Woolsey family letters during the War for the Union

Oct. 6.

After dinner yesterday we drove out to the camp of the Rhode Island 2nd, to see the friend of our infancy and of hay-loft and cow-stall memory—Col. Frank Wheaton, son of Dr. Wheaton of Pomfret, Connecticut, to whose farm-house Mother took us all to board, the summer after Father’s death. It is about twenty years (!) since we all played together. You know it was for him that Mary got that ugly scar across her nose, in her anxiety to reach him through a glass window, and they two at the age of about seven were married in state and went to housekeeping in the cow-stall on apples and flagroot. He says he remembers it all most distinctly and still claims Mary as “his wife by right” though he has had one, and is engaged to a second.

He was very much pleased to find that he had met you too, for he was mustering-in officer at Albany when you were there, and swore in, part of the 16th. He and the others were “delighted with Adjutant Howland, who used to come to their office nearly every day and always had his muster rolls right.”

I was sorry to hear that the mare “Lady Jane” was so sick and I send George Carr out to camp to see if he can do anything for her. As he has known her from early youth he may understand her insides better than others do. You may be surprised at my being able to get a pass for George, but not more than I was! A mere statement of the case dissolved all the adamantine walls round the Provost Marshal, and is only another proof of our being “noble-hearted women of luck.”

How funny it is that you should have met the Wheatons again. It is one of the queer ways in which people turn up. I wonder if they remember the little school which Mother held for us every day in the porch of their father’s house in Pomfret, and the yellow hymn book, and the tunes of

Our Father in Heaven

We hallow Thy name,”

and

“God is in Heaven, would He hear

If I should tell a lie?”

—and then how at times we used to see who could eat the most ears of corn! And the skeleton in his father’s office, what a corner of horrors that was!

Oct. 1, 1861

Very little to tell you about except a few calls, including one from Mrs. General Franklin to ask us to take tea with her to-night. Lieutenant Lusk of the 79th, whom we used to know as “Willy” Lusk, also came. He seems to have grown up into a very fine young fellow, handsome and gentlemanly, and with the same sweet expression he had as a child. He was studying medicine in Europe when the war broke out, but came home at once and enlisted as Lieutenant in the 79th, where he is now Acting Captain—so many of the regiment were either killed or taken prisoners at Bull Run. Dr. E. also came again and Captain Gibson and Col. Montgomery of Philadelphia, so we had quite a levee.

Oct. 2. G. and I are just going up to Columbian College to cover and arrange a nice box of books Hatty Gilman has sent on at our suggestion to form the nucleus of a hospital library —an excellent selection of books, histories, biographies, etc.; half worn, but the covering and labeling we mean to put them through will make them highly respectable and attractive.

We took tea last night with Mrs. Franklin and met five or six other people, among them Major and Mrs. Webb—he on General Barry’s staff. Dr. Bacon has brought G. some splendid bunches of roses this week, the finest I ever saw. He expects to be ordered off with his new regiment, the 7th Connecticut, within a few days, probably to join the Coast Expedition, but this is a secret.

We have been with Captain Gibson all through the Corcoran Art Building, now used as a government warehouse and filled with clothing and camp equipage of every kind, one item being twenty thousand tents. From the roof, to which we mounted, we had a fine view over the city and environs, the river, the opposite heights and an army balloon.

Sept. 11th, 1861.

Where do you think I am writing? In the Patent Office, where we heard the other day that a large number of sick men had been brought from the 19th Indiana regiment. We found them in a dirty and forlorn condition and have come to do what we can. The whole regiment, nearly, is down with sickness from great exposure when they first arrived, they say. The assistant-surgeon of the regiment and the matron are here all the time, and a number of Washington women come in to help every day.

“One of the first extemporized hospitals of the war was in the top story of the Patent Office, where the 19th Indiana regiment was brought, nearly every man of them. The great, unfinished lumber room was set aside for their use, and rough tables—I can’t call them beds—were knocked together from pieces of the scaffolding. These beds were so high that it was impossible to reach them, and we had to make them up with brooms, sweeping off the mattresses, and jerking the sheets as smooth as we could. About six men could be accommodated on one table. These ran the whole length of the long room, while on the stacks of marble slabs, which were some day to be the floor, we spread mattresses, and put the sickest men. As the number increased, camp-beds were set up between the glass cases in the outer room, and we alternated —typhoid fever, cog-wheels and patent churns —typhoid fever, balloons and mouse-traps (how many ways of catching mice there are!)—typhoid fever, locomotives, water-wheels, clocks,—and a general nightmare of machinery.

Here, for weeks, went on a sort of hospital picnic. We scrambled through with what we had to do. The floors were covered with lime dust, shavings, nails, and carpenters’ scraps. We had the rubbish taken up with shovels, and stacked in barrels at one end of the ward. The men were crowded in upon us; the whole regiment soaked with a malignant, malarial fever, from exposure, night after night, to drenching rains, without tents. There was so much of this murderous, blundering want of prevision and provision, in the first few months of the war—and is now, for that matter.

Gradually, out of the confusion came some system and order. Climbing up to the top of the Patent Office with each loaf of bread was found not to be an amusing occupation, and an arrangement of pulleys was made out of one of the windows, and any time through the day, barrels of water, baskets of vegetables and great pieces of army beef, might be seen crawling slowly up the marble face of the building.

Here, for weeks, we worked among these men, cooking for them, feeding them, washing them, sliding them along on their tables, while we climbed up on something and made up their beds with brooms, putting the same powders down their throats with the same spoon, all up and down what seemed half a mile of uneven floor;—coaxing back to life some of the most unpromising,—watching the youngest and best die.

I remember rushing about from apothecary to apothecary, in the lower part of the city, one Sunday afternoon, to get, in a great hurry, mustard, to help bring life into a poor Irishman, who called me Betty in his delirium, and, to our surprise, got well, went home, and at once married the Betty we had saved him for.

By-and-by the regiment got through with the fever, improvements came into the long ward, cots took the place of the tables, and matting covered the little hills of the floor. The hospital for the 19th Indiana became the “U. S. General Hospital at the Patent Office,” and the “volunteers for emergencies” took up their saucepans and retired.”