadily riveted as
long as I sat within their sight. Nobody seem'd to wish anything
special to eat or drink. The main thing ask'd for was postage stamps,
and paper for writing. I distributed all the stamps I had. Tobacco was
wanted by some.

One call'd me over to him and ask'd me in a low tone what denomination
I belong'd to. He said he was a Catholic--wish'd to find some one of
the same faith--wanted some good reading. I gave him something to
read, and sat down by him a few minutes. Moved around with a word for
each. They were hardly any of them personally attractive cases, and no
visitors come here. Of course they were all destitute of money. I gave
small sums to two or three, apparently the most needy. The men are
from quite all the Southern States, Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana,
&c.

Wrote several letters. One for a young fellow named Thomas J. Byrd,
with a bad wound and diarrhoea. Was from Russell county, Alabama; been
out four years. Wrote to his mother; had neither heard from her nor
written to her in nine months. Was taken prisoner last Christmas, in
Tennessee; sent to Nashville, then to Camp Chase, Ohio, and kept there
a long time; all the while not money enough to get paper and postage
stamps. Was paroled, but on his way home the wound took gangrene;
had diarrhoea also; had evidently been very low. Demeanor cool, and
patient. A dark-skinn'd, quaint young fellow, with strong Southern
idiom; no education.

Another letter for John W. Morgan, aged 18, from Shellot, Brunswick
county, North Carolina; been out nine months; gunshot wound in right
leg, above knee; also diarrhoea; wound getting along well; quite a
gentle, affectionate boy; wish'd me to put in the letter for his
mother to kiss his little brother and sister for him. [I put strong
envelopes on these, and two or three other letters, directed them
plainly and fully, and dropt them in the Washington post-office the
next morning myself.]

The large ward I am in is used for secession soldiers exclusively.
One man, about forty years of age, emaciated with diarrhoea, I was
attracted to, as he lay with his eyes turn'd up, looking like death.
His weakness was so extreme that it took a minute or so, every time,
for him to talk with anything like consecutive meaning; yet he
was evidently a man of good intelligence and education. As I said
anything, he would lie a moment perfectly still, then, with closed
eyes, answer in a low, very slow voice, quite correct and sensible,
but in a way and tone that wrung my heart. He had a mother, wife, and
child living (or probably living) in his home in Mississippi. It was
long, long since he had seen them. Had he caus'd a letter to be sent
them since he got here in Washington? No answer. I repeated the
question, very slowly and soothingly. He could not tell whether he had
or not--things of late seem'd to him like a dream. After waiting a
moment, I said: "Well, I am going to walk down the ward a moment, and
when I come back you can tell me. If you have not written, I will sit
down and write." A few minutes after I return'd; he said he remember'd
now that some one had written for him two or three days before. The
presence of this man impress'd me profoundly. The flesh was all sunken
on face and arms; the eyes low in their sockets and glassy, and with
purple rings around them. Two or three great tears silently flow'd out
from the eyes, and roll'd down his temples (he was doubtless unused
to be spoken to as I was speaking to him.)Sickness, imprisonment,
exhaustion, &c., had conquer'd the body, yet the mind held mastery
still, and call'd even wandering remembrance back.

There are some fifty Southern soldiers here; all sad, sad cases. There
is a good deal of scurvy. I distributed some paper, envelopes, and
postage stamps, and wrote addresses full and plain on many of the
envelopes.

I return'd again Tuesday, August 1, and moved around in the same
manner a couple of hours.

_September 22, '65_.--Afternoon and evening at Douglas hospital to see
a friend belonging to 2d New York Artillery (Hiram W. Frazee, Serg't,)
down with an obstinate compound fracture of left leg receiv'd in one
of the last battles near Petersburg. After sitting a while with him,
went through several neighboring wards. In one of them found an old
acquaintance transferr'd here lately, a rebel prisoner, in a dying
condition. Poor fellow, the look was already on his face. He gazed
long at me. I ask'd him if he knew me. After a moment he utter'd
something, but inarticulately. I have seen him off and on for the
last five months. He has suffer'd very much; a bad wound in left leg,
severely fractured, several operations, cuttings, extractions of bone,
splinters, &c. I remember he seem'd to me, as I used to talk with him,
a fair specimen of the main strata of the Southerners, those without
property or education, but still with the stamp which comes from
freedom and equality. I liked him; Jonathan Wallace, of Hurd co.,
Georgia, age 30 (wife, Susan F. Wallace, Houston, Hurd co., Georgia.)
[If any good soul of that county should see this, I hope he will send
her this word.] Had a family; had not heard from them since taken
prisoner, now six months. I had written for him, and done trifles for
him, before he came here. He made no outward show, was mild in his
talk and behavior, but I knew he worried much inwardly. But now all
would be over very soon. I half sat upon the little stand near the
head of the bed. Wallace was somewhat restless. I placed my hand
lightly on his forehead and face, just sliding it over the surface.
In a moment or so he fell into a calm, regular-breathing lethargy or
sleep, and remain'd so while I sat there. It was dark, and the lights
were lit. I hardly know why (death seem'd hovering near,) but I stay'd
nearly an hour. A Sister of Charity, dress'd in black, with a broad
white linen bandage around her head and under her chin, and a black
crape over all and flowing down from her head in long wide pieces,
came to him, and moved around the bed. She bow'd low and solemn to
me. For some time she moved around there noiseless as a ghost, doing
little things for the dying man.

_December, '65_.--The only remaining hospital is now "Harewood,"
out in the woods, northwest of the city. I have been visiting there
regularly every Sunday during these two months.

_January 24, '66_.--Went out to Harewood early to-day, and remain'd
all day.

_Sunday, February 4, 1866_.--Harewood Hospital again. Walk'd out this
afternoon (bright, dry, ground frozen hard) through the woods. Ward 6
is fill'd with blacks, some with wounds, some ill, two or three with
limbs frozen. The boys made quite a picture sitting round the stove.
Hardly any can read or write. I write for three or four, direct
envelopes, give some tobacco, &c.

Joseph Winder, a likely boy, aged twenty-three, belongs to 10th
Color'd Infantry (now in Texas;) is from Eastville, Virginia. Was a
slave; belong'd to Lafayette Homeston. The master was quite willing he
should leave. Join'd the army two years ago; has been in one or two
battles. Was sent to hospital with rheumatism. Has since been employ'd
as cook. His parents at Eastville; he gets letters from them, and has
letters written to them by a friend. Many black boys left that part
of Virginia and join'd the army; the 10th, in fact, was made up of
Virginia blacks from thereabouts. As soon as discharged is going back
to Eastville to his parents and home, and intends to stay there.

Thomas King, formerly 2d District Color'd Regiment, discharged
soldier, Company E, lay in a dying condition; his disease was
consumption. A Catholic priest was administering extreme unction to
him. (I have seen this kind of sight several times in the hospitals;
it is very impressive.)

_Harewood, April 29, 1866. Sunday afternoon_.--Poor Joseph Swiers,
Company H, 155th Pennsylvania, a mere lad (only eighteen years of
age;) his folks living in Reedsburgh, Pennsylvania. I have known him
for nearly a year, transferr'd from hospital to hospital. He was badly
wounded in the thigh at Hatcher's Run, February 6, '65.

James E. Ragan, Atlanta, Georgia; 2d United States Infantry. Union
folks. Brother impress'd, deserted, died; now no folks, left alone in
the world, is in a singularly nervous state; came in hospital with
intermittent fever.

Walk slowly around the ward, observing, and to see if I can do
anything. Two or three are lying very low with consumption, cannot
recover; some with old wounds; one with both feet frozen off, so that
on one only the heel remains. The supper is being given out: the
liquid call'd tea, a thick slice of bread, and some stew'd apples.

That was about the last I saw of the regular army hospitals.

[ILLUSTRATION Here is a portrait of E.H. from life, by Henry Inman, in
New York, about 1827 or '28. The painting was finely copper-plated
in 1830, and the present is a fac simile. Looks as I saw him in the
following narrative.]

The time was signalized by the _separation_ of the society of Friends,
so greatly talked of--and continuing yet--but so little really
explain'd. (All I give of this separation is in a Note following.)

Notes (_such as they are) founded on_

ELIAS HICKS

_Prefatory Note_--As myself a little boy hearing so much of E.H., at
that time, long ago, in Suffolk and Queens and Kings counties--and
more than once personally seeing the old man--and my dear, dear father
and mother faithful listeners to him at the meetings--I remember how
I dream'd to write perhaps a piece about E.H. and his look and
discourses, however long afterward--for my parents' sake--and the dear
Friends too! And the following is what has at last but all come out of
it--the feeling and intention never forgotten yet!

There is a sort of nature of persons I have compared to little rills
of water, fresh, from perennial springs--(and the comparison is
indeed an appropriate one)--persons not so very plenty, yet some few
certainly of them running over the surface and area of humanity, all
times, all lands. It is a specimen of this class I would now present.
I would sum up in E.H., and make his case stand for the class, the
sort, in all ages, all lands, sparse, not numerous, yet enough to
irrigate the soil--enough to prove the inherent moral stock and
irrepressible devotional aspirations growing indigenously of
themselves, always advancing, and never utterly gone under or lost.

Always E.H. gives the service of pointing to the fountain of all naked
theology, all religion, all worship, all the truth to which you are
possibly eligible--namely in _yourself_ and your inherent relations.
Others talk of Bibles, saints, churches, exhortations, vicarious
atonements--the canons outside of yourself and apart from man--E.H.
to the religion inside of man's very own nature. This he incessantly
labors to kindle, nourish, educate, bring forward and strengthen. He
is the most _democratic_ of the religionists--the prophets.

I have no doubt that both the curious fate and death of his four sons,
and the facts (and dwelling on them) of George Fox's strange early
life, and permanent "conversion," had much to do with the peculiar and
sombre ministry and style of E.H. from the first, and confirmed him
all through. One must not be dominated by the man's almost absurd
saturation in cut and dried biblical phraseology, and in ways, talk,
and standard, regardful mainly of the one need he dwelt on, above all
the rest. This main need he drove home to the soul; the canting and
sermonizing soon exhale away to any auditor that realizes what E.H.
is for and after. The present paper, (a broken memorandum of his
formation, his earlier life,) is the cross-notch that rude wanderers
make in the woods, to remind them afterward of some matter of
first-rate importance and full investigation. (Remember too, that E.H.
was _a thorough believer in the Hebrew Scriptures_, in his way.)

The following are really but disjointed fragments recall'd to
serve and eke out here the lank printed pages of what I commenc'd
unwittingly two months ago. Now, as I am well in for it, comes an old
attack, the sixth or seventh recurrence, of my war-paralysis, dulling
me from putting the notes in shape, and threatening any further
action, head or body. _W.W., Camden, N.J., July, 1888_.