15th.—An exciting day. Trains have been constantly passing with the wounded for the Richmond hospitals. Every lady, every child, every servant in the village, has been engaged preparing and carrying food to the wounded as the cars stopped at the depot—coffee, tea, soup, milk, and every thing we could obtain. With eager eyes and beating hearts we watched for those most dear to us. Sometimes they were so slightly injured as to sit at the windows and answer our questions, which they were eager to do. They exult in the victory. I saw several poor fellows shot through the mouth—they only wanted milk; it was soothing and cooling to their lacerated flesh. One, whom I did not see, had both eyes shot out. But I cannot write of the horrors of this day. Nothing but an undying effort to administer to their comfort could have kept us up. The Bishop was with us all day, and the few gentlemen who remained in the village. When our gentlemen came home at five o’clock they joined us, and were enabled to do what we could not—walk through each car, giving comfort as they went. The gratitude of those who were able to express it was so touching! They said that the ladies were at every depot with refreshments. As the cars would move off; those who were able would shout their blessings on the ladies of Virginia: “We will fight, we will protect the ladies of Virginia.” Ah, poor fellows, what can the ladies of Virginia ever do to compensate them for all they have done and suffered for us? As a train approached late this evening, we saw comparatively very few sitting up. It was immediately surmised that it contained the desperately wounded—perhaps many of the dead. With eager eyes we watched, and before it stopped I saw Surgeon J. P. Smith (my connection) spring from the platform, and come towards me; my heart stood still. “What is it, Doctor? Tell me at once.” “Your nephews, Major B. and Captain C, are both on the train, dangerously wounded.” “Mortally?” “We hope not. You will not be allowed to enter the car; come to Richmond to-morrow morning; B. will be there for you to nurse. I shall carry W. C. on the morning cars to his mother at the University. We will do our best for both.” In a moment he was gone. Of course I shall go down in the early cars, and devote my life to B. until his parents arrive. I am writing now because I can’t sleep, and must be occupied. The cars passed on, and we filled our pitchers, bowls and baskets, to be ready for others. We cannot yield to private feelings now; they may surge up and rush through our hearts until they almost burst them, but they must not overwhelm ns. We must do our duty to our country, and it can’t be done by nursing our own sorrows.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
15th.—”How brightly breaks the morning!” clear and beautiful. What of the passions and ambitions of the hosts marshalled in hostile array to each other? Oh that they were calm and unspotted as the bright sun which shines on them and lights their way to this wholesale and legitimate murder. I have been a backwoodsman; have lain concealed, and by false calls have lured the wary turkey within range of the deadly rifle. I have climbed the forest tree, and from this ambush have watched the cautious deer as he came at hot summer eve to lave his sides and slake his thirst at the bubbling spring, and have slaughtered him in the midst of his enjoyment. I have lain behind the precipice to surprise the wily wolf, as in hot pursuit of his intended victim he became rash and incautious, and by a shot I have arrested his life current and his chase. But never have I planned with half the care with which man here decoys and plans against the life of his fellow man, or felt half the pleasure at my success as do our men of God, when, at their nightly prayers, they in the same breath thank that God for the murders we have been permitted to perpetrate—the misery to inflict—and ask for peace on earth, and good will to man.
‘Tis 10 o’clock, and no action has commenced. Has there been some change in the rebel positions since yesterday to delay us, or did I judge rightly when I supposed that the public promises of a fight to-day were made to deceive the enemy, not doubting that some traitor or deserter would manage to get the word into their lines?
Orders have come to send our wounded to the other side of the river, and now at 12 o’clock a city of hospital tents is being built up on the plain about a mile further back, but in full view, because we are too near to the expected scene of action. But why, if we expected a fight to-day, was this not done yesterday? It looks very like a ruse of some kind. I do not quite understand it, but something’s in the wind. I have been gratified to find, in my rounds to-day, that my patients seem to be doing so well.
Having sent all the wounded to the rear, at half-past 2 o’clock the surgeons received orders to evacuate immediately , the premises we had so busily and so bloodily occupied, and to “re-cross the river.” This order being rather indefinite, I took occasion when across to select my whereabouts, so I rode up to a point opposite to Fredericksburg, which I found that our troops had saved from entire destruction by extinguishing the fire when the enemy evacuated it, I there found General Sumner’s troops in full possession, and heard that General Lee had this morning given us notice to leave it in six hours, (improbable.) Whether true or not, he had just commenced shelling the city, but, during the half hour that I watched proceedings, with very little effect. I then hunted up the new locality of our hospital, where I now sit, and where I wait for “our misguided brothers” on the other side to send me work to do.
9 P. M.—Night has come, without any important action during the day. I have just received intelligence that our troops are recrossing the river in force! Can it be that we are retreating! Is this the key to the apparent indiseretion of our Commanders, in proclaiming from the house tops, preparations for a battle? If so, it is a shrewd move. I do not like the idea of falling back. However, if we have become satisfied that we cannot force the enemy’s position, nor draw them on to the plain, ’tis better to withdraw and try some other plan, than to sacrifice our men in a struggle where it is evident we must lose. The whispers of two days ago, that there is disaffection, or defection amongst the officers, is swelling into murmurs, and I confess my fear that it is not without reason. At two points, to my knowledge, during the hard day’s fight, the enemy was dislodged from his entrenchments, yet we almost immediately withdrew and permitted him to repossess them. Why?But there is a story current, that General Jackson (Stonewall) made an attempt to cross to our side to-day, and that it is only General Smith’s corps of our army that is recrossing, to guard against any possibility of his success, should he attempt it again.
December 15th. To-day several fine steamers belonging to Banks’ expedition arrived, loaded with troops; all transports, as they arrive, lay off in the stream.
December 15, Monday. No news from Fredericksburg; and no news at this time, I fear, is not good news.
Secretary Smith called on me to unburden his mind. He dislikes Seward’s management, and the general course pursued in Cabinet and between the members generally. Thinks Seward the chief cause of the unfortunate state of things.
Smith tells me he (Smith) has made up his mind to leave the Cabinet and accept the office of District Judge, which he can have.
Monday, 15th—The railroad bridge across the Tallahatchie river is repaired now, and the first train came through today. The cars can run as far as Oxford now. The quartermaster of our division has brought together at this place about $1,000,000.00 worth of cotton, which is to be shipped to the North.
Monday, 15. — A hot, clear day. Lieutenant McKinley and his party work hard clearing our parade. Rode the little sorrel up the river two miles. Threatens rain at night but we all vote for another fine day. Fire in the mountains.
Monday, 15th. Reached the Kansas river about noon and got crossed before dark. Went five miles to the edge of the prairie and camped. Pleasant place.
Dec. 15. — Morning comes after a night almost sultry. The air is dead; and, although the stateroom window has been wide open, we all awake in a perspiration. Daylight drags the wolf out of his cavern, — the city out to view. We find we are rather below it; opposite a pretentious building, which, I believe, is the Marine Hospital. In the course of the morning, we weigh anchor, and sail up a mile or so; the straight streets opening up as we go slowly by, looking quiet, and, with the wharves and buildings along the Levee, forsaken by business. We pass the Cathedral; a fine structure, so far as I can see, with a square in front, and two buildings of a mediæval appearance on each side, — convents, perhaps; then long sheds and markets. At length we are opposite the Custom House, — which has the revenue-flag flying, — an uncompleted building of Quincy granite, which, they say, was proving too heavy for the soil, sinking downward, until they were forced to stop building.
Here are the great peace-keepers of the city. After passing two French War-steamers, we come to frigate after frigate, grim, dangerous, silent, our flag at the stern; with formidable batteries, all in perfect trim, and trained straight against the city. Blue tars crowd the decks; watchmen, with spy-glasses, are in the tops. Should secession grow rife again, and, in city or suburb, the watch behold the dust arising from an émeute which the soldiery could not repress, New Orleans would be blown into shreds and splinters. We cast anchor again. As the day goes by, we buy oranges, ripe and sweet, from boats which come alongside; while the hope of being landed during the day, held out in the morning, fades and fades.
Near Oxford, Monday, Dec. 15. It rained nearly all day, making it very muddy, hard for our horses. No mail for two days.
Eliza Woolsey Howland to Chaplain Henry Hopkins
December, ’62.
Charley, you may have heard, has gone into the service as lieutenant in the 164th, but he was detached at once for staff duty and is aide to General Burnside and a member of good old General Seth Williams’ mess—just where we would most like to have him. We have heard from him up to Saturday morning, the day of the battle, and are not yet very anxious about him. . . . Georgy and Jane are hard at work at Portsmouth Grove, terrors to evil-doers as well as good friends to those who need it. They and the other ladies have effected many reforms and won the respect and confidence of all concerned except the mutinous convalescents and the lying stewards, whom they pursue like avenging fates.
We were very glad to hear of your work after those dreadful days of the “Second Bull Run.” . . . I write principally to ask what I can do to help you take care of the wounded. . . . You know I want to do all I can now that I am unable to be there myself. You must call upon me freely.
On November 8th McClellan had been relieved of command and Burnside had superseded him. On December 13 was fought the first battle of Fredericksburg, with the rebel Lee victorious. Few or no letters mark these anxious months.
And so the second year of the war came to an end without any sound of public cheer or private rejoicing. There is no mention in the letters of Christmas fun, even for the children, while our poor defeated Army of the Potomac was huddled into Fredericksburg with the loss of 13,000 men. As a family we were again scattered, some of us in hospital work and Charley in the field. One window, though, was opened Heavenwards, since for three million slaves, across the blackness of a civil war
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“God made himself an awful rose of dawn.”
