The Cruel Side of War – Katherine Prescott Wormeley

“Spaulding,” May 20.

Dear Mother, — It is so uncertain whether you receive any of my letters (I receive none of yours) that I write to-day by the “Daniel Webster,” though I have but little to say. The “Webster” and the “Elm City” came up the river yesterday. We were invited to tea on board of the former, and were much pleased to find how we are missed. Dr. Grymes is still in charge of her, and Mrs. Trotter reigns over the women’s department with great success. Mrs. Strong, Miss Whetten, and Miss Gardiner returned on the “Elm City.” The “Webster” came up in perfect order, ready to ship her men as soon as her cargo was discharged. She is now loading, and sails for Boston this afternoon. We ourselves remain here. Mr. Olmsted is anxious to keep his “staff” at the heels of the army. I like this much better myself. It is more interesting, and the work, though harder, is more satisfactory in every way. The weather is delightful. At present we are idle,—kept so, I am told, in reserve for the expected battle. The “Elm City” is to remain here as a receiving-ship; this vessel (the “Spaulding”) and the “Daniel Webster” are to be used as ocean-transports, and chiefly for sick men; the “Knickerbocker ” and the “Daniel Webster No. 2” as river-transports for wounded men, — “surgical cases,” as they are called. The former make the sea-passage to New York, Boston, or Philadelphia; the latter run to Washington or Fortress Monroe. These five ships can transport about two thousand men a week. Mr. Olmsted is struggling, with probable success, to bring the Medical Department to establish a large receiving-camp-hospital for the lesser cases that ought not to go North. Meantime the “Elm City” is to be used as a receiving-ship for them pro tem.

“S. R Spaulding,”
Off Headquarters, Army Of The Potomac,
White House, May 18.

Dear A., — My date will excite you. Yesterday, after getting off the “Knickerbocker” with three hundred sick on board, we transferred our quarters to this vessel, and started to run up the Pamunky. It was audacious of us to run this big ocean-steamer up this little river, without a chart and without a pilot. In some places we brushed the trees as we passed, for the water is said to be fifteen feet deep a yard from the shore. “What a garden land it is! Such verdure of every brilliant shade lining the shore, and broken into, here and there, by little creeks running up through meadow-lands into the misty blue distance. We anchored for the night off Cumberland,—the limit of my aspirations ; and I went to sleep in the still lingering twilight, listening to the whippoorwill. In the morning when I came on deck Mr. Olmsted called me forward into the bows: and what a sight was there to greet us! The glow of the morning mist, the black gunboats, the shining river, with the gleam of the white sails and the tents along the shore, made a picture to be painted only by Turner. We ran up to the head of the fleet, in sight of the headquarters of the army, to the burned railroad bridge, beyond which no one could go.

After breakfast we went ashore, where General Franklin met us and took us through part of his command, — through trains of army-wagons drawn by four mules; through a ploughed field across which mounted officers and their staffs were galloping at full speed; through sutlers’ tents and commissary stores, and batteries and caissons. It was like a vast fairground. We met one man eating six pies at once, and not a man without one pie! I wished intensely to stop at General Headquarters as we passed it. But to-day General McClellan is overborne by business: the army arrived here on the 16th; twelve scouting-parties are now out, some coming in every hour; McClellan himself is not able to speak an unnecessary word; a council is to be held this evening, to arrange the last details for the move to-morrow, — so we felt we ought not even to wish to see him.

General Franklin took us to the White House, — a house and estate just quitted by the family of a son of General Lee, whose wife was a Custis. I copied the following notice, written in a lady’s hand on a half sheet of note-paper, and nailed to the wall of the entrance: —

Northern soldiers! who profess to reverence the memory of Washington, forbear to desecrate the home of his first married life, the property of his wife, and now owned by her descendants.

A Granddaughter Of Mrs. Washington.

Underneath was written (in the handwriting, as I was told, of General Williams, Adjutant-General of the army): —

Lady, — A Northern soldier has protected this property within sight of the enemy, and at the request of your overseer.

And so it was. On reaching the spot, General McClellan would not even make his headquarters within the grounds. Guards were stationed at the gates and fences, on the lawns and the piazzas. Within, all was beautiful, untrodden, and fresh, while without was the tumult and trampling of war. Already the surrounding country was a barren and dusty plain. We walked through the grounds, across the peaceful lawns looking down upon the river crowded with transports and ammunition barges. We went through the house, which is a small cottage, painted brown, and by no means a white house. The carpets and a great part of the furniture had been removed, but enough remained to show that modern elegance had adorned the quaint old place. Washington never lived in the present house, which has been built on the site of the one in which he spent his early married life.

General Franklin allowed me to gather some ivy and some holly. We stayed nearly an hour, sitting on the piazza and talking to him. He struck me as an officer of power, — large, with square face and head, deep-sunk, determined blue eyes, close-cropped reddish-brown hair and beard. He told us that the battle of Williamsburg was full of anxiety from first to last, and that it took much to decide the final fortunes of the day; but at West Point, after the men were landed, he was not for a moment uneasy, the game was in our hands from the beginning. He feels, confident that the enemy will make a great resistance before Richmond; if not, it will be a virtual surrender of their cause, which he thinks they are far from making. Everything, he said, depended on the strength of our army, and he told us that McDowell was at last coming down on our right wing, which is to be extended to meet him. He spoke with the deepest confidence in McClellan, who, he said, was in good spirits, though fearfully overworked.

As we were leaving White House, General Fitz-John Porter came to meet us, and walked with us to our wharf, where we met General Morell; and they all came on board and stayed half an hour. I felt great interest in General Porter, who commands one corps d’armee, General Franklin commanding another. General Morell is also an interesting man; looks like dear father, but wears a long white beard. He received the command of a division yesterday. General Porter spoke of McClellan just as we all feel, — as a patriot as well as a general, as a man who wisely seeks to heal, as well as to conquer. There is a fine spirit in General Porter. He probably has less power than General Franklin, is more excitable and sympathetic; but there is an expression of devotion about him which inspires great confidence. They were all very guarded, of course, in what they said of the future; but two hours’ talk with such men in such places teaches much.

This afternoon General Seth Williams, Adjutant-General, came on board to pay his respects to Mrs. Griffin. His visit gave us all great pleasure. I am told that if any man possesses in an equal degree the respect and attachment of others, he does; and yet his quiet, modest manner and plain appearance would hardly instruct a stranger as to his position in the army. These gentlemen were accompanied by many young officers, all spurs and swords and clanking. They were thankful for some of our private stores, —needles, buttons, and linen thread were as much prized as beads by an Indian; and even hairpins were acceptable to General Porter, one button of whose cap was already screwed on by that female implement.

I am happy to say that there is no immediate chance of my being anywhere but here. “We came up for medicines and general information; the result is that Mr. Olmsted finds such a state of disorganization and sixes-and-sevenness in the medical arrangements that he has determined to make his headquarters here for the present. Mr. Knapp has therefore just started in the tug for Yorktown to bring up the supply-boats, and leave orders for our hospital fleet to follow us up the river as they arrive from the North.

The state of affairs is somewhat this: when the march from Yorktown began, and the men dropped by thousands, exhausted, sick, and wounded, the Medical Department, unprepared and terribly harassed, flung itself upon the Sanitary Commission. When it became known that our transports were lying in the river, the brigade-surgeons made a business of sending their sick on board of them; and the Medical Director sanctioned the practice. The hospitals at Yorktown, Fortress Monroe, and Newport News are full; the Commission has therefore been forced to take these men to the North. Nothing, of course, is more desirable for those who are seriously ill or badly wounded; but every man who falls exhausted from the ranks is sent to us. This will prove in the end actually demoralizing to the army if not checked. The men will come to think that illness, real or shammed, is the way to get home. Already suspicious rheumatic cases have appeared. Mr. Olmsted remonstrates against the system, but of course he has to act under the medical authority. What is wanted is a large receiving hospital in the rear of the army, which would keep the cases of exhaustion and slight illness, take good care of them for a week or two, and send them back to the front. Mr. Olmsted telegraphed to-day, advising the Surgeon-General to send sufficient hospital accommodation, bedding, and medicines for six thousand men. This ought to be done. Meantime we lie here, and may fill this ship, which is now all in order, to-morrow.

Could you but see the lovely scene around me! We have had a little service of prayer and hymns in the cabin, and now we are all — the “staff,” as we call ourselves — sitting at sunset on the deck, under an awning. We are anchored in the middle of the river, which is about three hundred yards wide at this point, and are slowly swinging at our anchor. We have dropped down the stream since morning. Scores of vessels — transports, mortar-boats, ammunition-barges—are close around us, and several gunboats. The regiments of Franklin’s corps are camped along the banks; the bands playing on one side, “Hail Columbia!” and, farther down, “Glory, Hallelujah!” The trees which fringe the shore lean towards us,— locust, oak, and the lovely weeping-elm. One of the latter throws its shadow across my paper as we have slowly swung into it. I have told Mr. Olmsted that, now that I feel at home in the work, I am not tied to Mrs. Griffin, but consider the protection of the Commission sufficient, and that if he wants me, I will stay by the work as long as there is any. I like him exceedingly, autocrat and aristocrat that he is; I feel that he would protect and guard in the wisest manner those under his care. The other gentlemen on board are Mr. Frederick N. Knapp, second to Mr. Olmsted, in charge of the supplies; Dr. Robert Ware, chief-surgeon; Messrs. Charles Woolsey, George Wheelock, and David Haight, his assistants.

Direct to me in future to the care of Colonel Ingalls, Quartermaster’s Department, Army of the Potomac — think of that!

“S. R Spaulding,” Pamunky River, May 17.

Dear Mother, — This has been a delightful day. The “Knickerbocker” got safely off at five o’clock this morning, after a rather anxious night. One of the men from the “Elizabeth” died, and another jumped overboard. He rushed past me and sprang from the bulwark. I heard the splash, but all that I, or any one, saw of him were the rings in the water widening in the moonlight. Boats were put off immediately, but he never rose.

Last night, being off duty, I went round to a number of Rhode Island men who were on board, and wrote letters or took messages for them. A coincidence—a real coincidence — occurred. I had heard Mr. Knapp telling Mr Olmsted of the death of a Newport man, David A. Newman, Fourth Rhode Island Volunteers. I asked for his effects, that I might some day take them home with me. In searching for them, a knapsack marked “Simeon A. Newman, Fourth Rhode Island Volunteers,” turned up without its owner, who had died in Washington in December, 1861. This knapsack had wandered on with the regiment; by chance it got on board our boat; by chance it came under my notice; by chance I spoke of it to one of the Rhode Island men, who said: “I know a man who knew Simeon A. Newman, and he is sick on board here now.” I hunted him up; he proved to be the nearest friend of S. A. Newman, who was color-sergeant of the regiment, and was with him when he died. He told me that after his death the widow wrote to beg that his sash might be sent to her; but though every effort was made, the widow writing again and again for it, it could never be found. I went at once to the knapsack, and there was the sash. I have sent them by express to Bristol, R. I., where the widow lives.

After the “Knickerbocker” was off we “took it easy;” came out to breakfast at ten o’clock, and transferred ourselves leisurely to this ship, which is a palace to us. We were rather subdued by our grandeur at dinner. Hotel-fare and men to wait upon us is rather elevating after eating salt-beef with our fingers. After dinner we ran up to West Point, where the York River forks, the northern branch being the Mattapony (pronounced Mattaponi); the other the Pamunky, along the line of which the army has advanced, — through the thirteen thousand acres granted by Charles II. to Ralph Wormeley 2d; strange, is n’t it, that I should be here now? They have had the pluck to run this huge vessel up this little river, without a chart, and not a soul on board who has been here before. The passage has been enchanting; we ran so close to the shore that I could almost have thrown my glove upon it. The verdure is in its freshest spring beauty; the lovely shores are belted with trees and shrubs of every brilliant and tender shade of green, broken now and then by creeks, running up little valleys till they are lost in the blue distance. I saw the beginning of the battle-field of Williamsburg (“long fields of barley and of rye” but a week ago), and the whole of the battle-field of West Point, still dotted with the hospital-tents, from which we have cleared out all the wounded.

The sun set as we rounded the last bend in the Pamunky; the sky and the water gleamed golden alike, and the trees suddenly grew black as the glow dazzled our eyes. We dropped anchor off Cumberland at dusk, and have just left the deck (on sanitary principles), where we were sitting to enjoy the lovely lights and listen to the whippoorwill. This is yachting on a magnificent scale; we feel rather ashamed of our grandeur, and eager to get back to a tugboat again. This vessel, which used to be a fine passenger steamship, has been employed by the Government as a transport for major-generals and their train. This accounts for the style in which she is equipped and manned. She is now filled with workmen, putting up three tiers of hospital-bunks in the hold and on the forward main-deck; after that is finished we shall begin to fit up the wards. To-day we have organized the pantry and store-rooms.

“Wilson Small,” May 16.

Dear Friend, — I have asked every one within reach what day of the week it is: in vain. Reference to Mr. Olmsted, who knows everything, establishes that it is Friday. Is it one week, or five, since I left New York?

As I wrote the last words of my last letter, the “Elizabeth,” our supply-boat, came alongside with Mr. Olmsted and Mr. Knapp, and just behind them a steamer with one hundred and eighty sick on board. All hands were at once alert. The sick men were to be put on board the “Knickerbocker,” whither we all went at once, armed with our precious spirit-lamps. Meantime Mr. Olmsted read a telegram we had received in his absence, saying that a hundred sick were lying at Bigelow’s Landing and “dying in the rain.” Mr. Knapp took charge of the “Elizabeth,” saying, “Who volunteers to go up for them?” Three young men, Miss Helen Gilson, and I followed him. Not a moment was lost, — Mr. Knapp would not even let me go back for a shawl, — and the tug was off.

The “Elizabeth” is our store-tender or supply-boat. Her main-deck is piled from deck to deck with boxes. The first thing done is to pick out six cases of pillows, six of quilts, one of brandy, and a cask of bread. Then all the rest are lowered into the hold. Meantime I make for the kitchen, where I find a remarkable old black aunty and a fire. I dive into her pots and pans, I wheedle her out of her green tea (the black having given out), and soon I have eight bucketsful of tea and pyramids of bread and butter. Miss Gilson and the young men have spread the cleared main-deck with two layers of quilts and rows of pillows a man’s length apart, and we are ready for the men some time before we reach them; for the night is dark and rainy, and the boat has got aground, and it is fully ten o’clock before the men are brought alongside. The poor fellows are led or carried on board, and stowed side by side as close as can be. We feed them with spoonfuls of brandy and water; they are utterly broken down, soaked through, some of them raving with fever. After all are laid down, Miss Gilson and I give them their suppers, and they sink down again. Any one who looks over such a deck as that, and sees the suffering, despondent attitudes of the men, and their worn frames and faces, knows what war is, better than the sight of wounds can teach it. We could only take ninety; twenty-five others had to go on the small tug which accompanied us. Mr. Knapp, the doctor, and one of the young men went on board of her. Meantime the “Elizabeth” started on the homeward trip, so that Miss Gilson and I and a quartermaster were left to manage our men alone. Fortunately only about a dozen were very ill, and none died. Still, I felt anxious: six were out of their minds; one had tried to destroy himself three times that day, and was drenched through and through, having been dragged out of the creek into which he had thrown himself just before we reached him.

We were alongside the “Knickerbocker” by 1 A.M., when Dr. Ware came on board and gave me some general directions, after which I got along very well. It was thought best to leave the poor wearied fellows to rest where they were until morning, and the night passed off quietly enough; my only disaster being that I gave morphia to a man who actually screamed with rheumatism and cramp. I supposed morphia could n’t hurt him, and it was a mercy to others to stop the noise. Instead of this, I made him perfectly crazy. He rose to his feet in the midst of the prostrate mass of men, and demanded of them and of me his “clean linen” and his “Sunday clothes.” I picked my way to him, but could do nothing at first but make him worse. At last I was inspired to say that I had all his clothes “there” (pointing to a dark corner behind a bulkhead): “would he lie down and wait till I brought them?” To my surprise he subsided. I hid in trepidation for a few minutes, and at last, to my great joy, I saw the morphine take effect. One little fellow of fifteen, crushed by a tree falling on his breast, had run away from his mother, and was very pathetic. I persuaded him to let me write to her.

The next morning, after getting them all washed, I went off guard, and Mrs. Griffin and Miss Butler came on board with their breakfast from the “Knickerbocker,” where the hundred and eighty whom we had left arriving the night before, were stowed and cared for. Getting them all washed, as I say, is a droll piece of work. Some are indifferent to the absurd luxury of soap and water, and some are so fussy. Some poor faces we must wash ourselves, and that softly and slowly. I started along each row with two tin basins and two bits of soap, my arm being the towel-horse. Now, you are not to suppose that each man had a basinful of clean water all to himself. However, I thought three to a basin was enough, or four, if they did n’t wash too hard. But an old corporal taught me better. “Stop, marm!” said he, as I was turning back with the dirty water to get fresh; “that water will do for several of us yet. Bless you! I make my coffee of worse than that.”

Soon after breakfast my men were transferred to the “Knickerbocker.” She still lies alongside, and we take care of her. She is beautifully in order. The ward-masters are all excellent, and the orderlies know their duty. The men look comfortable, and even cheerful. It is a pleasure to give them their meals. I gave the men in the long ward (where they lie on mattresses in two rows, head to bead, two hundred of them) their dinner to-day, and their supper yesterday. Ah, me! how they liked it, — some of them, of course, too worn to do more than swallow a few spoonfuls and look grateful; others loud in their satisfaction. The poor, crazy man who tried to destroy himself at Bigelow’s Landing has some vague idea about me now; and sometimes, when he utterly refuses his milk-punch, and thrashes and splutters at every one who comes near him, I am sent for, when he subsides into obedience with a smile which is meant to be bland, and is so comical that people around retire in convulsions.

To-day I am “loafing.” Everything is in perfect order on the “Knickerbocker;” and as I scent a transfer this afternoon of the whole corps to the “Spaulding,” to fit her up, I am determined to husband my efforts. This boat, the “Wilson Small,” is finally smashed up; we call her the “Collida.” The hospital-boats usually lie alongside of each other, with their gangways connected; and sometimes we run through four or five boats at a time.

Captain Curtis is still on board, doing well. He goes North on the “Knickerbocker” to-day. Now that our wounded men are gone, we have a dinner-table set, and the Captain lies in his cot on one side of the cabin, laughing at the fun and nonsense which go on at meals. Mrs. Howland. has her French man-servant, Maurice, on board. He is capital. He struggles to keep us proper in manners and appearance, and still dreams of les convenances. At dinner-time he rushes through the various ships and wards: “My ladies, j’ai un petit plat; je ne vous dirai pas ce que c’est. I beg of you to be ponctuelle; I gif you half-hour’s notis.” The half-hour having expired, he sets out again on a voyage of entreaty and remonstrance. He won’t let us help ourselves, and if we take a seat not close to the person above, he says: “No, no, move up; we must have order.” His petit plat proved to be baked potatoes, which were received with acclamation, while he stood bowing and smiling with a towel (or it may have been a rag) for a napkin. But I must tell you that Maurice is the tenderest of nurses, and gives every moment he can spare to the sick. He serves his mistress, but he is attentive to all, and, like a true Frenchman, he so identifies himself with the moment and its interests that he is, to all hospital intents and purposes, “one of us.”

You are not to be alarmed by the word “typhoid,” which I foresee will occur on every page of my letters, nearly all our sick cases being that or running into that. The idea of infection is simply absurd. The ventilation of these ships is excellent; besides, people employed in such a variety of work and in high health and spirits are not liable to infection. Nobody ever thinks of such a thing, and I only mention it to check your imagination. In a boat organized like the “Knickerbocker,” we women stand no regular watch, but we are on hand at all hours of the day, relieving each other at our own convenience. As for the ladies among whom my luck has thrown me, they are just what they should be, — efficient, wise, active as cats, merry, light-hearted, thoroughbred, and without the fearful tone of self-devotion which sad experience makes one expect in benevolent women. We all know in our hearts that it is thorough enjoyment to be here, — it is life, in short; and we wouldn’t be anywhere else for anything in the world. I hope people will continue to sustain the Sanitary Commission. Hundreds of lives are being saved by it. I have seen with my own eyes in one week fifty men who must have died without it, and many more who probably would have done so. I speak of lives saved only; the amount of suffering saved is incalculable. The Commission keeps up the work at great expense. It has six large steamers running from here. Government furnishes these and the bare rations of the men; but the real expenses of supply fall on the Commission, — in fact, everything that makes the power and excellence of the work is supplied by the Commission. If people ask what they shall send, say: Money, money, stimulants, and articles of sick-food.

“Wilson Small,” May 14.

Dear Friend, — Last evening we parted from all our poor fellows, except Captain Curtis, the extensive hero, who is said to-day to have a chance for life. Our men were put on board the “Elm City,” which has been detailed to the Commission. She filled up this morning with four hundred and forty patients, and sailed for Washington. Mrs. George Strong takes charge of the women’s department, and Miss Whetten goes with her. I was sent on board this morning to assist them, and remained there till the boat sailed. The “Elm City” is a large river-steamboat, with wide spaces on all her decks, where badly wounded men can be laid in rows on cots and mattresses, — they could not be put in bunks or berths. She cannot make a sea-passage, and is therefore sent up the Potomac to Washington.

It is an immense piece of work to get the patients (many of them very low, or in great agony) on board and into their .beds, and stimulated and fed and made comfortable. So much is needed, — quick eyes and ears, and, above all, some one to keep severe order in the pantry, or rather the kitchen for the sick-food. Mrs. Griffin is magnificent at that. I never saw her hurried or worried for a moment; consequently she saves time and temper, and does the very best that can be done. She spent this morning on the “Elm City” watching over three men until they died, receiving their last wishes, which she is now writing to their wives.

You will get little public information from me. I am told we went some way up the Pamunky River yesterday. Mr. Olmsted landed, and went over the Williamsburg battle-field with incredible difficulty and jolting. It is two and a half miles long, with the fences all broken down. The enemy are expected to make a desperate stand at Bottom Bridge — wherever that may be. The army is now making its way along the banks of the Pamunky; great regret is felt that General McDowell was not allowed to co-operate at Gloucester. The spirit of our men, their confidence in their leaders, their pride in belonging to McClellan and the Army of the Potomac, is splendid, so far as I see it; and everybody says the same. Many fine traits of character come out,—such as their self-forgetfulness and tenderness in caring for sick comrades, their endurance of suffering, and even contempt for it. A poor little boy of seventeen, shot through the lungs, was so unwilling to speak of himself, never murmuring, but roused into excitement on the arrival of the New York papers with accounts of the battles. I began to read to him about the battle of Williamsburg, where he was wounded; but he gurgled out: “Not that! I know all about that. What did our boys do next?”

The fire we saw on our way across the Chesapeake was the burning of the Navy-yard at Norfolk, and the dull explosion which we heard was the blowing up of the “Merrimac.”

“Wilson Small,” May 13.

Dear Mother,—Yours of the ninth received. The mails come with sufficient regularity. We all rush at the letter-bag, and think ourselves blighted beings if we get nothing. Yesterday I came on board this boat, where there are thirty very bad cases,—four or five amputations. One poor fellow, a lieutenant in the Thirty-second New York Volunteers, shot through the knee, and enduring more than mortal agony; a fair-haired boy of seventeen, shot through the lungs, every breath he draws hissing through the wound; another man, a poet, with seven holes in him, but irrepressibly poetic and very comical. He dictated to me last night a foolscap sheet full of poetry composed for the occasion. His appearance as he sits up in bed, swathed in a nondescript garment or poncho, constructed for him by Miss Whetten out of an old green table-cloth, is irresistibly funny. There is also a captain of the Sixteenth New York Volunteers, mortally wounded while leading his company against a regiment. He is said to measure six feet seven inches, — and I believe it, looking at him as he lies there on a cot, pieced out at the foot with two chairs.[1]

I took my first actual watch last night; and this morning I feel the same ease about the work which yesterday I was surprised to see in. others. We begin the day by getting them all washed, and freshened up, and breakfasted. Then the surgeons and dressers make their rounds, open the wounds, apply the remedies, and replace the bandages. This is an awful hour; I sat with. my fingers in my ears this morning. When it is over, we go back to the men and put the ward in order once more; remaking several of the beds, and giving clean handkerchiefs with a little cologne or baywater on them, — so prized in the sickening atmosphere of wounds. We sponge the bandages over the wounds constantly, — which alone carries us round from cot to cot almost without stopping, except to talk to some, read to others, or write letters for them; occasionally giving medicine or brandy, etc., according to order. Then comes dinner, which we serve out ourselves, feeding those who can’t feed themselves. After that we go off duty, and get first washed and then fed ourselves; our dinner-table being the top of an old stove, with slices of bread for plates, fingers for knives and forks, and carpet-bags for chairs, — all this because everything available is being used for our poor fellows. After dinner other ladies keep the same sort of watch through the afternoon and evening, while we sit on the floor of our staterooms resting, and perhaps writing letters, as I am doing now.

Meantime this boat has run up the York River as far as West Point (where a battle was fought on Thursday), in obedience to a telegram from the Medical Director of the Army, requesting the Commission to take off two hundred wounded men immediately. A transport accompanies us. But we pay little heed to the outside world, and though we have been under-way and running here and there for hours, I have only just found it out. Don’t fret if you do not hear from me. I may go to Washington on a hospital transport, or — to Richmond with the army! and you may not hear of me for a week. Let no one pity or praise us. I admit painfullness; but no one can tell how sweet it is to be the drop of comfort to so much agony.

[1] Now General N. M. Curtis, the hero of Fort Fisher.

Headquarters U. S. Sanitary Commission,
Steamer “Wilson Small,”

Off Yorktown, May 12.

Dear A., —Transferred to this boat. Mr. Olmsted came on board at twelve o’clock last night and ordered Mrs. Griffin and me off the “Daniel Webster.” We had just received, stowed, and fed two hundred and forty-five men, most of them very ill with typhoid fever. The ship sailed at eight o’clock this morning, and will be in New York to-morrow night. Mrs. Trotter went back in charge of our department, and Mrs. Bellows (wife of the president of the Sanitary Commission) accompanied her.

The “Webster” could not get up to the wharf, so the sick men were brought off to us in tug-boats. As each man came on board (raised from one vessel and lowered to the second deck of ours in cradles), he was registered and “bunked.” In my ward, as each man was laid in his berth, I gave him brandy and water, and after all were placed, tea and bread and butter, if they could take it, or more brandy or beef-tea if they were sinking. Of course it was painful; but there was so much to be done, and done quietly and quickly, that there was no time to be conscious of pain. But fever patients are very dreadful, and their moans distressing. The men were all patient and grateful. Some said, “You don’t know what it is to me to see you.” “This is heaven, after what I’ve suffered.” “To think of a woman being here to help me!” One little drummer-boy thought he was going to die instantly. I said: “Pooh! you’ll walk off the ship at New York. Take your tea.” He was quite hurt that I could ask it; but presently I found he had demolished a huge slice of bread and butter, and was demanding more. Then the doctors made their rounds; and after that, such, as were in a condition to be handled were put into clean hospital clothing. Some, however, were allowed to rest until morning.

We did not get them all settled and the watches set till 1 A. M.; after which Mrs. Griffin and I packed up, to leave the ship at daybreak. Oh! if I had it to do over again, I’d have an organized carpet-bag, with compartments for everything. As it was, all was poked in and stamped upon.

This is a little boat, headquarters of the Sanitary Commission, Mr. Olmsted, the General Secretary, in charge of the whole transport service, and Mr. Knapp, his second in command, living on board. At present she is filled in every available corner by severely wounded men brought from the battle-field of Williamsburg, —wounded chiefly in the legs and thighs. Today Mrs. Griffin and I are supernumeraries, the ladies on board being sufficient for all purposes. They are, so far as I have yet ascertained, Mrs. George Strong, wife of the Treasurer of the Sanitary Commission, Miss Mary Gardiner, of New York, Mrs. Howland., whose husband is the colonel of a regiment in the advance, a tall, symmetrical Miss Whetten,[1] and a pretty little creature, half nun, half soubrette, whose name I don’t know. They all seem easy and at home in their work, as if they had been at it all their lives. I use my eyes and learn, and have taken a hand here and there as occasion offered. Terrible things happened yesterday. Many of the wounded of the Williamsburg battle were found lying in the woods with their wounds not dressed, and they starving. Mrs. Strong saw them, and says it was like going over a battle-field.

There is a general cry throughout the female department for “Georgy.” “Where is Georgy?” “Oh, if Georgy were here!” “Georgy” is on board a hospital boat called the “Knickerbocker,” which appears to be missing. As I have nothing to do, I speculate a good deal as to who and what “Georgy” may be.

Yesterday we went all over Yorktown. I sent a few relics to Ralph by the “Daniel Webster,” one of them much envied, — an iron pulley from the celebrated gun which McClellan telegraphed had been “impertinent this morning,” and which afterwards burst, to the great relief of our men. It is amazing that Yorktown was so soon evacuated. Its strength seems very great, not only from its defences, but from the lay of the land, — range after range of hill and ravine, every hill commanding the plain over which our army had to creep up, and which was also covered by the water-batteries at Gloucester, until the gunboats silenced them. We went round the fortifications and saw everything,— the siege-guns, eighty of them; the fine log-houses of the men; the ten thousand abandoned tents, many of which were still standing. Guards were placed about the magazines; and at various points, in the paths or by the wayside, we came upon placards marked “Dangerous,” as a warning of torpedoes. I saw the fragments of a flour-barrel in which one was buried, killing the man who dipped into it; also a walnut-tree under which the earth was torn up, and where six men were yesterday blown to fragments by somebody stepping on the fuse of one. We saw what was once Lafayette’s headquarters, — now supposed to be a prison, where the prisoners seemed to be very little guarded or regarded; then we paid a visit to General Van Alen, commanding the post, and called upon Miss Dix at the Hospital, — Lord Cornwallis’s headquarters; the best house in the place, with a wide-panelled hall and staircase. The rooms above were crowded with wounded men, all looking clean and comfortable. It is wonderful how in the midst of our own excitements these historical places impressed us, and it was hard enough to believe that the confusion, destruction, and filth about us were making a new history.

We did all this in three hours before the sick men could be brought off to the “Webster.” We shuffle about without hoops; Mrs. Griffin says it is de rigueur that they shall not be worn in hospital service. I like it very well on board ship: it is becoming to Miss Whetten, who is symmetry itself; but it must be owned that some of us look rather mediæval. I have no idea what we are to do, and I ask no questions. Mr. Olmsted is the law-giver; he knows the fact of my existence, and will use me when he wants me. It is very cold, and the air has the texture of your worst Boston weather, — steel-filings and all.

[1] Now Mrs. Gamble, of Intervale, N. H.

Off Yorktown, May 11.

Up at five o’clock to give the last finishing touches to the wards. At seven called to breakfast, and found Mr. Olmsted and Mr. Knapp on board; McClellan nine miles beyond West Point. We are to get sick men on board this afternoon, and sail to-morrow, — unless Mr. Olmsted wants us to go elsewhere; Mrs. Griffin and I have volunteered to do so.

Last evening, as we entered the Chesapeake, we saw the crimson glow of a great fire in the direction of Fortress Monroe or Norfolk; and this morning early we heard the dull, heavy sound of an explosion or brief cannonading in the same direction. We are now going ashore to look at Yorktown, for the wards are all in perfect order, and the men can’t be shipped till evening. The press of work here is overwhelming, they say. I am writing with everybody about me. Surgeons are coming off to us in tugs and row-boats, clamorous for brandy, beef-stock, lemons, and all stimulating and supporting things.

Good-bye! This is life. It is by mere luck that I am here, for Mrs. Griffin never received my letter, and only heard by chance that I had written it.

U. S. Floating Hospital “Daniel Webster,” Off Ship Point, May 10.

Dear Friend,—I write with a pencil, because it is so comfortable. We left New York yesterday at 5 P. M., and came down the bay through wonderful effects of evening light and shade and color. We stayed on deck by moonlight till eleven o’clock, when I turned in, to sleep all night, and get up lazily to breakfast at nine this morning. Since then I have helped to make our hospital-flag, and have dreamed away the day, lying on deck in the sweet air, where I could see the bluest sky and the bluest water (when the vessel dipped), and nothing else. Four ladies are attached to the ship,— Mrs. William Preston Griffin, Mrs. Trotter,[1] Mrs. Blatchford, and I. As far as I can judge, our duty is to be very much that of a housekeeper. We attend to the beds, the linen, the clothing of the patients; we have a pantry and store-room, and are required to do all the cooking for the sick, and see that it is properly distributed according to the surgeons’ orders; we are also to have a general superintendence over the condition of the wards and over the nurses, who are all men. What else, time and experience will show, I suppose.

I am inclined to like the surgeon-in-charge, Dr. Grymes, very much. He commands here; the captain, named Bletham, — a truly honest, kindly, sailor-like man, — being, under present circumstances, only second. Dr. Grymes is suffering from consumption, and to-day he is hanging about, languid and nerveless; they tell me that to-morrow he will be taut, tireless, hawk-eyed, and the spirit of an emergency. There are eight medical students on board (” dressers” they are called), and perhaps twenty other young men, ward-masters and nurses, — all volunteers. The Government furnishes the vessel, and the rations of all on board. My stateroom, which I share with Mrs. Griffin, is on deck; it opens directly to the outer air, and has a large window and ventilator.

Since writing the above, I have done my first work, — making the beds. How you would have laughed to see me, without a hoop, mounted on the ledge of the second tier of berths, making the beds on the third tier!

[1] Now Mrs. Charles Henry Parker, of Boston.