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Journal of a Civil War Nurse
By Georgiann Baldino
July 7, 1863, Tonight I wear a cloak of exhaustion, but today’s events demand a written record. Our party first drew near the field hospital on the evening of July 6th. As we closed the distance, I began to realize a place can have horrors beyond the sufferings of the wounded and desolation of the bereft. Swollen and disfigured bodies stripped the battlefield of glory, the survivors of victory, and stole what slim chances of survival remained for the wounded.
We soon came to a prostrate line of semi-conscious, but still living, soldiers. Shot through the head, surgeons considered them hopeless. I prayed they were indeed too near death to comprehend the surroundings. Groans escaped them. Limbs tossed and twitched. The few surgeons left in charge of the field after the Union Army pursued Lee seemed unequal to the paralyzing task of sorting dead from dying or the dying from those who might be saved.
Hardly a tent was seen. The first hours after battle Earth provided the only cots available. All day long the operating table ran with blood. Attendants filled wagons with amputated limbs, withdrew from sight and returned for the next load. Action of a kind unknown and unheard of goes on here — and only here.
Common to the victims are pallid faces, inarticulate cries and abundant evidence of exhaustion. It swiftly came upon me that nourishment was a pressing need. Here was a way to be of service. The presence of six women on such a field, though scandalous, did not receive attention. No one had time to answer questions or give orders. Wagons of provisions arrived, and I took a loaf of bread and some jelly. Though not a hospital diet, the fellows nearby turned in piteous entreaty. Not a spoon, knife, fork or plate could be had. Never had I possessed a more important task than dividing a too well-baked loaf into bits small enough for weak and dying men to swallow. Bare hands and a stick sufficed. Service was offered on a shingle board. Soldiers greedily swallowed every morsel I was privileged to serve.
The next hours brought wagons containing condensed milk and bottles of whiskey; I mixed milk punch and served it from bottles and tins emptied of contents. Every hour thereafter trains from the North carried further improvements: tents, hospital supplies, doctors, more nurses.
***
July 8th, 1863, This evening I would give anything for water to bathe. I am black as night and dirty as a pig. Back home daily bathing is discouraged and then advised to take place in the morning. Here, where a man might be shot going to the spring for water, washing becomes the greatest matter of life and death.
Today, the fifth one after fighting ended, Union surgeons performed the last amputations. I thank the Almighty the Union calls it a successful battle for the hope the word ‘success’ brings the men. Because of victory fellows say, “What is an arm or a leg to whipping Lee out of Pennsylvania?” I would bear up in better stead if they would not ask me to write to their wives; that service I cannot do without crying.
We have plucky boys in the hospital, but they suffer awfully. Excuse my boldness, generals, but do you know what goes on? If so, how can you permit it? Do not counter by saying the enemy has brought this plague upon the nation, not you. See what I see and then search your conscience again. Bad as five days of surgery were for Union troops, during that time the rebels had no dressings for their wounds and scarcely any food. The rebels were punished more severely by the aftermath of battle, and that no one can deny.
I moved to the 3rd Division 2nd Army Corp where my own Brother Will is attached. I was the first woman to reach them after the fighting. About 500 wounded belong to the Division. There are no words in the English language to express the suffering. I was occupied all day giving a glass of lemonade, some bread and preserves, and tobacco to every wounded man I could — Will, thankfully not among them.
It is very beautiful country here. Under favorable conditions I should think it healthy, but now for five miles around the smell is putrefaction. I do not know how long I will stay here or when I shall go home. It will be according to how long the hospital remains in this location and whether another battle comes. We do not get any news. The soldiers are especially anxious to hear. Things could be quite different here in only a short time.
The Government is very rich and very slow. Women are needed badly, and anyone willing to come should be passed through to the field hospitals, but nothing short of an order from Secretary Stanton or General Halleck now gets them through the lines. It seems an impossible thought, but I am glad to have gone through when I did. I move anywhere through the Corps and receive nothing but the greatest politeness from the lowest private.
***
July 26th: Today is Sunday but there is no semblance of religion here. Our hospital was moved. The stores have given out. There is nothing to cook with. Such days come where we have to see our wounded fed with dry bread and poor coffee. It is hard to witness some cursing for food — others praying for it. My thoughts shiver. Some 30 women have come to the Corps Hospital I suppose. Most of these were dead heads completely, and the numbers of those who remain fell considerably through sickness and indisposition to stay.
A few days ago I received a silver medal. The soldiers indicate it should be worth twenty dollars. The inscription says “Testimonial of regard for ministrations of mercy to the wounded soldiers at Gettysburg, Pa — July, 1863.”
The assistant surgeon tortured one poor private by pouring nitric acid on his stump in a deadly race against gangrene.
***
The next morning, the nurse approached the private, fighting for his life, not sure if he is sleeping or has lost all senses. Healing is a challenge. For him, it is also a burden.
He stirs. “Morning, Miss.”
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“How fortunate I used to be,” he murmurs. “How unaware of my privileges. Eons ago, it seems, I was part of a family, loving son, a combative youngest brother. While growing up, I was the one to start many fights. Bigger boys? — it didn’t matter. What was wrong with me? Mother kept asking, What’s wrong with you, boy? The answer didn’t come.”
She brings a cup of milk to his lips.
He rejects it. “I never considered the implications of joining up. What better — than to fight for the Union and pulverize Secesh? Never stopped to think something couldn’t be quickly and easily done. Never counted the reasons not to. Had to get in before the fighting ended.”
She wonders, did God ordain and conceive this man as a soldier? Or did the Devil?
“Now my taste for fighting has turned.” He shifts on the mattress filled with leaves and sticks. And is powerless to stop himself from crying out.
She waits for his pain to settle.
“Sorry, Miss. I want to be still, but Johnny Reb has done me in.” A wry smile alters his mouth. “Funny, how I sound like them. With a rebel yell, I scream my way to death.”
“Shall I write a letter for you?” she asks.
“I might not miss living — if you had never appeared in the ward. You march in here, where rabble awaits your pleasure.”
She takes out paper. “Can I write to your parents?” She cannot bring herself to ask if he has a wife.
He wonders aloud, “Do your people write to you?”
“Only yesterday a driver brought a letter from home. Sarah S— wrote that she feels my way of living is the path to ruin. In truth, I feel safer here than at home. At night the Division has extra guards on.”
“Excuse the impropriety,” he says, “but you little know the pleasure a man feels seeing a woman at camp.”
But she has seen this reaction clearly and repeatedly. Though she is a plain woman, no longer in the blush of youth, many come from the regiment to the field hospital, their sole purpose seeming to be to see a lady.
The soldier shivers as if the warm summer breeze turns to a chill. She brings the cup to his lips again. He denies it once more, and a frown spreads across his face. “Yes, write to my mother,” he whispers. “Tell her my lust to fight is gone now.” Pain maims his words and makes the rest of them unintelligible. He thrashes and reopens his wound. The steward rushes over and yells at him to stop.
With a gentle voice she provides the means to calm him. “I will write and tell your mother you are no longer starting fights.”
He grows still, she imagines, out of respect for a woman’s antipathy to violence, or to protect the delicacy of her senses.
She sits at his side and writes to his mother. Then writes a letter to Sarah S— to tell her she cannot expect everyone to be satisfied to live in as small a circle as herself in these days of monumental sacrifice.
###
This fiction is based on the letters of Cornelia Hancock, 1840-1927, who served as a field nurse for the Union Army during the Civil War.
About the Author: Georgiann Baldino is a keynote speaker and the author of five books, numerous stories and articles. Georgiann’s living-history program, “A Soldier’s Friend,” commemorates the 150th anniversary of the Civil War by giving a personal look at the fates of common soldiers and former slaves.
Connect with her online:
Website: A Soldier’s Friend