[May 12. -- There was part of the late battle at Chancellorsville, (second Fredericksburgh,) a little over a week ago, Saturday, Saturday night and Sunday, under Gen. Joe Hooker, I would like to give just a glimpse of -- (a moment's look in a terrible storm at sea -- of which a few suggestions are enough, and full details impossible.) The fighting had been very hot during the day, and after an intermission the latter part, was resumed at night, and kept up with furious energy till 3 o'clock in the morning. That afternoon (Saturday) an attack sudden and strong by Stonewall Jackson had gain'd a great advantage to the southern army, and broken our lines, entering us like a wedge, and leaving things in that position at dark. But Hooker at 11 at night made a desperate push, drove the secesh forces back, restored his original lines, and resumed his plans. This night scrimmage was very exciting, and afforded countless strange and fearful pictures. The fighting had been general both at Chancellorsville and northeast at Fredericksburgh. (We hear of some poor fighting, episodes, skedaddling on our part. I think not of it. I think of the fierce bravery, the general rule.) One corps, the 6th, Sedgewick's, fights four dashing and bloody battles in thirty-six hours, retreating in great jeopardy, losing largely but maintaining itself, fighting with the sternest desperation under all circumstances, getting over the Rappahannock only by the skin of its teeth, yet getting over. It lost many, many brave men, yet it took vengeance, ample vengeance. But it was the tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the woods, and quite a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at times the moon shining out full and clear, all Nature so calm in itself, the early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees -- yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for there was an artillery contest too,) the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass. Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed -- quite large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also -- some of the men have their hair and beards singed -- some, burns on their faces and hands -- others holes burnt in their clothing. The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the immense roar -- the musketry so general, the light nearly bright enough for each side to see the other -- the crashing, tramping of men -- the yelling -- close quarters -- we hear the secesh yells -- our men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight -- hand to hand conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, determin'd as demons, they often charge upon us -- a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater poems on -- and still the woods on fire -- still many are not only scorch'd -- too many, unable to move, are burn'd to death. Then the camps of the wounded -- O heavens,]1 what scene is this? -- is this indeed humanity -- these butchers' shambles? [There are several of them.]1 There they lie, [in the largest,]1 in an open space in the woods, [from 200 to]1 300 poor fellows -- the groans and screams [-- the odor of blood,]1 mixed with the fresh scent of the night, [the grass, the trees --]1 that slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers[, their sisters]1 cannot see them [-- cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg -- both are amputated -- there lie the rejected members]1. Some have their legs blown off -- some bullets through the breast -- some indescribably horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out [-- some in the abdomen]1 -- some mere boys [-- many rebels, badly hurt]1 -- they take their [regular]1 turns with the rest[, just the same as any -- the surgeons use them just the same]1. Such is the camp of the wounded [-- such a fragment, a reflection afar off of the bloody scene --]1 while over all the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, [quietly shining. Amid the woods, that scene of flitting souls --]1 amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds [-- the impalpable perfume of the woods -- and yet the pungent, stifling smoke -- the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at intervals so placid -- the sky so heavenly --]1 the clear-obscure up there, those buoyant upper oceans -- a few large placid stars beyond, coming [silently and]1 languidly out, and then disappearing -- the melancholy, draperied night [above,]1 around. And there, upon the roads[, the fields,]1 and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or land [-- both parties now in force -- masses -- no fancy battle, no semi-play, but fierce and savage demons fighting there -- courage and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none]1. What history, I say, can ever give -- for who can know -- the mad, determin'd tussle of the armies[, in all their separate large and little squads -- as this -- each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal purports]1? Who know the conflict[, hand-to-hand -- the many conflicts]1 in [the dark, those shadowy-tangled,]1 flashing-moonbeam'd woods -- the writhing [groups and]1 squads -- the cries, the din, [the cracking guns and pistols --]1 the distant cannon -- the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths -- the indescribable mix -- the officers' orders, [persuasions, encouragements --]1 the devils fully rous'd in human hearts -- the strong shout, Charge, men, charge [-- the flash of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear and clouded heaven --]1 and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the [irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up -- those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm -- to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet -- but death has mark'd him -- soon he falls.)]2
War Scenes
Song Cycle by Ned Rorem (1923 - 2022)
1. A night battle  [sung text checked 1 time]
Language: English
Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "A night battle, over a week since", appears in Specimen Days, first published 1892
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View original text (without footnotes)1 Omitted by Rorem.
2 Rorem: "scene, the sudden partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk?"
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
2. A specimen case  [sung text checked 1 time]
Language: English
June 18th. -- [In one of the hospitals I find Thomas Haley, company M, 4th New York cavalry -- a regular Irish boy, a fine specimen of youthful physical manliness -- shot through the lungs -- inevitably dying -- came over to this country from Ireland to enlist -- has not a single friend or acquaintance here -- is sleeping soundly at this moment, (but it is the sleep of death) -- has a bullet-hole straight through the lung. I saw Tom when first brought here, three days since, and didn't suppose he could live twelve hours -- (yet he looks well enough in the face to a casual observer.) He lies there with his frame exposed above the waist, all naked, for coolness, a fine built man, the tan not yet bleach'd from his cheeks and neck. It is useless to talk to him, as with his sad hurt, and the stimulants they give him, and the utter strangeness of every object, face, furniture, &c., the poor fellow, even when awake, is like some frighten'd, shy animal. Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps. (Sometimes I thought he knew more than he show'd.) I often come and sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as softly and evenly as a young babe asleep.]1 Poor youth, so handsome, athletic, with profuse [beautiful]2 shining hair. One time as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without the least start, awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier -- one long, clear, silent look -- a slight sigh -- then turn'd back and went into his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the heart of the stranger that hover'd near. [W. H. E., CO. F., 2d N. J. -- His disease is pneumonia. He lay sick at the wretched hospital below Aquia creek, for seven or eight days before brought here. He was detail'd from his regiment to go there and help as nurse, but was soon taken down himself. Is an elderly, sallow-faced, rather gaunt, gray-hair'd man, a widower, with children. He express'd a great desire for good, strong green tea. An excellent lady, Mrs. W., of Washington, soon sent him a package; also a small sum of money. The doctor said give him the tea at pleasure; it lay on the table by his side, and he used it every day. He slept a great deal; could not talk much, as he grew deaf. Occupied bed 15, ward I, Armory. (The same lady above, Mrs. W., sent the men a large package of tobacco.) J. G. lies in bed 52, ward I; is of company B, 7th Pennsylvania. I gave him a small sum of money, some tobacco, and envelopes. To a man adjoining also gave twenty-five cents; he flush'd in the face when I offer'd it -- refused at first, but as I found he had not a cent, and was very fond of having the daily papers to read, I prest it on him. He was evidently very grateful, but said little. J. T. L., of company F., 9th New Hampshire, lies in bed 37, ward I. Is very fond of tobacco. I furnish him some; also with a little money. Has gangrene of the feet; a pretty bad case; will surely have to lose three toes. Is a regular specimen of an old-fashion'd, rude, hearty, New England countryman, impressing me with his likeness to that celebrated singed cat, who was better than she look'd. Bed 3, ward E, Armory, has a great hankering for pickles, something pungent. After consulting the doctor, I gave him a small bottle of horse-radish; also some apples; also a book. Some of the nurses are excellent. The woman-nurse in this ward I like very much. (Mrs. Wright -- a year afterwards I found her in Mansion house hospital, Alexandria -- she is a perfect nurse.) In one bed a young man, Marcus Small, company K, 7th Maine -- sick with dysentery and typhoid fever -- pretty critical case -- I talk with him often -- he thinks he will die -- looks like it indeed. I write a letter for him home to East Livermore, Maine -- I let him talk to me a little, but not much, advise him to keep very quiet -- do most of the talking myself -- stay quite a while with him, as he holds on to my hand -- talk to him in a cheering, but slow, low and measured manner -- talk about his furlough, and going home as soon as he is able to travel. Thomas Lindly, 1st Pennsylvania cavalry, shot very badly through the foot -- poor young man, he suffers horribly, has to be constantly dosed with morphine, his face ashy and glazed, bright young eyes -- I give him a large handsome apple, lay it in sight, tell him to have it roasted in the morning, as he generally feels easier then, and can eat a little breakfast. I write two letters for him. Opposite, an old Quaker lady is sitting by the side of her son, Amer Moore, 2d U. S. artillery -- shot in the head two weeks since, very low, quite rational -- from hips down paralyzed -- he will surely die. I speak a very few words to him every day and evening -- he answers pleasantly -- wants nothing -- (he told me soon after he came about his home affairs, his mother had been an invalid, and he fear'd to let her know his condition.) He died soon after she came.]1
Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "Some specimen cases", appears in Specimen Days, first published 1892
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View original text (without footnotes)1 omitted by Rorem and Hagen in "Heart of the Stranger" (two large omissions).
2 omitted by Hagen.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
3. An incident  [sung text checked 1 time]
Language: English
[ ... ]
[ An Incident. --]1 In one of the fights before Atlanta, a rebel
soldier, of large size, evidently a young man, was mortally wounded
top of the head, so that the brains partially exuded. He lived three
days, lying on his back on the spot where he first dropt. He dug with
his heel in the ground during that time a hole big enough to put in a
couple of ordinary knapsacks. He just lay there in the open air, and
with little intermission kept his heel going night and day. Some of
our soldiers then moved him to a house, but he died in a few minutes.
Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "Hospital Scenes -- Incidents"
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View original text (without footnotes)1 omitted by Rorem.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
4. Inauguration Ball  [sung text checked 1 time]
Language: English
At the dance and supper room, I could not help thinking what a different scene they presented to my view a while since. Filled with a crowded mess of the worst wounded of the war Tonight beautiful women, perfumes, the violin's sweetness, the polka and the waltz. There the amputation, the blue face, the groan The glassy eye of the dying, the clouted rag, the odor of blood And many a mother's son amid strangers passing away untended there.
Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "Inauguration Ball"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]5. The real war will never get in the books  [sung text checked 1 time]
Language: English
And so good-bye to the war. I know not how it may have been, [or may be,]1 to others -- to me the main interest [I found, (and still, on recollection, find,)]2 in the rank and file of the armies, [both sides, and in those specimens amid the hospitals,]1 and even the dead on the field. [To me]1 the points illustrating the latent personal character [and eligibilities of these States, in the two or three millions of American young and middle-aged men, North and South, embodied in those armies -- and especially the one-third or one-fourth of their number, stricken by wounds or disease at some time in the course of the contest --]3 were of more significance [even]1 than the political interests involved. [(As so much of a race depends on how it faces death, and how it stands personal anguish and sickness. As, in the glints of emotions under emergencies, and the indirect traits and asides in Plutarch, we get far profounder clues to the antique world than all its more formal history.)]1 Future years will never know the seething hell [and the black infernal background]1 of countless minor scenes [and interiors, (not the official surface courteousness of the Generals, not the few great battles) of the Secession war; and it is best they should not]1. The real war will never get in the books. [In the mushy influences of current times, too, the fervid atmosphere and typical events of those years are in danger of being totally forgotten. I have at night watch'd by the side of a sick man in the hospital, one who could not live many hours. I have seen his eyes flash and burn as he raised himself and recurr'd to the cruelties on his surrender'd brother, and mutilations of the corpse afterward. (See, in the preceding pages, the incident at Upperville -- the seventeen kill'd as in the description, were left there on the ground. After they dropt dead, no one touch'd them -- all were made sure of, however. The carcasses were left for the citizens to bury or not, as they chose.)]1 [Such was the war. It was not a quadrille in a ball-room. Its interior history will not only never be written -- its practicality, minutiae of deeds and passions, will never be even suggested. The actual soldier of 1862-'65, North and South, with all his ways, his incredible dauntlessness, habits, practices, tastes, language, his fierce friendship, his appetite, rankness, his superb strength and animality, lawless gait, and a hundred unnamed lights and shades of camp, I say, will never be written --]1 perhaps must not and should not be. [The preceding notes may furnish a few stray glimpses into that life, and into those lurid interiors, never to be fully convey'd to the future. The hospital part of the drama from '61 to '65, deserves indeed to be recorded. Of that many-threaded drama, with its sudden and strange surprises, its confounding of prophecies, its moments of despair, the dread of foreign interference, the interminable campaigns, the bloody battles, the mighty and cumbrous and green armies, the drafts and bounties -- the immense money expenditure, like a heavy-pouring constant rain -- with, over the whole land, the last three years of the struggle, an unending, universal mourning-wail of women, parents, orphans -- the marrow of the tragedy concentrated in those Army Hospitals -- (it seem'd sometimes as if the whole interest of the land, North and South, was one vast central hospital, and all the rest of the affair but flanges) -- those forming the untold and unwritten history of the war -- infinitely greater (like life's) than the few scraps and distortions that are ever told or written.]4 Think how much, and of importance, will be -- [how much, civic and military,]1 has already been -- buried in the grave[, in eternal darkness]1.
Authorship:
- by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892), "The real war will never get in the books", appears in Specimen Days, first published 1892
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View original text (without footnotes)1 Omitted by Rorem.
2 Rorem: "was"
3 Rorem: "of the American young"
4 Rorem: "The whole land, North and South, was one vast hospital, greater (like life's) than the few distortions ever told."
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Total word count: 3058