The boys in white

by Julia S. Wheelock

In referring to my journal, I find, under date of April 21st, the following: “One week ago to-night the assassin’s hand was imbued in innocent blood, and, a few hours later, the great heart of Abraham Lincoln forever grew still! This is, surely, a mysterious dispensation of God’s providence, and we are led to ask, ‘Oh, Lord! why was it?’ Yet, while we mourn, it becometh us to bow in submission to Him who knoweth the end from the beginning, and, though he has permitted this wicked deed, we know that ‘he is too wise to err;’ that he ‘worketh all things after the counsel of his own will,’ causing even the wrath of man to praise him.”

I will here give an extract—which seems so appropriate—taken from an oration delivered by Senator Foot on the death of Senator Collamar, both of Vermont, and both now no more: “Abraham Lincoln—clarum nomen—the poor Kentucky boy, the martyr President, who had saved a country and redeemed a race—the martyr President, who, having saved his country from the greatest rebellion of all history, and redeemed a race from the bondage of centuries, falling by the assassin hand of Treason, went down to the grave amid a nation’s tears, and amid a nation’s requiem of wailing, yet bearing with him to the tomb more of the world’s affections, more of its sympathy, and more of its honors, too, than were ever accorded to other man, or prince, or potentate of earth, and whose highest eulogium is spoken in the universal lamentation.”

There was no time during the war that I experienced more fatigue in my work than the last three months. The reason, perhaps, was, that I had not fully regained my strength after my sickness at City Point. Then our hospitals were so scattered—several of them being situated in the extreme limits of the city—some of which were immensely large, containing from seventy to eighty wards. Besides these, there were two extensive hospitals in Alexandria, viz.: Sough and Sickles’ barracks. All the hospitals in that place were merged in these two. Then there was Fairfax Seminary, and a large hospital at Camp Stoneman.

The field was large, but, with large supplies to draw from, and a well-filled treasury, we were enabled to accomplish a good work. About the middle of April, our Association established a “Home” for the benefit of Michigan soldiers. Here a large number were daily fed, and many of them supplied with tobacco, stationery, etc. Our expenses were necessarily increased, and I hope the additional good accomplished more than compensated for the extra expense; but I have always felt that more good would have been done had all our means gone to the direct relief of the sick and wounded in our hospitals and the surrounding camps. That good was accomplished by the establishment of the “Home,” no one can deny; but that more would have been done without it, I firmly believe.

Early in May, the Association purchased a horse and buggy, which greatly facilitated my work, and enabled me to accomplish much more, with less fatigue, than before.

Not long after this Mrs. Brainard returned from her work at the front. Washington was assigned her, and I was sent to Baltimore. I left my field of labor not without many regrets, for I had tried so hard to get my work reduced to anything like system, that I was loth to leave it; besides, the army of the Potomac had been recalled. Sherman’s troops were arriving; our hospitals were receiving every day new accessions to our already large numbers, and it did seem to me that Washington was the very place where the greatest good could be done; but it was thought best for me to go, for a few days at least, and I did so. There were only five hospitals there at that time—one having been discontinued a few days before my arrival, and two others soon after. I found about fifty Michigan soldiers in these hospitals, all of whom, except four, were convalescent. After supplying the wants of these, I went to Annapolis, visited St. John’s hospital—the only one there at that time—where I found but two Michigan soldiers, who were considered to be in a dangerous situation. One of these was sick with small-pox, and the other badly wounded in both hips. There seemed to be a great demand among the convalescents and paroled prisoners for tobacco, which I supplied them, also with stationery, and such articles of clothing as each was needing; besides giving to those without money a few shillings a piece.

I returned to Baltimore the afternoon of the same day, without stopping at the camp of paroled prisoners as I had designed, for the rain was falling almost in torrents when the train passed through the camp; consequently my contemplated visit to those poor paroled prisoners was never made—something I shall ever look back upon with regret. At Baltimore, I made another tour through the hospitals, distributing sundry articles, which I promised at my former visit, and then returned to Washington, where a certain number of hospitals were assigned me as my special field of labor; yet I did not confine myself entirely to these, but made several visits to the surrounding camps with supplies, not only for those sick in the regimental hospitals, but also in their quarters. Soon the hospitals in the city began to be broken up, and before the close of the month of June, several were entirely discontinued. I can never efface from memory the feelings of loneliness experienced in passing through those empty hospitals. Each ward seemed like a haunted house, where the spirits of the departed still lingered. How suggestive even the number of these barracks or tents, many of which would bring to mind vivid recollections of painful scenes therein witnessed. In one, even now, I see the wasting form of Cyrus Cobb: a severe wound is sapping the very fountain of life; all his bright dreams of home, of that dear mother he so loved, and of whom he daily spoke, of other kindred and loved ones, of future plans and prospects, vanish at the approach of death; but we trust he has entered a better than any earthly home—even an heavenly. Near his cot I see a lingering consumptive—a Maryland soldier—the unnatural brilliancy of whose eye admonishes us all that the time of his departure is at hand.

In another ward lies one, whose beaming countenance indicates peace with God. The amputating knife has removed the shattered limb, but it avails nothing. When asked concerning his future prospects, “all bright,” is his cheerful answer. Soon there is another vacant bed, and the brother returns with the remains, sad and lonely, to his home in Pennsylvania, while the departed one sweetly sleeps in Jesus. Here too is another who has given his strong right arm for his country; he is convalescing, and is anticipating a speedy return home. But the fatal fever seizes him, and, in a few days, William McCormick is no more. Thus I might continue to enumerate such instances for nearly every ward in our hospitals, but the memory of them is too painful. It is like living over again those days of sad experiences.

“Through all rebellion’s horrors,

Bright shines our nation’s fame;