Complete Prose Works

W >> Walt Whitman >> Complete Prose Works

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55

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 pass'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

This afternoon, July 22d, I have spent a long time with Oscar F.
Wilber, company G, 154th New York, low with chronic diarrhoea, and
a bad wound also. He asked me to read him a chapter in the New
Testament. I complied, and ask'd him what I should read. He said,
"Make your own choice." I open'd at the close of one of the first
books of the evangelists, and read the chapters describing the latter
hours of Christ, and the scenes at the crucifixion. The poor, wasted
young man ask'd me to read the following chapter also, how Christ rose
again. I read very slowly, for Oscar was feeble. It pleased him
very much, yet the tears were in his eyes. He ask'd me if I enjoy'd
religion. I said, "Perhaps not, my dear, in the way you mean, and yet,
may-be, it is the same thing." He said, "It is my chief reliance." He
talk'd of death, and said he did not fear it. I said, "Why, Oscar,
don't you think you will get well?" He said, "I may, but it is not
probable." He spoke calmly of his condition. The wound was very bad,
it discharg'd much. Then the diarrhoea had prostrated him, and I felt
that he was even then the same as dying. He behaved very manly and
affectionate. The kiss I gave him as I was about leaving he return'd
fourfold. He gave me his mother's address, Mrs. Sally D. Wilber,
Alleghany pest-office, Cattaraugus county, N. Y. I had several such
interviews with him. He died a few days after the one just described.

HOME-MADE MUSIC

_August 8th_.--To-night, as I was trying to keep cool, sitting by a
wounded soldier in Armory-square, I was attracted by some pleasant
singing in an adjoining ward. As my soldier was asleep, I left him,
and entering the ward where the music was, I walk'd halfway down
and took a seat by the cot of a young Brooklyn friend, S. R., badly
wounded in the hand at Chancellorsville, and who has suffer'd much,
but at that moment in the evening was wide awake and comparatively
easy. He had turn'd over on his left side to get a better view of the
singers, but the mosquito-curtains of the adjoining cots obstructed
the sight. I stept round and loop'd them all up, so that he had a
clear show, and then sat down again by him, and look'd and listen'd.
The principal singer was a young lady-nurse of one of the wards,
accompanying on a melodeon, and join'd by the lady-nurses of other
wards. They sat there, making a charming group, with their handsome,
healthy faces, and standing up a little behind them were some ten or
fifteen of the convalescent soldiers, young men, nurses, &c., with
books in their hands, singing. Of course it was not such a performance
as the great soloists at the New York opera house take a hand in, yet
I am not sure but I receiv'd as much pleasure under the circumstances,
sitting there, as I have had from the best Italian compositions,
express'd by world-famous performers. The men lying up and down the
hospital, in their cots, (some badly wounded--some never to rise
thence,) the cots themselves, with their drapery of white curtains,
and the shadows down the lower and upper parts of the ward; then the
silence of the men, and the attitudes they took--the whole was a sight
to look around upon again and again. And there sweetly rose those
voices up to the high, whitewash'd wooden roof, and pleasantly the
roof sent it all back again. They sang very well, mostly quaint old
songs and declamatory hymns, to fitting tunes. Here, for instance:

My days are swiftly gliding by, and I a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly, those hours of toil and danger;
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shore we may almost discover.
We'll gird our loins my brethren dear, our distant home discerning,
Our absent Lord has left us word, let every lamp be burning,
For O we stand on Jordan's strand, our friends are passing over,
And just before, the shining shore we may almost discover.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

_August 12th_.--I see the President almost every day, as I happen to
live where he passes to or from his lodgings out of town. He never
sleeps at the White House during the hot season, but has quarters at
a healthy location some three miles north of the city, the Soldiers'
home, a United States military establishment. I saw him this morning
about 8 1/2 coming in to business, riding on Vermont avenue, near L
street. He always has a company of twenty-five or thirty cavalry, with
sabres drawn and held upright over their shoulders. They say this
guard was against his personal wish, but he let his counselors have
their way. The party makes no great show in uniform or horses. Mr.
Lincoln on the saddle generally rides a good-sized, easy-going gray
horse, is dress'd in plain black, somewhat rusty and dusty, wears a
black stiff hat, and looks about as ordinary in attire, &c., as the
commonest man. A lieutenant, with yellow straps, rides at his left,
and following behind, two by two, come the cavalry men, in their
yellow-striped jackets. They are generally going at a slow trot, as
that is the pace set them by the one they wait upon. The sabres and
accoutrements clank, and the entirely unornamental _cortege_ as it
trots towards Lafayette square arouses no sensation, only some curious
stranger stops and gazes. I see very plainly ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S dark
brown face, with the deep-cut lines, the eyes, always to me with a
deep latent sadness in the expression. We have got so that we exchange
bows, and very cordial ones. Sometimes the President goes and comes in
an open barouche. The cavalry always accompany him, with drawn sabres.
Often I notice as he goes out evenings--and sometimes in the morning,
when he returns early--he turns off and halts at the large and
handsome residence of the Secretary of War, on K street, and holds
conference there. If in his barouche, I can see from my window he does
not alight, but sits in his vehicle, and Mr. Stanton comes out to
attend him. Sometimes one of his sons, a boy of ten or twelve,
accompanies him, riding at his right on a pony. Earlier in the summer
I occasionally saw the President and his wife, toward the latter part
of the afternoon, out in a barouche, on a pleasure ride through the
city. Mrs. Lincoln was dress'd in complete black, with a long crape
veil. The equipage is of the plainest kind, only two horses, and they
nothing extra. They pass'd me once very close, and I saw the President
in the face fully, as they were moving slowly, and his look, though
abstracted, happen'd to be directed steadily in my eye. He bow'd and
smiled, but far beneath his smile I noticed well the expression I
have alluded to. None of the artists or pictures has caught the deep,
though subtle and indirect expression of this man's face. There is
something else there. One of the great portrait painters of two or
three centuries ago is needed.

HEATED TERM

There has lately been much suffering here from heat; we have had it
upon us now eleven days. I go around with an umbrella and a fan. I saw
two cases of sun-stroke yesterday, one in Pennsylvania avenue, and
another in Seventh street. The City railroad company loses some horses
every day. Yet Washington is having a livelier August, and is probably
putting in a more energetic and satisfactory summer, than ever before
during its existence. There is probably more human electricity, more
population to make it, more business, more light-heartedness,
than ever before. The armies that swiftly circumambiated from
Fredericksburgh--march'd, struggled, fought, had out their mighty
clinch and hurl at Gettysburg--wheel'd, circumambiated again, return'd
to their ways, touching us not, either at their going or coming. And
Washington feels that she has pass'd the worst; perhaps feels that she
is henceforth mistress. So here she sits with her surrounding hills
spotted with guns, and is conscious of a character and identity
different from what it was five or six short weeks ago, and very
considerably pleasanter and prouder.

SOLDIERS AND TALKS

Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, you meet everywhere about the city,
often superb-looking men, though invalids dress'd in worn uniforms,
and carrying canes or crutches. I often have talks with them,
occasionally quite long and interesting. One, for instance, will have
been all through the peninsula under McClellan--narrates to me the
fights, the marches, the strange, quick changes of that eventful
campaign, and gives glimpses of many things untold in any official
reports or books or journals. These, indeed, are the things that are
genuine and precious. The man was there, has been out two years, has
been through a dozen fights, the superfluous flesh of talking is long
work'd off him, and he gives me little but the hard meat and sinew.
I find it refreshing, these hardy, bright, intuitive, American young
men, (experienc'd soldiers with all their youth.) The vocal play and
significance moves one more than books. Then 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 am
continually lost at the absence of blowing and blowers among these
old-young American militaires. I have found some man or other who has
been in every battle since the war began, and have talk'd with them
about each one in every part of the United States, and many of the
engagements on the rivers and harbors too. I find men here from every
State in the Union, without exception. (There are more Southerners,
especially border State men, in the Union army than is generally
supposed. [A]) I now doubt whether one can get a fair idea of
what this war practically is, or what genuine America is, and her
character, without some such experience as this I am having.

DEATH OF A WISCONSIN OFFICER

Another characteristic scene of that dark and bloody 1863, from notes
of my visit to Armory-square hospital, one hot but pleasant summer
day. In ward H we approach the cot of a young lieutenant of one of the
Wisconsin regiments. Tread the bare board floor lightly here, for the
pain and panting of death are in this cot. I saw the lieutenant when
he was first brought here from Chancellorsville, and have been with
him occasionally from day to day and night to night. He had been
getting along pretty well till night before last, when a sudden
hemorrhage that could not be stopt came upon him, and to-day it still
continues at intervals. Notice that water-pail by the side of the bed,
with a quantity of blood and bloody pieces of muslin, nearly full;
that tells the story. The poor young man is struggling painfully for
breath, his great dark eyes with a glaze already upon them, and the
choking faint but audible in his throat. An attendant sits by him, and
will not leave him till the last; yet little or nothing can be done.
He will die here in an hour or two, without the presence of kith or
kin. Meantime the ordinary chat and business of[6] the ward a little
way off goes on indifferently. Some of the inmates are laughing and
joking, others are playing checkers or cards, others are reading, &c.

I have noticed through most of the hospitals that as long as there is
any chance for a man, no matter how bad he may be, the surgeon and
nurses work hard, sometimes with curious tenacity, for his life,
doing everything, and keeping somebody by him to execute the doctor's
orders, and minister to him every minute night and day. See that
screen there. As you advance through the dusk of early candle-light, a
nurse will step forth on tip-toe, and silently but imperiously forbid
you to make any noise, or perhaps to come near at all. Some soldier's
life is flickering there, suspended between recovery and death.
Perhaps at this moment the exhausted frame has just fallen into a
light sleep that a step might shake. You must retire. The neighboring
patients must move in their stocking feet. I have been several times
struck with such mark'd efforts--everything bent to save a life from
the very grip of the destroyer. But when that grip is once firmly
fix'd, leaving no hope or chance at all, the surgeon abandons the
patient. If it is a case where stimulus is any relief, the nurse gives
milk-punch or brandy, or whatever is wanted, _ad libitum_. There is no
fuss made. Not a bit of sentimentalism or whining have I seen about a
single death-bed in hospital or on the field, but generally impassive
indifference. All is over, as far as any efforts can avail; it is
useless to expend emotions or labors. While there is a prospect they
strive hard--at least most surgeons do; but death certain and evident,
they yield the field.

Note:

[6]MR. GARFIELD (_In the House of Representatives, April 15,'79_.) "Do
gentlemen know that (leaving out all the border States) there were
fifty regiments and seven companies of white men in our army fighting
for the Union from the States that went into rebellion? Do they know
that from the single State of Kentucky more Union soldiers fought
under our flag than Napoleon took into the battle of Waterloo? more
than Wellington took with all the allied armies against Napoleon? Do
they remember that 186,000 color'd men fought under our flag against
the rebellion and for the Union, and that of that number 90,000 were
from the States which went into rebellion?"

HOSPITALS ENSEMBLE

_Aug., Sept., and Oct., '63._--I am in the habit of going to all, and
to Fairfax seminary, Alexandria, and over Long bridge to the great
Convalescent camp. The journals publish a regular directory of them
--a long list. As a specimen of almost any one of the larger of these
hospitals, fancy to yourself a space of three to twenty acres of
ground, on which are group'd ten or twelve very large wooden barracks,
with, perhaps, a dozen or twenty, and sometimes more than that number,
small buildings, capable altogether of accommodating from five hundred
to a thousand or fifteen hundred persons. Sometimes these wooden
barracks or wards, each of them perhaps from a hundred to a hundred
and fifty feet long, are rang'd in a straight row, evenly fronting
the street; others are plann'd so as to form an immense V; and others
again are ranged around a hollow square. They make altogether a
huge cluster, with the additional tents, extra wards for contagious
diseases, guard-houses, sutler's stores, chaplain's house; in the
middle will probably be an edifice devoted to the offices of the
surgeon in charge and the ward surgeons, principal attaches, clerks,
&c. The wards are either letter'd alphabetically, ward G, ward K, or
else numerically, 1, 2, 3, &c. Each has its ward surgeon and corps
of nurses. Of course, there is, in the aggregate, quite a muster of
employes, and over all the surgeon in charge. Here in Washington,
when these army hospitals are all fill'd, (as they have been already
several times,) they contain a population more numerous in itself than
the whole of the Washington of ten or fifteen years ago. Within sight
of the capitol, as I write, are some thirty or forty such collections,
at times holding from fifty to seventy thousand men. Looking from any
eminence and studying the topography in my rambles, I use them as
landmarks. Through the rich August verdure of the trees, see that
white group of buildings off yonder in the outskirts; then another
cluster half a mile to the left of the first; then another a mile to
the right, and another a mile beyond, and still another between us
and the first. Indeed, we can hardly look in any direction but these
clusters are dotting the landscape and environs. That little town, as
you might suppose it, off there on the brow of a hill, is indeed a
town, but of wounds, sickness, and death. It is Finley hospital,
northeast of the city, on Kendall green, as it used to be call'd. That
other is Campbell hospital. Both are large establishments. I have
known these two alone to have from two thousand to twenty-five hundred
inmates. Then there is Carver hospital, larger still, a wall'd and
military city regularly laid out, and guarded by squads of sentries.
Again, off east, Lincoln hospital, a still larger one; and half a mile
further Emory hospital. Still sweeping the eye around down the river
toward Alexandria, we see, to the right, the locality where the
Convalescent camp stands, with its five, eight, or sometimes ten
thousand inmates. Even all these are but a portion. The Harewood,
Mount Pleasant, Armory-square, Judiciary hospitals, are some of the
rest, and all large collections.

A SILENT NIGHT RAMBLE

_October 20th_.--To-night, after leaving the hospital at 10 o'clock,
(I had been on self-imposed duty some five hours, pretty closely
confined,) I wander'd a long time around Washington. The night was
sweet, very clear, sufficiently cool, a voluptuous halfmoon, slightly
golden, the space near it of a transparent blue-gray tinge. I walk'd
up Pennsylvania avenue, and then to Seventh street, and a long while
around the Patent-office. Somehow it look'd rebukefully strong,
majestic, there in the delicate moonlight. The sky, the planets, the
constellations all so bright, so calm, so expressively silent, so
soothing, after those hospital scenes. I wander'd to and fro till the
moist moon set, long after midnight.

SPIRITUAL CHARACTERS AMONG THE SOLDIERS

Every now and then, in hospital or camp, there are beings I
meet--specimens of unworldliness, disinterestedness, and animal purity
and heroism--perhaps some unconscious Indianian, or from Ohio or
Tennessee--on whose birth the calmness of heaven seems to have
descended, and whose gradual growing up, whatever the circumstances
of work-life or change, or hardship, or small or no education that
attended it, the power of a strange spiritual sweetness, fibre and
inward health, have also attended. Something veil'd and abstracted is
often a part of the manners of these beings. I have met them, I say,
not seldom in the army, in camp, and in the hospitals. The Western
regiments contain many of them. They are often young men, obeying
the events and occasions about them, marching, soldiering, righting,
foraging, cooking, working on farms or at some trade before the
war--unaware of their own nature, (as to that, who is aware of his own
nature?) their companions only understanding that they are different
from the rest, more silent, "something odd about them," and apt to go
off and meditate and muse in solitude.

CATTLE DROVES ABOUT WASHINGTON

Among other sights are immense droves of cattle with their drivers,
passing through the streets of the city. Some of the men have a way
of leading the cattle by a peculiar call, a wild, pensive hoot, quite
musical, prolong'd, indescribable, sounding something between the
cooing of a pigeon and the hoot of an owl. I like to stand and look at
the sight of one of these immense droves--a little way off--(as the
dust is great.) There are always men on horseback, cracking their
whips and shouting--the cattle low--some obstinate ox or steer
attempts to escape--then a lively scene--the mounted men, always
excellent riders and on good horses, dash after the recusant, and
wheel and turn--a dozen mounted drovers, their great slouch'd,
broad-brim'd hats, very picturesque--another dozen on foot--everybody
cover'd with dust--long goads in their hands--an immense drove of
perhaps 1000 cattle--the shouting, hooting, movement, &c.

HOSPITAL PERPLEXITY

To add to other troubles, amid the confusion of this great army of
sick, it is almost impossible for a stranger to find any friend or
relative, unless he has the patient's specific address to start upon.
Besides the directory printed in the newspapers here, there are one
or two general directories of the hospitals kept at provost's
head-quarters, but they are nothing like complete; they are never up
to date, and, as things are, with the daily streams of coming and
going and changing, cannot be. I have known cases, for instance such
as a farmer coming here from northern New York to find a wounded
brother, faithfully hunting round for a week, and then compell'd to
leave and go home without getting any trace of him. When he got home
he found a letter from the brother giving the right address.

DOWN AT THE FRONT

CULPEPPER, VA., _Feb. '64._--Here I am FRONT pretty well down toward
the extreme front. Three or four days ago General S., who is now in
chief command, (I believe Meade is absent, sick,) moved a strong
force southward from camp as if intending business. They went to the
Rapidan; there has since been some manoeuvering and a little fighting,
but nothing of consequence. The telegraphic accounts given Monday
morning last, make entirely too much of it, I should say. What
General S. intended we here know not, but we trust in that competent
commander. We were somewhat excited, (but not so very much either,) on
Sunday, during the day and night, as orders were sent out to pack
up and harness, and be ready to evacuate, to fall back towards
Washington. But I was very sleepy and went to bed. Some tremendous
shouts arousing me during the night, I went forth and found it was
from the men above mention'd, who were returning. I talk'd with some
of the men; as usual I found them full of gayety, endurance, and many
fine little outshows, the signs of the most excellent good manliness
of the world. It was a curious sight to see those shadowy columns
moving through the night. I stood unobserv'd in the darkness and
watch'd them long. The mud was very deep. The men had their usual
burdens, overcoats, knapsacks, guns and blankets. Along and along they
filed by me, with often a laugh, a song, a cheerful word, but never
once a murmur. It may have been odd, but I never before so realized
the majesty and reality of the American people _en masse_. It fell
upon me like a great awe. The strong ranks moved neither fast nor
slow. They had march'd seven or eight miles already through the
slipping unctuous mud. The brave First corps stopt here. The equally
brave Third corps moved on to Brandy station. The famous Brooklyn 14th
are here, guarding the town. You see their red legs actively moving
everywhere. Then they have a theatre of their own here. They give
musical performances, nearly everything done capitally. Of course
the audience is a jam. It is good sport to attend one of these
entertainments of the 14th. I like to look around at the soldiers, and
the general collection in front of the curtain, more than the scene on
the stage.