War Scenes

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

But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and
Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in
the woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very
pleasant, at times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so
calm in itself, the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the
trees -- yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying
helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the
rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an artillery
contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or
limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass. Patches of the woods take
fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed --
quite large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also -- some of
the men have their hair and beards singed -- some, burns on their
faces and hands -- others holes burnt in their clothing. The flashes
of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the
immense roar -- the musketry so general, the light nearly bright
enough for each side to see the other -- the crashing, tramping of men
-- the yelling -- close quarters -- we hear the secesh yells -- our
men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight -- hand to
hand conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as
demons, they often charge upon us -- a thousand deeds are done worth
to write newer greater poems on -- and still the woods on fire --
still many are not only scorch'd -- too many, unable to move, are
burn'd to death.

Then the camps of the wounded -- O heavens,
 ...  what
scene is this? -- is this indeed humanity -- these butchers' shambles?
 ...  There they lie,  ...  in an open space in the woods,  ...  300 poor fellows -- the groans and screams  ...  mixed with the fresh scent of the night,
 ...  that slaughter-house! O well is
it their mothers ...  cannot see them  ... . Some have their legs blown off --
some bullets through the breast -- some indescribably horrid wounds in
the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out  ...  -- some mere boys  ...  -- they take their  ...  turns with
the rest ... . Such is the camp of the wounded  ... 
while over all the clear, large moon comes out at times softly,
 ...  amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds  ...  the clear-obscure up
there, those buoyant upper oceans -- a few large placid stars beyond,
coming  ...  languidly out, and then disappearing
-- the melancholy, draperied night  ...  around. And
there, upon the roads ...  and in those woods,
that contest, never one more desperate in any age or land  ... .

What history, I say, can ever give -- for who can know -- the mad,
determin'd tussle of the armies ... ? Who know the conflict ...  in  ...  flashing-moonbeam'd woods -- the
writhing  ...  squads -- the cries, the din,  ...  the distant cannon -- the
cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths -- the
indescribable mix -- the officers' orders,  ...  the devils fully rous'd in human hearts
-- the strong shout, Charge, men, charge  ...  and still again the moonlight pouring
silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the
sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the
irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third
corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up -- those rapid-filing
phantoms through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows,
fluid and firm -- to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps
the nation? as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls
not yet -- but death has mark'd him -- soon he falls.)
scene, the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk?

June 18th. --
 ...  Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with
profuse beautiful shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while
he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd
his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly
to gaze easier -- one long, clear, silent look -- a slight sigh --
then turn'd back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor
death-stricken boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near.

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

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

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

  Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something
pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of
horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses are
excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs. Wright
-- a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital, Alexandria
-- she is a perfect nurse.)

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

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

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

 ... 

 ...  In one of the fights 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.

At the dance and supper room, I could not help thinking
what a different scene they presented to my view a while since.
Filled with a crowded mess of the worst wounded of the war 
Tonight beautiful women, perfumes, the violin's sweetness, the polka and the waltz.
There the amputation, the blue face, the groan
The glassy eye of the dying, the clouted rag, the odor of blood
And many a mother's son amid strangers passing away untended there.

And so good-bye to the war. I know not how it may have been,  ...  to others -- to me the main interest was in the rank and file of the armies,  ...  and even the dead on the
field.  ...  the points illustrating the latent personal character of the American young were of more significance  ...  than the political interests
involved.  ... 

Future years will never know the seething hell  ...  of countless minor scenes and interiors, (not the
official surface courteousness of the Generals, not the few great
battles) of the Secession war; and it is best they should not1. The
real war will never get in the books.  ... 

 ...  perhaps must not and should not
be.

The whole land, North and South, was one vast hospital, greater (like life's) than the few distortions ever told. Think
how much, and of importance, will be --  ... 
has already been -- buried in the grave ... .