A Battlefield View of the Cost of War

CORNELIA HANCOCK, Letters of a Civil War Nurse (1863)

While the economic costs of the war were visible in the unplowed fields, unsold cotton bales, and bread riots, the emotional sacrifices were borne by the families who experienced the brutalities of war and the loss of life. Cornelia Hancock witnessed the effects of that brutality while nursing soldiers back to health or toward as peaceful a death as possible. In her letters home, she recounts her experiences in the field hospitals following the major battle at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in July 1863, one of the “turning point” battles of the war.

Gettysburg, Pa. July 7th, 1863.

My dear cousin

I am very tired tonight; have been on the field all day — went to the 3rd Division 2nd Army Corps. I suppose there are about five hundred wounded belonging to it. They have one patch of woods devoted to each army corps for a hospital. I being interested in the 2nd, because Will [her brother] had been in it, got into one of its ambulances, and went out at eight this morning and came back at six this evening. There are no words in the English language to express the sufferings I witnessed today. The men lie on the ground; their clothes have been cut off them to dress their wounds; they are half naked, have nothing but hard-tack to eat only as Sanitary Commissions, Christian Associations, and so forth give them. I was the first woman who reached the 2nd Corps after the three days fight at Gettysburg. I was in that Corps all day, not another woman within a half mile. Mrs. Harris was in first division of 2nd Corps. I was introduced to the surgeon of the post, went anywhere through the Corps, and received nothing but the greatest politeness from even the lowest private. You can tell Aunt that there is every opportunity for “secesh” sympathizers to do a good work among the butternuts;1 we have lots of them here suffering fearfully. To give you some idea of the extent and numbers of the wounds, four surgeons, none of whom were idle fifteen minutes at a time, were busy all day amputating legs and arms. I gave to every man that had a leg or arm off a gill of wine, to every wounded in Third Division, one glass of lemonade, some bread and preserves and tobacco — as much as I am opposed to the latter, for they need it very much, they are so exhausted.

I feel very thankful that this was a successful battle; the spirit of the men is so high that many of the poor fellows said today, “What is an arm or leg to whipping Lee out of Penn.” I would get on first rate if they would not ask me to write to their wives; that I cannot do without crying, which is not pleasant to either party. I do not mind the sight of blood, have seen limbs taken off and was not sick at all.

It is a very beautiful, rolling country here; under favorable circumstances I should think healthy, but now for five miles around, there is an awful smell of putrefaction. Women are needed here very badly, anyone who is willing to go to field hospitals, but nothing short of an order from Secretary Stanton or General Halleck will let you through the lines. Major General Schenk’s order for us was not regarded as anything; if we had not met Miss Dix at Baltimore Depot, we should not have gotten through. It seems a strange taste but I am glad we did. We stay at Doctor Horner’s house at night — direct letters care of Dr. Horner, Gettysburg, Pa. If you could mail me a newspaper, it would be a great satisfaction, as we do not get the news here and the soldiers are so anxious to hear; things will be different here in a short time.

CORNELIA

Gettysburg—July 8th, 1863.

My dear sister

We have been two days on the field; go out about eight and come in about six — go in ambulances or army buggies. The surgeons of the Second Corps had one put at our disposal. I feel assured I shall never feel horrified at anything that may happen to me hereafter. There is a great want of surgeons here; there are hundreds of brave fellows, who have not had their wounds dressed since the battle. Brave is not the word; more, more Christian fortitude never was witnessed than they exhibit, always say — “Help my neighbor first he is worse.” The Second Corps did the heaviest fighting, and, of course, all who were badly wounded, were in the thickest of the fight, and, therefore, we deal with the very best class of the men — that is the bravest. My name is particularly grateful to them because it is Hancock. General Hancock is very popular with his men. The reason why they suffer more in this battle is because our army is victorious and marching on after Lee, leaving the wounded for citizens and a very few surgeons. The citizens are stripped of everything they have, so you must see the exhausting state of affairs. The Second Army Corps alone had two thousand men wounded, this I had from the Surgeon’s head quarters. I cannot write more. There is no mail that comes in, we send letters out: I believe the Government has possession of the road. I hope you will write. It would be very pleasant to have letters to read in the evening, for I am so tired I cannot write them. Get the Penn Relief to send clothing here; there are many men without anything but a shirt lying in poor shelter tents, calling on God to take them from this world of suffering; in fact the air is rent with petitions to deliver them from their sufferings.

C. HANCOCK

Direct boxes — E. W. Farnham, care of Dr. Homer, Gettysburg, Penna. for Second Corps Hospital. Do not neglect this; clothing is shockingly needed. We fare pretty well for delicacies sent up by men from Baltimore.

If you direct your letters Miss Hancock, Second Corps, Third Division Hospital, do not scruple to put the Miss to it, and leave out Cornelia, as I am known only by that cognomen. I do not know when I shall go home — it will be according to how long this hospital stays here and whether another battle comes soon. I can go right in an ambulance without being any expense to myself. The Christian Committee support us and when they get tired the Sanitary is on hand. Uncle Sam is very rich, but very slow, and if it was not for the Sanitary, much suffering would ensue. We give the men toast and eggs for breakfast, beef tea at ten o’clock, ham and bread for dinner, and jelly and bread for supper. Dried rusk2 would be nice if they were only here. Old sheets we would give much for. Bandages are plenty but sheets very scarce. We have plenty of woolen blankets now, in fact the hospital is well supplied, but for about five days after the battle, the men had no blankets nor scarce any shelter.

It took nearly five days for some three hundred surgeons to perform the amputations that occurred here, during which time the rebels lay in a dying condition without their wounds being dressed or scarcely any food. If the rebels did not get severely punished for this battle, then I am no judge. We have but one rebel in our camp now; he says he never fired his gun if he could help it, and, therefore, we treat him first rate. One man died this morning. I fixed him up as nicely as the place will allow; he will be buried this afternoon. We are becoming somewhat civilized here now and the men are cared for well.

On reading the news of the copperhead3 performance, in a tent where eight men lay with nothing but stumps (they call a leg cut off above the knee a “stump”) they said if they held on a little longer they would form a stump brigade and go and fight them. We have some plucky boys in the hospital, but they suffer awfully. One had his leg cut off yesterday, and some of the ladies, newcomers, were up to see him. I told them if they had seen as many as I had they would not go far to see the sight again. I could stand by and see a man’s head taken off I believe — you get so used to it here. I should be perfectly contented if I could receive my letters. I have the cooking all on my mind pretty much. I have torn almost all my clothes off of me, and Uncle Sam has given me a new suit. William says I am very popular here as I am such a contrast to some of the office-seeking women who swarm around hospitals. I am black as an Indian and dirty as a pig and as well as I ever was in my life — have a nice bunk and tent about twelve feet square. I have a bed that is made of four crotch sticks and some sticks laid across and pine boughs laid on that with blankets on top. It is equal to any mattress ever made. The tent is open at night and sometimes I have laid in the damp all night long, and got up all right in the morning.

The suffering we get used to and the nurses and doctors, stewards, etc., are very jolly and sometimes we have a good time. It is very pleasant weather now. There is all in getting to do what you want to do and I am doing that. …

Pads are terribly needed here. Bandages and lint are plenty. I would like to see seven barrels of dried rusk here. I do not know the day of the week or anything else. Business is slackening a little though — order is beginning to reign in the hospital and soon things will be right. One poor fellow is hollowing fearfully now while his wounds are being dressed.

There is no more impropriety in a young person being here provided they are sensible than a sexagenarian. Most polite and obliging are all the soldiers to me.

It is a very good place to meet celebrities; they come here from all parts of the United States to see their wounded. Senator Wilson, Mr. Washburn, and one of the Minnesota Senators have been here. I get beef tenderloin for dinner. — Ladies who work are favored but the dress-up palaverers are passed by on the other side. I tell you I have lost my memory almost entirely, but it is gradually returning. Dr. Child has done very good service here. All is well with me; we do not know much war news, but I know I am doing all I can, so I do not concern further. Kill the copperheads. Write everything, however trifling, it is all interest here.

From thy affectionate

C. HANCOCK

3rd Division — 2nd Army Corps Hospital Gettysburg, Pa. July 26th — Sunday.

My dear mother

Today is Sunday but there is no semblance of it here. It is now about five o’clock in the morning. Our hospital has been moved and our stores have given out. There is nothing to cook with, hence I have nothing to do, and, therefore, have time to write. Such days will come here that we have to see our wounded men fed with dry bread and poor coffee; and I can tell you it is hard to witness some cursing for food, some praying for it. It seems to be no one’s fault but will happen. All the luxuries that the men get come through the Christian Commission, Sanitary, Ladies Aid, etc. I would give anything to have a barrel of butter, and some dried rusk that I have seen in our parlor. I wish you would get up something of the kind and have Mrs. Jones requested to forward to me. I should think it would be as satisfactory for me to have them as for them to be sown broadcast on the land. I could make a report of everything I received and write to the Society.

I received a silver medal from the soldiers which cost twenty dollars. I know what thee will say — that the money could have been better laid out. It was very complimentary though. One of the soldiers has a sword that he found on the battlefield, which he is going to give to me before I come home. If they were only where they could buy I should be so loaded with baggage, I should never be able to get home. I shall not come home, unless I get sick, while this hospital lasts. I have two men detailed to wait on me, which suits of course. They are now fixing up nice little tables and all such things all around the tent. I have eight wall tents full of amputated men. The tents of the wounded I look right out on — it is a melancholy sight, but you have no idea how soon one gets used to it. Their screams of agony do not make as much impression on me now as the reading of this letter will on you. The most painful task we have to perform here, is entertaining the friends who come from home and see their friends all mangled up. I do hate to see them. Soldiers take everything as it comes, but citizens are not inured. You will think it is a short time for me to get used to things, but it seems to me as if all my past life was a myth, and as if I had been away from home seventeen years. What I do here one would think would kill at home, but I am well and comfortable. When we get up early in the morning, our clothes are so wet that we could wring them. On they go, and by noon they are dry.

From thy affectionate daughter —

C. HANCOCK

General Hospital Gettysburg, Pa.

Aug. 6th, 1863.

My dear sister

We have all our men moved now to General Hospital. I am there, too, but the order in regard to women nurses has not yet been issued, and I do not know what my fate will be; I only know that the boys want me to stay very much, and I have been assigned to ward E. It is a great deal nicer here except that I have but fourteen of my old boys which is very trying — it is just like parting with part of one’s family. I go to see the boys and some of them cry that I cannot stay. I have the first four tents abreast of the cook house, the handiest tents in the whole hospital. I have Steward Olmstead for my headquarter influence, and we have an elderly doctor for our ward. I have a large hospital tent and sleep with three other ladies, so unless I struggle very hard to find it my friends need fear no harm for me. I am better than I am at home. I feel so good when I wake up in the morning. I received a letter announcing Sallie S’s death. It does not appear to me as if one death is anything to me now. I do want my watch very much indeed; if you can get any show of a safe way of sending it do so; I want my own gold one. I expect I shall be able to draw twelve dollars from the government now, but if thee can draw any money for hospital purposes or for me, send it along, for it is a poor place to be without money. If there should be an opportunity to send my purple dress, best bonnet and mantilla, I should like to have them; this hospital will not stay here more than three weeks and nobody knows what I may want to do by that time. I may come home if there is no other battle. Dr. Dwinelle gave me a splendid recommendation to Dr. Chamberlain, Surgeon in charge here. I am good friends with Sanitary, Christian, and all here, if it only lasts. One of the boys died yesterday, and one had his leg amputated fresh. Cadet Brown I sent to your house to tell you I was well. Col. Colville is getting some better; he expects Dr. Child here.

No citizens are allowed in Camp without a pass only after four o’clock. The militia go around after dark and pick up stragglers to take them out of camp. The other night they asked me if I was a detailed nurse. As it was before I was sworn in, I had to say “No.” They said their orders were peremptory, so I would have to go, but Steward Olmstead appeared and told them that I was all right, so they went away. I expect I shall be in the guard house! — but that is only a part of soldiering if I am. I do not meddle or make up with any one here but the ward master, doctor of our ward and Steward Olmstead. We have twenty women here about, some of them are excellent, but a more willful, determined set you never saw. Send this letter to mother for I hate to take the time to write often.

C. HANCOCK

General Hospital — Aug. 8th, 1863.

My dear Sallie4

It is well that thee is persevering enough to write to me without an answer for it is almost impossible for me to find time to write. In the morning before breakfast, before the men wake up, is the time we write, for as soon as the men are awake, they want something and continue in that state until late at night. Our hospital is on rising ground, divided off into six avenues, and eighteen tents holding twelve men each on each avenue. We call four tents a ward and name them by a letter; mine is ward E. The water is excellent and there is order about everything. I like it a great deal better than the battlefield, but the battlefield is where one does most good. I shall go to the front if there comes another battle, if not we shall stay in this hospital until fall. If thee was here thee would be very useful to run errands. I make friends with every one on the ground and get on first rate. Sallie S. I hear has passed away. But as surely as I live it does not seem to me as if I should ever make any account of death again. I have seen it disposed of in such a summary manner out here.

It is now about nine o’clock, every tent has a light in it, and a lot of groaning sick men. Our cook-house alone is a sight; they have meals cooked for thirteen hundred men, so you may know that they have to have the pots middling size. If you ever saw anything done on a large scale, it is done so here. There are many sights here, but the most melancholy one is to see the wounded come in in a long train of ambulances after night fall. I must be hardhearted though, for I do not feel these things as strangers do. What is the war news? I do not know the news at all. I never read the papers now, which is a slight change for me. I look at it in this way that I am doing all a woman can do to help the war along, and, therefore, I feel no responsibility. If people take an interest in me because I am a heroine, it is a great mistake for I feel like anything but a heroine.

Miss Dix was in camp today and stuck her head in the tents, but she does not work at all, and her nurses are being superseded very fast. I think we have some excellent nurses; we must have at least thirty women in the whole hospital. I have one tent of Johnnies in my ward, but I am not obliged to give them anything but whiskey.

I have no doubt that most people think I came into the army to get a husband. It is a capital place for that, as there are very many nice men here, and all men are required to give great respect to women. There are many good-looking women here who galavant around in the evening, and have a good time. I do not trouble myself much with the common herd. There is one man who is my right-hand man; he is about nineteen years old — is a hospital steward and will do anything to accommodate.

I want you to direct your boxes General Hospital, Ward E — Gettysburg. Things ought to be sent to Gettysburg, as here is the place where there are the most wounded, whether my name is on them or not. Things are all put into Mrs. Duncan’s hands in this hospital; I should not have control as I had at Corps Hospital. I am going to town soon to look after the boxes that have been sent to me.

THY AUNT, CORNELIA

Camp Letterman Hospital — Gettysburg,

Aug. 14th, 1863.

My dear mother

I received thy letter this morning and was glad to get it; letters are the desideratum in this part of the world. I am regularly installed in the General Hospital now, and like it better even than the Corps Hospital. The main reason for my staying, aside from duty, is that I am so well, if it only lasts. I feel like a new person, eat onions, potatoes, cucumbers, anything that comes up and walk as straight as a soldier, feel life and vigor which you well know I never felt at home. The place here is very healthy. I cannot explain it, but I feel so erect, and can go steadily from one thing to another from half past six o’clock in the morning until ten o’clock at night, and feel more like work at ten than when I got up at home.

My Twelve dollars per month from the government, if it should come, would pay my washing, and that is all the expense I am at, at present. I got a barrel of pads and dried fruit, and handkerchiefs to-day from express office. I have not received the box from the Salem ladies yet but I expect I shall.

From thy affectionate daughter —

C. HANCOCK

Camp Letterman, General Hospital,

Aug. 17, 1863.

Dear mother

I always spend my evenings in the post office. I am alive and well, doing duty still in the general hospital. I do think military matters are enough to aggravate a saint. We no sooner get a good physician than an order comes to remove, promote, demote or something. Everything seems to be done to aggravate the wounded. They do not get any butter; there is certainly a want of generalship somewhere for there is surely enough butter in the United States to feed these brave wounded. There are many hardships that soldiers have to endure that cannot be explained unless experienced. I have nothing to do in the hospital after dark which is well for me — all the skin is off my toes, marching so much. I am not tired of being here, feel so much interest in the men under my charge. The friends of men who have died seem so grateful to me for the little that it was in my power to do for them. I saw a man die in half a minute from the effects of chloroform; there is nothing that has affected me so much since I have been here; it seems almost like deliberate murder. His friends arrived to-day but he had to be buried before they came. Every kind of distress comes upon the friends of soldiers.

We have a nice table, meals regularly, and the nicest roast beef every day, cornbread too.

To think there is not one of the men under my care that can get up yet! How patient they are though, never complain and lay still from day to day — how different from sick men at home. I am published on the walls of the tent as the “Lady-nurse.” All kinds of conversation go on here every day. … Tell father that I have my shoes greased and do everything in army style.

From thy daughter,

C. HANCOCK

South After Gettysburg: Letters of Cornelia Hancock from the Army of the Potomac, 1863–1865, ed. Henrietta Stratton Jaquette (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1937), 7–20.

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