Woolsey family letters during the War for the Union

January 1862.

. . . Sunday evening James Gillette came up to our room to tell us his story. He is one of the two hundred and forty Union soldiers just released from Richmond prisons in exchange for an equal number of rebel prisoners from Fort Warren. He was with the 71st N. Y., a three months’ regiment, and his time was out before the battle in which he was taken prisoner. These five months of prison life have turned him from a dapper little fellow into a sad-looking, care-worn, sick man. He and his fellows were in Prison No. 2, a tobacco factory, dirty and uncomfortable beyond description—170 men in a room 40 feet by 60. They immediately organized themselves, however, into a little military community under strict discipline. A detail of men was made every day to police the place, and all unnecessary uncleanliness was punished by the court they instituted for the trial of offenders. They had plenty of water but no soap or towels. Their rations were about eleven ounces of bread daily and one ration of beef or pork, and the water in which this was boiled was served at night as soup— “Confederate swill” they called it. They had no clothing given or sent them except what came to the Massachusetts and Rhode Island men, and an occasional little bundle handed in secretly by some sympathizing citizen. . . . The principal suffering was from the ignorance and brutality of the prison guards, who treated them roughly and often shot at them. Several were killed in that way; and yet these same sentinels would let the prisoners stand guard in their places, and go off and get them whiskey; and when they themselves were drunk, our men would pass them and take an airing in the city. The sick suffered and still suffer for want of decent care and medicine. One building is given up to cases of gangrene—a sufficient commentary on the condition of things. As a rule the prisoners kept up their spirits well and used all sorts of means for entertaining themselves; a debating club, a court, menagerie exhibitions, carving in beef-bones, etc. I have a little ring cut from part of their rations. Some men, though, have grown simple, almost idiotic, from the confinement; some have gone insane; and some of good standing at home will now wrangle pitifully over a bit of cracker or meat. About one hundred of our men, he says, have already died in Richmond of sickness, besides those dying from their wounds.

8 Brevoort Place, January 7.

My Dear Girls: I have only time before mailing hour for a short letter, but must tell you how pleasantly Hatty’s and Carry’s little party went off last night. . . . Maillard sent up at eleven a very handsome little supper. . . . Bessie and Mr. Merchant came in the afternoon to dinner, which was hardly over and our dresses pitched on when the company came. Miss Tilly Dawson was the prettiest girl here, and Charley Johnson was made happy all the evening by an introduction to her. I think Zenie Smith[1] was the next prettiest. She came with two young friends staying with her, and Minnie Worthington brought the sweet young fellow she is engaged to; and there were the McCurdy girls and Helen Skinner, and Lilly Lusk and Tom Perkins, and Frank Bond, and Mr. Stagg, and the Cryders and McKeevers, and Bucks, etc., etc. Supper was so delayed that I don’t know how we should have got on if it hadn’t been for the man Charley had engaged to play the piano, and they all danced, and you can imagine that it was not a slow time when I tell you that I! figured in a Virginia reel. Some of Charley’s chums were agreeable young fellows, young Marsh, the son of G. P. Marsh, and others. Charley himself had been on the bed all day with a sick headache, but brightened up when the evening was half over, and in spite of his lame hand, dressed himself quite elaborately with a roman scarf for a sling and came down. . . . Chaplain Wrage goes to Washington to-night and will take you a hundred hymn books in German, which I bought at the Methodist book concern. They will do to give away when you come across a German soldier in the hospitals. . . . Did you know that the Boston Tract Society has an agent and a depository in the Post Office Building, Washington?

. . . The box of books for Joe, directed to Alexandria, Va., went off yesterday. Cousin Sarah Coit has sent us her one pair of stockings, her giant pair that she says she has knit, and knit, and knit on, and seemed to make no progress.

. . . Young Crosby begged, the other night, for whatever mittens we or our friends might have this week, to make up 120 pairs for Frank’s artillery company of regulars. Did you know how many of the Crosby family are in the army? You saw Frank Stevens, who has a Lieutenancy at last, in Pratt’s Ulster Guard. Then Schuyler Crosby is in the Regular Artillery at Fort Pickens. Floyd Clarkson is Major in a cavalry regiment at York, Pa. Rutgers is somewhere else, etc., etc. Charles Wainwright is Captain of a battery in General Cooper’s Division on the Lower Potomac.

Little May has been fairly launched in school life, and Mary says she doesn’t know which has raised her in her own importance most—going to school or going to the dentist’s, to have ever so many fillings put into her little back grinders.

. . . We have had intelligence of Aunt Adela Newton, who tried to go through the lines to protect her property in Charleston. Somebody told Amelia Bailey that they had seen a lady from Richmond, who had lately seen Mrs. Newton and daughters in that city. They had passed our lines at some point not stated, had travelled by private conveyance and reached Richmond after every hardship and difficulty, wandering at one time three days in the woods —lost. I want Mother to write a few lines to Aunt A. to go by Fort Monroe and flag of truce. It would get South in course of time if it was short and not treasonable. . . Dr. Buck came in last night and re-vaccinated Hatty and me. He says if Georgy wants to be vaccinated he can send on a little quill with pure virus (Union virus, as Joe says) from here. There is much small-pox and considerable alarm about it here as well as in Washington.

[1] Arixene Southgate Smith, now your Aunt Zenie.

My dear Girls: The news of Mason and Slidell’s release has arrived since you wrote. It was generally known here about 11 A. M. Saturday. I am quite satisfied with the release and with the grounds of it. In making the claim, England runs counter to all her preceding history in the matter of maritime laws. In holding the men, we should contradict our own previous course. Is it not far better to put England in the wrong, by yielding to her claim and so negatively securing her assent to what America has so long contended for—the rights of neutrals? As the Washington Intelligencer said, Mason and Slidell are for a day, Maritime Law is for all nations and all time. For my part, I think our position more assured, more dignified, more honorable to us since the surrender than ever before. Of course it will not satisfy England. Their peremptory demand, and Lord Lyons’ laconic acceptance, are in contrast with Mr. Seward’s wordy, suave, argumentative letters. They have got in part what they asked—possession of the men; they have not got what they asked—an apology for the “insult to their flag” and the violation of rights of asylum. The Manchester Guardian even says plainly that “whether Mason and Slidell are returned or not, war preparation on the part of England must go on, the day being not far distant when the Southern Confederacy must be recognized, and England must be prepared to support her policy.” Mr. Seward, too, you know, says very plainly that recognition of the South would instantly be the signal of war between ourselves and all the recognizing powers.

Saturday Evening, January, ‘62.

I received yesterday from Mr. Stephen Williams thirty dollars, on the part of Mr. Alexander Van Rensselaer, “for a soldiers’ library.” Stephen, good old soul, said, “ Oh! I’ve got this commission; now won’t you help me? I don’t know about libraries; you can consult Howland,” etc., etc. . . . It will buy about forty plain books for a hospital or regiment. Would the 16th or any regiment in the brigade like one? . . .

Lizzie Greene sent a box of flannel shirts to a Connecticut regiment lately, and put a dozen cigars and a paper of tobacco in a pocket in each— “true Christian philanthropy,” William Bond says;— “send them something they ought not to have.” . . . We have been trying to persuade Mother to go down to Washington with Hatty and Charley, and take a look at things, but she is not to be prevailed on, I am afraid. Charley’s lame hand will prevent him from going for a while, but I think he and H. will go on while Carry is in Boston. Carry goes on Wednesday to Mrs. Huntington Wolcott’s and afterwards to Miss Parsons’, (lately engaged to a tall Captain Stackpole in a Massachusetts regiment now at Annapolis, expecting to go up the York river with Burnside’s expedition). Abby saw Mrs. George Betts to-day, who says her husband (in Hawkins’ Zouaves) expects to join the same expedition immediately. Transports are to take them at once from Hatteras to the rendezvous at Fortress Monroe. They have suffered severely at Hatteras; the mortality in George Betts’ regiment has been very great….

Malvina Williams says she hears G. and E. are known in Washington as the “Angels!”

Mr. Prentiss came in just now for a little call, cheery and bright, asking for your photograph to put in a book he had given him for Christmas. So you can send him one. It’s a good book to be in, Mr. Prentiss’ good book. . . .

William Wheeler, who has been very ill with camp fever, writes home that he has received great kindness from Miss Jane Woolsey, meaning G., and “was delighted with her.” I begged his friends not to mention it; it was but little I could do! But tell Georgy. . . .

Would you like three or four dozen more gloves for your men, lonely and cold sentinels, for instance? Spake the wurred. Mr. Gibson sends a lot of London papers all deep-edged with black for the Prince Consort (rest his soul) and their own sins (bad luck to them) I should hope. The “whirligig of time will no doubt bring in its revenges.” . . .

I had a vision of you to-day, as might be a year ago, sitting on the box seat of a sleigh, with a fur cap with ears, and, shall I say it, a roseate nose, visible when you turned around, skirrying over the crusty roads with the blue bloomy hills lifting, and the white fields rolling away, with the wonderful sparkling rime on everything and the heavy snow breaking down the fir-branches. The vision passed, as Cobb would say, and I tried to make another out of your present circumstances and didn’t succeed at all, which proves that your normal state is not warlike.

Young people at home could not be kept on the nervous strain all the time, and an occasional festivity served as a breathing place, though the regular occupation of the family followed hard upon it.

Christmas Day we spent with Joseph again in camp, going round by Alexandria to pick up Chaplain Hopkins and take him with us. We had taken some goodies and little traps with us for the men in the hospitals in Alexandria and were glad to find the nice arrangements that had already been made by Madame M. She had got Col. Davies to detail some of the 16th men to bring her Christmas greens, and had dressed all the wards with festoons and garlands, little flags, mottoes, etc., besides arranging for a grand Christmas dinner for her “boys.”

The Mansion House Hospital too was resplendent with bright tissue papers and evergreens and Dr. Sheldon showed us with great pride his kitchen and store-room arrangements, which are excellent in every respect. Fifty roast turkeys were preparing for the Christmas feast, sixteen large loaf-cakes iced to perfection and decorated with the most approved filigree work, pies without number, cream puffs, cranberry sauce, puddings of all sorts, etc., etc.—altogether the most Christmas-like scene we have looked upon, and all arranged with the greatest order and cleanliness.

Among the little things we took out were Mother’s and Jane’s socks, which we gave to men likely to go back soon to their regiments. The only boy without mittens got Mrs. Smith’s.

After our own camp dinner, at which the Colonel and the Doctor joined us, we sat round the last and best chimney yet built, and talked about old times five or six months ago, which now seem like so many years. J. says his Christmas Eve was dreary enough in his tent, and they all agreed that our coming was the only thing that prevented their Christmas Day from being so too.