Woolsey family letters during the War for the Union

Somewhere about July 14, ’62, Charley and G. must have gone home from Harrison’s Landing, probably in a returning hospital ship. The record is lacking—Sarah Woolsey’s letter of July 22 being the first mention of it. She had been serving all this time at the New Haven Hospital.

Sarah Chauncey Woolsey to Georgeanna Woolsey.

New Haven.

At The Barrack Hospital, July 22.

When the family leave you a little gap of time, write me one line to make me feel that you are really so near again. I cannot help hoping that if you go back, there may be a vacancy near you which I can fill. The work here is very satisfactory in its way, but is likely to come to an end before long if the decision about “Hospitals within military limits” is carried out. . . .

This is Sunday, and I have been here since half past nine—it being about 5 P. M. now . . . It has not been very Sunday-like, as I’ve mended clothes, and given out sheets, and made a pudding, but somehow it seems proper. Mary would laugh if she knew one thing that I’ve been doing—distributing copies of “A Rainy Day in Camp” to sick soldiers, who liked it vastly. I had it printed in one of our papers for the purpose. To-morrow I am going to change employments—take Miss Young’s place in the kitchen, and let her have a day’s rest, while Mrs. Hunt supplies mine here. Meantime as a beginning I must go and heat some beef tea for a poor fellow who hates to eat, and has to be coaxed into his solids by an after promise of pudding and jelly. . . .

P. S —Have come back from service and administered the beef tea, though it was an awful job. The man gave continual howls, first because the tea was warm, then because I tried to help him hold a tumbler, then because I fanned him too hard, and I thought each time I had hurt him and grew so nervous that I could have cried. Beside, there is a boy in that tent—an awful boy with no arms, who swears so frightfully (all the time he isn’t screeching for currant pie, or fried meat, or some other indigestible), that he turns you blue as you listen.

The whole staff of the Wilson Small seems now to have scattered and “fallen back” on Washington. The letter of July 25 is from Miss Katherine P. Wormeley. She and Mrs. William P. Griffin had been delightful friends to us. We were the four “staff” women on the Wilson Small through the whole Peninsular campaign. Miss W. came home on our old hospital ship the Daniel Webster, in charge of her last load of wounded from the Peninsula, Mrs. Griffin remaining at Hampton Roads in a receiving hospital for some weeks longer.

Miss Wormeley to Georgeanna Woolsey.

Newport, R. I., July 21st, ’62.

Dear Georgy: How did you take to civilization? I got along perfectly till I was caught going off the boat without paying my fare. Captain T’s mother was on board, which was a capital thing, and induced him to behave himself. I found intimate friends on board who were dear to me because they escorted me to supper. Georgy! if you ever take passage on the Metropolis, go down to supper for my sake and imagine how it affected me. My friends rather apologized for their desire to go down; for my part all I could do was to conceal my disappointment at not being able to eat everything. It seemed to me there was everything good that I had ever heard of, ending with peaches and ice cream.

I put the wounded captain into an express wagon (the nearest thing to an ambulance) and got home myself at 4 o’clock, to be finely cackled over by Mother. The next day the town called on me, beginning, like a Fourth of July procession, with the mayor and clergy. The next day I stayed in bed till after visiting hours. By-the‑by, isn’t a bed delicious? I can’t believe it is the same mattress, the same blanket and sheets that I had before I went away. Of course you know that Dr. Wheaton with 1,700 men are here (six miles from here). Excursion boats run from here and from Providence to the camp. It is the fashionable drive, and the dear creatures are all female sutlers with baskets of pies and cakes and pickles and sweetmeats. Colonel Valium is here. I have sent him word that if I can do anything sensible with authority I will, meanwhile I do not intend going near the camp. . . . I am truly sorry that Colonel Howland’s furlough is shortened. Fanny Russell told me about it, and we spent all the time we were together in adoring “Mrs. H.” I have said one hundred times “I will tell that to Georgy,” but behold I have forgotten everything. Yesterday was a happy day to me, the dear little chapel was so peaceful and full of love and praise. I thought of Mr. — as I sat there. . . . No large mind doubts God or the excellence of life with Him merely through looking at the mean lives of others.

Good-bye, love to Mrs. Howland and C. W. W. I am yours faithfully,

K. P. Wormeley.

Joseph Howland kept up constant communication with the 16th and his commanding generals, always in the hope of going back, in spite of all discouragements.

Gen. Henry W. Slocum writes to him:

Harrison’s Landing, July 19, ’62.

My dear Colonel: Yours of the 16th has just come to hand. I am sincerely glad that you are doing so well and I shall be rejoiced to see you back. I think the major is doing well, but there is nothing like having the head present. Still I hope you will not think of returning till you are fully recovered. If you come back feeling weak, you will be obliged to leave again. This climate is very debilitating, and nearly all the officers, even the strongest, are affected by it. . . . My advice to you is to remain at home until some move is made here.

. . . As to your conduct and that of your regiment on the 27th, I hear but one opinion—all speak in terms of praise, the strongest terms.

. . . General Franklin told me to say to you that you must not come back till you are well. He (Franklin) is about half sick. I am in the same condition—too sick to be worth much and too well to go home. . . . Remember me to Mrs. Howland and tell Miss Georgy that her favor has been received and that I will “follow them with a sharp stick ” as requested.

Yours truly,

H. W. Slocum.

Eliza Woolsey Howland to her sister, Georgeanna.

Fishkill, July 13.

Except for seeing how much good the rest and the home scenes are doing Joe, I would much rather be at Harrison’s Point. He is improving nicely. His wound is not healed yet, but the inflammation has all gone and it looks better every day, . . . and but for a good deal of debility and shakiness of leg and hand, he would be quite himself. . . . Did they tell you of the demonstration the village people had prepared, and how we had to change our time of coming and telegraph secretly to Mr. Masters at Newburgh in order to escape it? They had actually arranged to take the horses out of the carriage and drag Joe home themselves. Fancy the struggle we should have had, to maintain an expression of mingled gratification and humility all through the three miles!

Joe received the other day the company reports of the 16th’s part in Friday’s battle, and their simple story is exceedingly touching—all of them speaking particularly of the coolness and cheerfulness of the men. Lieutenant Corbin, who wrote the little poem, makes out the report of Company C, which in its quaintness and simplicity reminds one of the old days of knight errantry. “Four of my men,” he says, “fell dead fighting bravely and pleasantly.” Company C, you know, is the color company, and of them he says, “The colors, which my company had the honor to guard, were safely kept, though they bear many an evidence of the hot fire in which they stood.” The reports are nearly all equally simple, and one captain says, speaking of the order to cross and reinforce Porter, “This seemed highly pleasing to the boys, and with elastic step we took up our march for Gaines’ Mill.” Joe says they came out of the fight, too, with equal bravery and cheerfulness, and he got a smile from every man he looked at that day. They all seem to want him back again, and his great anxiety is to be with them.

Charles William Woolsey to his brother-in-law, Joseph Howland,

Wilson Small, Harrison’s Landing,

Saturday, July 12th.

Dear Joe: I saw, to-day, your adjutant, surgeon, and quartermaster; the former is much better, he says, and is going home in a day or two. He reports the 16th in good condition and in excellent spirits. This is unmistakably the case with the whole army. Exhausted and disappointed they naturally are (or were), but they have never lost heart, and the morale of our army is as good as ever. Having but little to do on the boat I have been on shore about the camps for a day or two, and have got a good idea of the strength of our position. It seems to me impregnable even without the earthworks we have thrown up at the weakest points. With these, we are very strong and can surely hold our own. Taking Richmond, however, is quite a different thing.

Send us the “Fishkill Standard” containing the account of the “ovation,” and do not stand too long poised on one leg when you harangue the assembled multitude from the Tioronda balcony.

Georgy is going home soon, and perhaps myself. Love to E.

Yours affectionately,

C. W. W.

Georgeanna Woolsey’s journal.

July 12.

Lying off Harrison’s Point in sight of the hospital on shore to which we went the other evening. The fifty tents we brought from Washington are going up and are partly filled— men on cots, and not very ill. The place is to be used as a rest for a few days for men who can then join their regiments. The Medical Department is greatly improved, and the Sanitary Commission, who were chiefly instrumental in putting in the new Surgeon-General (Hammond), who in his turn has put in all the good new men, finds its work here at an end, and might as well retire gracefully. Four thousand sick have been sent north from Harrison’s. Soup, and food generally, are being cooked all the time, without the aid of the Sanitary Commission, and they would leave now but for the flag of truce sent in by Lee to arrange for the bringing away of our wounded left behind in the retreat. The transports are under orders.

Commodore Wilkes is here in charge of the gun-boat fleet, and Captain Rodgers sent his small boat for us the other day, and took us all over his vessel and then over the Monitor and the Maratanza. The Galena was full of cannon ball holes. The Maratanza gave me a piece of the balloon found on the rebel gun-boat Teaser. It was made of the old silk dresses of the ladies of Richmond, forty or more different patterns. They gave me, too, the signal flag of the little imp. We went over her to see the damage the shell did her, bursting into the boiler and disemboweling her.

The army is quiet and resting, and the surgeons of the regiments have been coming in constantly to the Sanitary Commission supply boat with requisitions for the hospitals. We are giving out barrels of vegetables. The Small will run up the river and be ready to fill a gap in bringing off our wounded prisoners, and it will be a comfort to do something before going home ignominiously. The last two weeks of waiting has been wearing to us all, and Miss Wormeley is a fascinating wreck.

While waiting for the army to make some Army move, G. ran up to Washington with Mr. Olmsted and Charley, on the Small, to secure more hospital supplies, and took news to Mrs. Franklin of her husband the General, at Harrison’s Point.

Abby Howland Woolsey to her sister, Eliza.

8 Brevoort Place,

July, ’62, Friday Morning.

Dear E.: Enclosed are a lot of letters for you, Georgy’s own among them. . . . She describes their doings at Washington, voyage, etc., and says the best thing Mr. Olmsted did was to get Meigs to give him fifty hospital tents, each holding twelve patients. Also to get him to promise to send the old tents stored since last winter, enough to shelter fifty thousand men. Our poor, wretched army, she says, “lies tentless and blanketless at Harrison’s Point, smitten by sun by day, and moon by night, and it only makes her cry to hear them cheer.” . .

Abbie Howland Woolsey to her sister, Georgeanna.

8 Brevoort Place, New York, July 10th, 1862.

Eliza, Joe and Jane have gone off this morning to Fishkill. . Joe’s place here was in the long lounging-chair by the front parlor window, while we received ordinary folks whom he wouldn’t see, in the dining-room. He has worn a full white suit of Charley’s, which Hatty happened to lay her hands on, and went off in it this morning, home, via Newburgh. . . . He did not mean to go till this afternoon, but got a letter yesterday from Mr. Masters (who has been one of the callers here) written in great haste, and full of excitement. It was to Eliza, saying that the people of Fishkill were so full of enthusiasm for her husband, that they were bent on having a demonstration on his arrival, which he knew would be contrary to Eliza’s taste, and injurious to Joe’s health. He therefore advised that they should change the hour and way of their proposed coming, and if they would telegraph him to Newburgh—under an assumed name (isn’t it funny?)—he would be there to receive the message and would let Thomson and Moritz know! . . . We think it a shame to disappoint the people so much, but Joe would get up at five this morning and leave the house at six, with his sword, etc. done up in a brown paper parcel. He thinks if there is such enthusiasm, he ought to be able to turn it to account for recruiting. It is really pleasant to know that the country people have such a spirit —for the cause. It is a good sign. . . .

The farmer, Mr. Thomson, wrote me a letter of thanks for mine to him, describing Joe’s wound, etc. He said there had been “such reports in Fishkill as never was. Some had it his nose had been shot off, and some, his jaw, and the story was ‘Mrs. Howland was pris’ner,'” etc. Great discussions took place in the church porch on Sunday, whether his moustache would grow over such a very bad scar, and Mr. Masters was so besieged for details that he ended by reading from the pulpit part of a letter of Carry’s to Mrs. Charles Wolcott.

The neighbors have all been in, or sent in to offer their services to us and our wounded hero, having watched him get out of the coach that Sunday morning. Carry was so intent on watching the Hills from her window, and so desirous that they should all be ranged at their front windows, looking, as they were, that I believe she missed seeing Joe get out herself ! . . .

Did anyone tell you of your friend Mr. Mitchell’s call the other night? He brought your note and was very pleasant. We had no candy for him, but he drank iced lemonade. His father won’t let him enlist, so you may see him back again. Jane recognized him as some one she had seen at Philharmonic rehearsals fifty times or more.

Mrs. Trotter writes G. about this time: “John met Edward Wright (of the army) today. He spoke in the highest terms of Mr. Howland. He says he is the idol of the regiment, and there is not a man who would not do anything for him. I trust his reward will be as great as the sacrifice.”

Georgeanna Muirson Woolsey to Frederick Law Olmsted.

Washington.

My dear Mr. Olmsted: Can the Sanitary Commission do anything to prevent a repetition of the inhuman treatment the sick received last week, on their way from Jamestown to Alexandria? 150 men were packed in one canal boat between decks, stowed so closely together that they were literally unable to turn over; without mattresses, without food, without decent attention from the time they left till their arrival. Among them were three or four men with the worst kind of measles put in with all the rest: one of them died on the boat, and another on the way from the boat to the hospital, and it will be wonderful if the disease has not communicated itself to others among the 150. There was of course no ventilation, and the men say that they suffered greatly from bad air. A medical officer came down with the boat and is perhaps not responsible for the state of things on board; some one must be, however, and it may save further suffering if the affair could be made public. We heard this story through a friend who was in Alexandria when the boat arrived and has known all the facts of the case.