Moonlight glimmered on the distant capitol dome and cast long shadows from the gothic towers and battlements of the Smithsonian Institute. To the west, the partially completed shaft of the Washington Monument appeared like a giant white chimney protruding from the dark landscape. Between these edifices were fields filled with temporary streets and wooden buildings. Bathed in the dim light was a city transforming itself from a military bastion consumed by the business of war to a city intent on governing the once-again United States.

Within a span of six weeks, Washington had celebrated the cessation of hostilities, suffered the assassination of a president, and witnessed a grand review of the victorious Army of the Potomac. The surrender of Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House effectively ended the War of the Rebellion. While the carnage had ceased, thousands of soldiers from both sides languished in military hospitals situated not far from where the great battles were fought.

A large, middle-aged man with a full beard and kind face, wearing a wide-brimmed hat pushed back on his head walked along the deserted street with a purposeful stride. Better known for his poems and writings, Walt Whitman was now seeking to provide solace and comfort to the maimed and the dying within the forlorn wards of Armory Square Hospital. It was to be his small part in the distinguishing event of his time, a cruel war that almost irreversibly fragmented the United States of America. Neglecting his primary vocation, Whitman held a part-time job as a clerk in the Army Paymaster’s Office and used his meager wages to buy candy and writing paper for soldiers whom he visited in Washington-area hospitals.

Excerpted from Two Brothers: One North, One South © Copyright 2012 by David H. Jones. Reprinted with permission by Staghorn Press. All rights reserved.