Volume_29_Issue_2

W ho comes to mind? Is it the Good Gray Poet? A free-spirited bohemian? Resident of Pfaff ’s Saloon? The Father of the Free Verse? Just like Lt. Chamberlain in our last column, there is more to Whitman than his popular reputation. He is an example of the civil side of the Civil War. What Lincoln referred to in his second inaugural address as “The better angels of our nature.” In his famous poem, Song of Myself, Whitman’s patriotism, bohemian spirit, and belief that ‘all men are created’ equal is evident when he says, But, he not only gave us Song of Myself , he gave of himself. Whitman’s older brother, George, enlisted with the Union army very soon after the Civil War broke. Like thousands of families all over the country, Whitman, his mother, and siblings waited breathlessly by the mailbox looking for either a letter from George ensuring his safety, or frantically scanning the newspaper’s list of casualties. Eventually, George ended up on the wounded list. Walt immediately traveled to Washington, D.C. to find him. Luckily, he found George wounded but with a good diagnosis for recovery. Within a short amount of time he was ready to return to the battle action. But Walt couldn’t leave the hospital stating, “I cannot give up my Hospitals yet … I never before had my feeling so thoroughly and (so far) permanently absorbed, to the very roots, as by these huge swarms of dear, wounded, sick, dying boys.” Whitman felt called to care for the wounded soldiers in a way that wasn’t easy for most. He didn’t preach or offer traditional medicinal care. He sat with the soldiers to ease their loneliness and just listened to them talk. He offered simple pleasures like fruit or tobacco. Once he scooped ice cream for the patients noting, “I gave everybody some—quite a number of western country boys have never tasted ice cream.” Whitman didn’t discriminate his care. While a proud New Yorker at the time, he cared for white and black soldiers, Union and Confederate. They were all the same to him, all worthy of his gratitude and sympathy. Private John Holmes of a Massachusetts regiment was moved to tears by Whitman’s assistance in just getting him a glass of milk and looking out for him. The Private returned to battle and survived the war. He credited Whitman’s small acts of civility for saving his life. A self-proclaimed “Soldiers’ Missionary,” Whitman was an ever- present force reminding the soldiers that their country was there for them. A firm believer in the power of the written word, he kept a detailed diary of daily visits and even sent letters to the deceased soldiers’ families to let them know their relative died with dignity. When a soldier named Erastus Haskell died in the hospital of typhoid fever Whitman wrote to his parents stating, “… I thought it would be soothing to you to have a few lines about the last days of your son Erastus. …He is one of the thousands of our unknown American young men in the ranks about whom there is no record of fame, no fuss made about their dying so unknown, but I find in them the real precious & royal ones of this land …” Whitman’s health would never be the same after caring for the soldiers. While he was never officially diagnosed theories range from post-traumatic stress to inhaling too many medicinal fumes in the hospital to anxiety and exhaustion. It was likely a combination of these various factors. The service may have handicapped his body, but it enlivened his spirit. While convalescing back at his New York home he worked on a collection of Civil War poetry, titled Drum-Taps . Several tell of his experiences at the hospital like this excerpt from The Wound Dresser , Preservation & Progress Volume 29, Issue 2 17 “…One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same, A Southerner soon as a Northerner … … a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye … At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Mine, or the Texan ranch … Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion …” “… I onward go, I stop, With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds, I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable, One turns to me his appealing eyes- poor boy! I never knew you, Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you …”