Reveille in Washington

by Margaret Leech

  That spring, Washington saw for the first time a scrawny little Irish general, called Phil Sheridan. He was only thirty-three, and looked younger. His legs were short, and his chest and shoulders enormously wide. He wore a mustache and imperial on his red, coarse-featured face. In the West, Sheridan had made an excellent record, and he was a favorite with Grant. He paid his respects at the War Office and the White House, and went off to take command of the cavalry corps of the Army of the Potomac.

  The great Federal armies toed the mark, like runners waiting for the pistol shot. The recent mercenary recruits were not of the caliber of the earlier volunteers. Yet, though bounties and substitute fees had put criminals and vagrants in uniform, money had also enlisted marching regiments of country boys, Canadians and sturdy European immigrants. After Gettysburg and Vicksburg, these men swelled the ranks of armies which—as even the most prejudiced West Pointers acknowledged—had become professional. Tardily, at terrible cost, the democracy had developed an efficient fighting machine. There was no military nattiness about the rank and file of the Army of the Potomac in the camps along the Rapidan. The soldiers were dirty, bearded and long-haired, and they had the hard-bitten look of a band of desperadoes. It was a young army, but boys in their teens had the grim faces of veterans. In brigades, divisions and corps, they were superb implements of battle, and they were now commanded by officers whom war had turned into experts. Something the Union had lost: the first patriotic whoop and hurrah, the quick allegiance of generous hearts, the tide of unsuspected ardor for the flag. But disorganization and ineptitude were nearly gone from the battlefield. The war of amateurs was over.

  Uninformed and tense with expectation, the country waited. In Washington, there was news which no censor could efface. It was written on the streets, in the halls of the hotels, on wharves and at the railroad depots, and in the scrubbed wards of the hospitals. Civilians, superfluous on the Rapidan, were returning to the capital—officers’ wives and sight-seers, and newspaper correspondents who were not registered at the War Department. Back came the sutlers, purveyors of pies, cakes, lollipops, tobacco and Hostetter’s Bitters. Sure premonition of action, the sick were being carried in from Meade’s army; men wasted by enteric complaints, the victims of long endurance of pork, hard biscuit and exposure. It was plain that they were not the only guests whom the Washington hospitals expected. Stewards and matrons and nurses were laying in supplies and opening rooms like people preparing for a party—the vast levee of the maimed.

  To the south went men with guns. Squads and companies on detached duty in Washington were ordered to join their regiments. Their places were taken by the soldiers of the Veterans’ Reserve Corps, wounded men fit for light duty, who wore a distinguishing uniform of pale blue. The movement into Virginia seemed as resistless as a force of nature. Deserters marched, under escort, from their prison cells. Convalescents stumbled into line in front of the hospitals. Men returning from furlough passed through town in a steady procession.

  Late in April, Washington watched General Burnside’s command, the Ninth Corps, stream down Fourteenth Street—infantry, cavalry, artillery, twenty-five thousand strong. There were five fine new regiments of Negro troops, prepared since the news of Fort Pillow to fight savagely. All the rest were veterans. Two companies of Indian sharp-shooters were part of a Michigan regiment. There were the showy troopers of the Third New Jersey Cavalry, with new cloaks and goldbraided breasts, and some of the officers were as superbly uniformed as those who had gone to the Peninsula. The rank and file were like their comrades on the Rapidan—worn, sunburned, high-spirited boys. Their equipment was light: thin bundles, knapsacks, tin cups, frying pans, guns that shone like silver. Under their grime and sweat, these soldiers looked as hard and handy as a mechanic’s tools, which have been used, and will be used again.

  Burnside stood beside the President on the balcony of Willard’s, reviewing the troops. The President’s head was uncovered, and Walt Whitman, watching him from the other side of the street, thought it looked funny to see him with his hat off when the colored soldiers passed. Whitman had posted himself at the corner, with his new bosom friend, John Burroughs, a young teacher and naturalist, who had come down to Washington and secured a clerkship in the Treasury. Walt had to wait three hours before the Fifty-first New York came along, and he had a chance to speak a few words with his brother, George. But there were many other soldiers who called and waved when they saw Walt standing there. Sometimes, a man would break out of the ranks and kiss his red, bearded face, and draw him along a few steps, before he let him go.

  Day after day, the flatcars that pulled out of Washington were loaded with men in blue. In the mild April air, they jolted down through the desert of Virginia. Farms, gardens, churches, schools, wayside taverns and turnpike roads were obliterated. In Washington, the tulip trees were green, and the silver poplars dropped their plumes. Daffodils danced in the gardens. Along Rock Creek, the redbuds were in flower. Only stumps and stunted undergrowth remained of the forests of northern Virginia. Only some dock and watercress told of spring along Bull Run. The cars lurched through the naked country, carrying desolation to the south.

  On the early morning of May 4, the Army of the Potomac crossed the Rapidan, and entered the dense thickets of the Virginia Wilderness. Meade had, in addition to Sheridan’s cavalry, three full infantry corps, re-formed and consolidated: the Second Corps, Hancock commanding; the Fifth under Warren; and the Sixth, led by Sedgwick. Burnside’s Ninth Corps, until recently detached, had rejoined the strong army with which Grant meant to find and follow Lee, to fight and disable his forces. If the defeated Confederates should retire within the entrenchments of Richmond, the Army of the Potomac would then cross to the south side of the James River and lay siege to the Confederate capital. Meantime, that city was to be threatened by the Army of the James, commanded by General Ben Butler. Butler had a great opportunity in early May. Richmond was feebly defended. If he had taken it by a prompt and vigorous assault, he would have been a great hero. He was one of the few political generals who still remained in the Federal armies in 1864. His attack on Richmond was a prime example of military mismanagement.

  When the news first came up from Virginia that the Army of the Potomac had crossed the Rapidan, the country was in a torment of suspense. Its state of mind was like that of a man pacing the floor in a hospital where an emergency operation is being performed by a skillful surgeon. Blood and danger were implicit in the program indispensable to recovery. The Union expected no military jaunt, no easy victory; knew that a price must be paid for every mile of the disputed terrain of Virginia. It took without faltering the tidings of the grapple in the tangled Wilderness. In Washington, the war extras were on the streets on Saturday, May 7. That afternoon, for the first time since 1861, the Marine Band played on the lawn south of the White House. There was an immense gathering. Loud calls greeted Mr. Lincoln when he appeared on the portico. He proposed three cheers for Grant and his armies, and roar after roar came, in a release of pent-up emotion, from the throats of the crowd.

  The next day, Sunday, brought further word of terrific fighting. The story was inconclusive. There was as yet no official report. But it was known that the quartermaster of the Army of the Potomac had telegraphed for forage; and a city, grown wise in the ways of war, realized that this imported an advance. That day, Washington sweltered in a premature blast of hot weather. As though news might be read in the quiet streets, people leaned from their windows and hovered in their doorways. Many went out to wander restlessly in the burning sunshine. Colonnades and porticoes, lampposts and awning poles were rendezvous for discussion. There was deep feeling, but no alarm. The long hours of suspense were, said the Sunday Chronicle, “the ides of the national trial.”

  Monday passed in a maze of rumors of still more heavy fighting, thankfully received since they brought no intelligence of disaster. About four o’clock in the afternoon, Stanton sent an official dispatch stating that Grant was on to Richmon
d. Lee was in retreat with Hancock, Sedgwick, Warren and Burnside close on his heels. In the evening a crowd again gathered at the White House. There was more music, more cheering, as the band of the Twenty-seventh Ohio Regiment, on its way to the field, serenaded Lincoln. The President made a short speech. There were black rings under his eyes. He had scarcely slept since the advance of the Army of the Potomac. At night, in a long wrapper, he paced the big hall on the second floor of the White House, with his head dropped on his breast. But his tone was sanguine, as he spoke of the gallant officers and soldiers, and said he was “exceedingly gratified to know that General Grant had not been jostled from his plans. . . .” He said, too, that much more remained to be done. The crowd went on cheering. That night, the first boatload of wounded came in at the Seventh Street wharf.

  The news of Saturday, Sunday and Monday had strained men’s nerves; but on the rugged hills of Spotsylvania the hurricane still howled. For five more days, the people of the Union arose from their beds to read the same story—a nightmarish prolongation of battle and slaughter. On Wednesday, May 11, the Star printed a telegram which General Rufus Ingalls, quartermaster of the Army of the Potomac, had sent from Spotsylvania to a friend in the capital. They had been fighting all the time, he said. The losses were heavy. They were about to attack again. “The world never heard of war before.”

  Two days later, another dispatch from Spotsylvania was published in the press. It came from General Grant, and contained one of his blunt sentences, clipped and made more forceful before it reached the people in Stanton’s bulletin: “I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer.” The President read it to a deliriously joyful crowd that surged around the White House in the evening. The words resounded through the nation. Stark resolution had been rare among its generals. Memories were still vivid of the grand attacks which McClellan, Pope, Burnside and Hooker had made in Virginia. All had fought bloody battles, all had fallen back in defeat. The Union accepted the new toll of dead and wounded, and cheered the grit of a commander who advanced.

  The newspaper accounts of the Wilderness campaign marked in accuracy and moderation of tone a great improvement over the early war correspondence. The reporters sent to the front by the great dailies and the Associated Press were picked and experienced men, registered by the War Department. Moreover, the press now had access to official bulletins which Mr. Stanton sent to General Dix, who had been made commander of the Department of the East, with headquarters in New York City, after the draft riots of the preceding summer. Inevitably, there were some exaggerations of success. On the whole, with due allowance for the changing and confused conditions of active military operations, the news was well presented. Every day, the Washington newspapers carried a concise resumé of “The Situation.” The staunch resistance of the Confederates and the heavy Federal losses were neither minimized nor viewed with alarm, but soberly and frankly stated. Editorial comment was temperate, counseled patience and resolution and deprecated hasty reliance on rumor.

  When the news of the terrible eight days was all in, there was a lull. Torrents of rain had mired the Virginia roads, and offensive operations were discontinued for a week. The country waited for the final decisive battle. Every sign was good. Fresh veteran troops were marching south to repair the losses of the Army of the Potomac. Ben Butler was nearing Richmond, throwing its population into a panic. Phil Sheridan’s cavalry had inflicted a smashing defeat on the Confederate horsemen. Sherman was advancing in Georgia. Sigel, appointed to the command in West Virginia, was charging through the Valley. These reports were all true. Only one thing was misunderstood by the people. Lee was fighting prudently, protecting his army behind breastworks. Grant was throwing his troops against them with great slaughter. After Spotsylvania, he still went ahead, moving to the left, striking farther south. He was advancing; but he had not defeated Lee’s army.

  Only the strong belief in Grant and the confidence of approaching victory nerved the country to sustain the shock of the casualties. The exultation over the approaching end of the war was deep and solemn. The President had recommended a day of thanksgiving and prayer, and in their homes and churches people bowed their heads in gratitude to God, looking toward peace humbly, like children chastened by punishment. In a mood of religious faith, men in Washington discerned in the sunshine and blossoming flowers the signs of a loving Providence. They read an augury of good in the statue of Armed Freedom, cleared of its last veil of scaffolding on the Capitol dome. Washington saw the marching lines of reinforcements, and the shabby gray backwash of rebel prisoners and deserters; but it saw also the results of an unprecedented carnage which staggered even a war-hardened city.

  During the week that the news of Spotsylvania pounded in the nation’s ears, the wounded from the Wilderness were coming back to Washington. The Sixth Street wharf was as lively by night as by day. The torches made dancing puddles in the black Potomac waters, as the ambulances rumbled into line. Cookhouses clattered and steamed, and ladies hovered over refreshment stands. The silent steamers came in, wafting the smell of wounds like a greeting.

  There were three days and nights in which the procession of ambulances never ceased. The hospital lists darkened long columns in the newspapers. The Chronicle, on May 21, reported eighteen thousand cases, including the slightly wounded and prisoners of war. To Washington, staring at the jolting caravans, it seemed that Grant’s whole army was being carried back to the city.

  Hundreds of men and women went to the wharves to deal out food and drink, and to pour water on the dressings, which had dried and stiffened on the journey. Little darkies ran beside the ambulances with drinking water. Along the route to the hospitals, people set tables in the street before their houses, and offered tea, coffee and sandwiches as the trains moved slowly past. The hospitals were surrounded with volunteer nurses and friends of the wounded. Crowds of strangers added to the turmoil of the city—anxious people, hurrying through the streets, scanning the newspapers, bending over rows of stretchers and cots, each looking for one certain face, hoping and dreading to find it.

  There was no want of preparation for receiving the wounded in Washington. Tents had multiplied around the big hospital buildings. Long ranks of clean beds were ready. There were plenty of surgeons and nurses. The city was stocked with instruments, medicines, bandages, food and drink. Boxes and bales of supplies, ordered for the emergency, overflowed the storerooms of the commission houses, and were piled high on the sidewalks. But many miles separated the comforts of the capital from the lonely battlefields of the Virginia Wilderness; and there the handling of the wounded, with all the experience the Union had gained, was bungled with frightful mismanagement, inadequacy and neglect.

  The first intention had been to send the casualties direct to Washington over the Orange and Alexandria Railroad. When that line was for military reasons abandoned, they were taken to Fredericksburg, and thence transported to the steamers at Grant’s new base of supplies, the little landing of Belle Plain, south of Aquia Creek. On the hot Sunday when Washington tremulously awaited the news from the Wilderness, the Secretary of War and the acting Surgeon General were informed that a hospital was being established at Fredericksburg for the reception of the wounded. Trains of ambulances and army wagons were already pouring into the Virginia town when Meade sent off his telegram. The Star stated that the wounded lay so thick in the streets that a cavalry patrol could not perform its duty, for fear of trampling the helpless men.

  Fredericksburg had been occupied by Union forces on the night before the wounded began to arrive. It was impossible to organize comfortable hospitals on a moment’s notice. Surgeons and medical and commissary stores were all urgently needed at the front. The town had been abandoned by most of its inhabitants, and those who remained were without pity for their suffering enemies. There were still, however, comfortable residences and a supply of food in the occupied town. Federal officers did not commandeer them. From the streets, the wounded were carried into stores
, churches, stables and deserted houses, and laid in rows on bare and dusty floors. Without room to stretch or turn, they were pushed into the corners of halls, and huddled on stairways. One severely injured man was glad to find a place on a closet shelf. A day’s rations for the Fredericksburg “hospitals” consisted of a single cup of coffee and a piece of hard tack. Many men died from want of treatment, and many, it was said by those who witnessed the conditions, from starvation. Only the ministrations of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions saved thousands of others.

  It was to Washington that General Meade and the medical director of the Army of the Potomac sent appeals for surgeons, nurses, ambulances and supplies. Fredericksburg was only seventy miles from the capital. In a few hours, a representative of the Medical Bureau could have verified the truth of the frightful conditions, could have started off shiploads to relieve them. There was the excuse that transportation was delayed on the road from Belle Plain to Fredericksburg, but it did not prove an insuperable obstacle to the Sanitary and Christian Commissions. Without recognizing any emergency, the Medical Bureau gave routine orders for attendants and medical supplies and food to be sent to the wounded. All were fatally slow in reaching them. From its big storehouse on F Street, the Sanitary Commission was sending enormous shipments, not only of articles of diet, but of things which it was the business of the Medical Bureau to provide—morphine, chloroform, opium, scissors, forceps, chloride of lime.

  The Medical Bureau had been disrupted for months. Surgeon General Hammond was no longer in office. For weeks, in a dreary courtroom on Fourteenth Street, he had been on trial for fraud and malpractice in office. Mr. Stanton had found a means of relieving himself of a brilliantly capable subordinate, whose forceful personality antagonized him. In the autumn of 1863, he had ordered Hammond away from Washington on a prolonged tour of inspection. In his absence, a commission examined the affairs of his office, and reported irregularities in the award of contracts for hospital supplies. Hammond demanded a trial by court-martial. He was acquitted. But, while the wounded were languishing in Fredericksburg, the wheels were already turning which would reconvene the court, and dismiss Hammond from the service in disgrace.