Relics of War—the Image of the Wounded Veteran in Post-Civil War America
John Casey, PhD
Visiting Lecturer
University of Illinois at Chicago
The spectacle of the Union army’s Grand Review (held on May 23-24, 1865) in which the soldiers
who fought with Generals Grant and Sherman paraded before the capitol in Washington, D.C. provided
the nation with a sight that was both stirring and terrifying to behold. [Fig. 1.—“Grand Review at Washington.”
Harper’s Weekly. June 10, 1865.]
Never before had the United States raised such a large army in war or
peace and it would be well over a generation before such a mass of soldiers would be seen again.
Despite the grandeur of this event, Private William Harrison Barber of the 47th Pennsylvania was
unimpressed. He noted in a letter to his Aunt that “I had seen so many soldiers before that I was far
more interested by the civic show” (William Harrison Barber Papers, hereafter WHBP). As civilians
looked at his comrades, Barber was looking back at them and he noticed “all descriptions of forms,
faces, classes and there were many fair, pretty faces alive with excitement, wonder, and admiration on
the avenue that day” (WHBP). Yet underlying this moment of celebration for the North and its
sympathizers were intimations of the subtle wall that would come to divide soldiers from civilians in the
postwar era. Turning his face back from the civilian crowd to the soldiers for a moment, Barber asserted
that “society applauds them [i.e. the returning soldiers] yet how little conception has society of the
hardships, [and] misery, endured by these men and the dangers faced to maintain society” (WHBP).
The gap in comprehension between veterans and the general populace, noted by Barber, would
manifest itself in the early years after the war as the trope of the wounded warrior. Typically involving
an amputee, this trope either depicted a wounded veteran in the care of a civilian or called upon the
emotions of the viewer so that they would volunteer to take on a caretaking role. Although a significant
number of soldiers returned home missing arms and legs, the proliferation of engravings, stories,
poems, and songs that centered on them would lead the viewer to assume that the ranks of the Union
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army were indistinguishable from a hospital ward. The purpose of this exaggeration was twofold.
Veterans of the war were husbands, brothers, neighbors, and friends. Civilians wanted to reconnect
with those who had long been separated from them by the war. Raised in an antebellum culture that
favored sentiment, the trope of the wounded warrior seemed like the perfect way to reestablish their
emotional as well as physical connection to former soldiers. Additionally, the exaggeration of the
wounded warrior trope allowed the nation to assuage its fears about the prospect for ongoing war. This
anxiety was particularly acute as the conflict that civilians had lived through was domestic in nature, a
civil war rather than a foreign campaign. Afraid that returning soldiers would remain attached to
military life and threaten the chance for lasting peace, northern civilians constructed an image of all
veterans as “disabled.” Seeing them as objects of care rather than concern, restored to the civilian
population a sense of agency and suggested that normal life would soon return.
Perhaps the best illustration of the trope of the wounded warrior, and certainly the most
evocative of the complex emotions that surrounded it, is an engraving completed by Winslow Homer in
August of 1865 for Harper’s Weekly magazine. Titled “Our Watering Places—The Empty Sleeve at
Newport,” Homer’s work was printed to accompany a short story titled “Why Edna Ackland Learned to
Drive,” a rather maudlin tale about a woman who learns to drive a horse and carriage in preparation for
the return of her one armed lover, Union Captain Harry Ash, from the battlefield. Homer’s engraving
shows a young woman driving a carriage along the sunny ocean shore while the man sits as a passenger.
[Fig. 2—Winslow Homer. “The Empty Sleeve at Newport.” Harper’s Weekly. August 26, 1865.] He has drawn the
image in such a way that the woman’s arms dominate the frame. They are stretched out to their full
length. This has the effect of focusing the viewer’s gaze on what the woman possesses and the man
lacks—two arms. The man’s one good arm sits meekly in his lap and the missing member, although it is
on the right edge of the frame, still vies strongly for our attention. This visual battle for the viewer’s
consideration between the woman’s arms and those of the man exposes the message about gender that
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is at the heart of this engraving. For not only does the woman have both arms, but she is holding the
reins of the carriage along with a horse whip. The man, in contrast, seems to have shrunk within
himself. His clothes hang limply on his emaciated frame and he sits in a resigned and somewhat lifeless
way watching the scenes of the beachfront pass by.
That Homer’s image was intended as a commentary on the gender role alterations caused by
the war seems obvious. Even today the idiom “taking the reins” suggests an element of power that has
traditionally been marked in the United States as masculine. Yet here the feminine holds authority over
the epitome of masculinity—the conquering war hero. Where the artist hoped to lead his nineteenthcentury viewers, following this ironic and more than likely disturbing insight, however, is less clear
unless we place Homer’s work within the larger context of northern civilian discourse about veterans in
the early postwar period. In an October 11, 1866 editorial from the moderate Republican magazine The
Nation, which had launched its first issue during the last year of the Civil War, the writer expounds in no
uncertain terms about “the danger of the interference of military men in political affairs” (“Military
Politicians,”291). He echoes the concerns raised by northern newspapers during the last years of the
war that military life had “demoralized” soldiers, but added to the rather commonplace belief that army
life led to heavy drinking, gambling, and other dissolute habits the new one that soldiering made a man
into a bad voter and thereby a bad citizen. This claim also appears in an October 26, 1866 editorial from
the same magazine titled “Ought Soldier’s To Vote?” Here the writer argues that “whenever an army
exists for any length of time, it becomes a caste, in which are prevalent peculiar motives of action and
peculiar habits of thought, but all dangerous to liberty” (“Ought Soldiers to Vote?,” 331). Particularly
dangerous, the editors claimed, is the deference shown by those in the military towards figures of
authority. The Nation’s editorial staff was clearly concerned that returning soldiers would make possible
a coup d’etat, and while they strenuously avoided the political example of France in the 1850’s, they
directed the reader’s attention to what had occurred in England during its 17th century civil war.
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That these fears were at least partially justified is demonstrated by the unstable political climate
that existed between the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the inauguration of Ulysses S. Grant to
the office of the presidency. The executive and legislative branches became increasingly hostile and
obstructionist towards each other and at least one newspaper, the New York Herald, argued in a June
13, 1865 article for the creation of a Citizen-Soldiers Party to remove this political impasse. In complete
contrast to The Nation’s editorials, the Herald’s writer seemed to invite a military junta saying “Let the
real men of the country make its policy, and put a government in place to suit themselves. Make way
for the bluecoats, or they will make one for themselves” (“Re-organization of Parties,” 4). The historical
record, which provides the contemporary reader with the benefit of hindsight, clearly shows that Union
soldiers did not march directly into political power with their uniforms still on. Instead they followed
the lead of Ulysses Grant, who resigned his commission from the army to accept the Republican
nomination for president. Nevertheless, it is important to remember that civilians living in the midst of
what must have appeared to be a permanent state of turmoil could not foresee this happy ending.
Consequently, to assuage their anxiety and uncertainty, they created images of returning soldiers like
those produced by Homer. Understanding soldiers as amputees, victims of war in need of civilian care,
was far less disturbing than the thought of armed soldiers usurping civilian political power.
Not surprisingly, there were obvious problems with the trope of the wounded warrior from the
very beginning. For one thing, Union veterans who were active in civilian life resented claims that they
were “disabled” and fiercely resisted any attempt to make them spectators of postwar life. This
emotion drives the ending of John William De Forest’s 1867 novel Miss Ravenel’s Conversion and helps
explain the presence in the conclusion of his reconciliation romance of a lengthy tribute to the citizensoldier—adept at peace as well as war. Additionally, this trope classed all veterans together as one
group, hiding the truly disabled within the much larger group of those perceived to be potentially unfit
for postwar life. In trying to assuage their anxieties, northern civilians unintentionally marginalized
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veterans and encouraged them to remain silent about their war experiences. This silence would last for
nearly fifteen years. When that silence finally broke in the 1880s, the boom in war memoirs reflected
not so much a change in understanding between veterans and civilians but rather an acceptance that
only a “comrade” could truly understand another comrade. The words they wrote were primarily for
each other with civilians welcome as spectators to their tales of war.
Despite the resentment that many Union veterans felt at the implication that they were victims
of war, a few found ingenious ways to utilize civilian sympathies to their advantage. In an era that saw
poverty as a personal failing and was largely indifferent to physical and mental disability, the symbolic
value of being a wounded warrior was nearly as good as money in the bank. Under the pension laws
that existed from the end of the war to 1890, a veteran needed to prove both his service in the Union
army as well as the direct correlation between his injury and combat. Once that connection was
established, a series of compensation tables would be referred to for the proper amount of
remuneration. Few veterans were lucky enough to have all the necessary documentation the first time
they applied. Joseph Allison writes in a March 2, 1868 letter to his comrade John Durang that “I am
trying to produce “satisfactory” evidence to the Pension [Bureau] to the effect that I have been more or
less disabled in our venerable Uncle’s late war but the Commissioner of Pensions is not yet satisfied on
that point so I am taking ‘additional evidence on that point.’ I shall convince him if possible” (John T.
Durang Papers). One way to convince Uncle Sam of the worthiness of one’s cause was to make use of
civilian sympathy for the empty sleeve, using it to help cut through some of the bureaucratic red tape.
This method worked particularly well when an injury was undoubtedly caused by service in the army but
could not be traced to a specific battle. Such leveraging of one’s position as a wounded veteran,
however, would not always move the federal government’s pension officials to approve a claim. In that
case, a former soldier was compelled to appeal to the general population and use his rhetorical capital
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to convince a civilian audience that he should be considered as part of that class of unfortunates known
as the “worthy poor” rather than a common beggar.
One example of a veteran down on his luck utilizing his status as a wounded warrior to improve
his financial situation can be found in the personal narrative of Charles L. Cummings. Cummings enlisted
in the 28th Michigan in September of 1864 at the age of sixteen. He saw action with his unit at the battle
of Nashville and later was involved in the pursuit of General Joseph E. Johnston’s army into North
Carolina where he witnessed the surrender of Johnston’s command. Mustered out of the army in June
of 1866, Cummings was never wounded in battle. His primary physical complaint following discharge
from the army was a persistent case of diarrhea, debilitating to be sure but not likely to raise public
sympathy to the degree achieved by amputees. It was not until seven years after the war that he lost
both his feet and part of his lower legs in a workplace accident, something that the exterior appearance
of his personal narrative works skillfully and diligently to hide.
To date I have uncovered four different versions of Cummings personal narrative, which is titled
The Great War Relic. Although none of these editions contain publication data, it is possible to surmise
the year of publication using information from within the text. The earliest version I have discovered
was published around 1885 and is the only edition to contain a substantial amount of advertising,
including a one page endorsement for the makers of “Crandal’s Patent Crutch.” [Fig. 3—Advertisement for
Crandal’s Patent Crutch.]
The same image used in the advertisement is placed on the cover of the 1885
edition, which is so cluttered with text that the reader might be forgiven if they missed the phrase “how
I lost my feet seven years after I was mustered out of service” to the left of Cummings’ likeness. [Fig. 4—
The Great War Relic. Cover #1. Circa 1885.]
He uses a similar technique to obscure the source of his injury in
later editions of the narrative, but changes the cover design. Editions published in 1888 and 1891 both
have the generic figure of a Union soldier on the cover. Again the arrangement of the text obscures the
most significant phrase in the title: “and how I lost my feet since the war.” However, the printer does
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put that phrase in red. [Fig. 5—The Great War Relic. Cover #2. Circa 1888 and 1891.] The image of the author
himself does not appear until the first page of these later versions of the narrative, accompanying a brief
preface to the text. [Fig. 6—The Great War Relic. Page one. Circa 1888, 1891, 1892.] The latest edition of The
Great War Relic that I have discovered, Circa 1892, returns to the model of the earlier version of the
text. [Fig. 7—The Great War Relic. Cover #3. Circa 1892.] Here Cummings seems to respond to charges of false
advertising by placing the phrase “I Lost My Feet Since The War” in large print set in the middle of the
cover page.
By including the phrase “how I lost my feet since the war” on the cover, Cummings can truthfully
assert to his readers that he did not lie to them. He simply did not emphasize for the potential buyer of
his life story the exact source of his injury. If they had paid close attention to the text, he might have
argued, they would see that he became an amputee after the battles had ended. Of course, by the time
the reader had noticed the true origin of the author’s disability, they more than likely would have
already purchased the pamphlet. Perhaps because Cummings’ earlier readers did not find such an
argument persuasive, the formatting of the 1892 edition is more explicit in stating when the author’s
disability occurred. Cummings also eliminates from both the front and back covers any images
associated with the war. His own image as a disabled man in postwar America takes the place of the
generic engravings associated with the Civil War. However, even in the 1892 edition of the narrative,
the cover tells us little about the source of Cummings’ misfortune. Consequently, in order to
understand how the author became disabled, the reader must turn away from the cover, pay their ten
cents, and look to the narrative.
Unlike the external appearance of the book, the personal narrative that Cummings’ constructs
does not change dramatically in the four versions that I have examined. The main difference between
each edition is the length of his life story, which begins at four pages in the 1885 edition and gradually
expands to eleven. Cummings essentially begins with an outline of his tale and continues to add further
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details each time it is told. The other change made to the different versions of the narrative is the
supplemental material added. All four versions contain George Reed’s long poem “The Campaign of the
Sixth Army Corps,” but the other selections (most of which are war sketches) vary between editions.
Because it provides both the clearest and most detailed description of how Cummings lost his
feet, I would like to briefly examine that scene as it appears in the 1888 edition of the narrative. Coming
home from the war, Charles struggled to find work. He tells the reader, “When I arrived in Allegan, I
found I had made a great mistake by going into the army…I had missed my chance to acquire an
education, and the other boys had secured the good situations and there was nothing left me but the
rough work which I was not fit for” (Cummings, Ca. 1888 edition, 7). Eventually he finds a position as
Brakeman on the Toledo, Wabash and Western R.R., and it is while working at this job that he
experiences the accident that cost him his feet. Cummings says
On the 29th [of October 1873], about 4 p.m., I started from near the passenger station at
Lafayette with several of my railroad comrades to board a train moving east towards my
caboose…It was a little slippery, and I had on a pair of new sewed boots, my foot slipped and I
missed my hold and fell, my comrades failing [sic] to have sufficient presence of mind to move
me and the wheels passed over both legs just above the ankle joints, crushing the bones and
flesh (7).
Over a hundred miles from his hometown in Michigan, the accident occurred in Lafayette, Indiana,
Cummings was taken to a nearby boarding house where doctors were able to save most of his lower
legs but had to amputate both of his feet. After nearly seven months spent recuperating, he learned to
walk again using crutches and began selling items on the street soon after to earn a living.
Perhaps to address charges that he was a bum and had scammed his earlier readers into
thinking he was a war hero, Cummings not only describes at greater length the exploits of his army unit
in each successive edition of his life story but also discusses more extensively his experience trying to
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earn a living after surviving his work related accident. In the 1892 edition of his personal narrative
Cummings describes his efforts selling pencils and other cheap goods on the street and the difficulties
he faced, particularly from local policeman. He complains that “When a man is a peddler or canvasser
he is called a beggar, but if an able-bodied man tries to sell goods off the street he is called a fakir [i.e. a
saintly beggar]. If you want to know what a free country this is just try to sell something on the street”
(Ca. 1892 edition, 9). Particularly annoying to Cummings is the constant demands from policemen and
officials for fees and licenses that he cannot afford to obtain. He exclaims with some disgust that “the
merchant with $10,000 capital does not pay as much license as the poor street salesman with less than
10,000 cents” (10). Cummings’ admission to membership in the Grand Army of the Republic, which
originally allowed him to publish and sell his life story rather than pencils and cheap pocket knives, did
not completely eliminate these difficulties. As he traveled from town to town and state to state selling
his personal narrative, Cummings was compelled to approach Grand Army members in each region to
help him with licensing and fees and vouch for him with local authorities.
Compounding his difficulty in convincing the local populace that he is a war hero down on his
luck rather than a beggar is the passage in 1890 of the Dependent Pension Act. This key revision to army
pension eligibility made it possible for any honorably discharged Union veteran to receive a pension who
was unable to perform physical labor. No longer did it matter how that injury was acquired.
Presumably this key change to the pension law would have applied to Cummings’ situation. Moreover,
the expansion of the National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers into a wide network of locations
across the United States would have increased Cummings’ chances of having a permanent roof over his
head. Yet contrary to what we might expect, he welcomes neither of these changes. He must work, he
says, to support himself and his family. To those who would recommend to him that he rely on a
pension or a soldier’s home he retorts “if you were a soldier, then in the minds of many you have no
right whatever to try to make a living in any kind of travelling business, but must go to a soldier’s home”
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(9). He rejects that option out of hand and describes his life since the accident that took his feet not as
the ramblings of an adventurer or a charity case but instead as if he were a travelling salesman.
The vehemence of Cummings’ rejection of government support even as he solicits aid from the
community members he canvasses with his book is highly ironic. At first glance it appears to be simply
an assertion of manliness, a personal declaration of financial independence. Although there are
elements of this ethos to be found in Cummings’ fierce rejection of government assistance, the many
versions of his life story primarily document a major cultural shift in how veterans of the Civil War were
understood. By the 1890s, the emergence to adulthood of a generation born after the war’s end
weakened whatever power remained in the trope of the wounded warrior. Civilians no longer felt that
veterans were a threat. Instead they viewed them as a white elephant, a costly gift bestowed them by
an earlier age that became more costly with each passing year due to rising pension costs and soldier’s
home budgets. Cummings remarks on this transformation in attitude saying “Some real smart
individuals say, when I offer them one of my books, ‘Oh, the war is over, and ought to be forgotten!’
Indeed! And how do they know it is over when they had nothing to do with it” (11). Faced with an
audience that now truly believes he is a relic of war, Cummings still attempts to use the trope of the
wounded warrior to his advantage. What he discovers in the process is that sympathy has now become
less of an issue for Civil War veterans than relevance.
Works Cited—
Allison, Joseph. Letter to John Durang. March 2, 1868. John T. Durang Papers. MS. William L. Clements
Library, Ann Arbor, MI.
Barber, William Harrison. Letter to his Aunt. May 29, 1865. William Harrison Barber Papers. MS.
William L. Clements Library, Ann Arbor, MI.
Cummings, Charles L. The Great War Relic. n.p. [c. 1885]. Newberry Library, Chicago, IL.
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-----. The Great War Relic. n.p. [c. 1888]. Newberry Library, Chicago, IL.
-----. The Great War Relic. n.p. [c. 1891]. William L. Clements Library. Ann Arbor, MI
-----. The Great War Relic. n.p. [c. 1892]. Library of Congress. Washington, D.C. Web. Hathitrust
Digital Library. 29 Aug. 2011.
Homer, Winslow. “Our Watering Places—the Empty Sleeve at Newport.” Harper’s Weekly. 26 August.
1865: 532. HarpWeek.com. Web. 28 Oct. 2008.
“Military Politicians.” The Nation. 11 October. 1866: 291. Print.
“Ought Soldier’s To Vote?” The Nation. 25 October. 1866: 331. Print.
“Re-organization of Parties: Proposed Formation of a National Citizen Soldier’s Party.” The New York
Herald. 13 June. 1865: 4. Print.