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Dominion, (the subtle mockery of that title now!) such thoughts have
fill'd me. The soil is yet far above the average of any of the northern
States. And how full of breadth the scenery, everywhere distant
mountains, everywhere convenient rivers. Even yet prodigal in forest
woods, and surely eligible for all the fruits, orchards, and flowers.
The skies and atmosphere most luscious, as I feel certain, from more
than a year's residence in the State, and movements hither and yon. I
should say very healthy, as a general thing. Then a rich and elastic
quality, by night and by day. The sun rejoices in his strength, dazzling
and burning, and yet, to me, never unpleasantly weakening. It is not the
panting tropical heat, but invigorates. The north tempers it. The nights
are often unsurpassable. Last evening (Feb. 8,) I saw the first of the
new moon, the outlined old moon clear along with it; the sky and air
so clear, such transparent hues of color, it seem'd to me I had never
really seen the new moon before. It was the thinnest cut crescent
possible. It hung delicate just above the sulky shadow of the Blue
mountains. Ah, if it might prove an omen and good prophecy for this
unhappy State.
SUMMER OF 1864
I am back again in Washington, on my regular daily and nightly rounds.
Of course there are many specialties. Dotting a ward here and there are
always cases of poor fellows, long-suffering under obstinate wounds,
or weak and dishearten'd from typhoid fever, or the like; mark'd cases,
needing special and sympathetic nourishment. These I sit down and either
talk to, or silently cheer them up. They always like it hugely, (and so
do I.) Each case has its peculiarities, and needs some new adaptation. I
have learnt to thus conform--learnt a good deal of hospital wisdom.
Some of the poor young chaps, away from home for the first time in their
lives, hunger and thirst for affection; this is sometimes the only thing
that will reach their condition. The men like to have a pencil, and
something to write in. I have given them cheap pocket-diaries, and
almanacs for 1864, interleav'd with blank paper. For reading I generally
have some old pictorial magazines or story papers--they are always
acceptable. Also the morning or evening papers of the day. The best
books I do not give, but lend to read through the wards, and then take
them to others, and so on; they are very punctual about returning the
books. In these wards, or on the field, as I thus continue to go round,
I have come to adapt myself to each emergency, after its kind or call,
however trivial, however solemn, every one justified and made real
under its circumstances--not only visits and cheering talk and little
gifts--not only washing and dressing wounds, (I have some cases where
the patient is unwilling any one should do this but me)--but passages
from the Bible, expounding them, prayer at the bedside, explanations of
doctrine, &c. (I think I see my friends smiling at this confession, but
I was never more in earnest in my life.) In camp and everywhere, I was
in the habit of reading or giving recitations to the men. They were very
fond of it, and liked declamatory poetical pieces. We would gather in
a large group by ourselves, after supper, and spend the time in such
readings, or in talking, and occasionally by an amusing game called the
game of twenty questions.
A NEW ARMY ORGANIZATION FIT FOR AMERICA
It is plain to me out of the events of the war, north and south, and out
of all considerations, that the current military theory, practice, rules
and organization, (adopted from Europe from the feudal institutes, with,
of course, the "modern improvements," largely from the French,) though
tacitly follow'd, and believ'd in by the officers generally, are not at
all consonant with the United States, nor our people, nor our days. What
it will be I know not--but I know that as entire an abnegation of the
present military system, and the naval too, and a building up from
radically different root-bases and centres appropriate to us, must
eventually result, as that our political system has resulted and become
establish'd, different from feudal Europe, and built up on itself from
original, perennial, democratic premises. We have undoubtedly in the
United States the greatest military power--an exhaustless, intelligent,
brave and reliable rank and file--in the world, any land, perhaps all
lands. The problem is to organize this in the manner fully appropriate
to it, to the principles of the republic, and to get the best service
out of it. In the present struggle, as already seen and review'd,
probably three-fourths of the losses, men, lives, &c., have been sheer
superfluity, extravagance, waste.
DEATH OF A HERO
I wonder if I could ever convey to another--to you, for instance, reader
dear--the tender and terrible realities of such cases, (many, many
happen'd,) as the one I am now going to mention. Stewart C. Glover,
company E, 5th Wisconsin--was wounded May 5, in one of those fierce
tussles of the Wilderness-died May 21--aged about 20. He was a small
and beardless young man--a splendid soldier--in fact almost an ideal
American, of his age. He had serv'd nearly three years, and would have
been entitled to his discharge in a few days. He was in Hancock's corps.
The fighting had about ceas'd for the day, and the general commanding
the brigade rode by and call'd for volunteers to bring in the wounded.
Glover responded among the first--went out gayly--but while in the act
of bearing in a wounded sergeant to our lines, was shot in the knee by
a rebel sharpshooter; consequence, amputation and death. He had resided
with his father, John Glover, an aged and feeble man, in Batavia,
Genesee county, N. Y., but was at school in Wisconsin, after the war
broke out, and there enlisted--soon took to soldier-life, liked it,
was very manly, was belov'd by officers and comrades. He kept a little
diary, like so many of the soldiers. On the day of his death he wrote
the following in it, _to-day the doctor says I must die--all is over
with me--ah, so young to die_. On another blank leaf he pencill'd to his
brother, _dear brother Thomas, I have been brave but wicked--pray for
me._
HOSPITAL SCENES--INCIDENTS
It is Sunday afternoon, middle of summer, hot and oppressive, and very
silent through the ward. I am taking care of a critical case, now lying
in a half lethargy. Near where I sit is a suffering rebel, from the
8th Louisiana; his name is Irving. He has been here a long time, badly
wounded, and lately had his leg amputated; it is not doing very well.
Right opposite me is a sick soldier-boy, laid down with his clothes on,
sleeping, looking much wasted, his pallid face on his arm. I see by the
yellow trimming on his jacket that he is a cavalry boy. I step softly
over and find by his card that he is named William Cone, of the 1st
Maine cavalry, and his folks live in Skowhegan.
_Ice Cream Treat_.--One hot day toward the middle of June, I gave the
inmates of Carver hospital a general ice cream treat, purchasing a large
quantity, and, under convoy of the doctor or head nurse, going
around personally through the wards to see to its distribution. _An
Incident_.--In one of the rights before Atlanta, a rebel soldier, of
large size, evidently a young man, was mortally wounded top of the head,
so that the brains partially exuded. He lived three days, lying on
his back on the spot where he first dropt. He dug with his heel in the
ground during that time a hole big enough to put in a couple of
ordinary knapsacks. He just lay there in the open air, and with little
intermission kept his heel going night and day. Some of our soldiers
then moved him to a house, but he died in a few minutes.
_Another_.--After the battles at Columbia, Tennessee, where we repuls'd
about a score of vehement rebel charges, they left a great many wounded
on the ground, mostly within our range. Whenever any of these wounded
attempted to move away by any means, generally by crawling off, our men
without exception brought them down by a bullet. They let none crawl
away, no matter what his condition.
A YANKEE SOLDIER
As I turn'd off the Avenue one cool October evening into Thirteenth
street, a soldier with knapsack and overcoat stood at the corner
inquiring his way. I found he wanted to go part of the road in my
direction, so we walk'd on together. We soon fell into conversation. He
was small and not very young, and a tough little fellow, as I judged in
the evening light, catching glimpses by the lamps we pass'd. His answers
were short, but clear. His name was Charles Carroll; he belong'd to
one of the Massachusetts regiments, and was born in or near Lynn. His
parents were living, but were very old. There were four sons, and all
had enlisted. Two had died of starvation and misery in the prison at
Andersonville, and one had been kill'd in the west. He only was left.
He was now going home, and by the way he talk'd I inferr'd that his time
was nearly out. He made great calculations on being with his parents to
comfort them the rest of their days.
UNION PRISONERS SOUTH
Michael Stansbury, 48 years of age, a seafaring man, a southerner by
birth and raising, formerly captain of U. S. light ship Long Shoal,
station'd at Long Shoal point, Pamlico sound--though a southerner, a
firm Union man--was captur'd Feb. 17, 1863, and has been nearly two
years in the Confederate prisons; was at one time order'd releas'd by
Governor Vance, but a rebel officer re-arrested him; then sent on to
Richmond for exchange--but instead of being exchanged was sent down
(as a southern citizen, not a soldier,) to Salisbury, N. C., where he
remain'd until lately, when he escap'd among the exchang'd by assuming
the name of a dead soldier, and coming up via Wilmington with the rest.
Was about sixteen months in Salisbury.
Subsequent to October, '64, there were about 11,000 Union prisoners in
the stockade; about 100 of them southern unionists, 200 U. S. deserters.
During the past winter 1500 of the prisoners, to save their lives,
join'd the confederacy, on condition of being assign'd merely to guard
duty. Out of the 11,000 not more than 2500 came out; 500 of these were
pitiable, helpless wretches--the rest were in a condition to travel.
There were often 60 dead bodies to be buried in the morning; the daily
average would be about 40. The regular food was a meal of corn, the cob
and husk ground together, and sometimes once a week a ration of sorghum
molasses. A diminutive ration of meat might possibly come once a month,
not oftener. In the stockade, containing the 11,000 men, there was a
partial show of tents, not enough for 2000. A large proportion of the
men lived in holes in the ground, in the utmost wretchedness. Some froze
to death, others had their hands and feet frozen. The rebel guards would
occasionally, and on the least pretence, fire into the prison from mere
demonism and wantonness. All the horrors that can be named, starvation,
lassitude, filth, vermin, despair, swift loss of self-respect, idiocy,
insanity, and frequent murder, were there. Stansbury has a wife and
child living in Newbern--has written to them from here--is in the U. S.
light-house employ still--(had been home to Newbern to see his family,
and on his return to the ship was captured in his boat.) Has seen men
brought there to Salisbury as hearty as you ever see in your life--in
a few weeks completely dead gone, much of it from thinking on their
condition--hope all gone. Has himself a hard, sad, strangely deaden'd
kind of look, as of one chill' d for years in the cold and dark, where
his good manly nature had no room to exercise itself.
DESERTERS
_Oct. 24_.--Saw a large squad of our own deserters (over 300) surrounded