“Wilson Small,” June 12.
Dear A., —Yours of the 4th received, telling me you have sent some cases. How eagerly I shall look out for the “Webster!” I wish I could instruct you fully as to the late battle; but our work so fills both time and mind that I feel as if I lived out of the war now that I live in it. You have much fuller accounts in the New York papers than I can give you. The little that I know is, however, true, and that is more than can be said of all the papers tell you. The late battle was not a general engagement. The enemy attacked us on the left. Our left is composed of two corps d’armée, — General Keyes’s and General Heintzelmann’s. Each corps has two divisions, each division four or five brigades, each brigade four regiments. Our left has been for some time across the Chickahominy, although not so near Richmond as our right, which is now bridging the river and the swamps to cross higher up, and is composed of two corps, — General Franklin’s and General Fitz-John Porter’s; the latter stretching away to the right to form the desired junction with McDowell. The bed of the Chickahominy is narrow; but in wet weather it becomes nearly treble its width, making the bridges and causeways which we have built nearly impassable. The enemy, taking advantage of the great storm which flooded these bottom lands (destroying, so they hoped, our communications), attacked General Casey’s division on three sides. This division is part of General Keyes’s corps. It was clearly a surprise, some of the officers being killed at dinner in their tents. We were forced back, losing guns and ground, — which were recovered, however, when General Couch’s division (also of Keyes’s corps) came up. It is said that when General Kearny’s division (of Heintzelmann’s corps) reached the ground, the day was already redeemed. Our right was from four to seven miles distant from the scene of action, which was at a place called Seven Pines, on the line of the railroad. General McClellan, whose headquarters are on the railroad this side of the Chickahominy, and about the centre of our lines, crossed the river Saturday afternoon with General Sumner and his corps, and the next day (Sunday) defeated the enemy at all points.
This is all I know; and you won’t understand it without a map. I am sorry to say General McClellan is very unwell, if not seriously ill. I am told he has had the fever, which has left him with camp dysentery. I inclose a printed letter of Mr. Olmsted’s about the work of the Commission which we all like very much. I have made some notes to it, for I comprehend the family egotism about me enough to feel that you will read the letter with double interest if you know where I fit into it.
Last evening we made our first pleasure excursion. Mr. Olmsted begged us (“us” always means himself and staff) to take a run in the “Wheelbarrow,” “Wissahickon,” or “Wicked Chicken,” as we indiscriminately call our tug-boat, up the river beyond the burned bridge. We generally have one or two pleasant outsiders not far off. Last night it was Colonel Howland, who had ridden in from the front to spend a day with his wife. Oh, how we enjoyed our little holiday! It was sweet to run suddenly out of the noisy bustle of the wharves and the camp, out of the breath of hospitals, into the still river, shining with amber lights of sunset, where nothing broke the silence but the cranes — and we. We came home by moonlight, refreshed and happy.
To-day (very suddenly, and just at dinnertime) the Chief discovered that an ice-boat was missing; so we have dropped down to Cumberland in search of her. In other words, we have had a peaceful family dinner, safe from loafers and spongers; and now we are sitting on the after-deck, dreaming, reading, writing, and some of us, of course, smoking. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to be with these people who go right in to a thing thoroughly. Nobody is head here (except the Chief). We all do a little of everything, and pretty much what we please. I am, if anything, at the foot. This is not humility, but truth; the others are so prompt and efficient that they often take out of my hands that which I might do.
We are just passing the charred bones of a burned rebel gunboat. Oh, this pretty river! How I wish you could be beside me now! If you were, you should occupy our best chair, which once was cane-bottomed, but now has only the frame-work of the seat, on which we poise ourselves.
I am well, and shall last, I think, till we get to Richmond. Don’t be uneasy about me; if I should be ill, I shall take the mail-boat, and be at home before you can hear of it. To-morrow I take a ride in an ambulance, which equipage the surgeon-in-charge of the Shore hospital is to send down for us, that we may go up and organize a special diet kitchen for him, where proper sick-food can be prepared under the surgeons’ orders. All good hospitals ought to be self-supporting. Government furnishes an ample ration, which can be drawn in money (“commuted” they call it) and spent in proper food for the sick, instead of the ordinary mess diet. I should like to have charge of a hospital now. I could make it march, if only I had hold of some of the administrative power.
We have little to do at the present moment. From twenty-five to seventy-five sick men come down daily. We give them a meal as they arrive, and then they are taken to the Shore hospital. When a wounded man comes down he is put on the “Elm City,” now lying alongside the wharf. We have done nothing on board of her since we last fitted her up before the battle. She has her full complement of service, and the women’s department is in the competent hands of Mrs. Balestier and Miss Bradford. At present our time is divided between the tent and the “Small,” — the dear “Small!” I wonder whether we should like her as well under any other name. We have given quite a home-look to our little cabin, which is never without its bouquet of magnolia, jessamine, and honeysuckle. Our orderlies gather the flowers as an attention to “the ladies,” and every now and then Captain Sawtelle sends a bunch.
Heavy orders for intrenching-tools were filled and sent forward last night. This looks as if a battle were not in prospect. It is all very well for political idiots and men at ease to talk about “cutting our way into Richmond.” If they want it done, why don’t they give McClellan strength enough to do it? Colonel Howland says that we must trust him; that whatever he does, be it act or wait, will be well done. When will the nation learn that it is in the hands of its greatest man, and wait calmly for his results, only taking care in the mean time to strengthen his hands?[1] I hope you keep my letters (for my own benefit). I have no recollection of where I have been or what I have done. You can form no idea of the bewilderment and doubt in which we live as to times and seasons, hours of the day and days of the Week. It is really absurd. I am told to-day is Thursday; but I certainly thought it was Tuesday.
[1] It is perhaps as well to say here that my present opinion of General McClellan is somewhat different from what it was. I still think that he was an able general, and a noble and patriotic man, who sought to heal as well as to conquer. But he was, it seems, too slow for the work he had to do. He was an accomplished and careful soldier, even a great one; but he had not the genius of War, nor the dash that sometimes takes its place. On the other hand, we must remember that no great commander was ever so trammelled and thwarted by civilian ignorance and scheming. Had the powers ultimately given to General Grant been intrusted to General McClellan, he might, perhaps, have ended the war in this campaign.
