Walt Whitman to Louisa Van Velsor Whitman, 29 March 1864 a machine readable transcription Walt Whitman Edwin Haviland Miller Ted Genoways Transcription and encoding Alex Kinnaman Elizabeth Lorang Vanessa Steinroetter Sarah Synovec Janel Cayer Alyssa Olson Kevin McMullen Center for Digital Research in the Humanities, University of Nebraska-Lincoln University of Iowa National Historical Publications and Records Commission 2008 The Walt Whitman Archive
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 loc.00814 Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to Louisa Van Velsor Whitman, 29 March 1864 March 29, 1864 The Charles E. Feinberg Collection of the Papers of Walt Whitman, 1839–1919, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. Walt Whitman Louisa Van Velsor Whitman corrected typo corrected orgName, added pbs added schematron declaration converted to P5 proofreading changes checked and proofed updated annotations according to new correspondence sytlesheet guidelines added main TEI markup added TEI header structure w/o IDs and titles; added minimal TEI markup pulled transcription from Primary Source Media Washington Tuesday afternoon M[arch 29] Dearest mother

I have written [to] George again to Knox[ville]—things seem to be quiet down there so far—We think here that our forces are going to be made strongest here in Virginia this spring, & every thing bent to take Richmond—Grant is here, he is now down at headquarters in the field, Brandy Station—we expect fighting before long, there are many indications—I believe I told you they had sent up all the sick from front—about four nights ago we [had a] terrible rainy afternoon [& night]—Well in the middle [of the w]orst of the rain at [night? th]ere arrived a train [of sick?] & wounded, over 600 [soldiers], down at the depot—[It w]as one of the same [old] sights, I could not keep the tears out of my eyes—many of the poor young men had to be moved on stretchers, with blankets over them, which soon soaked as wet as water in the rain—Most were sick cases, but some badly wounded—I came up to the nearest hospital & helped—Mother, it was a dreadful night (last Friday night)—pretty dark, the wind gusty, & the rain fell in torrents—One poor boy (this is a sample of one case out of the 600) he seemed to me quite young, he was quite small, (I looked at his body afterwards)—he groaned some as the stretcher–bearers were carrying him along—& again as they carried him through the hospital gate, they set down the stretcher & examined him, & the poor boy was dead—they took him into the ward, & the doctor came immediately, but it was all of no use—the worst of it is too that he is entirely unknown—there was nothing on his clothes, or any one with him, to identify him—& he is altogether unknown—Mother, it is enough to rack one's heart, such things—very likely his folks will never know in the world what has become of him—poor poor child, for he appeared as though he could be but 18—

I feel lately as though I must have some intermission, I feel well & hearty enough, & was never better, but my feelings are kept in a painful condition a great part of the time—things get worse & worse, as to the amount & sufferings of the sick, & as I have said before, those who have to do with them are getting more & more callous & indifferent—Mother, when I see the common soldiers, what they go through, & how every body seems to try to pick upon them, & what humbug there is over them every how, even the dying soldier's money stolen from his body by some scoundrel attendant, or from some sick ones, even from under his head, which is a common thing—& then the agony I see every day, I get almost frightened at the world—Mother, I will try to write more cheerfully next time—but I see so much—well, good bye for present, dear Mother—

Walt

Mother, I got your letter telling [me you were] better—have you got quite we[ll?—I] wish you would write very so[on again] too—I feel uneasy about [you]—I send my love to Jeff & Mat & all—