Woolsey family letters during the War for the Union

Abbie Howland Woolsey to her sister at Harrison’s Landing.

8 Brevoort Place, July 7,1862.

My dear Georgy : Eliza and Joe came safely through yesterday (Sunday) morning. Jane and I were just going to the front door on our way to church when their hotel coach drove up. They had a pleasant voyage, only Joe says (in joke) he was neglected—Eliza and Miss Lowell directing their attention to other men! . . . Joe hobbled up on his broom-stick for a crutch, and we swarmed round, having so many questions to ask that we didn’t know where to begin, and so were silent. Some broth and sangaree were quickly served and relished. I should say that Charley’s telegram from Washington came Saturday afternoon, and gave us notice enough to send out and get what extra supplies we needed. . . . Mother and Uncle E. drove right in from Astoria, and Joe has had the story to go over a great many times.

Abby Howland Woolsey to her sister, Eliza.

8 Brevoort Place, Saturday, July 5th, ’62.

My dear Eliza: Georgy’s and Charley’s letters from Harrison’s have just arrived, the last date being a postscript Thursday, July 3, which brings us into close correspondence again you see. These letters have relieved the painful anxiety that began to possess us, about Joe’s condition and whereabouts. We thought perhaps that if his wound were really slight, he had been tempted to rejoin the regiment, and had shared in that horrible battle of White Oak Swamp. . . . Mother says that if it is Charley’s desire to stay a little while longer, she consents; he is evidently so useful, that she should not have the heart to insist on his coming back. As for Georgy, if you leave her behind, we shall never forgive you. She must come. Mother cannot stand the anxiety much longer, nor can Georgy bear the constant strain. By-and-by, perhaps, if necessary, she could go back; now she must come home with you. We should be better pleased to have Charley and all once more together, at the end of this battle-year, and before we all begin on other years of separation and distress. Have C. come too. Poor, poor Colonel Marsh! mortally wounded at Gaines’ Mill. What a mercy it would have been had he been killed on the spot. . . We shall never know all that this week of desperate fighting has cost us; our dead and wounded being left behind, or crawling painfully along in the trail of the retreating army. Here and there an officer picked up in a passing ambulance, as Joe rescued the four you speak of. Our great, beautiful “Army of the Potomac,” dwindled down to an exhausted handful. . . . Fifty thousand in all destroyed by fever and wounds, in McClellan’s brief campaign! No wonder if the President has hesitated to send more troops to be used up in swamps, when so little was being done to show for it. . . . Any fool might have known that Beauregard and the bulk of his army had come to Richmond; but then our generals are not even fools, but something less if possible. . . . It may be God’s will to destroy this nation by inches. It is certainly the devil’s will to put dissension into the hearts of our leaders, and blundering darkness into their minds. God overrules all evil, even this, I suppose, to his own glory. I have no question that this and all other defeats are intended to drive us, as a nation, to a higher moral ground in the conduct and purpose of this war. As things stand, the South is fighting to maintain slavery, and the North is trying to fight so as not to put it down. When this policy ceases, perhaps we shall begin to have victory, if we haven’t already sinned away our day of grace.

I don’t know who kept Fourth of July yesterday; there was not much for public rejoicing, though many families had private mercies and deliverances, like ours, to be thankful for. Hatty and Carry went with the Bucks to Bedloe’s Island, with a tug load of ice cream and cake, and flowers, and flags, and a chest of tea, forty quarts of milk, and butter, and handkerchiefs, papers and books, to set out a long table and give a treat to two hundred in hospital there. To their distress they found that H—— B—— (malisons on him) had ordered away the day before, back to their regiments (via Fort Monroe I suppose), all who were strong enough to move about. They cannot possibly carry their knapsacks or guns, and must go into hospital again from relapse.

The forty convalescents left on the Island had a glorious feast, the doctor giving his full consent that even the twelve sick ones, in bed, should have as much ice cream as they wanted. Mr. Lasar, the singer, and one or two others, went about twice in the course of the day, from tent to tent, singing patriotic songs and hymns, winding up with “Lord, dismiss us,” by particular request of the men; and then the men escorted the whole party, after tea, back to the tug, with three cheers and overwhelming thanks. Each man had at least a quart of ice cream, Carry thinks, and each a glass of Catawba wine, and a good slice of cake, and no doubt there will be many made sick, and the ladies will be blamed as the cause.

If you have a hold on Hammond, do get him to look into the hospital rations in the hospitals here: Bedloe’s and David’s Islands. There seems to be no “special diet” provided—nothing but coffee (no tea), dry bread and stew, rank with onions and white with grease. I have written to the ladies at New Rochelle, begging them to take David’s Island in hand, and open a “ladies’ kitchen,” a “gruel kitchen,” as Sarah says theirs in New Haven is called. But they say the surgeon looks with disfavor on the visits of ladies, and they feel “satisfied that the men are well taken care of.” . . . They will find out by-and-by that surgeons and hospital stewards are not all angels in uniform. . . .

People kept coming yesterday, having seen Joe’s name in the newspaper lists, and to-day we have notes of inquiry from all directions. . . .

Edward Walker’s account of the fight at Gaines’ Mill agrees with the Tribune reporter’s —black masses of men coming upon our guns with orderly joy determined to take them, and falling under our fire in solid blocks, others pressing forward to fill the gaps.

The Daniel Webster was now filling up again with wounded and sick taken on at Harrison’s Landing,—J. H. [Colonel Joe Howland] among them,—and, with [his wife] Eliza as hospital nurse-in-charge, it sailed July 5th for New York. Charley and G. [Georgeanna] stayed on a little longer, till the army fell back towards Washington.

Jane Eliza Newton Woolsey to her daughter.

July 3, ’62.

My dear Eliza: What times you are living through! in the very midst, too, of everything as you are !—and how dark, very dark, it all looks to us this morning as we read the last “reliable ” accounts from the army before Richmond! Think of six days’ continuous fighting. When I looked over the list of horrors, my first thought and exclamation was, “just think what Joe has been spared!” I really look upon his “slight wound” as the greatest blessing which could have happened to us all, and I am thankful for it. It may have been the means of saving his life. Abby is writing you, but I put in my own words of tender love and sympathy. . . . I rejoice that Charley is at hand with you.

One of the hospital duties of all the nurses at the front was writing letters home for the sick and wounded men, and sometimes the sad work of telling the story of their last few hours of life. That such letters helped to comfort sorrowful hearts, the following answer to one shows. The soldier was mortally wounded in the seven days’ fight, and in E’s care on the hospital ship.

To Mrs. Joseph Howland.

July 2nd, 1862.

Madam: Your letter of the z6th ultimo, conveying the mournful intelligence of the death of R. P., was received on Monday, the 30th ult. . . .

Until I received your letter, I had indulged the hope he would survive the injury; and had —not ten minutes before it was delivered to me—been informed by a lady, whose son is in the same division, that he was wounded, and that the other members of the company were preparing to send him home. This information, with a knowledge that he was of a robust constitution, and perfectly healthy, induced the belief he would recover. . . .

Madam, that letter of yours, although it was a messenger of death, when it was received by those who were being tortured by alternating thoughts of hope and fear, was like the visit of an angel; for it relieved their minds of a torturing anxiety.

I am requested by R’s father to let you know that he is utterly unable to express his gratitude; that the only way he feels able to compensate you is by offering his heartfelt thanks.

Madam, the occupation which it appears you have chosen, that of alleviating the condition of those who are in affliction, is for its labor paid in a still secret way, which is not fully appreciated by any, except they be like you; for I doubt not, that on receipt of this, (when you will have known that you have been instrumental in conferring a lasting favor,) a lady of your nature will feel she is somewhat repaid.

Jane Eliza Newton Woolsey to her son, Charles.

June 29 or 30.

Your last letter this moment come! We know not what to think. Dear E. [Eliza], what a heroine she shows herself. This slight wound may be the means of saving Joe from greater danger, as he must now lie by. Dear boy, how sad we feel about him. Our best love to him when you can. How very anxious we are to hear more. Thank you and G. for letters. We feel thankful it is no worse with Joe. Let this feeling keep up all your hearts. Our dear love to Eliza; I am rejoiced she is so brave. I wish I were there to help take care of Joe. Let us hear at once all you know.

Eliza Woolsey Howland’s Journal.

June 28th. We went as far as West Point, followed by a train of schooners and barges running away like ourselves. There we lay through the evening and night, watching for the flames of burning stores at White House which did not burn, and for booming of guns which did not boom—without news or orders, until after dinner, when we turned and ran up the river again in search of both. Near Cumberland we met the Arrowsmith with Surgeon Vollum on board, who hailed us and told us all we yet know of yesterday’s action at the front. Colonel Vollum then pushed on to Washington for medical supplies and we kept on up here to White House again.

We little knew at the time that “yesterday’s action at the front,” to which E. alludes so quietly, was the desperate battle of Gaines’ Mill, June 27, 1862, the first of the terrible seven days’ battle before Richmond. It was in this action that [Eliza’s husband] J. H. was wounded at the head of his regiment. His commanding officer (General J. J. Bartlett) said, in his official report of the battle: “The enemy were slowly but surely forcing back the right of the entire line of battle. At this juncture I ordered forward the 16th New York Volunteers, Colonel Howland commanding. From the position of the regiment it was necessary to change front forward on first company under the most terrific fire of musketry, with the shells and round shot of two batteries raking over the level plain, making it seemingly impossible for a line to withstand the fire a single instant. But with the calmness and precision of veteran soldiers the movement was executed. . . . To Colonel Joseph Howland I am indebted for maintaining the extreme right of my line, for nobly leading his regiment to the charge and retaking two guns from the enemy. Whatever of noble moral, physical and manly courage has ever been given by God to man, has fallen to his lot. Cheering his men to victory, he early received a painful wound, but with a heroism worthy of the cause he has sacrified so much to maintain, he kept his saddle until the close of the battle.”

Lieutenant-Colonel Marsh of the 16th was mortally wounded in this engagement at Gaines’ Mill, and apart from the Colonel and Lieutenant-Colonel, the loss of the regiment in killed and wounded was 260 men, rank and file, fully one-quarter of its effective force on that day.

It was “for gallantry at the battle of Gaines’ Mill, Virginia,” that the rank of Brigadier-General by brevet was later conferred on J. H. by the President of the United States.

When the battle at Gaines’ Mill was all over and Joe began to realize his own fatigue and wounded condition, he dismounted and lay down under a tree not far from the field, and presently fell asleep. He did not know how long he had slept, but it was dusk when he was waked by something soft touching his cheek, and rousing himself he found it was his war horse, old “Scott,” rubbing his nose against his face. He had got loose from where he was tied and had looked for his master until he found him. Joe was not ashamed to say that he cried like a child as he put his arm round the dear old fellow’s neck.

He brought him home and rode him after the war until he grew to be old and no longer sure-footed. Then his shoes were taken off and he was turned out to grass to have an easy time and nothing to do the rest of his life. After a little, however, he moped and refused to eat and was evidently dissatisfied with life. So Thomson came to Joe and said, “Do you know, Mr. Howland, I believe old Scott would be happier if he had something to do.” And accordingly, although he had never been in harness in his life, he was put before the lawn-mower, and to do active light farm-work. The effect was excellent; he grew happy and contented again, and proved to be one of the best working-horses on the farm for several years.

It was Scott’s last shoes as a saddle-horse, when he was turned out to grass, that we mounted and hung in the office at our Fish-kill home.

The news of J.’s being wounded reached us at White House through a telegram kindly sent the morning after the battle by Dr. McClellan, Staff Surgeon at Army Headquarters, as follows: “The Colonel has a slight flesh wound. He is in my tent, and will be taken good care of until he can be sent down.”

At almost the same moment communication with the front was cut. We telegraphed for more details, in vain. The rebels were upon us. Stoneman sent in word that they were in sight. We stayed as long as they would let us and then went off into the dark, taking what comfort we could in the one word, “slight.”

Eliza Woolsey Howland’s Journal.

. . . June 26th. Running away down the Pamunkey again as fast as we can go, escaping from Stonewall Jackson !

All night the wood choppers were at work cutting down the woods at the White House to give the gunboats a chance to command the land beyond, and just now as we passed, the banks were shorn and the pretty little place laid bare. The pickets had been driven in, and Jackson was supposed to be close at hand. Eighty wounded were brought down last night and put on board the Knickerbocker. Twelve more and a few sick came down this morning. The Whilldin follows us, nearly full of sick and wounded.

The rumor to-day is that all communication with the front is stopped, to conceal an advance of our army.

Sarah Chauncey Woolsey to Georgeanna Muirson Woolsey.

Linen Room, New Haven Hospital,

June 26th, ’62.

My dearest G.: A lull in business gives me a chance to write a few lines to you and tell you how glad I was last night to find your letter waiting for me when I got home from my day here. . . . What wonder that you have not written when I have never found time to write until after ten o’clock at night. . . . One of my pets here among the men is sure that you and Eliza are the ladies who were in a large tent on shore at White House, and brought him some bowls of bread and milk and swigs of strong drink of some kind. He was so interested to make sure of the point that I promised to bring up your picture for him to see and compare with his recollections. . . . The Surgeon-General has written to Dr. Jewett to say that he hears such favorable accounts of the state of affairs here that he is going to send 300 of his worst cases for us to care for. Inspector-General Hammond is coming on Saturday to see with his own eyes, and we are to be swept and garnished for his benefit. Mrs. Hunt (“H. H.”) helps me here often; mends clothes by the hour and comes for three days during the week to write letters for the men. . . . My fortnight’s experience here convinces me that I could soon acquire the art of keeping, not an ” Hotel,” but a small country variety store. There is the same run of customers, the taking of stock, the arranging of the goods, the sweeping-up and closing of the shutters at night. My stock comprises almost everything—shirts and collars, cravats and suspenders, coats and trousers, vests and shoes, handkerchiefs, sheets, pillows and pillow-cases, rags, bandages, soap, thread, needles, tape, buttons, combs, brushes, hats, fans, cotton wadding, water beds (2), stockings, oranges, lemons, bay rum, camphor, stationery, towels, dust-pans, brushes and mosquito netting, and this morning a woman bolted in, saying, “Is it in this room that the corpse is?—they tell me that it is in this end of the passage, and I thought I should like to see him!” I didn’t happen to have one, however, and she seemed quite aggrieved. . . . Jenny is somewhat better, and the baby lovely as can be. . . . She is a dear little puss, and one of the great obstacles to my entire devotion to my country.

Eliza Woolsey Howland’s Journal.

. . . June 25th. General Van Vliet says that if I want to go to the front at any time and will send him word, he will have his wagon meet me and take me over to J’s camp. This morning Dr. Bigelow came back to our boat from the front.