HELENA, ARKANSAS. LIFE IN A HOSPITAL. AUGUST, 1863.
General Sherman soon drove General Johnston out of Jackson, and beyond
Pearl river, and then his column returned to the vicinity of Vicksburg.
On July 22nd our division marched back to Snyder's Bluff, and resumed
our old camp. But we had not been here long before it was rumored that
we were under marching orders, and would soon leave for some point in
Arkansas. Sure enough, on July 29th we marched to the Yazoo river and
filed on board the side-wheel steamer "Sultana," steamed down the river
to its mouth, and there turned up the Mississippi, headed north. I will
remark here that one of the most tragical and distressing incidents of
the war was directly connected with a frightful disaster that later
befell the above named steamboat. It left Vicksburg for the north on or
about April 25, 1865, having on board nearly 1900 Union soldiers, all
of whom (with few exceptions) were paroled prisoners. On the morning of
April 27th, while near Memphis, the boilers of the boat exploded, and
it was burnt to the water's edge. Over 1100 of these unfortunate men
perished in the wreck, in different ways; some scalded to death by
escaping steam, some by fire, others (and the greatest number) by
drowning. Besides the soldiers, cabin passengers and members of the
boat's crew, to the number of about 140, also perished. It was the
greatest disaster, of that kind, that ever occurred on the Mississippi.
It may, perhaps, be noticed that the regiment is leaving the vicinity
of Vicksburg without my saying a word about the appearance, at that
time, of that celebrated stronghold. There is good reason for it;
namely, it so happened that we never were in the place. We were close
to it, on the north and on the east, but that was all. And I never yet
have seen Vicksburg, and it is not probable now that I ever shall.
We arrived at Helena, Arkansas, on July 31st, debarked and went into
camp near the bank of the river, about two miles below the town. There
were no trees in our camp except a few cottonwoods; the ground on which
we walked, sat, and slept was, in the main, just a mass of hot sand,
and we got water for drinking and cooking purposes from the Mississippi
river. The country back of the town, and in that immediate vicinity
generally, was wild and thinly settled, and had already been
well-foraged, so we were restricted to the ordinary army diet, of which
one of the principal items, as usual, was fat sow-belly. I never
understood why we were not allowed to camp in the woods west of the
town. There was plenty of high, well-shaded space there, and we soon
could have sunk wells that would have furnished cool, palatable water.
But this was not done, and the regiment remained for about two weeks
camped on the river bank, in the conditions above described. A natural
result was that numbers of the men were prostrated by malarial fever,
and this time I happened to be one of them. I now approach a painful
period of my army career. I just lay there, in a hot tent, on the
sand,--oh, so sick! But I fought off going to the hospital as long as
possible. I had a superstitious dread of an army hospital. I had seen
so many of the boys loaded into ambulances, and hauled off to such a
place, who never returned, that I was determined never to go to one if
it could be avoided in any honorable way. But the time came when it was
a military necessity that I should go, and there was no alternative.
The campaign that was in contemplation was a movement westward against
the Confederates under Gen. Sterling Price at Little Rock, with the
intention of capturing that place and driving the Confederates from the
State. The officer in command of the Union forces was Gen. Frederick
Steele. Marching orders were issued, fixing the 13th of August as the
day our regiment would start. All the sick who were unable to march
(and I was among that number) were to be sent to the Division Hospital.
So, on the morning before the regiment moved, an ambulance drove up to
my tent, and some of the boys carried me out and put me in the vehicle.
Capt. Keeley was standing by; he pressed my hand and said, "Good-by,
Stillwell; brace up! You'll be all right soon." I was feeling too
wretched to talk much; I only said, "Good-by, Captain," and let it go
at that. Later, when I rejoined the regiment, Keeley told me that when
he bade me good-by that morning he never expected to see me again.
Our Division Hospital, to which I was taken, consisted of a little
village of wall tents in the outskirts of Helena. The tents were
arranged in rows, with perhaps from fifteen to twenty in a row, with
their ends pinned back against the sides, thus making an open space
down an entire row. The sick men lay on cots, of which there was a line
on each side of the interior of the tents, with a narrow aisle between.
I remained at the hospital eight days, and was very sick the most of
the time, and retain a distinct recollection of only a few things. But,
aside from men dying all around me, both day and night, nothing
important happened. All the accounts that I have read of this movement
of Gen. Steele's on Little Rock agree in stating that the number of men
he left sick at Helena and other places between there and Little Rock
was extraordinary and beyond all usual proportions. And from what I saw
myself, I think these statements must be true. And a necessary
consequence of this heavy sick list was the fact that it must have been
impossible to give the invalids the care and attention they should have
received. We had but few attendants, and they were soldiers detailed
for that purpose who were too feeble to march, but were supposed to be
capable of rendering hospital service. And the medical force left with
us was so scanty that it was totally inadequate for the duties they
were called on to perform. Oh, those nights were so long! At intervals
in the aisle a bayonet would be stuck in the ground with a lighted
candle in its socket, and when a light went out, say after midnight, it
stayed out, and we would toss around on those hard cots in a state of
semi-darkness until daylight. If any attendants moved around among us
in the later hours of the night I never saw them. We had well-water to
drink, which, of course, was better than that from the river, but it
would soon become insipid and warm, and sometimes, especially during
the night, we didn't have enough of that. On one occasion, about
midnight, soon after I was taken to the hospital, I was burning with
fever, and became intolerably thirsty for a drink of water. No
attendants were in sight, and the candles had all gone out but one or
two, which emitted only a sort of flickering light that barely served
to "render darkness visible." My suffering became well-nigh
unendurable, and I could stand it no longer. I got up and staggered to
the door of the tent and looking about me saw not far away a light
gleaming through a tent that stood apart from the others. I made my way
to it as best I could, and went in. A young fellow, maybe an assistant
surgeon, was seated at the further end cf a little desk, writing. My
entrance was so quiet that he did not hear me, and walking up to him, I
said, in a sort of a hollow voice: "I want--a drink--of water." The
fellow dropped his pen, and nearly fell off his stool. The only garment
I had on was a white, sleazy sort of cotton bed-gown, which they garbed
us all in when we were taken to the hospital; and this chap's eyes, as
he stared at me, looked as if they would pop out of his head. Perhaps
he thought I was a "gliding ghost." But he got me some water, and I
drank copiously. I don't clearly remember what followed. It seems to me
that this man helped me back to my tent, but I am not sure. However, I
was in the same old cot next morning.
The fare at the hospital was not of a nature liable to generate an
attack of the gout, but I reckon those in charge did the best they
could. The main thing seemed to be a kind of thin soup, with some
grains of rice, or barley, in it. What the basis of it was I don't
know. I munched a hardtack occasionally, which was far better than the
soup. But my appetite was quite scanty, anyhow. One day we each had at
dinner, served in our tin plates, about two or three tablespoonfuls of
preserved currants, for which it was said we were indebted to the U.S.
Sanitary Commission. It seemed that a boat load of such goods came down
the river, in charge of a committee of ladies, destined for our
hospitals at Vicksburg. The boat happened to make a temporary stop at
Helena, and the ladies ascertained that there was at the hospitals
there great need of sanitary supplies, so they donated us the bulk of
their cargo. I will remark here that that little dab of currants was
all the U.S. Sanitary stuff I consumed during my army service. I am
not kicking; merely stating the fact. Those goods very properly went to
the hospitals, and as my stay therein was brief, my share of the
delicacies was consequently correspondingly slight.
As regards the medicine given us in the hospital at Helena, my
recollection is that it was almost entirely quinine, and the doses were
frequent and copious, which I suppose was all right.
There was a boy in my company of about my age; a tall, lanky chap,
named John Barton. He had lived in our neighborhood at home, and we
were well acquainted prior to our enlistment. He was a kind hearted,
good sort of a fellow, but he had, while in the army, one unfortunate
weakness,--the same being a voracious appetite for intoxicating liquor.
And he had a remarkable faculty for getting the stuff, under any and
all circumstances. He could nose it out, in some way, as surely and
readily as a bear could find a bee-tree. But to keep the record
straight, I will further say that after his discharge he turned over a
new leaf, quit the use of whisky, and lived a strictly temperate life.
He was "under the weather" when the regiment left Helena, and so was
detailed to serve as a nurse at the hospital, and was thus engaged in
my tent. Since making that bad break at Owl Creek I had avoided whisky
as if it were a rattlesnake, but somehow, while here in the hospital, I
began to feel an intense craving for some "spiritus frumenti," as the
surgeons called it. So one day I asked John Barton if he couldn't get
me a canteenful of whisky. He said he didn't know, was afraid it would
be a difficult job,--but to give him my canteen, and he would try. That
night, as late maybe as one or two o'clock, and when the lights were
nearly all out, as usual, I heard some one stealthily walking up the
aisle, and stopping occasionally at different cots, and presently I
heard a hoarse whisper, "Stillwell! Stillwell!" "Here!" I answered, in
the same tone. The speaker then came to me,--it was old John, and
stooping down, he whispered, "By God, I've got it!" "Bully for you,
John!" said I. He raised me to a sitting posture, removed the cork, and
put the mouth of the canteen to my lips,--and I drank about as long as
I could hold my breath. John took a moderate swig himself, then
carefully put the canteen in my knapsack, which was serving as my
pillow, cautioned me to keep it concealed to avoid its being stolen,
and went away. I was asleep in about five minutes after my head struck
my knapsack, and slept all the balance of the night just like a baby.
On waking up, I felt better, too, and wanted something to eat. However,
let no one think, who may read these lines, that I favor the use of
whisky as a medicine, for I don't. But the situation in those Helena
hospitals was unusual and abnormal. The water was bad, our food was no
good and very unsatisfactory, and the conditions generally were simply
wretched. I am not blaming the military authorities. They doubtless did
the best they could. It seemed to me that I was getting weaker every
day. It looked as if something had to be done, and acting on the maxim
that "desperate cases require desperate remedies," I resorted for the
time being to the whisky treatment. I made one unsuccessful attempt
afterwards to get some to serve as a tonic, which perhaps may be
mentioned later, and then forever abandoned the use of the stuff for
any purpose.
Immediately succeeding the above mentioned incident, the fever let up
on me, and I began to get better, though still very weak. My great
concern, right now, was to rejoin the regiment just as soon as
possible. It was taking part in an active campaign, in which fighting
was expected, and the idea was intolerable that the other boys should
be at the front, marching and fighting, while I was in the rear,
playing the part of a "hospital pimp." It was reported that a steamboat
was going to leave soon, via Mississippi and White rivers, with
convalescents for Steele's army, and I made up my mind to go on that
boat, at all hazards. But to accomplish that it was necessary, as I was
informed, to get a written permit from the Division Surgeon, Maj.
Shuball York, of the 54th Illinois Infantry. So one morning, bright and
early, I blacked my shoes and brushed up my old cap and clothing
generally, and started to Maj. York's headquarters to get the desired
permission. He was occupying a large two-story house, with shade trees
in the yard, in the residence part of town, and his office was in the
parlor, in the first story of the building. I walked in, and found an
officer of the rank of Major seated at a table, engaged in writing. I
removed my cap and, standing at attention, saluted him, and asked if
this was Maj. York, and was answered in the affirmative. I had my
little speech carefully prepared, and proceeded at once to deliver it,
as follows:
"My name is Leander Stillwell; I am a sergeant of Co. D, of the 61st
Illinois Infantry, which is now with Gen. Steele's army. The regiment
marched about a week ago, and, as I was then sick with a fever, I could
not go, but was sent to the Division Hospital, here in Helena. I am now
well, and have come to you to request a permit to enable me to rejoin
my regiment."
The Major looked at me closely while I was speaking, and after I had
concluded he remained silent for a few seconds, still scrutinizing me
intently. Then he said, in a low and very kind tone: "Why, sergeant,
you are not able for duty, and won't be for some time. Stay here till
you get a little stronger."
His statement was a bitter disappointment to me. I stood there in
silence a little while, twisting and turning, with trembling hands, my
old faded and battered cap. I finally managed to say, "I want--to
go--to--my regiment;"--and here my lips began to tremble, and I got no
further. Now don't laugh at this. It was simply the case of a boy, weak
and broken down by illness, who was homesick to be with his comrades.
The Major did not immediately respond to my last remark, but continued
to look at me intently. Presently he picked up his pen, and said: "I am
inclined to think that the best medical treatment for you is to let you
go to your regiment;" and he thereupon wrote and handed me the permit,
which was quite brief, consisting only of a few lines. I thanked him,
and departed with a light heart.
I will digress here for a moment to chronicle, with deep sorrow, the
sad fate that ultimately befell the kind and noble surgeon, Maj. York.
While he, with his regiment, was home on veteran furlough, in March,
1864, an organized gang of Copperheads made a dastardly attack on some
of the soldiers of the regiment at Charleston, Illinois, and murdered
Maj. York and five privates, and also severely wounded the Colonel,
Greenville M. Mitchell, and three privates. (See Official Records, War
of the Rebellion, Serial No. 57, page 629, et seq.)
The war ended over half a century ago, and the feelings and passions
engendered thereby, as between the people of the Nation and those of
the late Confederate States, have well-nigh wholly subsided, which is
right. But nevertheless I will set it down here that in my opinion the
most "undesirable citizens" that ever have afflicted our country were
the traitorous, malignant breed that infested some portions of the
loyal States during the war, and were known as "Copperheads." The
rattlesnake gives warning before it strikes, but the copperhead snake,
of equally deadly venom, gives none, and the two-legged copperheads
invariably pursued the same course. They deserved the name.
On leaving Maj. York's office I returned to the hospital and gathered
up my stuff, which included my gun, cartridge box, knapsack, haversack,
and canteen,--and said good-by to Barton and the other boys I knew.
Then to the commissary tent, and exhibiting my permit, was furnished
with five days' rations of hardtack, bacon, coffee, and sugar. Thence
to the river landing, and on to the steamboat "Pike," which was to take
the present batch of convalescents to Steele's army.