Day 29. March 29, 1862.
29
By candle-light, the surgeons made their rounds….
March Saturday 29
Quite cool this morning. It is very pleasant this morning and looks as if it is going* to get cloudy and going to rain. It rained some little and sleeted some this evening and is quite cold this evening. I hope I may be well in a few days. I have not been well for some time. We have a good location for a camp and I think we will have some bad weather for a few days again. I will try and look for better days and I hope that our land may be Union and peace and I trust that there will be no hard feeling in regard to this war after it is settled
*Ephraim is writing in current tense in the morning; he says it’s as if it’s going to rain. He comes back to write in the p.m. So the rest of the entry it’s night; he says that night that it did rain. I think he’s writing as a record of many things, & the weather is a solidified diary topic, a kind of ongoing daily meditation. 19th Century diaries were often kept to portend weather, record observations over time for crop planting purposes. See various other dates throughout this manuscript for elaboration on the role of diary-keeping in the war, especially following Ephraim’s May 20th letter.
The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant: The Complete Annotated Edition Ulysses S. Grant P. 762
“I feel that we are on the eve of a new era, when there is to be a great harmony between the Federal and Confederate.”
Make Me a Map of the Valley: The Civil War Journal of Stonewall Jackson’s Topographer Jedediah Hotchkiss P. 13
“Saturday, March 29th: The day was raw and cold with rain and sleet at night.”
A Virginia Yankee in the Civil War The Diaries of David Hunter Strother David Hunter Strother
“MARCH 29, SATURDAY.—Cloudy. General complaint of sickness from the bad water in this vicinity. It commenced raining. The General came in and informed me that he thought of attacking Jackson, who lay behind Woodstock. I advised him to do so, by all means.
He seemed preoccupied and undecided.”
“What will not the human body endure?” The Civil War Monitor, James K. Hosmer
Note: In May 1863, Corporal James K. Hosmer of the 52nd Massachusetts Infantry wrote an account of his work as a nurse at Baton Rouge Union Hospital. Excerpts:
“So great was the want of men, that the sick were almost taken from their beds and set to work. There was also a hospital-steward, a good-looking, capable fellow, with his golden caduceus, embroidered upon green, just above his elbow. There was, besides, a functionary whom we called the commissary, whose business was to guard and deal out the stores.
A great battle might happen at any hour. Already many wounded had been brought in, and despatched to Baton Rouge, from the preliminary skirmishes; and it was high time for the doctor to complete his preparations. He collected us in line before him, and gave us his instructions.
There was plenty to be done. We could hear the sound of heavy guns at the front; and all the morning we were very busy pitching new tents, sweeping and policeing about the hospital, collecting fuel, and chopping down inconvenient trees.
Next day we finish our ice-houses. We get through, too, with our tent-pitching, putting up two large pavilions, capable of holding about sixty wounded, stretched out at length, with comfort, and more than that with crowding. At noon came in more of the sick, and the first wounded man since my arrival. We carry him on his stretcher out under the trees, where it is shady and cool; and I, anxious to be broken in as soon as possible, kneel down by the side of the hospital steward to learn the operations of dressing. This man had been shot through the leg in a skirmish; not a severe hurt, as compared with wounds often received. I moisten the bandages, dry and stiff with blood, until they unwind easily. We lay bare and gently wash the bullet-holes through the limb, apply fresh lint and clean bandages, and bring the man to rest under the tent. In the afternoon, we have arrivals of thirty or forty sick or wounded. The ambulances stop in the road; and we go down with stretchers, four men to each. Generally, the wounded are sadly wearied and jolted by the long ride over a rough road. They come with various hurts, shot in body, head, legs, and arms. As gently as we can, we move them from the wagons to the stretchers; then from the stretchers again to the pallets on the floors of the tents.
It grew dark while they were arriving. We moistened their bandages, gave them iced lemonade and punch, and brought them toast and tea from the cooks. One was a stout German sergeant, shot through the foot accidentally by a comrade. We had numbers of such cases. Several had lost an arm, the stump being done up in bloody bandages; many had had a hand or foot badly shattered. By candle-light, the surgeons made their rounds. At this depot, all that was intended was to refresh the patients, and transfer them comfortably to the boats for Baton Rouge. There convenient hospitals were prepared, and surgeons to attend them. Here it was the design only to dress such wounds as needed it at once, and perform such operations as were immediately pressing.
This night, I saw a wound probed for the first time. The bullet had entered just above the knee. Dr. F— came in with his probe, a fine instrument of steel, with a small ball of ivory at the end. I shrank from seeing it done, but thought I must accustom myself to it, or I should be able to do nothing at all. The patient was a brave, easy fellow, who started coolly, in the operation, to hold the light for the doctor, himself. The pain was too great for that: but still he was smiling and unflinching through the whole of it; straightening up on his hands from his couch, and offering his leg to the instrument.
From evening it becomes night. The surgeons retire; and one by one the nurses drop off, until at length, long past midnight, only two or three of us are left. The candles burn low; the wounded sleep, or groan as their smarts and aches drive away slumber. Carefully and quietly we step from one to another, and soothe them as tenderly as we can. At last, we wake up some of the nurses who have slept; and, expecting a hard day when the sun rises, lay down for a few hours rest ourselves.
Tuesday morning, after all, opened with little to be done. Before I rose, the wounded we had been tending had been moved aboard a steamer, and were on their way to comfort. The ice-houses now were all filled. Among the stores were quantities of whiskey, wine, lemons, soft bread, lint, bandages, &c. The surgeons had their instruments in readiness; the cooks had convenient kitchens, and huge boilers for making soup, tea, and coffee. Negroes were procured to sweep out the great tents, clear out the bloody bandages and cotton, and lay beds, sweet and fresh, for the next lot of sufferers. The doctors were kind, and wished us to rest while we could. During the forenoon, I slept; at noon, dined light on soft bread and tea (for, during this whole week, our fare was rather light for our work); got a drink of ice-water from a barrel in front of the commissarys, and was entirely fresh again. Bed-ticks in great quantity were on hand. From the quarter master we got bales of hay, and stuffed the ticks; heaping up a great pile to use from. We got out mosquito-bars to protect the wounded from the flies; had pails, wash-basins, and sponges all in readiness; and, soon in the afternoon, the ambulances began to arrive.
Here is one with foot mashed by a piece of shell. This one is struck in the calf. Here is one whose leg is gone. The bloody swathings are hot and stiff. We will moisten them with ice-cold water. Here is one struck in the groin: the ball has gone through, and been cut out of the haunch behind. He lives, is bright, and may get well. This cavalry-man is shot clear through, from hip to hip. He is stripped, and the bullet-holes on each side are plain. He lives too. What will not the human body endure? A solid shot has struck this cannoneer in the bowels. Mortally wounded he is. The doctor takes off the broad piece of cloth that covers the hurt, revealing the horrible mangling; then replaces it. There is nothing for him but a dose of morphine to deaden the pain. They have been hit everywhere. Hardly a muscle or bone or fibre of the human body but has been struck in one or another of this unfortunate company, lungs, shoulders and chest, arms and hands, neck, face, eyes; and, while I am moving a tall Zouave in his brilliant dress, the cloth upon his head drops off, as his shoulders are in my hands. The skull is cleft by a fragment of shell, apparently, deep down into the brain, whose inmost recesses are revealed in the bright sun. Yet he lives too!
All now are in the two tents. The ambulance-drivers go back to the cooks for their suppers; but our work is only begun. The doctors go rapidly from man to man. I follow Dr. L— with a pail of water, soon red and thick with blood, with which to moisten the dressings. Quickly, but pleasantly and quietly, he lays bare the most hideous hurts. I catch the lesson from him. Do not let the patient see an over-anxious face, nor hear too deep sympathy in the voice, lest it should alarm. Be cheerful and tender, and let tone and look give as much encouragement as possible.
So we go from bed to bed, stepping carefully among bandaged shoulders, and bloody stumps of legs and arms, and faces pale as the swathings that wrap the head above. Generally, the most severe wounds are not apparently painful; the sufferer lying benumbed, I suppose, by the severing of important nerves. Lacerations of the hands and feet appear to cause most agony. Again we work on, until the candles burn low; holding ice here, bathing a limb or back there, or holding tea to pale lips here. It is morning again, when I arouse a sleeper to take his turn, and give me a chance to sleep.
Through Wednesday morning, we hear a fiercer cannonade than before. A few sick come in from the front during the forenoon; but these, and the wounded we had the night previous, are speedily sent to Baton Rouge. I catch a little sleep after dinner; and, when I awake, am set upon a dreadful task. It is to watch the cannoneer, wounded in the bowels. He was struck on Saturday. It is Wednesday evening, and he is still alive, but with his wound and whole body in a condition not to be described. He lies stripped for greater coolness, only covered with a netting. Somebody must watch beside him. He is delirious, but wants water and to be fanned; and, loathsome as he is, an attendant must be at his side. He tears the cloth from his horrible wound, and I must replace it. I must stand ready to catch his hands. He is decomposing like a corpse, although life yet remains. Toward midnight, he receives a still heavier dose of morphine, and I can leave. I hear that he died before morning.
While I have been at this task, much has been doing. Early after dark, word comes from the front, of the repulse and terrible loss of the storming party; and the surgeons are warned of the approach of a large number of wounded. We hear of the fall of generals and colonels, and rank and file without number; and close upon the heels of the intelligence follow the ambulances, loaded as never before with hastily dressed wounded from the field-hospitals in front. It is about ten o’clock when I go aboard the “Iberville” at the landing; to which the ambulances are transferring their loads at once, instead of leaving them first in our tents. As I enter the cabin-door, the long, handsome saloon, from end to end, is filled with the victims of the battle just fought. From the rich, bronze chandeliers, light falls upon a ghastly sight, all the ghastlier from contrast with the elegance about. I can hardly step among the prostrate and gory company. And so they lie all through the long perspective, the great mirror at the farther end repeating it all anew; the stains upon their wrappings, about heads and limbs and bodies, red as the figures of the rich carpet upon which they lie.”
Living Hell: The Dark Side of the Civil War Michael C.C. Adams P. 91-92
“‘Guillotining” predominated as a method of amputation in the field. With a knife, the surgeon sliced to the bone the soft tissue just above the damaged area, and then completed severance with a hacksaw. He then tied off the arteries with oiled silk, the streamers left long enough for the rotted arterial ends to be tugged free days later. Good surgeons completed complex procedures in under two minutes. Naturally, men resisted losing their limbs, especially in an era when most jobs required physical dexterity, and such impairments meant social rejection. Michigan private Thomas A. Perrine, whose lady friend shortly ditched him, complained bitterly the war left him with “an empty sleeve, an empty heart.”
To avoid amputation, surgeons might try excision and recision, procedures designed to save limbs by removing pieces of damaged bone from the shaft, leaving natural mending to bridge the gap. However, these long and complicated procedures incurred a greater chance of hemorrhage and infection. Unhealed ex-sections could abscess. Southern professor of medicine J.J. Chisolm observed of such cases: “the bones are carious [decayed]; the abscesses are interminable sinuses, from which are kept up a constant discharge.” Restoration of motor ability could not be assured: “the wound has healed, but the limb remains weak, shrunken, stiff, painful and nearly useless.” Artificial limbs often functioned better and, overall, surgeons favored amputation.
Surgeons looked the part of butchers, smocks and arms drenched with blood, limbs piled nearby. Johann Stuber, 58th Ohio, described a field hospital outside Vicksburg:** “The house, the halls, the yard, even the attic was pressed full of wounded. I saw the doctors on the verandah with knives and saws working as diligently as butchers at the meat market.” Outside, former slaves, who had sought refuge and work within the Union lines, buried limbs. Burial details struggled to keep up. “I notice,” said Walt Whitman as Fredericksburg, “a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, &c., a full load for a one-horse cart.” In the same location, Union private William Hamilton described animals enjoying the windfall: “There was a Hospital within thirty yards of us… about the building you could see the Hogs belonging to the farm eating arms and other portions of the body.” Joseph Crowell estimated his squad buried eight hundred limbs at Gettysburg.”
Note: Below the pain shines through the words of a soldier in Ephraim’s 110th:
“My Hands and Heart Full” subtitled “How Did Civil War Surgeons Cope?” Peter Stanley Civilwarmed.org
“It is notable that some of the most candid admissions of the strain that surgeons felt come in letters to their wives or sisters. They often thought of home, family and loved ones, and confided in them, and they produce some of the most compelling and moving evidence. The most melodramatic plea comes from Surgeon Isaac Kay of the 110th Pennsylvania Infantry, whose letter to his wife, Catherine, approaches the hysterical: “I cannot sleep my dear darling wife! … a letter from you will be sufficient to ease me of pain.” This sounds almost comically overwrought, but the next line suggests that Isaac has things to say that he can perhaps only say to Catherine: “I must wait until I get home to tell you of the scenes through which I have passed.” He has had experiences in the Shenandoah Valley that he could perhaps only speak of to her.”
Civilwarmed.org National Museum of Civil War Medicine “What Did Civil War Surgeons Feel?” Peter Stanley 3/23/19
General Carl Schurz on Gettysburg:
“…there stood the surgeons, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows… their knives not seldom between their teeth… The surgeon snatched his knife from between his teeth… wiped it rapidly once or twice across his bloodstained apron, and the cutting began. The operation accomplished, the surgeon would look around with a deep sigh, and then– “Next!’”
Note: From The Practice of Surgery by Samuel Cooper, a book which served as the how-to guide for Civil War surgeons: “As little of the flesh should be cut away as possible; but the more bone is removed, the better.” sonofthesouth.net
National Museum of Civil War Medicine “Meet the Hospital Steward” William T. Campbell, Ed.D., RN 12/24/14
“Any Civil War enthusiast who has read about the Hospital Steward would define this individual as a “workhorse.” While this position does not exist today as a single individual, at the time of the Civil War this man was commonly seen as the druggist/chemist (pharmacist today) and the hospital administrator. He was the druggist or chemist who worked in the dispensary (equivalent of the apothecary shop in civilian life then, or the drug store or pharmacy today). He compounded prescriptions rather than filled them. Pharmacy was not seen as a science until 1868, even though the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy had been educating these men in civilian life since 1821. The term Hospital Steward was replaced with Pharmacist in 1902. If assigned to a hospital he was also the Hospital Administrator. He functioned as the clerk, the COO, and the CFO.
The Hospital Steward was selected and appointed to his position and title. In contrast, the male nurse was usually temporarily detailed without change in rank or title from inexperienced enlisted men. The Steward had to apply for his position using an application process. Woodward’s (1862) qualifications included “18-35 years old, able-bodied, free of disease, honest and upright,” of “good intelligence, having a knowledge of English, able to spell and write correctly,” and “industrious, patient, and good tempered.” There was a competitive exam to take. He was screened for previous experience and having worked as a druggist or chemist or apothecary clerk in civilian life was a huge plus. Previous experience even as a medical student was greatly beneficial. After the exam, interviews, and references, the appointment had to be confirmed by the Secretary of War. Once the process was successfully completed the Hospital Steward received the rank of NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer). He was “equal to Ordnance Sergeant” and “next above First Sergeant.” The appointment was permanent for the duration of the war and he could not be returned to regular duty. He was the only able bodied man who could not be returned to active duty.
The roles and responsibilities of the Hospital Steward were numerous and varied depending on his duty location. In the hospital and acting as the pharmacist, he compounded (measured and mixed) prescriptions written in the prescription book by the surgeons, rather than just filling them from a bulk supply. He also verified that the medication was actually administered although he was usually not the person who gave it. As Hospital Administrator, he was responsible for inventory and ordering of medical supplies, hospital supplies, record keeping, and overall hospital administration. His inventory of records was never ending. It included the Steward’s Weekly Report, an enormous spread sheet manually recorded. On it were recorded weekly the number of beds, linen, clothes, dishes, and even spittoons. In the field and on the march his dispensary had to be mobile and he learned to quickly assemble and disassemble it. Much of his time was spend in packing precious glass bottles of medications. Dr. Jonathan Letterman even assigned the Hospital Steward to carry the hospital knapsack for the surgeon when on the march.”
Note: Today, March 29, 1862, the Harper’s Weekly cover depicts 13 East Tennessee Unionists who stand with arms raised in unison in a dark barn; a large American flag lay atop a table that has a glass bottle in the center illuminating the scene because a bright candle is placed in it. The caption reads “A thrilling scene in East Tennessee—Colonel Fry and the Union men swearing by the flag.”
Note: Today, because President Davis requests it, Governor Letcher will order all Virginia militia put into companies to get numbers up. 200 mainly pro-Union men run for the hills in protest to the draft. Jackson finds them near Swift Run Gap, snatches them back. In the winter of 1862, Letcher will issue a proclamation that slaves can be used for the State. Slaves were almost 1/3rd the whole State’s population. Their masters would get $16 per month “compensation for their labor.” Interestingly, after the war, the state of Virginia will request records back from the federal government, but despite the Secretary of the Navy’s recommendation, Letcher won’t even get his private records back.
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no hard feeling in regard to this war after it is settled….
The most incredible line in the diary.
Waiting for it all to shake, everyone to forget.
Walk over the same patch of dirt then shake hands, slap backs. Like they’d all meet and empty their pockets together.
Kumbaya.
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