Union soldiers convalesce in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Before the war, the town was home to about 5,000 people. In May of 1864, after the battles of the Wilderness and Spotsylvania, nearly 22,000 wounded men reportedly sought care there. (James Gardner/Library of Congress)
The mass of casualties suffered in the war was staggering. During General Grant’s Virginia campaign alone, an average of 2,000 men were wounded each day, and by the war’s end, countless soldiers had lost limbs.
In the 1860s, Silas Weir Mitchell, a Philadelphia physician, began to study the neurological effects of the wounds he was seeing. He was also a writer of fiction, and in the midst of his investigations, he composed a short story incorporating many of his findings.
The story was impressive for its scientific detail, but what made it particularly jarring was its bizarre supernatural ending (reprinted here). The narrator, a doctor who joins the Union army, recounts how he loses his limbs to battle and infection until at last he is nothing but “a useless torso.” Seeing that he has fallen into a depression, an acquaintance invites the doctor to a spiritualist meeting at which, the acquaintance claims, participants commune with the dead. What happens next was meant to be “absurd,” Mitchell would later explain. But because the story was not clearly marked as fiction, some Atlantic readers mistook the doctor for a real person, and the story’s events as fact.—Sage Stossel
A man from a neighboring ward fell one morning into conversation with the chaplain, within ear-shot of my chair. Some of their words arrested my attention, and I turned my head to see and listen. The speaker, who wore a sergeant’s chevron and carried one arm in a sling, was a tall, loosely made person, with a pale face, light eyes of a washed-out blue tint, and very sparse yellow whiskers. His mouth was weak, both lips being almost alike, so that the organ might have been turned upside down without affecting its expression. His forehead, however, was high and thinly covered with sandy hair. I should have said, as a phrenologist, Will feeble,—emotional, but not passionate,— likely to be an enthusiast or a weakly bigot.
I caught enough of what passed to make me call to the sergeant when the chaplain left him.
“Good morning,” said he. “How do you get on?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Where were you hit?”
“O, at Chancellorsville. I was shot in the shoulder. I have what the doctors call paralysis of the median nerve, but I guess Dr. Neek and the lightnin’ battery will fix it in time. When my time’s out I’ll go back to Kearsage and try on the school-teaching again. I was a fool to leave it.”