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HIGHLIGHTS
October 21, 1862 - Brady Brings Carnage Home
In New York, the Mathew Brady studio recently unveiled a new exhibition called "The Dead at Antietam." Lines formed along Broadway to give witness to the stark reality of this war - the massive loss of life and limb for a cause much larger than any individual. The photographs were taken by Alexander Gardner, who works for Brady, immediately following the battle at Sharpsburg, Maryland. Though Union soldiers began burrying their dead at battle's end, the Confederates were in reatreat across the Potomac River, leaving many bodies in their wake and visible to Gardner's cameras. After Gardner returned to Brady’s studio in Washington, prints were made of his negatives and taken to his New York City gallery, located at Broadway and Tenth Street. An announcement of the display was placed in the New York Times on October 6. Almost immediately, New Yorkers have flocked to see the photographs with fascination and horror. Yesterday, the New York Times published a review of the exhibition. "As it is, the dead of the battle-field come up to us very rarely, even in dreams. We see the list in the morning paper at breakfast, but dismiss its recollection with the coffee. There is a confused mass of names, but they are all strangers; we forget the horrible significance that dwells amid the jumble of type. The roll we read is being called over in Eternity, and pale, trembling lips are answering to it. Shadowy fingers point from the page to a field where even imagination is loth to follow. "Each of these little names that the printer struck off so lightly last night, whistling over his work, and that we speak with a clip of the tongue, represents a bleeding, mangled corpse. It is a thunderbolt that will crash into some brain -- a dull, dead, remorseless weight that will full upon some heart, straining it to breaking. There is nothing very terrible to us, however, in in the list, though our sensations might be different if the newspaper carrier left the names on the battle-field and the bodies at our doors instead. "We recognize the battle-field as a reality, but it stands as a remote one. It is like a funeral next door. The crape on the bell-pull tells there is death in the house, and in the close carriage that rolls away with muffled wheels you know there rides a woman to whom the world is very dark now. . . . It attracts your attention, but does not enlist your sympathy. . . . "Mr. Brady has done something to bring home to us the terrible reality and earnestness of war. If he has not brought bodies and laid them in our dooryards and along the streets, he has done something very like it. At the door of his gallery hangs a little placard, 'The Dead of Antietam.' "Crowds of people are constantly going up the stairs; follow them, and you find them bending over photographic views of that fearful battle-field, taken immediately after the action. Of all objects of horror one would think the battle-field should stand preeminent, that it should bear away the palm of repulsiveness. But, on the contrary, there is a terrible fascination about it that draws one near these pictures, and makes him loth to leave them. "You will see hushed, reverend groups standing around these weird copies of carnage, bending down to look in the pale faces of the dead, chained by the strange spell that dwells in dead men's eyes. "It seems somewhat singular that the same sun that looked down on the faces of the slain, blistering them, blotting out from the bodies all semblance to humanity, and hastening corruption, should have thus caught their features upon canvas, and given them perpetuity for ever. But so it is. "These poor subjects could not give the sun sittings, and they are taken as they fell, their poor hands clutching the grass around them in spasms of Pain, or reaching out for a help which none gave. Union, soldier and Confederate, side by side, here they lie, the red light of battle faded from their eyes but are set as when they met in the last fierce change which located their souls and sent them grappling with each other and battling to the very grass of Heaven. The ground whereon they lie is torn by shot and shell, the grass is trampled down by the tramp of their feet, and little revulets that and scarcely be of blood trickling along the earth like tears over a mother’s face. . . . "These is one side of the picture that the sun did not catch, one phase that has escaped photographic skill it is the background of widows and orphans, torn from the bosom of their natural protectors by the red ruthless hand of Battle, and thrown upon the brotherhood of God. Homes have been made desolate, and the light of life in thousands of hearts has been extinguished forever. All of this desolation imagination must paint -- broken hearts cannot be photographed."
August 30, 1862 - An Angel on the Battlefield
“The battlefield is no place for a woman,” Clara Barton was told again and again. The sights, the sounds, the dangers would be simply too much for the delicate feminine nature. Not true, Miss Barton maintained. The battlefield was exactly the place where the gentle and caring ministrations of a “sister” were needed the most. What was more, society told her, the soldiers themselves would misinterpret her presence, mistaking her for a camp follower or prostitute. Particularly for a single woman of forty years old, whose character was already in question for being in such an advanced state of spinsterhood, nursing on the battlefield was simply not an option. Clara Barton listened to such admonishments. Only on her father’s deathbed were her doubts dispelled to the point where her desire and determination congealed. As he lay dying, her father, an old soldier and patriot, sat up for one of the last times in his life when his daughter expressed her fears of social censure. She did not fear the battlefield itself, she asserted. She only feared the interpretation of her presence upon it. The old soldier and patriot rose up in his bed and told Clara, “I know soldiers.” Then he firmly defended the men he had been among for so long, saying that he knew for a certainty that once they understood her mission, they would respect both it and her. She was not to fear social censure or misinterpretation. No, she must go, and the soldiers would understand and appreciate why she was there among them. “He charged me with a dying patriot’s love to serve and sacrifice for my country in its peril and strengthen and comfort the brave men who stood for its defense,” Barton recounted. She felt heartened and supported to do something to help the Union during the “great national calamity” when the “darkest page in our country’s history is now being written in lines of blood,” as she wrote. Miss Barton did everything she could to get official permission to go to the battlefield, only to be blocked by officials who agreed with society’s dictum: “A woman’s place is in the home—certainly not on the battlefield!” Yet serving in Washington area hospitals was not enough for her. She wanted to go into the vortex of battle where the need was greatest. Miss Barton finally found the keys to male officers’ hearts—supplies. Her wish to go to the battlefield to serve was fulfilled when she had finished collecting three warehouses full of supplies, including food, bandages, sheets, night shirts, and medicines. The head of the Quartermaster Depot in Washington City, Colonel Daniel H. Rucker, listened to Barton’s tearful pleas to be allowed to bring the supplies she had collected to Pope’s army. Rucker gave her a note giving her safe passage. She procured other letters of safe passage—not for safe passage among the Confederates but among the officers of the U.S. army and of the U.S. Sanitary Commission, giving her leave to give what aid and comfort she could to sick and wounded soldiers as the second battle of Bull Run developed. Setting up an efficient supply line, she went straight into the heart of war where there was maximum need and maximum danger. General Pope and General Lee, having bad blood between them due to one another’s treatment of civilians, had no agreement as to the protection of medical personnel, and Clara Barton faced capture as well as the dangers of stray bullets and artillery explosions. When Clara appeared with her supplies at a time when Dr. James L. Dunn was bereft of even such simple medical necessities as bandages, he wrote to his wife that Miss Barton appeared to him to be an angel sent by Heaven. It is said that, out in the field, when all the male surgical assistants fled from Rebel artillery, Miss Barton, a mere five feet inches tall, stolidly refused to budge as she assisted the surgeon to serve a suffering soldier. “In my feeble estimation,” the surgeon said, “General McClellan, with all his laurels, sinks into insignificance beside the true heroine of the age, the angel of the battlefield,” Miss Clara Barton.
