Primary Source Excerpts

1. The following is a letter from Robert E. Lee to his wife. The letter was written somewhere near
Hagerstown, Maryland following the Battle of Gettysburg.
Excerpt from a letter Robert E. Lee write July 12, 1863
The consequences of war are horrid enough at best, surrounded by all the ameliorations of
civilization and Christianity. I am very sorry for the injuries done the family at Hickory Hill,
and particularly that our dear old Uncle Williams, in his eightieth year, should be subjected
to such treatment. But we cannot help it, and must endure it. You will, however, learn
before this reaches you that our success at Gettysburg was not so great as reported--in fact,
that we failed to drive the enemy from his position, and that our army withdrew to the
Potomac. Had the river not unexpectedly risen, all would have been well with us; but God, in
His all-wise providence, willed otherwise, and our communications have been interrupted
and almost cut off. The waters have subsided to about four feet, and, if they continue, by
tomorrow, I hope, our communications will be open. I trust that a merciful God, our only
hope and refuge, will not desert us in this hour of need, and will deliver us by His almighty
hand, that the whole world may recognise His power and all hearts be lifted up in adoration
and praise of His unbounded loving-kindness. We must, however, submit to His almighty
will, whatever that may be. May God guide and protect us all is my constant prayer.
2. The following is a letter written by Maj. Sullivan Ballou to his wife Sarah (ne Shumway) at home
in Rhode Island. Ballou died a week later, at the First Battle of Bull Run. He was 32.
Camp Clark, Washington
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. Lest I
should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your
eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure - and it may be one of
severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine 0 God, be done. If it is necessary that I
should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack
of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I
know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government,
and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of
the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to
help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and
replace them in this life with cares and sorrows - when, after having eaten for long years the
bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little
children - is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and
proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should
struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are
sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death -- and I,
suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my
country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus
hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country
and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I
love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that
nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a
strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I
feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me
to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still
have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I
have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to
me - perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar -- that I shall return to my loved ones
unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last
breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish
I have oftentimes been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon
your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my
children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you,
while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we
meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved,
I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night -- amidst your happiest
scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it
shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing
by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care.
Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue eyed Edgar will keep my frolics
with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence
in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and
hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead
thither my children.
--Sullivan
3. The following is a poem written and delivered by Clara Barton in 1892. The poem describes the
nurse's work on the Civil War battlefield.
The women who went to the field, you say,
The women who went to the field; and pray,
What did they go for? - just to be in the way?-
They'd not know the difference betwixt work and play,
What did they know about war, anyway ?
What could they do? - of what use could they be?
They would scream at the sight of a gun, don't you see?
Just fancy them round where the bugle notes play,
And the long roll is bidding us on to the fray.
Imagine their skirts 'mong artillery wheels,
And watch for their flutter as they flee 'cross the fields
When the charge is rammed home and the fire belches hot;-
They never will wait for the answering shot.
They would faint at the first drop of blood, in their sight.
What fun for us boys,-(ere we enter the fight;)
They might pick some lint, and tear up some sheets,
And make us some jellies, and send on their sweets,
And knit some soft socks for Uncle Sam's shoes,
And write us some letters, and tell us the news.
And thus it was settled by common consent,
That husbands, or brothers, or whoever went,
That the place for the women was in their own homes,
There to patiently wait until victory comes.
But later, it chanced, just how no one knew,
That the lines slipped a bit, and some 'gan to crowd through;
And they went, - where did they go? - Ah; where did they not?
Show us the battle, - the field, - or the spot
Where the groans of the wounded rang out on the air
That her ear caught it not, and her hand was not there,
Who wiped the death sweat from the cold, clammy brow,
And sent home the message; - "'T is well with him now"?
Who watched in the tents, whilst the fever fires burned,
And the pain-tossing limbs in agony turned,
And wet the parched tongue, calmed delirium's strife
Till the dying lips murmured, " My Mother," " My Wife"!
And who were they all ? - They were many, my men:
Their record was kept by no tabular pen:
They exist in traditions from father to son.
Who recalls, in dim memory, now here and there one.-
A few names where writ, and by chance live to-day;
But's a perishing record fast fading away.
Of those we recall, there are scarcely a score,
Dix, Dame, Bickerdyke, - Edson, Harvey and Moore,
Fales, Wittenmeyer, Gilson, Safford and Lee,
And poor Cutter dead in the sands of the sea;
And Frances D. Gage, our "Aunt Fanny" of old,
Whose voice rang for freedom when freedom was sold.
And Husband, and Etheridge, and Harlan and Case,
Livermore, Alcott, Hancock and Chase,
And Turner, and Hawley, and Potter and Hall,
Ah! the list grows apace, as they come at the call:
Did these women quail at the sight of a gun?
Will some soldier tell us of one he saw run?
Will he glance at the boats on the great western flood,
At Pittsburg and Shiloh, did they faint at the blood?
And the brave wife of Grant stood there with them then,
And her calm, stately presence gave strength to his men.
And Marie of Logan; she went with them too;
A bride, scarcely more than a sweetheart, 't is true.
Her young cheek grows pale when the bold troopers ride.
Where the "Black Eagle" soars, she is close at his side,
She staunches his blood, cools the fever-burnt breath,
And the wave of her hand stays the Angle of Death;
She nurses him back, and restores once again
To both army and state the brave leader of men.
She has smoothed his black plumes and laid them to sleep,
Whilst the angels above them their high vigils keep:
And she sits here alone, with the snow on her brow -
Your cheers for her comrades! Three cheers for her now.
And these were the women who went to the war:
The women of question; what did they go for?
Because in their hearts God had planted the seed
Of pity for woe, and help for its need;
They saw, in high purpose, a duty to do,
And the armor of right broke the barriers through.
Uninvited, unaided, unsanctioned ofttimes,
With pass, or without it, they pressed on the lines;
They pressed, they implored, till they ran the lines through,
And this was the "running" the men saw them do.
'T was a hampered work, its worth largely lost;
'T was hindrance, and pain, and effort, and cost:
But through these came knowledge, - knowledge is power.-
And never again in the deadliest hour
Of war or of peace shall we be so beset
To accomplish the purpose our spirits have met.
And what would they do if war came again?
The scarlet cross floats where all was blank then.
They would bind on their "brassards" and march to the fray,
And the man liveth not who could say to them nay;
They would stand with you now, as they stood with you then,
The nurses, consolers, and saviours of men.