Washington, D.C., Jan’y 9th, 1862
Thursday morningMy darling Sis Fannie:
In spite of everything, I shall this moment commence this note to you, and I shall finish it as soon as I can, and when it is finished, I shall send it. In these days of “Proclamations,” this is mine.
I am truly thankful for the institution of ghosts, and that mine haunted you until you felt constrained to cry out for “relief”—not that I would have invoked discomfort upon you, or welcomed it when it should come, but your letter was so welcome, how could I in mortal weakness be so unselfish as not to hail with joy any “provoking cause”? You perceive that my idea of ghosts is not limited to graveyards and tombs, or the tenants thereof; indeed, so far from it, the most troublesome I have ever known were at times the inmates of living and moving bodies habiting among other people, coming out only occasionally like owls and bats to frighten the weak and discourage the weary. I am rejoiced to know that you are comfortable and happy, and that your school is not wearing you—you are perfectly right, never let another school be a burden of care upon you; you will do all your duty without any such soul-vexing labors. I envy you and Miss Bliss your long social intellectual evenings; please play I am there sometimes. I will be so quiet, and never disturb a bit, but, dear me, I am in rougher scenes, if in scenes at all. My head is just this moment full to aching, bursting with all the thoughts and doings of our pet expedition. A half-hour ago came to my room the last messenger from them, the last I shall have in all probability until the enemy’s galling shot shall have raked through the ranks of my dear boys, and strewn them here and there, bleeding, crippled, and dying. Only think of it! the same fair faces that only a few years ago came every morning, newly washed, hair nicely combed, bright and cheerful, and took their places quietly and happily among my scholars,—the same fair heads (perhaps now a few shades darker) that I have smoothed and patted in fond approval of some good deed or well-learned task, so soon to lie low in the Southern sands, blood-matted and tangled, trampled under foot of man and horse, buried in a common trench “unwept, uncoffined, and unknown.” For the last two weeks my very heart has been crushed by the sad thoughts and little touching scenes which have come in my way. It tires me most when one would get a few hours’ leave from his regiment at Annapolis, and come to me with some little sealed package, and perhaps his “warrant” as a non-commissioned officer, and ask me to keep it for him, either until he returns for it, or—when I should read his name in the “Black List,” send it home. And by the time his errand were well done, his little hour would be up and, with a hearty grasp of the hand, an earnest, deep-toned “good-bye,” he stepped from my presence, marching cheerfully, bravely out—“To die,” I said to myself, as my soul sunk within me, and the struggling breath would choke and stop, until the welcome shower of tears came to my relief. Oh, the hours I have wept alone over scenes like these, no mortal knows! To any other friend than you, I should not feel like speaking so freely of such things, but you, who know how foolishly tender my friendships are, and how I loved “my boys,” will pardon me, and not think me strange or egotistical. But I must forget myself, and tell you what the messenger said. It was simply that they were all on board; that, when he left, the harbor was full, literally crammed with boats and vessels, covered with men, shouting from every deck. At every breeze that lifted the drooping flag aloft, a shout went up that deafened and drowned every other sound, save the roar of the cannon, following instantly, drowning them in return. The....
Well, just as I knew it would be when I commenced twenty days ago to write you, some one interrupted me, and then came the returning hours of tedious labor, and a thrice-told quantity has held me fast until now. I have been a great deal more than busy for the past three weeks, owing to some new arrangements in the office, mostly, by which I lead the Record, and hurry up the others who lag.
Our city has known very little change, since I commenced my first sheet, although everybody but the wise people have looked intently for something new, and desperately dreadful, some “forward movement” or backward advance, but nothing of the kind has happened, doubtless much to our credit and comfort. No private returns from the “expedition” yet, but the Commandant of the Post at Annapolis, who just left me a moment ago, says that the Baltic will leave there this P.M. to join them in their landing wherever it may be.
Colonel Allen’s death was a most sad affair: his regiment was the first to embark at Annapolis, a splendid regiment 1200 strong. But a truce to wars, so here’s my white flag, only I suppose you “don’t see it,” do you? By this time you are reveling in the February number of the “Atlantic.” So am I. I have just laid down “A. C.” after a hurried perusal; not equal to “Love and Skates,” though; what a capital thing that is! But the “Yankee Idyll” caps all that has yet been done or said. I cannot lay that down, and keep it there; it will come up again, the thoughts to my mind, and the pages to my hand.
“Old Uncle S,—says he, I guess,
God’s price is high, says he.”[6]Who ever heard so much, so simply and so quaintly expressed?—there are at least ten volumes of good sound Orthodoxy embodied just there in that single stanza. But “Port Royal” mustn’t be eclipsed. The glories of that had been radiating through my mind, however, since its first appearance in the “Tribune” (if that were the first; it was the first I saw of it), and I thought it so beautiful that I shouldn’t be able to relish another poem for at least six weeks, and here it is, so soon bedimmed by a rival. Oh, the fickleness of human nature, and human loves, a beautiful pair they are, surmounted by the Godlike “Battle Hymn”[7] tossing over all. What did our poets do for subjects before the war? It’s a Godsend to them, I am certain, and they equally so to us; sometimes I think them the only bright spot in the whole drama.
Well, here I am at war again. I knew’t would be so when I signed that treaty on the previous page. I’m as bad as England; the fight is in me, and I will find a pretext.
I have not seen our North Oxford “Regulars” for some time owing to the fact that a sea of mud has lain between me and them for the last three weeks, utterly impassable. A few weeks ago Cousin Leander called me to see a member of his “mess” who was just attacked with pleuritic fever. I went, and found him in hospital. He was cheerful (a fine young man) and thought he should be out soon. Work and storm kept me from him three days, and the fourth we bought him a grave in the Congressional Burying Ground. Poor fellow, and there he lies all alone. A soldier’s grave, a sapling at the head, a rough slab at the foot, nine shots between, and all is over. He waits God’s bugle to summon him to a reënlistment in the Legion of Angels.
Well, it’s no use, I’ve broken the peace again, and I can’t keep it. I hope you live in a more peaceful community than I do, and are consequently more manageable and less belligerent....
Clara
The foregoing letter dealt almost wholly with national affairs. Family matters were giving her little concern during the twenty days in which this unfinished missive lay on her desk. But scarcely had she mailed it when she received this letter concerning her father:
North Oxford, Mass., January 13, 1862
My dear Clara:
I sat up with Grandpa last night and he requested me to write to you and tell how he was. Some one has to sit up with him to keep his fire regulated. He takes no medicine, and says he shall take no more. He is quite low-spirited at times, and last night very much so. Complains of pains in his back and bowels; said he should not stop long with us, and should like to see you once more before he died. He spoke in high terms of Julie and of the excellent care she had taken of him, but said after all there was no one like you. I think he fails slowly and is gradually wearing out. A week ago he was quite low; so feeble that he was unable to raise himself in bed; now he is more comfortable and walks out into the sitting-room ’most every day. He cannot be prevailed upon to go to bed, but sits in his great chair and sleeps on the lounge. When he was the sickest I notified Dr. Darling of his situation and he called. Grandpa told him his medicine did not help or hurt him. Doctor left him some drops, but said he had no confidence in his medicine and he did not think it would help him. His appetite is tolerably good for all kinds of food, and what he wants he will have. I hardly know what to write about him. I do not wish to cause unnecessary alarm, and at the same time I want you to fully understand his case. As I said before, he gets low-spirited and disconsolate, but I think he may stand by us some months longer, and yet, he may be taken away at any moment. Of course every new attack leaves him feebler and more childish. He wants to see you again and seems quite anxious about it, but whether about anything in particular he did not say....
Sam Barton
Thus, at the beginning of February, 1862, she was called back to Oxford. Her father, who had several times seemed near to death, but who had recovered again and again, was now manifestly nearing the end. She was with him more than a month before he died. His mind was clear, and they were able to converse about all the great matters which concerned them and their home and country. He made his final business arrangements; he talked with the children who were there, and about the children who were away. He was greatly concerned for Stephen, at that time shut in by the Confederate army. Even if the Northern armies could reach him, as they seemed likely to do before long, neither Clara nor her father felt sure that he would leave. There was an element of stubbornness in the Barton family, and Stephen was disposed to stand his ground against all threats and all entreaties. Clara and her father felt that the situation was certainly more serious than even Stephen could realize. To invite him to return to Oxford and sit down in idleness was worse than useless, and he could not render any military service. Not only was he too old, but he had a hernia. But she felt sure that if he were in Washington there would be something that he could do; and, as was subsequently proved, she was right about it. There were no mails between Massachusetts or Washington and the place of his residence, but Clara had opportunity to send a letter which she hoped would reach him. She wrote guardedly, for it was not certain into whose hands the letter might fall. Sitting by her father’s bedside she wrote the following long epistle:
North Oxford, March 1st, 1862
My dear Exiled Brother:
I trust that at length I have an opportunity of speaking to you without reserve. I only wish I might talk with you face to face, for in all the shades of war which have passed over us, we must have taken in many different views. I would like to compare them, but as this cannot be, I must tell you mine, and in doing so I shall endeavor to give such opinions and facts as would be fully endorsed by every friend and person here whose opinions you would ever have valued. I would sooner sever the hand that pens this than mislead you, and you may depend upon the strict fact of everything I shall say, remembering that I shall overcolor nothing.
In the first place, let me remove the one great error, prevalent among all (Union) people at the South, I presume,—viz., that this is a war of “Abolitionism” or abolitionists. This is not so; our Government has for its object the restoration of the Union as it was, and will do so, unless the resistance of the South prove so obstinate and prolonged that the abolition or overthrow of slavery follow as a consequence—never an object. Again, the idea of “subjugation.” This application never originated with the North, nor is it tolerated there, for an instant; desired by no one unless, like the first instance, it follows as a necessity incident upon a course of protracted warfare. Both these ideas are used as stimulants by the Southern (mis)leaders, and without them they could never hold their army together a month. The North are fighting for the maintenance of the Constitutional Government of the United States and the defense and honor of their country’s flag. This accomplished, the army are ready to lay down their arms and return to their homes and peaceable pursuits, and our leaders are willing to disband them. Until such time, there will be found no willingness on the part of either. We have now in the field between 500,000 and 600,000 soldiers; more cavalry and artillery than we can use to advantage, our navy growing to a formidable size, and all this vast body of men, clothed, fed, and paid, as was never an army on the face of the earth before, perfectly uniformed, and hospital stores and clothing lying idly by waiting to be used; we feel no scarcity of money. I am not saying that we are not getting a large national debt, but I mean to say that our people are not feeling the pinchings of “war-time.” The people of the North are as comfortable as you used to see them. You should be set down in the streets of Boston, Worcester, New York, or Philadelphia to-day, and only by a profusion of United States flags and occasionally a soldier home on a furlough would you ever mistrust that we were at war. Let the fire bells ring in any of those cities, and you will never miss a man from the crowds you have ordinarily seen gather on such occasions. We can raise another army like the one we have in the field (only better men as a mass), arm and equip them for service, and still have men and means enough left at home for all practical purposes. Our troops are just beginning to be effective, only just properly drilled, and are now ready to commence work in earnest or just as ready to lay down their arms when the South are ready to return to the Union, as “loyal and obedient States”; not obedient to the North, but obedient to the laws of the whole country. Our relations with foreign countries are amicable, and our late recent victories must for a long time set at rest all hope or fears of foreign interference, and even were such an event probable, the Federal Government would not be dismayed. We are doubtless in better condition to meet a foreign foe, along with all our home difficulties to-day, than we should have been all together one year ago to-day. Foreign powers stand off and look with wonder to see what the Americans have accomplished in ten months; they will be wary how they wage war with “Yankees” after this. I must caution here, lest you think there is in all I say something of the spirit of “brag.” There is not a vestige of it. I am only stating plain facts, and not the hundredth part of them. I do not feel exultant, but humble and grateful that under the blessing of God, my country and my people have accomplished what they have; and even were I exulting, it would be for you, and not over, or against you, for “according to the straightest of your sect,” have you lived a “Yankee.” And this brings me to the point of my subject; here comes my request, my prayer, supplication, entreaty, command—call it what you will, only heed it, at once. Come home, not home to Massachusetts, but home to my home; I want you in Washington. I could cover pages, fill volumes, in telling you all the anxiety that has been felt for you, all the hours of anxious solicitude that I have known in the last ten months, wondering where you were, or if you were at all, and planning ways of getting to you, or getting you to me, but never until now has any safe or suitable method presented itself, and now that the expedition has opened a means of escape, I am tortured with the fear that, under the recent call of the State, you may have been drafted into the enemy’s service. If you are still at your place and this letter reaches you, I desire, and most sincerely advise, you to make ready, and, when the opportunity shall present (which surely will), place yourself, with such transportable things as you may desire to take, on board one of our boats, under protection of our officers, and be taken to the landing at Roanoke, and from thence by some of our transports up to Annapolis, where either myself or friends will be waiting for you, then go with me to Washington and call your days of trial over;—for so it can be done. If we could have known when General Burnside’s expedition left, that it was destined for your place, Sam would have accompanied them, and made his way to you on the first boat up your river; as it is, he is coming now, hoping that he may be in time to reach you, and have your company back. I want in some way that this and other letters reach you before he does, that you may make such preparations as will be necessary, and be ready, whenever he shall appear, to step on board and set your face toward a more peaceful quarter. You will meet a welcome from our officers such as you little dream of, unless perchance you have already met them. If you have, you have found them gentlemen and friends; you will find scores of old friends in that expedition, all anxious to see you, would do anything to serve you if you were with them, but don’t know where to find you. There are some down on the Island, among General Burnside’s men, who have your address, but they would scarcely be on our gunboats. There are plenty of men there who have not only your name in their pockets, but your memory in their hearts, and would hail you with a brother’s welcome. General Butler came in at Hatteras with a long letter in his possession relating to you, and if he had advanced so far, he would have claimed you. I don’t know how many of our prominent Worcester men have come or sent to me for your address, to make it known among our troops if ever they reached you, that they might offer you any aid in their power. No one can bear the idea of our forces going near you without knowing all about you, and claiming and treating you as a brother; you were never as near and dear to the people of Worcester County as you are to-day. I have seen the tears roll over more than one man’s face when told that Sam was going to see and take something to you, and bring you away if you would come. “God grant he may” is the hearty ejaculation which follows. I want to tell you who you will find among the officers and men composing the Expedition near you; Massachusetts has five regiments—21st, 23rd, 24th, 25th, 27th; the 21st and 25th were raised in Worcester, the former under Colonel Augustus Morse, of Leominster, formerly Major-General Morse, of the 3rd Division, State Militia: he is detached from the regiment and is commandant (or second in command now) of the post at Annapolis. It is he who will send Sam free of cost to you. He is a good, true friend of mine, and tells me to send Sam to him, and he will put him on the track to you. He will also interest both General Burnside and Commander Goldsburgh in both of you and leave nothing undone for your comfort and interest. In the meantime he is waiting to grasp your hand, and share his table and blanket with you at Annapolis. So much for him; the other officers of the regiment are Lieutenant-Colonel Maggi, Major Clark (of Amherst College, Professor of Chemistry), Dr. Calvin Cutter as surgeon (you remember Cutter’s Physiology), Adjutant Stearns, Chaplain Ball, etc. etc. all of whom know me, are my friends, and will be yours in an instant; among the men are scores of boys whom you know. You can’t enter that regiment without a shout of welcome, unless you do it very slyly. Then for the 25th, Colonel Upton, of Fitchburg, Lieutenant-Colonel Sprague, of Worcester, Major Caffidy, of W., Chaplain Reverend Horace James, of the Old South, Cousin Ira’s old minister, one of the bravest men in the regiment, one of my best friends, and yours too; Captain I. Waldo Denny, son of Denny the insurance agent. The Captain has been talking about you for the last six months, and if he once gets hold of you will be slow to release you unless you set your face for me; the old gentleman (his father) has been very earnest in devising plans all through the difficulties to reach, aid, or get you away as might be best. He came to me in Washington for your address and all particulars long months ago, hoping that he could reach you through just some such opening as the present. I state all this because it is due you that you should know the state of feeling held towards you by your old friends and acquaintances whether you choose to come among them or not. Even old Brine was in here a few minutes ago, and is trying to have Sam take a hundred dollars of his money out to you, lest you should need it and cannot get it there; the old fellow urged it upon me with the tears running down his cheeks. There is no bitterness here, even towards the Southerners themselves, and men would give their lives to save the Union men of the South. The North feel it to be a necessity to put down a rebellion, and there the animosity ends. Now, my advice to you would be this; if you do not see fit to follow it, you will promise not to take offense or think me conceited in presuming to advise you; under ordinary circumstances I would not think of the thing, as you very well know. I get my privilege merely from the different standpoint I occupy. No word or expression has ever come from you, and you are regarded as a Union man closed in and unable to leave, standing by your property to guard it. This expedition is supposed to have opened the way for your safe exit or escape to your native land, friends, and loyal Government, and if now you should take the first opportunity to leave and report yourself at your own Government you would find yourself a hundred times more warmly received than if you had been here naturally, all the time. So far as lay in the power of our troops your property would be sacredly protected, far more so than if you remained on it in a manner a little hostile or doubtful. I am not certain but the best thing for Mr. Riddick would be for you to leave just in this way, and surely I would have his property harmed no more than yours. I have understood Mr. Riddick to be a Union man at heart like hundreds of other men whom our Government desires to protect from all harm and secure against all loss. This being the case, the best course for both of you which could be adopted, in my judgment, is for you to leave with our troops. This will secure the property against them; they would never harm a hair of it intentionally knowing it to belong to you, a Union man who had come away with them, and you could so represent the case of Mr. Riddick that his rights and property would be respected by them. He would be infinitely more secure for such a move on your part, while his connection with you would, I trust, be sufficient to secure your property from molestation by his neighbors, who would be slow to offend or injure him. If you leave and your property be unofficially injured by our troops, the Federal Government must be held responsible for it, and if, after matters are settled, and business revives, you should find your attachment to your home so strong as to desire to return, I trust you could do so, as I would by no means have you do anything to weaken the goodly feeling between you and your friend, Mr. Riddick, for whom we have all learned to feel the utmost degree of grateful respect, and I cannot for a moment think that he would seriously disagree with my conclusions or advice. At all events, I am willing he should know them, or see or hear any portions of this letter which might be desired. I deal perfectly fairly and honestly with all, and I have written or said nothing that I am or shall be unwilling to have read by either side. I am a plain Northern Union woman, honest in my feelings and counsels, desiring only the good of all, disguising nothing, covering nothing, and so far my opinions are entitled to respect, and will, I trust, be received with confidence. If you will do this as I suggest and come at once to me at Washington, you need have no fears of remaining idle. This Sam will tell you of when you see him, better than for me to write so much. Washington had never so many people and so much business as now. Some of it would be for you at once.
You must not for a moment suppose that you would be offered any position which would interfere with any oath you may have given, for all know that you must have done something of this nature to have remained in that country through such times, unharmed, and all know you too well to approach you with any such request, as that you shall forfeit your word. Now, what more can I say, only to repeat my advice, and desire you to consult Mr. Riddick in relation to the matter (if you think best) and leave the result with you, and you with the good God, whom I daily desire and implore to sustain, guide, keep, and protect you in the midst of all your trials and isolation.
I sent a short letter to you some weeks ago, which I rather suppose must have reached you, in which I told you of the failing condition of our dear old father. He is still failing and rapidly; he cannot remain with us many days, I think (this calls me home); his appetite has entirely failed; he eats nothing and can scarcely bear his weight, growing weaker every hour. He has talked a hundred volumes about you; wishes he could see you, knows he cannot, but hopes you will come away with Sam until the trials are ended which distress our beloved country. Samuel will tell you more than I can write.
Hoping to see you soon I remain
Ever your affectionate sister
Clara
It was beside her father’s death-bed that Clara Barton consecrated herself to work at the battle-front. She talked the whole problem over with him. She told him what she had seen in the hospitals at Washington, and that was none too encouraging. But the thing that distressed her most of all was the shocking loss of life and increase of suffering due to the transportation of soldiers from the battle-field to the base hospitals in Washington. She saw more of this later, but she had seen enough of it already to be appalled by the conditions that existed. After Fredericksburg she wrote about it in these terms:
I went to the 1st Division, 9th Corps Hospital; found eight officers of the 57th lying on the floor with a blanket under them, none over; had had some crackers once that day. About two hundred left of the regiment. Went to the Old National Hotel, found some hundreds (perhaps four hundred) Western men sadly wounded, all on the floors; had nothing to eat. I carried a basket of crackers, and gave two apiece as far as they went and some pails of coffee; they had had no food that day and there was none for them. I saw them again at ten o’clock at night; they had had nothing to eat; a great number of them were to undergo amputation sometime, but no surgeons yet; they had not dippers for one in ten. I saw no straw in any hospital, and no mattresses, and the men lay so thick that gangrene was setting in, and in nearly every hospital there has been set apart an erysipelas ward.
There is not room in the city to receive the wounded, and those that arrived yesterday mostly were left lying in the wagons all night at the mercy of the drivers. It rained very hard, many died in the wagons, and their companions, where they had sufficient strength, had raised up and thrown them out into the street. I saw them lying there early this morning; they had been wounded two and three days previous, had been brought from the front, and after all this lay still another night without care, or food, or shelter, many doubtless famished after arriving in Fredericksburg. The city is full of houses, and this morning broad parlors were thrown open and displayed to the view of the rebel occupants the bodies of the dead Union soldiers lying beside the wagons in which they perished. Only those most slightly wounded have been taken on to Washington; the roads are fearful and it is worth the life of a wounded man to move him over them. A common ambulance is scarce sufficient to get through. We passed them this morning four miles out of town, full of wounded, with the tongue broken or wheels crushed in the middle of a hill, in mud from one to two feet deep; what was to be done with the moaning, suffering occupants God only knew.
Dr. Hitchcock most strongly and earnestly and indignantly remonstrates against any more removals of broken or amputated limbs. He declares it little better than murder, and says the greater proportion of them will die if not better fed and afforded more room and better air. The surgeons do all they can, but no provision had been made for such a wholesale slaughter on the part of any one, and I believe it would be impossible to comprehend the magnitude of the necessity without witnessing it.
Clara Barton knew these matters better in 1863 than she did at the beginning of 1862, but she knew something about them when she reached her father’s bedside, and he entered intelligently and with sympathy into the recital of her story. He had been a soldier and he understood exactly the conditions which she described. Her old friend Colonel De Witt, formerly a member of Congress from her home district, also appreciated what she had to say. On a day when her father was able to be left, she went with Colonel De Witt to Boston to call on Governor John A. Andrew. She had much to tell him about conditions and life in the hospitals, and also something concerning leaks which she knew to be occurring in Washington and vicinity, and of treasonable organizations operating close to the capital, in constant communication with the enemy. A few days after this call the Washington papers contained an account of the arrest of twenty-five or thirty Secessionists at Alexandria, and the disclosure of just such a “leak” and plot as she had related to Governor Andrew:
Sunday Chronicle, March 2nd, 1862
Important Arrests at Alexandria.—Quite a sensation was produced in Alexandria on last Thursday evening by the arrest of some twenty-five or thirty alleged secessionists, who are charged with being concerned in a secret association for the purpose of giving aid and comfort to the rebels. The conspiracy, it seems, was organized under the pretended forms of a relief association, and comprised all the treasonable objects of affording relief to the enemy. It is further stated that a fund was obtained from rebel sympathizers for the purpose of supporting the families of soldiers in the service of the “Confederate States,” on the identical plan of the noble Relief Commission of Philadelphia, established with such different motives. It has also been engaged in the manufacture of rebel uniforms, which were distributed among the subordinate female associations. The purpose of the plotters was also to furnish arms and munitions of war. A considerable quantity has been discovered packed for shipment, consisting of knapsacks and weapons. Letters were found acknowledging the receipt through the agency of the association of rifles and pistols in Richmond....
Among the papers secured are many letters implicating persons heretofore unsuspected.
The parties were brought to this city on Friday, and lodged in the old Capital prison. As they passed along the avenue, under the guard of soldiers, they appeared to be quite indifferent as to their fate and the enormity and baseness of the crime with which they are charged. The majority of them presented a very respectable appearance, and were followed to jail by an anxious crowd of men and boys.
Clara Barton asked her father his opinion of the feasibility of her getting to the front. He did not discourage the idea. He knew his daughter and believed her capable of accomplishing what she set out to do. Moreover, he knew the American soldier. He felt sure that Clara would be protected from insult, and that her presence would be welcome to the soldiers.