IN September, 1862, my father, Dr. Coridon Morrow, offered his services
to his country, and was appointed Assistant Surgeon of the 43d O. V. I.
His first work was at the battle of Corinth, Miss., which occurred on
the 4th and 5th of October. Soon after the battle, owing to bad water
and change of climate, he was taken dangerously ill, and wrote my mother
an almost illegible scrawl, begging her to come to him at once. We had
broken up housekeeping at our home in the village of Bainbridge, Ohio,
and gone to Aberdeen, on the Ohio river, to spend the winter with
relatives.
It was almost an accident that I was taken on this never-forgotten
journey. There were four children of us; two were taken and two were
left. I was at this time but little more than eight years old, my baby
sister, blue-eyed Mary, but five months. At first thought, it seemed
that my mother could take but one, the baby, but here I made the plea of
my life to be allowed to go, promising to be good and to help after we
should get there. There was little time for parley, and the question was
soon settled in my favor. We started on Friday, October 31st, leaving
the little brother and sister to the care of kind friends in the little
brown cottage, on the banks of La Belle Ohio. The river being at a low
stage, no boats were running, and we were compelled to go by stage-coach
to Georgetown, where we took supper and remained till 3 o’clock the next
morning, when we were hurriedly aroused from our slumbers, and without
waiting for breakfast, we took another stage-coach which conveyed us to
Bethel. After a hurried breakfast there, we took passage in a four-horse
omnibus which bore us to Cincinnati. I remember many of the incidents of
this ride: how we stopped to take in passengers, some of whom were women
going into the city with their Saturday marketing; and I can yet recall
the appearance of the stout old gentleman who, with cane in hand,
occupied the seat opposite me.
Arrived at Cincinnati, my first impression of that great city was that
we would be run over and crushed by some of the numerous vehicles which
were constantly crossing and recrossing the crowded streets, and through
which we slowly threaded our way to the Henrie House. At this hotel I
had my first experience with waiters. Soup was served as the first
course at dinner, and while looking leisurely about me, a waiter came
along and removed my plate of soup, which I had barely tasted. I do not
remember what followed, as I had lost all interest in the dinner, and I
have never yet become reconciled to the loss of that plate of soup.
We could not get a train out of the city until 5 o’clock in the evening.
There were a number of guests in the parlor of the hotel, among them a
sweet-faced lady who sought to entertain and amuse me. There was also a
young man in the custody of officers of the law, though for what offense
I am unable to say. His mother, a sad looking little woman, was there to
bid him goodby. He played on the piano and sang beautiful songs for the
entertainment of those in the room. “All things come to him that waits,”
and as we waited, this long afternoon came to an end. We were taken to
the depot in a cab, and this little ride cost my mother one dollar. We
traveled all night, reaching Odin, Ill., about daylight, where we
remained until Monday evening, waiting for a train over the Illinois
Central railroad.
Odin at that time comprised the hotel, postoffice and depot. There was a
long board walk leading from the hotel to the depot, which I traversed
many times during our enforced stay, scraping acquaintance with the
telegraph operator, giving him my history, past, present and future so
far as I knew it. The country here was one vast expanse of prairie land,
and the wind raged ceaselessly. Many long trains passed over the road on
Sunday, bearing troops to the South. I stood on the little upper porch
of the hotel, counting the cars and watching the trains until they
passed beyond my vision. At this distant day I remember the appearance
of the room we occupied, even to the position of the bed and stove, and
in my mind’s eye I can see my baby sister lying asleep on the bed, and
my mother sitting in a rocking chair near the center of the room,
engaged in conversation with a lady from Mound City, Mo., who, like
ourselves, was waiting for a train.
An amusing incident comes to my mind as I speak of this lady. She was a
later arrival than ourselves, and had not yet heard the gong. As it
sounded the call to supper, she threw up her hands in alarm, exclaiming,
“Mercy on us, what is that!” My mother told her what it meant, when with
a sigh of relief, she said, “Why, it’s enough to raise the dead.”
On Monday evening, November 3, after we had partaken of supper by
lamplight, the long waited for train arrived, which we hailed with joy
after our long, and to my mother, wearisome, delay. Soon after stepping
aboard I fell asleep, and knew no more until 4 o’clock in the morning.
Having reached Cairo, Ill., at the confluence of the Ohio and
Mississippi rivers, we left the train, and in the semi-darkness of the
early morning, we were hurried down the bank and on board the steamer
City of Alton, a magnificent floating palace of the Mississippi, which
conveyed us to Columbus, Ky., a distance of twenty miles. We were landed
at the foot of a long line of steep bluffs.
Here occurs the first break in my memory of this journey. I only know
that it was completed by rail, and that we traversed the entire length
of the State of Tennessee, from north to south, and that I was a very
tired little girl when we arrived at Corinth, at 8 o’clock on the night
of November 4th. We were met at the depot by an ambulance, and driven to
the Corona College Hospital, a mile distant from the town.
As we neared the building and surrounding battle-field, a horrible odor,
as of burning flesh, greeted our nostrils, which the driver informed us
was caused by the burning of horses and mules killed in the late battle.
In the latter part of our journey we had fallen in with a Mrs. Dr.
Blaker, whose destination was the same as our own, and who had come to
minister to a sick or wounded husband. We entered the hospital together,
and were first shown into the Medical Director’s room, where the records
were examined. It took but a few moments for Mrs. Blaker to learn that
her husband was dead and buried. I can hear her wails of distress yet.
We were more fortunate, and were soon ushered into the room occupied by
my father and several other sick officers. The hospital was crowded, and
there was no extra room for us. Another cot was brought in, an army
blanket hung as a screen, and thus we spent our first night in a
southern hospital.