Sarah Hopper Gibbons Emerson to Her Father from Washington, 1864

Sarah Hopper Gibbons Emerson to Her Father from Washington, 1864

Emerson, Sarah Hopper Gibbons, ed. Life of Abby Hopper Gibbons: Told Chiefly Through Her Correspondence. New York, G.P. Putnam and Sons, 1896, pp. 88-93. Transcribed by John Hennessy.

Mother and I have just arrived from Fredericksburg, after a long and tiresome journey. They are moving our men from there as fast as possible, as guerillas are known to be in the vicinity and a raid is anticipated. We went to the cars yesterday morning about eleven o'clock—platform cars, without railing or cover and had to wait in the broiling sun for hours before setting out. It was a very picturesque sight to see the long train piled with men in clothing of all colors, from scarlet to white, holding green branches in their hands as a protection from the sun: trains of ambulances coming over the hills, and contrabands flocking in with bundles on their heads.

Upon reaching Aquia Creek, we boarded the Argo, already laden with wounded. Arrived within sight of Washington, we received a countermand to return to Alexandria; there we sat and lay on the wharf, utterly exhausted until eleven o'clock, when we were conducted to a filthy hole to pass the night. The vermin were so thick that we dared not get on the beds and stretched ourselves on the hard floor, with no pillows and 'no nothing,' although the guide had assured us that 'we should find everything just like it was to home, piano and all.' Took boat for Washington at seven this morning, and here we are, having had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours but a raw egg, a cracker and a little punch, although we fed the wounded with panada, coffee, whiskey, lemonade, &c.

You can form no idea of the work we had to do in Fredericksburg. I had a hundred and sixty men, all on the floor and not a bed to be seen; four storehouses and one third story, packed so close that the men nearly touched each other; in one room with twenty-three men, fourteen amputations; not a breath of air until Mr. Thaxter knocked out the windowpanes and afterwards the sashes. We stole straw to fill ticks, stole boards to make bunks, stole bedsteads, took nails from packing boxes, and yesterday every man was comparatively comfortable. The filth exceeded anything you ever dreamed of—stench terrific. The Sanitary Commission has been the only decent feature of the place. Some of the Christian Commission have worked splendidly too. The Sanitary agents washed men, dressed wounds, and did everything. They have saved hundreds of lives, for provisions were terribly scarce and nothing was to be had in the city. I think it was Sunday morning, the report was that 23,000 wounded had been sent on, 7,166 remained, besides 1000 sick.

I left a dear little boy, Frank Doherty, Fiftyseventh Mass., sixteen years old. He was shot through the arm, the ball passing through one lung and out at his back ; as innocent as a baby, delirious most of the time, and in a dying slate. Over and over again, he said: 'I want you to take me to your room; you must be a friend to me now that I have no other; this ice is so rich—it is so beautiful—take me out into the sunshine—goodnight ;' and all such broken sentences, snatches of prayer one moment and military orders the next. He was an apothecary's boy and did not need to go into the fight, but begged his captain for the privilege.

I said to him, 'Oh, Frank, you were too young.' 'Ask my captain if I did not do good service,' was his answer.