SOUTHERN WOMAN’S STORY.

_Introduction._

Soon after the breaking out of the Southern war, the need of hospitals,

properly organized and arranged, began to be felt, and buildings

adapted for the purpose were secured by government. Richmond, being

nearest the scene of action, took the lead in this matter, and the

formerly hastily contrived accommodations for the sick were soon

replaced by larger, more comfortable and better ventilated buildings.

The expense of keeping up small hospitals had forced itself upon the

attention of the surgeon-general, Moore, who on that account gradually

incorporated them into half-a-dozen immense establishments, strewn

around the suburbs. These were called Camp Jackson, Camp Winder,

Chimborazo Hospital, Stuart Hospital and Howard Grove; and were

arranged so that from thirty to forty wards formed a division, and

generally five divisions a hospital. Each ward accommodated from thirty

to forty patients, according to the immediate need for space. Besides

the sick wards, similar buildings were used for official purposes, for

in these immense establishments every necessary trade was carried on.

There were the carpenter’s, blacksmith’s, apothecary’s and shoemaker’s

shops; the ice houses, commissary’s and quartermaster’s departments;

and offices for surgeons, stewards, baggage-masters and clerks. Each

division was furnished with all these, and each hospital presented to

the eye the appearance of a small village.

There was no reason why, with this preparation for the wounded and

sick, that they should not have received all the benefit of good

nursing and food; but soon rumors began to circulate that there was

something wrong in hospital administration, and Congress, desirous of

remedying omissions, passed a law by which matrons were appointed.

They had no official recognition, ranking even below stewards from

a military point of view. Their pay was almost nominal from the

depreciated nature of the currency. There had been a great deal of

desultory visiting and nursing, by the women, previous to this law

taking effect, resulting in more harm than benefit to the patients; and

now that the field was open, a few, very few ladies, and a great many

inefficient and uneducated women, hardly above the laboring classes,

applied for and filled the offices.

_Women of the South._

The women of the South had been openly and violently rebellious from

the moment they thought their States’ rights touched. They incited the

men to struggle in support of their views, and whether right or wrong,

sustained them nobly to the end. They were the first to rebel—the

last to succumb. Taking an active part in all that came within their

sphere, and often compelled to go beyond this when the field demanded

as many soldiers as could be raised; feeling a passion of interest in

every man in the gray uniform of the Confederate service; they were

doubly anxious to give comfort and assistance to the sick and wounded.

In the course of a long and harassing war, with ports blockaded and

harvests burnt, rail tracks constantly torn up, so that supplies of

food were cut off, and sold always at exorbitant prices, no appeal was

ever made to the women of the South, individually or collectively, that

did not meet with a ready response. There was no parade of generosity;

no published lists of donations, inspected by public eyes. What was

contributed was given unostentatiously, whether a barrel of coffee or

the only half bottle of wine in the giver’s possession.

_Startling Proposition._

About this time one of these large hospitals was to be opened,

and the wife of the then acting secretary of war offered me the

superintendence—rather a startling proposition to a woman used to all

the comforts of luxurious life. Foremost among the Virginia women, she

had given her resources of mind and means to the sick, and her graphic

and earnest representations of the benefit a good and determined

woman’s rule could effect in such a position settled the result in

my mind. The natural idea that such a life would be injurious to

the delicacy and refinement of a lady—that her nature would become

deteriorated and her sensibilities blunted, was rather appalling. But

the first step only costs, and that was soon taken.

_First Appearance on any Stage._

A preliminary interview with the surgeon-in-chief gave necessary

confidence. He was energetic—capable—skillful. A man with ready oil

to pour upon troubled waters. Difficulties melted away beneath the

warmth of his ready interest, and mountains sank into mole-hills when

his quick comprehension had surmounted and leveled them. However

troublesome daily increasing annoyances became, if they could not be

removed, his few and ready words sent applicants and grumblers home

satisfied to do the best they could. Wisely he decided to have an

educated and efficient woman at the head of his hospital, and having

succeeded, never allowed himself to forget that fact.

_Petticoat Government._

The day after my decision was made found me at “headquarters,” the

only two-story building on hospital ground, then occupied by the

chief surgeon and his clerks. He had not yet made his appearance that

morning, and while awaiting him, many of his corps, who had expected in

horror the advent of female supervision, walked in and out, evidently

inspecting me. There was at that time a general ignorance on all

sides, except among the hospital officials, of the decided objection

on the part of the latter to the carrying out of a law which they

prognosticated would entail “petticoat government;” but there was no

mistaking the stage-whisper which reached my ears from the open door

of the office that morning, as the little contract surgeon passed out

and informed a friend he met, in a tone of ill-concealed disgust, that

“_one of them had come_.”

_Dull, but necessary Details._

To those not acquainted with hospital arrangements, some explanations

are necessary. To each hospital is assigned a surgeon-in-chief.

To each _division_ of the hospital, a surgeon in charge. To each

_ward_ of the division, an assistant surgeon. But when the press

of business is great, contract doctors are also put in charge of

wards. The surgeon-in-chief makes an inspection each day, calling a

board of inferior surgeons to make their report to him. The surgeon

in charge is always on the ground, goes through the wards daily,

consulting with his assistants and reforming abuses, making his

report daily to the surgeon-in-chief. The assistant surgeon has only

his one or two wards to attend, passing through them twice each day

and prescribing. In cases of danger he calls in the surgeon in charge

for advice or assistance. The contract surgeons performed the same

duties as assistant surgeons, but ranked below them, as they were not

commissioned officers and received less pay. Each ward had its corps

of nurses, unfortunately not practised or expert in their duties, as

they had been sick or wounded men, convalescing and placed in that

position,—however ignorant they might be,—till strong enough for

field duty. This arrangement bore very hard upon all interested, and

harder upon the sick, as it entailed constant supervision and endless

teaching; but the demand for men in the field was too imperative to

allow those who were fit for their duties there to be detained for

nursing purposes, however skillful they may have become.

Besides these mentioned, the hospital contained an endless horde

of stewards and their clerks; surgeons’ clerks; commissaries and

their clerks; quartermasters and clerks; apothecaries and clerks;

baggage-masters; forage-masters; wagon-masters; cooks; bakers;

carpenters; shoemakers; ward-inspectors; ambulance-drivers; and many

more; forgotten hangers-on, to whom the soldiers gave the name of

“hospital rats” in common with would-be invalids who resisted being

cured from a disinclination to field service. They were so called,

it is to be supposed, from the difficulty of getting rid of either

species. Still, many of them were physically unfit for the field.

_Initiation._

Among these conflicting elements, all belittled at a time of general

enthusiasm by long absence from the ennobling influences of military

service, and all striving with rare exceptions to gain the small

benefits and rare comforts so scarce in the Confederacy, I was

introduced that day by the surgeon in charge. He was a cultivated,

gentlemanly man, kind-hearted when he remembered to be so, and very

much afraid of any responsibility resting upon his shoulders. No

preparations had been made by him for his female department. He

escorted me into a long, low, whitewashed building, open from end to

end, called for two benches, and then, with entire composure, as if

surrounding circumstances were most favorable, commenced an æsthetic

conversation on _belles lettres_, female influence, and the first,

last and only novel published during the war. (It was a translation of

_Joseph the Second_, printed on gray and bound in marbled wall-paper.)

A neat compliment offered at leave-taking rounded off the interview,

with a parting promise from him to send me the carpenter to make

partitions and shelves for office, parlor, laundry, pantry and kitchen.

The steward was then summoned for consultation, and my representative

reign began.

“_Great Oaks from little Acorns grow._”

A stove was unearthed; very small, very rusty, and fit only for a

family of six. There were then about six hundred men upon the matron’s

diet list, the illest ones to be supplied with food from my kitchen,

and the convalescents from the steward’s, called, in contra-distinction

from mine, “the big kitchen.” Just then my mind could hardly grope

through the darkness that clouded it, as to what were my special

duties, but one mental spectrum always presented itself—_chicken soup_.

_Partnership with Jim._

Having vaguely heard of requisitions, I then and there made my first,

in very unofficial style. A polite request sent through “Jim” (a small

black boy) to the steward for a pair of chickens. They came instantly

ready dressed for cooking. Jim picked up some shavings, kindled up the

stove, begged, borrowed or stole (either act being lawful to his mind),

a large iron pot from the big kitchen. For the first time I cut up with

averted eyes a raw bird, and the Rubicon was passed.

My readers must not suppose that this picture applies generally to

all our hospitals, or that means and appliances so early in the war

for food and comfort, were so meagre. This state of affairs was only

the result of accident and some misunderstanding. The surgeon of my

hospital naturally thought I had informed myself of the power vested

in me by virtue of my position, and, having some experience, would use

the rights given me by the law passed in Congress, to arrange my own

department; and I, on reading the bill, could only understand that the

office was one that dovetailed the duties of housekeeper and cook,

nothing more.

_A First Venture._

In the meantime the soup was boiling, and was undeniably a success,

from the perfume it exhaled. Nature may not have intended me for a

Florence Nightingale, but a kitchen proved my worth. Frying-pans,

griddles, stew-pans and coffee-pots soon became my household gods. The

niches must have been prepared years previously, invisible to the naked

eye but still there.

Gaining courage from familiarity with my position, a venture across the

lane brought me to the nearest ward (they were all separate buildings,

it must be remembered, covering a half mile of ground in a circle, one

story high, with long, low windows opening back in a groove against the

inside wall), and, under the first I peeped in, lay the shadow of a man

extended on his bed, pale and attennuated.

What woman’s heart would not melt and make itself a home where so much

needed?

His wants were inquired into, and, like all the humbler class of men,

who think that unless they have been living on hog and hominy they are

starved, he complained of not having eaten anything “for three mortal

weeks.”

“_A Rose by any other name,” &c._

In the present state of the kitchen larder, there was certainly not

much of a choice, and I was as yet ignorant of the capabilities of the

steward’s department. However, soup was suggested, as a great soother

of “misery in his back,” and a generous supply of adjectives prefixed

for flavor—“nice, hot, good chicken soup.” The suggestion was received

kindly. If it was very nice he would take some: “he was never, though,

much of a hand for drinks.” My mind rejected the application of words,

but matter not mind, was the subject under consideration.

All my gastronomic experience revolted against soup without the sick

man’s parsley; and Jim, my acting partner, volunteered to get some at a

mysterious place he always called “The Dutchman’s,” so at last, armed

with a bowl full of the decoction, duly salted, peppered, and seasoned,

I again sought my first patient.

_Snubbed._

He rose deliberately—so deliberately that I felt sensible of the great

favor he was conferring. He smoothed his tangled locks with a weak

hand, took a piece of well-masticated tobacco from between three or

four solitary teeth, but still the soup was unappropriated, and it

appeared evident that some other preliminaries were to be arranged.

The novelty of my position, added to a lively imagination, suggested

fears that he might think it necessary to arise for compliment sake;

and hospital clothing being made to suit the scarcity and expense of

homespun, the idea was startling. But my suspense did not continue

long; he was only seeking for a brown-covered tract hid under his

pillow.

Did he intend to read grace before meat? No, he simply wanted a

pocket-handkerchief, which cruel war had denied; so without comment a

leaf was quietly abstracted and used for that purpose. The result was

satisfactory, for the next moment the bowl was taken from my hand, and

the first spoonful of soup transmitted to his mouth.

It was an awful minute! My fate seemed to hang upon the fiat of that

uneducated palate. A long painful gulp, a “judgmatical” shake of the

head, _not_ in the affirmative, and the bowl traveled slowly back to my

extended hand.

_His Mammy’s Soup._

“My mammy’s soup was not like that,” he whined. “But I might worry a

little down if it war’n’t for them _weeds_ a-floating round.”

Well! why be depressed? There may not after all be any actual

difference between weeds and herbs.

After that first day improvements rapidly progressed. Better stoves,

and plenty of them, were put up; closets enclosed; china or its

substitutes, pottery and tin, supplied. I learned to make requisitions

and to use my power. The coffee, tea, milk, and all other luxuries

provided for the sick wards, were, through my demand, turned over to

me; also a co-laborer with Jim, that young gentleman’s disposition

proving to be like my old horse, who pulled well and steadily in single

harness, but when tried in double team, left all the hard work to the

last comer. However, honor to whom honor is due. He gave me many hints

which my higher intelligence had overlooked, comprehended by him more

through instinct than reason, and was as clever at gathering trophies

for my kitchen as Gen. Butler was—for other purposes.

_Dissolved Partnership with Jim._

Still my office did not rise above that of chief cook, for I dared not

leave my kitchen unattended for a moment, till Dr. M., one day, passing

the window, and seeing me seated on a low bench peeling potatoes,

appeared much surprised, and inquired where my cooks were. Explanations

followed, a copy of hospital rules were sent for, and authority found

to provide the matron’s department with suitable attendants. A gentle,

sweet-tempered lady, extremely neat and efficient, was appointed

assistant matron, also three or four cooks and bakers. Jim and his

companion were degraded into drawers of water and hewers of wood; that

is to say, these ought to have been their duties, but their occupation

became walking gentlemen. On assuming their out-door labors, their

allegiance to me ceased, and the trophies which formerly swelled my

list of dainties for the sick were nightly carried “down the hill,”

where everything that was missed disappeared.

_Explanations._

Then began the routine of hospital life in regular order. Breakfast

at seven in the morning in summer and eight in winter. Coffee, tea,

milk, bread of various kinds, and butter or molasses, and whatever

meats could be saved from the yesterday’s dinner. This was in the first

year of the war. Afterwards we were not able to be so luxurious. The

quantity supplied would be impartially divided among the wards with the

retention of the delicacies for the very ill men.

The ward-masters with their nurses gathered three times a day, for each

meal, around my office window adjoining the kitchen, with large wooden

trays and piles of plates, waiting to receive the food, each being

helped in turn to a fair division. If an invalid craved any particular

dish the nurse mentioned the want, and if not contrary to the surgeon’s

order, it, or its nearest approximation was allowed him.

_Routine._

After breakfast the assistant surgeons visited their respective wards,

making out their diet lists, or rather filling them up, for the forms

were printed, and only the invalid’s name, number of his bed, and his

diet—light, half, or full, were required to be specified, also the

quantity of whiskey desired for each. Dinner and supper served in the

same way, except for the very sick. They had what they desired, in or

out of season, and all seemed to object to the nutriment concocted from

those tasteless and starchy compounds of wheat, corn and arrowroot,

that are so thick and heavy to swallow, and so little nutritious. They

were served hot from the fire, or congealed from the ice (for after

the suffering caused from the deprivation of ice the first summer of

the war was felt, each hospital built its own ice-house, which was

well filled by the next season). At two o’clock the regular dinner

of poultry, beef, ham, fish and vegetables, was distributed. (After

the first year our bill of fare decreased much in variety.) Supper at

six. The chief matron sat at her table, the diet lists arranged before

her, each day, and managed so that no especial ward should invariably

be the first served, although they were named in alphabetical order.

Any necessary instructions of the surgeons were noted and attended

to, sometimes accompanied with observations of her own, not always

complimentary to those gentlemen, nor prudent as regarded herself.

_Mr. Jones’ Views._

The orders ran somewhat in this fashion: “Chicken soup for twenty—beef

tea for forty—tea and toast for fifty.” A certain Mr. Jones had

expressed his abhorrence of tea and toast, so I asked the nurse why he

gave it to him.

He answered that the diet was ordered by the surgeon, but Jones said he

would not touch it, for he never ate slops, and so he had eaten nothing

for two days.

“Well, what does he wish?”

“The doctor says tea and toast” (reiterating his first remark).

“Did you tell the doctor he would not eat it?”

“_I_ told the doctor, and _he_ told the doctor.”

“Perhaps he did not hear, or understand you.”

“Yes, he did. He only said that he wanted that man particularly to have

tea and toast, though I told him Jones threw it up regularly; so he put

it down again, and said Jones was out of his head, and Jones says the

doctor is a fool.”

My remark upon this was that Jones could not be so very much out of his

head—an observation that entailed subsequent consequences. The habit

so common among physicians when dealing with uneducated people, of

insisting upon particular kinds of diet, irrespective of the patient’s

tastes, was a peculiar grievance that no complaint during four years

ever remedied.

“_Sufficient for the Day,” &c._

Although visiting my wards in the morning for the purpose of speaking

words of comfort to the sick, and remedying any apparent evils which

had been overlooked or forgotten by the surgeons when going their

rounds, the fear that the nourishment furnished had not suited the

tastes of men debilitated to an extreme not only by disease and wounds,

but also by the privations and exposures of camp life, would again take

me among them in the afternoon. Then would come heart-sickness and

discouragement, for out of a hundred invalids, seventy, on an average,

would assert that they had not taken any nourishment whatever. This

was partly owing to habit or imitation of others, and partly to the

human desire to enlist sympathy. The common soldier has a horror of a

hospital, and with the rejection of food comes the hope that weakness

will increase proportionally, and a furlough become necessary.

Besides, the human palate, to relish good food, must be as well

educated as other organs for other purposes. Who appreciates a good

painting until his eye is trained, or fine harmony until the ear is

cultivated?—and why should not the same rule apply to tongue and

taste? Men who never before had been sick, or swallowed those starchy,

flavorless compounds young surgeons are so fond of prescribing,

repudiated them invariably, in spite of my skill in making them

palatable. They were suspicious of the _terra incognita_ from which

they sprang, having had no experience heretofore, and suspicion always

engenders disgust.

_Introduction of Hero._

Daily inspection too, convinced me that great evils still existed under

my rule, in spite of my zealous care for my patients. For example, the

monthly barrel of whiskey which I was entitled to draw still remained

at the dispensary under the guardianship of the apothecary and his

clerks, and quarts and pints were issued through any order coming from

surgeons or their substitutes, so that the contents were apt to be

gone long before I was entitled to draw more, and my sick would suffer

for want of the stimulant. There were many suspicious circumstances

connected with this _institution_; for the monthly barrel was an

institution and a very important one. Indeed, if it is necessary to

have a hero for this matter-of-fact narrative the whiskey barrel will

have to step forward and make his bow.

_Introduction of Hero—The Whiskey Barrel._

So again I referred to the hospital bill passed by Congress, which

provided that liquors in common with other luxuries, belonged to the

matron’s department, and in an evil moment, such an impulse as tempted

Pandora to open the fatal casket assailed me, and I despatched the

bill, flanked by a formal requisition for the liquor. An answer came

in the shape of the head surgeon. He declared I would find “the charge

most onerous,” that “whiskey was required at all hours, sometimes in

the middle of the night, and even if I remained at the hospital, he

would not like me to be disturbed,” “it was constantly needed for

medicinal purposes,” “he was responsible for its proper application;”

but I was not convinced, and withstood all argument and persuasion. He

was proverbially sober himself, but I was aware why both commissioned

and non-commissioned officers opposed violently the removal of the

liquor to my quarters. So, the printed law being at hand for reference,

I nailed my colors to the mast, and that evening all the liquor was in

my pantry and the key in my pocket.

_The Hero Captured._

The first restraints of a woman’s presence had now worn away, and the

thousand miseries of my position began to make themselves felt. The

young surgeons (not all gentlemen, although their profession should

have made them aspirants to the character), and the nurses played

into each other’s hands. If the former were off on a frolic, the

latter would conceal the absence of necessary attendance by erasing

the date of the diet list of the day before, and substituting the

proper one, duplicating the prescription also, and thus preventing

inquiry. In like manner the assistant surgeons, to whom the nurses

were alone responsible, would give them leave of absence, concealing

the fact from the head surgeon, which could easily be effected; then

the patients would suffer, and complaints from the matron be obnoxious

and troublesome, and also entirely out of her line of business.

She was to be cook and housekeeper, and nothing more. Added now to

other difficulties was the dragonship of the Hesperides,—the guarding

of the liquefied golden fruit to which access had been open to a

certain extent before her reign,—and for many, many months the petty

persecutions endured from all the small fry around almost exceeded

human patience to bear. What the surgeon in charge could do to mitigate

the annoyances entailed he conscientiously did; but with the weight of

a large hospital on his not very strong mind, and very little authority

delegated to him, he could hardly reform abuses or punish silly

attacks, so small in the abstract, so great in the aggregate.

_Jones’ Indignation._

The eventful evening when Mr. Jones revolted against tea and toast,

my unfortunate remark intended for no particular ear but caught by

the nurse, that the patient’s intellects could not be confused if

he called his surgeon a fool, brought forth a recriminating note to

me. It was from that maligned and incensed gentleman, and proved the

progenitor of a long series of communications of the same character;

a family likeness pervading them all. They generally commenced with

“Dr. —— presents his compliments to the chief matron,” continuing with

“Mrs. —— and I,” and ending with “you and him.” They were difficult to

understand, and more difficult to endure. Accustomed to be treated with

extreme deference and courtesy by the highest officials connected with

the government, moving in the same social grade I had always occupied

when beyond hospital bounds, the change was appalling.

_Wanted.—A Dose of Grammar._

The inundation of notes that followed for many months could not have

been sent back unopened, the last refuge under the circumstances, for

some of them might have related to the well-being of the sick. My pen

certainly was ready enough, but could I waste my thunderbolts in such

an atmosphere?

The depreciated currency, which purchased only at fabulous prices

by this time; the poor pay the government (feeling the necessary of

keeping up the credit of its paper) gave to its officials; the natural

craving for luxuries that had been but common food before the war,

caused appeals to be made to me, sometimes for the applicant, oftener

for his sick wife or child, so constantly, that had I given even

one-tenth of the gifts demanded there would have been but little left

for my patients.

_Daily Trials._

It was hard to refuse, for the plea that it was not mine but merely

a charge confided to me, was looked upon as a pretext; outsiders

calculating upon the quantity issued to my department and losing sight

of the ownership of the quantity received.

Half a dozen convalescent men would lose their tasteless dinner daily

at the steward’s table, and beg for “anything,” which would mean

turkey and oysters. Others “had been up all night and craved a cup

of coffee and a roll,” and as for diseases among commissioned and

non-commissioned men, caused by entire destitution of whiskey, and only

to be cured by it—their name was legion. Every pound of coffee, every

ounce of whiskey, bushel of flour or vegetables duly weighed before

delivery, was intended for its particular consumers; who, if they even

could not eat or drink what was issued for them watched their property

zealously, and claimed it too. So what had I to give away?

_The Ishmaelite._

The necessity of refusing the live-long day, forced upon naturally

generous tempers, makes them captious and uncivil, and under the

pressure the soft answer cannot be evoked to turn away wrath. Demands

would increase until they amounted to persecutions when the refusals

became the rule instead of the exception, and the breach thus made grew

wider day by day, until “my hand was against every man, and every man’s

hand against me.”

Besides, there was little gratitude felt in a hospital, and certainly

none expressed. The mass of patients were uneducated men, who had lived

by the sweat of their brow, and gratitude is an exotic plant, reared

in a refined atmosphere, kept free from coarse contact and nourished

by unselfishness. Common natures look only with surprise at great

sacrifices and cunningly avail themselves of the benefits they bestow,

but give nothing in return,—not even the satisfaction of allowing the

giver to feel that the care bestowed has been beneficial; _that_ might

entail compensation of some kind, and in their ignorance they fear the

nature of the equivalent which might be demanded.

_Mrs. Marthy Brown’s Son._

Still, pleasant episodes often occurred to vary disappointments and

lighten duties.

“Kin you writ me a letter?” drawled a whining voice from a bed in one

of the wards, a cold day in ’62.

The speaker was an up-country Georgian, one of the kind called

“Goubers” by the soldiers generally; lean, yellow, attennuated, with

wispy strands of hair hanging over his high, thin cheek-bones. He put

out a hand to detain me and the nails were like claws.

“Why do you not let the nurse cut your nails?”

“Because I aren’t got any spoon, and I use them instead.”

“Will you let me have your hair cut then? You can’t get well with all

that dirty hair hanging about your eyes and ears.”

“No, I can’t git my hair cut, kase as how I promised my mammy that I

would let it grow till the war be over. Oh, it’s onlucky to cut it!”

“Then I can’t write any letter for you. Do what I wish you to do, and

then I will oblige you.”

This was plain talking. The hair was cut (I left the nails for another

day), my portfolio brought, and sitting by the side of his bed I waited

for further orders. They came with a formal introduction,—“for Mrs.

Marthy Brown.”

_A Circular Letter._

“My dear Mammy:

“I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me well, and I hope that I

shall git a furlough Christmas, and come and see you, and I hope that

you will keep well, and all the folks be well by that time, as I hopes

to be well myself. This leaves me in good health, as I hope it finds

you and——”

But here I paused, as his mind seemed to be going round in a circle,

and asked him a few questions about his home, his position during the

last summer’s campaign, how he got sick, and where his brigade was

at that time. Thus furnished with some material to work upon, the

latter proceeded rapidly. Four sides were conscientiously filled, for

no soldier would think a letter worth sending home that showed any

blank paper. Transcribing his name, the number of his ward and proper

address, so that an answer might reach him—the composition was read to

him. Gradually his pale face brightened, a sitting posture was assumed

with difficulty (for, in spite of his determined effort in his letter

“to be well,” he was far from convalescence). As I folded and directed

it, contributed the expected five-cent stamp, and handed it to him, he

gazed cautiously around to be sure there were no listeners.

_My First Proposal._

“Did you writ all that?” he asked, whispering, but with great emphasis.

“Yes.”

“Did _I_ say all that?”

“I think you did.”

A long pause of undoubted admiration—astonishment ensued. What was

working in that poor mind? Could it be that Psyche had stirred one of

the delicate plumes of her wing and touched that dormant soul?

“Are you married?” The harsh voice dropped very low.

“I am not. At least, I am a widow.”

He rose still higher in bed. He pushed away desperately the tangled

hay on his brow. A faint color fluttered over the hollow cheek, and

stretching out a long piece of bone with a talon attached, he gently

touched my arm and with constrained voice whispered mysteriously:

“You wait!”

And readers, I _am_ waiting still; and I here caution the male portion

of creation who may adore through their mental powers, to respect my

confidence, and not seek to shake my constancy.

_Compliments._

Other compliments were paid me, perhaps not of so conclusive a nature,

and they were noticeable from their originality and novelty, but they

were also rare. Expression was not a gift among the common soldiers.

“You will wear them little feet away,” said a rough Kentuckian,

“running around so much. They ar’n’t much to boast of anyway.” Was not

this as complimentary as the lover who compared his mistress’s foot to

a dream; and much more comprehensible?

_More flattering than agreeable._

At intervals the lower wards, unused except in times of great need, for

they were unfurnished with any comforts, would be filled with rough

soldiers from camp, sent to recuperate after field service, who may

not have seen a female face for months; and though generally too much

occupied to notice them much, their partly concealed, but determined

regard would become embarrassing. One day, while directing arrangements

with a ward-master, my attention was attracted by the pertinacious

staring of a rough-looking Texan. He walked round and round me in

rapidly narrowing circles, examining every detail of my dress, face,

and figure; his eye never fixing upon any particular part for a moment

but traveling incessantly all over me. It seemed the wonder of the mind

at the sight of a new creation. I moved my position; he shifted his to

suit the new arrangement—again a change was made, so obviously to get

out of his range of vision, that with a delicacy of feeling that the

roughest men always treated me with, he desisted from his inspection so

far, that though his person made no movement, his neck twisted round to

accommodate his eyes, till I supposed some progenitor of his family had

been an owl. The men began to titter, and my patience became exhausted.

_Compliments again._

“What is the matter, my man? Did you never see a woman before?”

“Jerusalem!” he ejaculated, not making the slightest motion towards

withdrawing his determined notice, “I never did see such a nice one.

Why, you’s as pretty as a pair of red shoes with green strings.”

These were the two compliments laid upon the shrine of my vanity during

four years’ contact with thousands of patients, and I commit them to

paper to stand as a visionary portrait, to prove to my readers that

a woman with attractions similar to a pair of red shoes with green

strings must have some claim to the apple of Paris.

————

_Love unto Death._

Scenes of pathos occurred daily—scenes that wrung the heart and forced

the dew of pity from the eyes; but feeling that enervated the mind and

relaxed the body was a sentimental luxury that was not to be indulged

in. There was too much work to be done, too much active exertion

required, to allow the mental or physical powers to succumb. They were

severely taxed each day. Perhaps they balanced, and so kept each other

from sinking. There was, indeed, but little leisure to sentimentalize,

the necessity for action being ever present.

After the battle of Fredericksburg, while giving small doses of brandy

to a dying man, a low, pleasant voice, said “Madam.” It came from a

youth not over eighteen years of age, seeming very ill, but so placid,

with that earnest, far-away gaze, so common to the eyes of those who

are looking their last on this world. Does God in his mercy give a

glimpse of coming peace, past understanding, that we see reflected in

the dying eyes into which we look with such strong yearning to fathom

what they see? He shook his head in negative to all offers of food or

drink or suggestions of softer pillows and lighter covering.

“I want Perry,” was his only wish.

On inquiry I found that Perry was the friend and companion who marched

by his side in the field and slept next to him in camp, but of whose

whereabouts I was ignorant. Armed with a requisition from our surgeon,

I sought him among the sick and wounded at all the other hospitals.

I found him at Camp Jackson, put him in my ambulance, and on arrival

at my own hospital found my patient had dropped asleep. A bed was

brought and placed at his side, and Perry, only slightly wounded, laid

upon it. Just then the sick boy awoke wearily, turned over, and the

half-unconscious eye fixed itself. He must have been dreaming of the

meeting, for he still distrusted the reality. Illness had spiritualized

the youthful face; the transparent forehead, the delicate brow so

clearly defined, belonged more to heaven than earth. As he recognized

his comrade the wan and expressionless lips curved into the happiest

smile—the angel of death had brought the light of summer skies to that

pale face. “Perry,” he cried, “Perry,” and not another word, but with

one last effort he threw himself into his friend’s arms, the radiant

eyes closed, but the smile still remained—he was dead.

_The Silver Cord loosened._

There was but little sensibility exhibited by soldiers for the fate

of their comrades in field or hospital. The results of war are here

to-day and gone to-morrow. I stood still, spell-bound by that youthful

death-bed, when my painful revery was broken upon by a drawling voice

from a neighboring bed, which had been calling me by such peculiar

names or titles that I had been oblivious to whom they were addressed.

_A Sweet Pur-ta-a-tur-r._

“Look here. I say, Aunty!—Mammy!—You!” Then, in despair,

“Missus! Mauma! Kin you gim me sich a thing as a b’iled sweet

pur-r-rta-a-a-tu-ur? I b’long to the Twenty-secun’ Nor’ Ka-a-a-li-i-na

rigiment.” I told the nurse to remove his bed from proximity to his

dead neighbor, thinking that in the low state of his health from fever

the sight might affect his nerves, but he treated the suggestion with

contempt.

“Don’t make no sort of difference to _me_; they dies all around _me_ in

the field—don’t trouble _me_.”

The wounded men at this time began to make serious complaints that the

liquor issued did not reach them, and no vigilance on my part appeared

to check the improper appropriation of it, or lead to any discovery of

the thieves in the wards. There were many obstacles to be surmounted

before proper precautions could be taken. Lumber was so expensive

that closets in each ward were out of the question, and if made locks

could not be purchased for any amount of money. The liquor, therefore,

when it left my quarters, was open to any passer-by in the wards

who would watch his opportunity; so, although I had strong and good

reasons for excluding female nurses, the supposition that liquor would

be no temptation to them, and would be more apt to reach its proper

destination through their care, determined me to engage them.

Unlucky thought, born in an evil hour!

_Sober Ladies wanted._

There were no lack of applications when the want was circulated, but

my choice hesitated between ladies of education and position, who I

knew would be willing to aid me, and the common class of respectable

servants. The latter suited best, because it was to be supposed they

would be more amenable to authority. They were engaged, and the

very sick wards divided among three of them. They were to keep the

bed-clothing in order, receive and dispense the liquor, carry any

delicacy in the way of food where it was most needed, and in fact do

anything reasonable that was requested. The last stipulation was dwelt

upon strongly. The next day my new corps were in attendance, and the

different liquors, beverages and stimulants delivered to them under the

black looks of the ward-masters. No. 1 received hers silently. She was

a cross-looking woman from North Carolina, painfully ugly, or rather

what is termed hard-featured, and apparently very taciturn; the last

quality rather an advantage. She had hardly left my kitchen when she

returned with all the drinks, and a very indignant face.

_Delicate Sensibilities._

In reply to inquiries made she proved her taciturnity was not chronic.

She asserted loudly that she was a decent woman, and “was not going

anywhere in a place where a man sat up on his bed in his shirt, and

the rest laughed—she knew they were laughing at her.” The good old

proverb that talking is silver but silence is gold had impressed itself

on my mind long before this, so I silently took her charge from her,

telling her that a hospital was no place for a person of her delicate

sensibilities, and at the same time holding up Miss G. and myself (who

were young enough to be her daughters), as examples for her imitation.

She answered truly that we acted as we pleased and so would she; and

that was the last I saw of her. What her ideas of hospital life were I

never inquired, and shall never know.

_More of them._

No. 2 came briskly forward. She was a plausible, light-haired,

light-eyed and light-complexioned Englishwoman; very petite, with

a high nose. She had come to the hospital with seven trunks, which

ought to have been a warning to me, but she brought such strong

recommendations from responsible parties that they warped my judgment.

She received the last trust handed her—an open pitcher of hot

punch—with averted head, nose turned aside, and held it at arm’s length

with a high disdain mounted upon her high nose. Her excuse for this

antipathy was that the smell of liquor was “awful,” she “could not

a-bear it,” and “it turned her witals.” This was rather suspicious, but

we deferred judgment.

_Free and Equal American Servant Ladies._

Dinner was distributed. No. 2 appeared, composed, vigilant and

attentive to her duties, carrying her delicacies of food to her wards

with the assistance of the nurses. No. 3, an inoffensive woman did the

same, and all worked well. That afternoon, when I had retired to my

little sanctum to take the one hour’s rest that I allowed myself each

day undisturbed, Miss G. put her head in the door with an apprehensive

look and said, “the new matrons wished to see me.” They were admitted,

and my high-nosed friend, who had been elected spokeswoman it seems,

said after a few preliminaries, with a toss of her head and a couple of

sniffs that I “seemed to have made myself very comfortable.”

_Sociable Spittoon._

This was assented to graciously. She added that other people were

not, who were quite as much entitled to _style_. This also remained

undisputed, and then she stated her real grievance, that they “were

not satisfied, for I had not invited them to call upon me, or into

my room,” and “they considered themselves quite as much ladies as I

was.” I answered I was glad to hear it, and hoped they would always

act as ladies should, and in a way suitable to the title. There was

an evident desire on her part to say more, but she had not calculated

upon the style of reception, and therefore was thrown out beyond her

line of action, so she civilly requested me to call and inspect their

quarters that they were dissatisfied with. An hour later I did so,

and found them sitting around a sociable spittoon, with a friendly

box of snuff—dipping! I found it impossible to persuade them that

the government was alone responsible for their poor quarters, they

persisted in holding me answerable.

_Possession Nine and Half Points of Law._

The next day, walking through one of the wards under No. 2’s charge,

I found a part of the building, of about eight to ten feet square,

portioned off, a roughly improvised plank partition dividing this

temporary room from the rest of the ward. Seated comfortably therein

was the new matron, entrenched among her trunks. A neat table and

comfortable chair, abstracted from my few kitchen appurtenances,

added to her comforts. Choice pieces of crockery, remnants of more

luxurious times, that had at one time adorned my shelves, were disposed

tastefully around, and the drinks issued by me for the patients were

conveniently placed at her elbow. She explained that she kept them

there to prevent thefts. Perhaps the nausea communicated from their

neighborhood had tinted the high nose higher, and there was a defiant

look about her, as if she sniffed the battle afar.

It was very near though, and had to be fought, however disagreeable, so

I instantly entered into explanations, short, but polite. Each patient

being allowed, by law, a certain number of feet, every inch taken

therefrom was so much ventilation lost, and the abstraction of as much

space as she had taken for illegal purposes was a serious matter, and

conflicted with the rules that governed the hospital. Besides this, no

woman was allowed to stay in the wards, for obvious reasons.

No. 2, however, was a sensible person, for she did not waste _her_

breath in talking; she merely held her position. An appeal made by me

to the surgeon of the ward did not result favorably; he said I had

engaged her, she belonged to my corps, and was under my supervision: so

I sent for the steward.

_Vi et Armis._

The steward of a hospital cannot define exactly what his duties are,

the difficulty being to find out what they are not. Whenever it has to

be decided who has to fill a disagreeable office, the choice invariably

falls upon the steward. So a message was sent to his quarters to

request him to compel No. 2 to evacuate her hastily improvised

premises. He hesitated long, but engaging at last the services of his

assistant, a broad-shouldered fighting character, proceeded to eject

the new tenant.

He commenced operations by polite explanations; but they were met in a

startling manner. She arose and rolled up her sleeves, advancing upon

him as he receded down the ward. The sick and wounded men roared with

laughter, cheering her on, and she remained mistress of the field.

Dinner preparations served as an interlude and silently suppressed, she

as usual made her entrée into the kitchen, received the drinks for her

ward and vanished. Half an hour elapsed and then the master of the ward

in which she had domiciled herself made his report to me, and recounted

a pitiful tale. He was a neat quiet manager, and usually kept his

quarters beautifully clean. No. 2, he said, divided the dinner, and

whenever she came across a bone in hash or stew, or indeed anything

therein displeased her, she took it in her fingers and dashed it upon

the floor. With so little to make a hospital gay, this peculiar episode

was a god-send to the soldiers, and indeed to all the lookers on. The

surgeons stood laughing, in groups, the men crowded to the windows of

the belligerent power, and a _coup-d’etat_ became necessary.

_Spirit of ’63._

“Send me the carpenter!” I felt the spirit of Boadicea. The man stepped

up; he had always been quiet, civil and obedient.

“Come with me into Ward E.”

A few steps took us there.

“Knock down that partition and carry away those boards.” It was _un

fait accompli_.

But the victory was not gained, only the fortifications stormed and

taken, for almost hidden by flying splinters and dust, No. 2 sat among

her seven trunks enthroned like Rome upon her seven hills.

_Not “A Ministering Angel, Thou.”_

The story furnishes no further interest, but the result was very

annoying. She was put into my ambulance very drunk by this time and

sent away, her trunks sent after her. The next day, neatly dressed,

she managed to get an interview with the medical director, enlisted

his sympathy by a plausible appeal and description of her desolate

condition. “A refugee,” or “refewgee,” as she called herself, “trying

to make her living decently,” and receiving an order to report at our

hospital, was back there by noon. Explanations had to be written, and

our surgeon-in-chief to interfere with his authority, before we could

get rid of her.

_Work._

About this time (April, 1863), an attack on Drewry’s Bluff, which

guarded Richmond on the James river side, was expected, and it was

made before the hospital was in readiness to receive the wounded. The

cannonading could be heard distinctly in the city, and dense smoke

descried rising from the battle-field. The Richmond people had been too

often, if not through the wars at least within sight and hearing of its

terrors, to feel any great alarm.

The inhabitants lying in groups, crowded the eastern brow of the

hill above Rocketts and the James river; overlooking the scene, and

discussing the probable results of the struggle; while the change from

the dull, full boom of the cannon to the sharp rattle of musketry could

be easily distinguished. The sun was setting amidst stormy, purple

clouds; and when low upon the horizon sent long slanting rays of yellow

light from beneath them, athwart the battle scene, throwing it in

strong relief. The shells burst in the air above the fortifications at

intervals, and with the aid of glasses dark blue masses of uniforms

could be distinguished, though how near the scene of action could

not be discerned. About eight o’clock the slightly wounded began to

straggle in with a bleeding hand, or contused arm or head, bound up in

any convenient rag.

Their accounts were meagre, for men in the ranks never know anything

about general results—they almost always have the same answer ready,

“We druv ’em nowhere.”

In another half-hour, vehicles of all kinds crowded in, from a

wheelbarrow to a stretcher, and yet no orders had been sent me to

prepare for the wounded. Few surgeons had remained in the hospital;

the proximity to the field tempting them to join the ambulance

committee, or ride to the scene of action; and the officer of the day,

left in charge, naturally objected to my receiving a large body of

suffering men with no arrangements made for their comfort, and but few

in attendance. I was preparing to leave for my home at the Secretary

of the Navy, where I returned every night, when the pitiful sight of

the wounded in ambulances, furniture wagons, carts, carriages, and

every kind of vehicle that could be impressed detained me. To keep

them unattended to, while being driven from one full hospital to

another, entailed unnecessary suffering, and the agonized outcry of a

desperately wounded man to “take him in, for God’s sake, or kill him,”

decided me to countermand the order of the surgeon in charge that

“they must be taken elsewhere, as we had no accommodations prepared.”

I sent for him, however. He was a kind-hearted, indolent man, but

efficient in his profession, and a gentleman; and seeing my extreme

agitation, tried to reason with me, saying our wards were full, except

a few vacant and unused ones, which our requisitions had failed to

furnish with proper bedding and blankets. Besides, a large number of

the surgeons were absent, and the few left would not be able to attend

to all the wounds at that late hour of the night. I proposed in reply

that the convalescent men should be placed on the floor on blankets,

or bed-sacks filled with straw, and the wounded take their place, and,

purposely construing his silence into consent, gave the necessary

orders, eagerly offering my services to dress simple wounds, and

extolling the strength of my nerves.

_First Essay._

He let me have my way (may _his_ ways be of pleasantness and his paths

of peace), and so, giving Miss G. orders to make an unlimited supply of

coffee, tea, and stimulants, armed with lint, bandages, castile soap,

and a basin of warm water, I made my first essays in the surgical line.

I had been spectator often enough to be skillful. The first object that

needed my care was an Irishman. He was seated upon a bed with his hands

crossed, wounded in both arms by the same bullet. The blood was soon

washed away, wet lint applied, and no bones being broken, the bandages

easily arranged.

“I hope that I have not hurt you much,” I said with some trepidation.

“These are the first wounds that I ever dressed.”

“Sure they be the most illegant pair of hands that ever touched me, and

the lightest,” he gallantly answered. “And I am all right now.”

_Results._

From bed to bed till long past midnight, the work continued.

Fractured limbs were bathed, washed free from blood and left to the

surgeon to set. The men were so exhausted by forced marches, lying

in entrenchments and loss of sleep that few even awoke during the

operations. If aroused to take nourishment or stimulant they received

it with closed eyes, and a speedy relapse into unconsciousness. The

next morning, but few had any recollection of the events of the night

previous.

There were not as many desperate wounds among the soldiers brought in

that night as usual. Strange to say, the ghastliness of wounds varied

much in the different battles, perhaps from the nearness or distance of

contending parties. One man was an exception and enlisted my warmest

sympathy. He was a Marylander although serving in a Virginia company.

There was such strength of resignation in his calm blue eye.

_Where the Weary are at Rest._

“Can you give me a moment?” he said.

“What shall I do for you?”

“Give me some drink to revive me, that I do not die before the surgeon

can attend to me.”

His pulse was strong but irregular, and telling him that a stimulant

might induce fever, and ought only to be administered with a doctor’s

prescription, I inquired where was he wounded.

Right through the body. Alas!

The doctor’s dictum was, “No hope: give him anything he asks for;” but

five days and nights I struggled against this decree, fed my patient

with my own hands, using freely from the small store of brandy in my

pantry and cheering him by words and smiles. The sixth morning on my

entrance he turned an anxious eye on my face, the hope had died out

of his, for the cold sweat stood in beads there, useless to dry, so

constantly were they renewed.

“An only Son, and my Mother a widow.”

What comfort could I give? Only silently open the Bible, and read to

him without comment the ever-living promises of his Maker. Glimpses

too of that abode where the “weary are at rest.” Tears stole down his

cheek, but he was not comforted.

“I am an only son,” he said, “and my mother is a widow. Go to her, if

you ever get to Baltimore, and tell her that I died in what I consider

the defense of civil rights and liberties. I may be wrong. God alone

knows. Say how kindly I was nursed, and that I had all I needed. I

cannot thank you, for I have no breath, but we will meet up there.” He

pointed upward and closed his eyes, that never opened again upon this

world.

————

_Home Cares and Affections._

Earlier than this, while hospitals were still partly unorganized,

soldiers were brought in from camp or field, and placed in divisions

of them, irrespective of rank or state; but soon the officers had more

comfortable quarters provided apart from the privates, and separate

divisions were also appropriated to men from different sections of the

country.

There were so many good reasons for this change that explanations

are hardly necessary. Chief among them, was the ease through which,

under this arrangement, a man could be found quickly by reference

to the books of each particular division. Schedules of where the

patients of each State were quartered were published in the daily

papers, and besides the materials furnished by government, States, and

associations, were thus enabled to send satisfactory food and clothing

for private distribution. Thus immense contributions, coming weekly

from these sources, gave great aid, and enabled us to have a reserved

store when government supplies failed.

To those cognizant of these facts, it appeared as if the non-fighting

people of the Confederacy had worked as hard and exercised as much

self-denial as the soldiers in the field. There was an indescribable

pathos lurking at times at the bottom of these heterogeneous home

boxes, put up by anxious wives, mothers and sisters; a sad and

mute history shadowed forth by the sight of rude, coarse homespun

pillow-cases or pocket handkerchiefs, adorned even amid the turmoil of

war and poverty of means with an attempt at a little embroidery, or a

simple fabrication of lace for trimming.

_If not my Son—then another Mother’s._

The silent tears dropped over these tokens will never be sung in song

or told in story. The little loving expedients to conceal the want

of means which each woman resorted to, thinking that if her loved

one failed to benefit by the result, other mothers might reap the

advantage, is a history in itself.

Piles of sheets, the cotton carded and spun in the one room at home

where the family perhaps lived, ate, and slept in the backwoods

of Georgia; bales of blankets called so by courtesy, but only the

drawing-room carpets, the pride of the heart of thrifty housewives,

perhaps their only extravagance in better days, but now cut up for

field use. Dozens of pillow slips, not of the coarse product of the

home loom, which would be too harsh for the cheek of the invalid,

but of the fine bleached cotton of better days, suggesting personal

clothing sacrificed to the sick. Boxes of woolen shirts, like Joseph’s

many-colored coat, created from almost every dressing-gown or flannel

skirt in the country.

_Sacred feelings and bad grammar._

A thousand evidences of the loving care and energetic labor of the

poor, patient ones at home, telling an affecting story that knocked

hard at the gates of the heart, were the portals ever so firmly closed;

and with all these came letters written by poor ignorant ones who often

had no knowledge of how such communications should be addressed.

These letters, making inquiries concerning patients from anxious

relatives at home, directed oftener to my office than my name, came

in numbers, and were queer mixtures of ignorance, bad grammar, worse

spelling and simple feeling. However absurd the style, the love that

filled them chastened and purified them. Many are stored away, and

though irresistibly ludicrous, are too sacred to print for public

amusement.

In them could be detected the prejudices of the different sections.

One old lady in upper Georgia wrote a pathetic appeal for a furlough

for her son. She called me “My dear sir,” while still retaining my

feminine address, and though expressing the strongest desire for her

son’s restoration to health, entreated in moving accents that if his

life could not be saved, that he should not be buried in “Ole Virginny

_dirt_,”—rather a derogatory term to apply to the sacred soil that gave

birth to the presidents—the soil of the Old Dominion.

_Sad letters._

Almost all of these letters told the same sad tale of destitution of

food and clothing, even shoes of the roughest kind being either too

expensive for the mass or unattainable by the expenditure of any sum,

in many parts of the country. For the first two years of the war,

privations were lightly dwelt upon and courageously borne, but when

want and suffering pressed heavily as times grew more stringent, there

was a natural longing for the stronger heart and frame to bear part

of the burden. Desertion is a crime that meets generally with as much

contempt as cowardice, and yet how hard for the husband or father to

remain inactive in winter quarters, knowing that his wife and little

ones were literally starving at home—not even _at home_, for few homes

were left.

_Virginians._

Our hospital had till now (the summer of 1863), been appropriated to

the Gulf States, when an order was issued to transfer and make it

entirely Virginian. The cause of this change was unknown, but highly

agreeable, for the latter were the very best class of men in the

field; intelligent, manly, and reasonable, with more civilized tastes

and some desire to conform to rules that were conducive to their

health. Besides this, they were a hardier race, and were more inclined

to live than die,—a very important taste in a hospital,—so that when

the summer campaigns were over, the wards would be comparatively empty.

The health of the army improved wonderfully after the first year’s

exposure had taught them to take proper precautions, and they had

become accustomed to the roughnesses of field life. Time was given me,

by this lightening of heretofore strenuous duties, to seek around and

investigate the mysteries of the arrangements of other hospitals beside

my own, and see how my neighbors managed their responsibilities. While

on the search for material for improvement, I found a small body of

Marylanders, who, having had no distinct refuge awarded them, were sent

wherever circumstances made it convenient to lodge them.

_Antagonism._

There had been, from the breaking out of the war, much petty criticism,

privately and publicly expressed, concerning the conduct and position

of the Marylanders who had thrown their fortunes in the Confederate

scale, and a great deal of ill-feeling engendered. Sister States have

never been amicable, but it was not until my vocation drew my attention

to the fact that I became aware of the antagonism existing. The

Virginians complained that the Marylanders had come south to install

themselves in the comfortable clerkships, and to take possession of the

lazy places, while those filling them defended their position on the

ground that efficient men were required in the departments, as well as

the field, and that their superior capacity as clerks was recognized

and rewarded without any desire, on their part, to shun field duty.

They were unfortunate, as they labored under the disadvantage of

harboring, as reputed fellow citizens, every gambler, speculator or

vagabond, who, anxious to escape military duty, managed to procure, in

some way, exemption papers proving him a native of their so-considered

neutral State. An adverse feeling towards them, report said,

extended even to the hospitals through which they were scattered,

and I endeavored long, but unsuccessfully, to induce Dr. Moore (the

Confederate surgeon-general), to inaugurate some building for their

use. He was averse to any arrangement of this kind, not from prejudice,

but a conviction of the expense and trouble of small establishments of

this nature.

Not succeeding I made a personal application to the surgeon-in-chief of

my own establishment, to allow me to appropriate a certain number of my

own wards to them, and with the ready courtesy he always accorded me,

he immediately gave consent.

_The wicked Marylanders._

In the decided objections of surgeons generally to taking charge of

Marylanders there was an element more amusing than offensive, and the

dismay of the head of our hospital when he heard of my arrangements was

ludicrous in the extreme, and our opinions hardly reconcilable from our

different standpoints. To a woman there was a touch of romance in the

self-denial exercised, the bravery displayed and the hardships endured

by a body of men, who were fighting for what was to them an abstract

question, as far as they were concerned.

No one with any reasoning powers could suppose that Maryland in event

of success could ever become a sister State of the confederacy.

Then the majority of them were very young men, who, well born, well

nurtured and wealthy, accustomed too to all the luxuries of life,

served then, and even to the end as privates, when less deserving men

who had commenced their career in the ranks had made interest and

risen, as much through political favor as personal bravery. Luxuries

received from other States for their soldiers, which though trifling

in themselves were so gratifying to their recipients could not come

to them; the furlough, that El Dorado to the sick soldier, was the

gold which could not be grasped, for there was no home that could be

reached. Even letters, those electric conductors from heart to heart,

came sparingly after long detention, often telling of the loss of the

beloved at home, months after the grave had closed upon them.

_Troublesome Customers._

In antagonism to these ideas were the strong objections of our head

surgeon to this arrangement of mine, and they too were reasonable. The

fact of there being an unusual amount of intelligence and independence

among these men made them more difficult to manage, as they were less

submissive to orders. They were aware of how much they were entitled

to, in food, surgical and medical attendance and general comfort; and

were not afraid to speak loudly and openly of neglect towards them or

of incapacity in their rulers, so that whether ragged, helpless or sick

they bore a striking resemblance to Hans Andersen’s leather soldier.

That historical personage, though lame in the leg, minus an arm and

eye, with a mashed head, all the gilt rubbed off of his back and lying

in a gutter, held his own opinion and gave it on all occasions. The

result of this was that there existed a pretty general objection to

them as patients, as they were, to say the least, awkward customers. I

might whisper an aside very low and confidential of sick men who should

have followed the good old wholesome rule of “early to bed and early to

rise” taking their physic obediently in the morning, but disappearing

at night,—“dew in the morning and mist at night,”—and I might also

tell of passes altered and furloughs lengthened when there was no

fighting going on, all very wicked, but certainly nothing unmanly or

dishonorable. They never lingered around when honor called, and their

record needs no additional tribute from my humble pen. When sectional

feelings shall have died away and a fair narration of the Confederate

struggle be written, they will find their laurel leaves fresh and green.

_Good Wine needs no Bush._

But to return to domestic details. My new wards were prepared, freshly

whitewashed, and adorned with cedar boughs for the reception of the old

line Maryland cavalry, and during their sojourn I experienced to its

fullest extent the pleasure of ministering to the wants of grateful and

satisfied soldiers. They brightened a short interval of laborious and

harassing labors that lasted over four years, and left a sunny spot

for memory to dwell on. After their departure many more of their State

came, generally infantry, and difficulties still continued. It was

impossible to give them their due share of attention, so great was the

feeling of jealousy existing. If an invalid required special attention,

and he proved to be a Marylander, though perhaps ignorant myself of

the fact, many eyes watched me, and complaints were made to the nurses,

and from them to the surgeons, till a report of partiality to them on

my part made to the surgeon-in-chief, called forth a remonstrance on

his part, and a request that all patients should be treated alike.

Then came an unpleasant season of bickering and dissatisfaction, so

that fearing I might be to blame in part, I studiously at last avoided

inquiring to what corps a man belonged.

_Annoyances._

A courier of General A. P. Hill’s, very badly wounded, had been

invalided for some time, and desirous of offering him some inducement

to bear his fate more patiently, I had invited him to dine in my

office, as soon as he could use his crutches. An invitation of this

kind was often extended to men similarly situated; not that there were

delicacies retained in my kitchen that did not reach the wards, but the

request was a courtesy, and the food would be hot from the fire, and

more comfortably served. Unfortunately he was a Marylander, and that

some adverse report had been made was proved by an order attached to my

window during the day, explaining that no patient would be permitted

to enter the matron’s department under any circumstances, on penalty

of punishment. This was uncalled-for and galling, so I pulled it down

first, and then carried my complaint to the surgeon-in-chief.

_Woman’s wit wins._

No one ever applied to him in vain for either justice or courtesy.

He naturally was unwilling to countermand this order positively, but

told me significantly that although the hospital was to a certain

extent under the control of the surgeon in charge, and subject to his

orders, the private rooms, as well as kitchen and laundry attached

to the matron’s department were under my management. As a woman will

naturally sacrifice her comfort, convenience, pleasure, and privacy to

have her own way, the result must be evident. My sleeping-room became

a dining-room, and for the future I made what use of it I pleased,

returning every night to my quarters at the Secretary’s.

_The Flesh-Pots of Egypt._

The next annoyance was the disappearance of all the Maryland patients;

their wards being found empty one morning, and “no man living could

tell where they had gone.” However, when the flesh-pots of the

forsaken land were steaming at dinner-time, a small group revealed

themselves of the missing tribes, and clustered around my window with

cup and plate. They belonged to the infantry, and seemed unable to

bear their exile. This continued for a couple of days, the applicants

increasing at each meal, till a second visit to Dr. M. with a

representation of the impossibility of feeding men for whom no rations

had been drawn brought about a rescinding of the order for their exile,

and from that time they and all of their corps who came to me were

unmolested.

————

_Anxieties._

Feminine sympathy being much more demonstrative than masculine,

particularly when compared with a surgeon’s unresponsiveness, who

inured to the aspects of suffering, has more control over his

professional feelings, the nurses often summoned me when only the

surgeon was needed. One very cold night the same year, 1863, when

sleeping at my hospital rooms, an answer was made to my demand as to

who was knocking and what was wanted. The nurse from the nearest ward

said, something was wrong with Fisher. Instructing him to find the

doctor immediately and hastily getting on some clothing I hurried to

the scene, for Fisher was an especial favorite. He was quite a young

man, of about twenty years of age, who had been wounded ten months

previously very severely, high up on the leg near the hip, and who

by dint of hard nursing, good food and plenty of stimulant had been

given a fair chance for recovery. The bones of the broken leg had

slipped together, then lapped, and nature anxious as she always is to

help herself had thrown a ligature across, uniting the severed parts;

but after some time the side curved out, and the wounded leg was many

inches shorter than its fellow. He had been the object of sedulous

care on the part of all—surgeons, ward-master, nurse and matron, and

the last effort made to assist him was by the construction of an

open cylinder of pasteboard, made in my kitchen, of many sheets of

coarse brown paper, cemented together with very stiff paste, and baked

around the stove-pipe. This was to clasp by its own prepared curve

the deformed hip, and be a support for it when he was able to use his

crutches.

_No Hope in this World._

He had remained through all his trials, stout, fresh and hearty,

interesting in appearance, and so gentle-mannered and uncomplaining

that we all loved him. Supported on his crutches he had walked up and

down his ward for the first time since he was wounded, and seemed

almost restored. That same night he turned over and uttered an

exclamation of pain.

Following the nurse to his bed, and turning down the covering, a small

jet of blood spurted up. The sharp edge of the splintered bone must

have severed an artery. I instantly put my finger on the little orifice

and awaited the surgeon. He soon came—took a long look and shook his

head. The explanation was easy; the artery was imbedded in the fleshy

part of the thigh and could not be taken up. No earthly power could

save him.

There was no object in detaining Dr. ——. He required his time and his

strength, and long I sat by the boy, unconscious himself that any

serious trouble was apprehended. The hardest trial of my duty was laid

upon me; the necessity of telling a man in the prime of life, and

fullness of strength that there was no hope for him.

_Dead._

It was done at last, and the verdict received patiently and

courageously, some directions given by which his mother would be

informed of his death, and then he turned his questioning eyes upon my

face.

“How long can I live?”

“Only as long as I keep my finger upon this artery.” A pause ensued.

God alone knew what thoughts hurried through that heart and brain,

called so unexpectedly from all earthly hopes and ties. He broke the

silence at last.

“You can let go—”

But I could not. Not if my own life had trembled in the balance. Hot

tears rushed to my eyes, a surging sound to my ears, and a deathly

coldness to my lips. The pang of obeying him was spared me, and for

the first and last time during the trials that surrounded me for four

years, I fainted away.

————

_State Peculiarities and Differences._

No words can do justice to the uncomplaining nature of the Southern

soldier. Whether it arose from resignation or merely passive

submission, yet when shown in the aggregate in a hospital, it was

sublime. Day after day, whether lying wasted by disease or burning up

with fever, torn with wounds or sinking from debility, a groan was

seldom heard. The wounded wards would be noisily gay with singing,

laughing, fighting battles o’er and o’er again, and playfully chaffing

each other by decrying the troops from different States, each man

applauding his own. When listening to them one would suppose that the

whole Southern army with the exception of a few companies from the

speaker’s section of country, were cowards. The up-country soldiers,

born in the same States as those they derided, went even further

and decried “them fellows from the seaboard, who let us do all the

fighting.” The Georgians would romance of how the South Carolinians

laid down at such a battle, refusing to charge, and how they had to

“charge right over them.” The Mississippians of the backwardness of the

Tennessee troops, who “would never go into action unless led by their

commanding general.” The Virginians told bitter stories of the rowdyism

of the Maryland volunteers, who were “always spreeing it in the city,

and dancing attendance on the women,” and the North Carolinians caught

it on all sides, though their record is undoubtedly a most gallant one.

_Tar-Heel Tastes._

Taken in the mass, the last were certainly most forlorn specimens,

and their drawl was insufferable. Besides, they never under any

circumstances would give me the satisfaction of hearing that they

relished or even ate any food that was issued from my kitchen. “Say,

can I have some sweet soup?” whined a voice from one bed, and “Look

here, can I have some sour soup?” came from another. The sweet soup

upon explanation proved to be stirred custard; the sour a mystery until

the receipt was given. “You jist put a crock of buttermilk on the fire,

and let it come to a bile; then mix up the yaller of an egg with some

corn flour to make a paste; then punch off pieces of the dough, and

bile them with the soup; with lots of pepper and salt.” The buttermilk

when so tested by heat resolved itself into a sea of whey with a hard

ball of curds in the center. I carried the saucepan to his bedside to

show the results of his culinary directions; but he merely shook his

head and remarked carelessly that “his mammy’s soup did not look like

that.”

_Babies even give up Milk._

Many would not eat unless furnished with food to which they had been

accustomed at home, and as unreasoning as brutes resisted nutriment

and thus became weaker day after day; and whatever was new to the eye

or palate was received suspiciously. Liquids in the form of soups,

tea or coffee they turned from with disgust, so that the ordinary

diet of invalids was inefficient in their case. Buttermilk seemed

especially created by nature for wounded patients; they craved it with

a drunkard’s thirst, and great, strong men have turned away from all

else and implored a drink of sweet milk. We had a very short supply of

this towards the end of the war, and I remember a stalwart Kentuckian,

one of Morgan’s men, insisting upon the rare luxury of one cupfull. He

had been for many months on a raid far out of Confederate limits, and

returning slightly wounded, had no idea of the scarcity of forage that

made our cows so dry. His pleading became really affecting, till at

last rallying, I told him: “Why man! the very babies of the Confederacy

have given up drinking milk, and here are you, six feet two, crying

for it.”

_Our Little Romance._

Little poetical effusions were often thrust under my cabin door,

and also notes of all kinds from my patients. Among them one day

was a well-written and worded request from a young man who had been

indisposed with that most hateful of all annoyances to soldiers—the

itch; that shirt of Nessus, which when once attached to the person

clings there pertinaciously. It begged me when at leisure to give him

an interview, telling me his ward, name, and bed. He proved to be

educated, and a gentleman from the upper part of Alabama, which had

been colonized by the best class of South Carolinians; and he wished

to enlist any influence I might possess in his favor, to endeavor to

get him a furlough. His story was interesting. Engaged to a young

girl, the preparations made, the ring even bought (he wore it next his

heart), and the marriage day fixed, they heard the first rumors of war,

and patriotism urging him to enlist, the parents of his sweetheart

naturally refused to allow him to consummate the engagement until peace

was restored. The desire to see her again became almost unbearable,

and feeling sincere sympathy with him, and the hardship of the case,

I tried but in vain to have him furloughed. The campaign of 1864 had

opened and every man was needed in the field.

_Loved and Lost._

The finale of my story is a sad one, as are almost all stories in time

of war. He was killed while repelling with his brigade the attack on

Petersburg, and the little history confided to me resolved itself into

a romance one night, that found shape and form:

“ICH HABE GELEBT UND GELIEBT.”

The bride’s robe is ready, the bridesmaids are bid,

The groom clasps the circlet, so cautiously hid;

For a home is now waiting a mistress to claim

A lover, a wife, for his house, heart and name.

There is peace in the homestead and mirth in the hall—

The steed idly stands at his rack in the stall,

The whole land is teeming with prosperous life,

For lost are all memories of carnage and strife.

With rich golden harvest the ripe hills are blest,

And God’s providence stands revealed and confessed.

* * * * *

No priest blessed that union, no ring wed that hand;

With anger and discord soon rang the whole land;

Through all its wide domains the dread tidings rang

Of bloodshed. The lover was first in the van.

“My own one! I leave thee, those dear arms unfold.

Wouldst wed with the timid—the doubtful—the cold?

No union could bless till our country be free,

So onward for liberty, glory—and thee!”

* * * * *

Right bravely fought he till sunlight lying low

Discovered a field that had left him no foe;

But when in the flush of a victory gained,

Deep in dreams of his love—his honor unstained,

He wended his way to the home of his heart

From her side ne’er to swerve, from her love ne’er to part,

Hast’ning on with his tidings he knew she would prize—

His heart on his lips and his soul in his eyes;

Laid low by a shot courage could not repel

At the feet of a mightier victor—he fell!

And the bride that he left? What needs it to say

Her doom was a woman’s,—to watch, wait and pray.

The heat of the struggle nerves man for the strife,

But bitter at home is her battle of life,

When far from the conflict, unheeded, alone,

Her brain in a flame, but her heart like a stone,

She patiently waits to hear _one_ life is won,

Or silently prays to say—_His_ will be done!

————

_The Conquering Hero comes again._

The whiskey barrel, as I have said before, and suppose I shall often

say again, had been a bone of contention from the beginning, and as it

afterward proved, continued so to the end. Liquor commanded an enormous

price in Dixie, and often if its lovers had the means to procure it,

the opportunity was wanting, as the hospital was some distance from

Richmond. When first installed in my office, the desire to conciliate,

and the belief that men generally had some conscience even on the

whiskey question led me to yield to urgent solicitations for it from

many quarters; but the demands increased fearfully upon any concession.

A reference to Dr. M. about this matter settled the heretofore open

question. The doctor said the liquor was intended exclusively for

the use of patients, and should only be used through a prescription

accompanied by a written order. Also that I was personally responsible

for the quantity confided to my care, and must each month produce the

surgeon’s receipts to balance with the number of gallons drawn from the

medical purveyor. There were at different times half a dozen surgeons

and officials around, who absolutely made my life wretched by their

importunities, and yet who could not be sent away except by preferring

charges against them, and proving those charges; for my hospital was a

military organization. I did not feel inclined to brave the publicity

of preferred charges, for I seemed to have no recognized rank, and if

even I could prove them, the complaints made would be ludicrously

petty in detail, though distracting as mosquito bites in the aggregate.

_Rats—Hopeless Inebriates._

The modes adopted to outflank me were named “legion.” Some of them

can be recalled. A quart bottle of whiskey would be ordered by the

officer of the day for each ward, for night use, so that it would be

ready at hand should any of the patients need this stimulant during the

night. The next morning, on inquiry being made, there had been no case

requiring its use, but the bottles would be empty, and expostulation

on my part be met with explanations that the rats (who were a very

plague), had knocked all the bottles over. On refusing to honor any

more demands of the same kind, not believing in the rat story, the

surgeon in charge would be appealed to, hear all sides, and favor none.

This was just what I anticipated and wanted, for having, for the first

few months of my occupation, lived in a state of active terror for

fear of violating rules, however injurious the results of obeying, I

recompensed myself from that time till the end of my sojourn by acting

exactly as I thought right, braving the consequences, and preferring

to be attacked to attacking.

_What Constitutes a Lady?_

One mode of annoying me was particularly offensive—sending a negro boy

with a cup and a simple request for whiskey, as if it was the most

natural act in the world. At first a polite refusal would be written,

but if this mode should have been persevered in, a private secretary

would have been necessary; so in time it was replaced by a curt “No.”

A few minutes later the boy would again stand before me with the

same message, and this would occur half a dozen times consecutively.

I did not believe in vicarious punishment, so could not make the

messenger responsible—he was compelled to obey; and sometimes, stung

to irritation by this senseless pertinacity, I would write a note to

the offending party, brief but sharp. The reply would be the same silly

question I so often had to meet: “Did Mrs. —— consider herself a lady

when she wrote such notes?” “No,” was always the indignant answer.

“How could she be, when brought into contact with such elements?” It

was strange, with so little outward self-assertion, always dressed in

Georgia homespun, often the worse for wear, leather shoes, worsted

gloves, and half the time with a skillet or coffee-pot in my hands,

that all the common element around me should contest my right to a

title to which I never aspired in words.

This fact, which must have been patent to them from the active

persecution it entailed, seemed to be a crying grievance. My life at

my hospital quarters when relieved from care for the patients was

exclusive, from habit, inclination and prudence. Living a great part of

my time away from all intercourse with my own sex, in a solitude that

was unbroken after dark, it was better that no intimacies should be

formed and no preferences shown; and in an exposed position where Argus

eyes were always watching, a woman could not be too careful.

_The Hero again._

But still the wars of the whiskey barrel continued. One day the men

of one of the distant wards sent for me in the absence of their

ward-master, and complained that the liquor issued for them never

reached them. All concurred in this report, and said the champagne

bottles in which it was kept were hid behind a certain vacant bed,

from whence they would be abstracted that night. A search on

my part brought them to light, still full, although the hour of

administering had long past. The ward-master was summoned, the full

bottles exhibited, and expressing my surprise at the inhumanity and

dishonesty of one I had heretofore thought so honest, I warned him of

the consequences that would result to him. His protestations were so

earnest that he never tasted liquor, that I could not disbelieve him.

What then had “become of the quantity issued, had he sold it?”

The charge was met by indignant surprise, and then the truth began to

dawn upon me. That he had been false to his charge and his patients was

true, if even he had not been guilty of taking it, and I warned him

that on my representing the matter to the proper authorities he would

be sent to the field. An hour after this conversation the surgeon of

his ward entered my office with belligerent aspect.

_Military Law Declared._

“Did you assert, Madam, that you intended sending my ward-master to the

field?”

“I said I intended laying the facts concerning the disappearance of

the liquor before the proper authorities.”

“I consider myself responsible, Madam, for the liquor used in my wards.”

“If you do, you fail to be sure that it reaches its destination, so I

intend in future to see that it does.”

“If you mean that my ward-master drinks it, you are mistaken; he does

not take any stimulant.”

“I know he does not,” I answered quietly, “and I also know who does.”

He changed color, and passing him I walked into my little sanctum

adjoining the office. To my astonishment he kicked back the door and

also entered.

“Doctor, this is my private room,” I said, “to which no one is

admitted. Be kind enough to leave.”

“Not until you explain,” he answered, throwing himself at full length

upon the couch.

This was just far enough for him to venture. I threw back my window,

and called to the sentry to order up a sergeant and file of the guard.

In a few minutes the ring of their muskets outside sounded, and taking

out my watch, I placed it on the table by him.

_Five Minutes’ Grace._

“I will give you five minutes,” I said, “to leave my room. If you are

not gone by that time, commissioned officer as you are, and gentleman

as you ought to be, I will have you taken to the guard-house, and then

explain this matter to the surgeon-general.”

He waited a minute or two, soliloquizing audibly that I must fancy

myself the Secretary of War, and he would make me know my position, but

soon made up his mind that discretion was the better part of valor, and

left. Proper measures were no doubt taken to punish such conduct, for

though I made no complaint, there were no secrets in a hospital, and

after a few weeks he disappeared, sent no doubt to that Botany Bay—“the

front.” He took a gallant leave of his associates, hinting that his

talents demanded a wider field of action than a hospital.

But the tables were about to be turned. Not forever would I be allowed

to carry war into the enemy’s country, or be the sole defender of

that friend by whom I had stood so gallantly. The whiskey barrel was

destined after all to be turned into a weapon of offense.

_The Tables Turned._

The bold man who thus declared hostilities, and by a _coup-de-guerre_

changed the whole nature of the war from offensive to defensive

tactics, had been bar-keeper in a Georgia tavern, afterwards a clerk in

a Macon dispensary, in order to escape field duty. Coming to Richmond

he passed the board of surgeons by a process known only to themselves,

which often rejected good practitioners, and gave appointments to

apothecary boys.

Fate sent him to our hospital, where the brilliant idea struck him to

check thefts of whiskey in the feminine department. He inaugurated his

plans by ordering a pint of it for a single patient.

The etiquette of a hospital enjoins that no one but the chief surgeon

shall dispute an inferior surgeon’s prescription, so I carried this

generous order to the chief, received his instructions not to exceed

the usual “from two to four ounces” without being served with a formal

requisition signed by the surgeon in charge, and so I wrote this

gentleman (a contract surgeon) a few lines, courteously explanatory

of my reasons for so cutting him down. This matter being arranged,

I forgot all about it, but the next day the blow was struck; the

following note being handed to me:

“HOSPITAL, Richmond, April 3, 1864.

“The Chief Matron:—Is respectfully asked to state the amount of water

used as compared with amount of whiskey in making toddy. Also if

strength of toddy has been uniform since January 1st, 1863. Also if

any change has taken place in diluting within the same period. She

will also state what the change has been; also when made, and by whose

authority.

“Respectfully,

“——— ———,

“Assistant Surgeon in charge.”

_Concise, but not Clear._

These questions, if even he had any right to ask them (which he had

not), were simply absurd. With hundreds of men requiring different

drinks many times each day, ordered by numerous surgeons, prepared to

suit different stages of disease and palate, no hour bringing the same

orders, how could any kind of a correct statement be made, even if I

was willing to make it? But there was a great deal of amusement in the

idea of letting him suppose he had alarmed me. Perhaps, as the day was

very wet, and the wards rather empty, we might enact a small comedy; so

I sat down and answered in full, respectfully, feeling very charitably

that he was welcome to all the information he could extract from the

five closely-written sheets of foolscap I despatched him.

_A Storm Brewing._

In this document, polite, officially formal and as officially obscure,

I thought I had succeeded in showing my correspondent that his

questions could not be answered satisfactorily, but that I was much

alarmed at his asking them. That I did not succeed in regard to his

first inquiry was proved by the following, which came after an hour’s

delay.

“HOSPITAL, April 3rd, 1864.

“Chief Matron:—Is respectfully called upon to state what amount of

whiskey has been given to each patient when amount has not been stated

or expressed by surgeon, or assistant surgeon, upon the rolls, but

instead ‘whiskey three times a day,’ and shown upon the rolls which

_I_ send _you_.

“Respectfully,

“——— ———,

“Assistant Surgeon in charge.”

_Diplomatic Correspondence._

No solemn pages greeted him in answer this time. My rejoinder was

concise and to the point.

“HOSPITAL, April 3rd, 1864.

“The Chief Matron regrets that she is too busily engaged to give any

more voluminous explanations, being at this moment up to her elbows in

gingerbread.”

Then the sleeping lion was roused, for almost instantly the reply was

brought me, and an alarming finale it was.

“HOSPITAL, April 3rd, 1864.

“Chief Matron: Is hereby informed that if she willfully and

contumaciously refuses to give me such information as I demand, and

she is possessed of, thereby obstructing the duty I feel myself called

upon to perform, she must be prepared to _meet_ the responsibility

upon _your own shoulders_.

“Respectfully,

“——— ———,

“Assistant Surgeon in charge.”

_Confusion of Tenses._

A serious but sharp rejoinder sent to this gentleman, trying to show

him that he had no authority to propound these questions, closed

this paper war; and I had forgotten all about the matter, when the

correspondence was forwarded me, folded in official style, and indorsed

at the surgeon-general’s office on the back “Referred respectfully to

the surgeon-in-chief —— Hospital,” through whose hands alone official

etiquette required all reports should pass to heads of departments.

He had courteously sent it to me, and I as courteously sent it to the

forwarder. Seeing that he had failed to interest the surgeon-general

in the case, he drew up a statement of the affair, accusing me of

disrespect (based upon the gingerbread letter particularly) to my

_superior officer_, sending it accompanied by all the obnoxious notes

to the office of the military governor of the department of Henrico,

who I heard read it all with some amazement—if not interest.

_How History is made._

Back, however, it came shortly again without response, and by this

time some of the waggish surgeons having been made confidants in the

matter, persuaded my disappointed friend to try the secretary of war;

and at one of the charming breakfasts which his wife was in the habit

of giving, I saw him with a smile draw from his pocket a package I knew

well by that time, and made my escape just in time to avoid hearing it

all over again. As I mounted the ambulance in waiting to take me to my

hospital, I heard the peals of laughter that greeted the reading of

those unlucky documents.

My acquaintance with my correspondent was never renewed. He kept out

of my way. The only time I ever saw him again was the day he left and

I viewed his pantaloons of Georgia clay embrowning the landscape adown

the hill.

_Non-intervention._

A better educated class of surgeons was sent to fill fortunate

vacancies, and this change made my duties more agreeable. There would

have been nothing disagreeable in the occupation I had assumed if a

proper discretion had been exercised, or proper rules enforced, so

that no demands should have been made upon the matron for that which

she had no right to give. These demands were the beginning and end of

my troubles; for in all else except complying with them I tried hard

not to exceed the duties of my position, and succeeded so well that

no temptation could induce me to interfere in any way with medical

treatment, not even to offering the slightest alleviation to suffering

men. During my early initiation, when quite a novice, yielding to

a poor fellow’s prayer for something to wash a mouth frightfully

excoriated by calomel I gave him a few drops of myrrh in water, I

suffered the annoyance of seeing it contemptuously tossed out of the

window by the assistant surgeon. From that day I made up my mind to

resist all such impulses and persevered in the same line of conduct to

the end.

_Amende._