OVER the roadway leading from hospital to camp, I have doubtless
traveled many miles. The large space was thickly dotted with white
tents, temporary homes of the brave defenders of our country. Here I
became familiar with martial music. I returned with “taps” and arose
with “revielle,” and to this day the sound of fife and drum stirs every
drop of patriotic blood in my veins and takes me back to the days of
camp life at Corinth.
“Whenever I hear the fife and the drum
And the bugles wildly play,
My heart is stirred like a frightened bird,
And struggles to break away:
For the tramp of the volunteers I hear
And the Captain’s sharp command,
Left! left! left! he is near,
And drilling his eager band.”
Here we met brave, grand Mother Bickerdyke, who was such a tower of
strength to her “boys,” and indeed, to all who came in touch with her.
She had a large tent in the midst of the encampment, where she prepared
nourishing food and dispensed hospital stores. When she learned our
situation, that my mother prepared food with but a few poor cooking
utensils, for ourselves, a nurse and the officers in our room, she
immediately invited us to come to her tent for all the cooked food we
needed. It fell upon me for the most part to carry it, not only for
ourselves, but for some of the other inmates of the hospital. I made
countless trips up and down the long, winding stairway, and many nights
I could not sleep for tired and aching limbs, but I made no complaint. I
was keeping my promise of being useful and was serving my country. My
mother, however, saw that it was too much for me, and called a halt on
it to some extent. We had a nurse, an artilleryman, whose name was Cole,
but unlike “Old King Cole,” he was not a “jolly old soul.” He growled
and grumbled constantly, and in these days we would call him a “kicker.”
One day I started from the tent with more than I could carry, a glass of
cherry preserves fell, the glass was broken and contents spilled. The
next day, Cole was sent with me to assist in carrying our dinner. As we
passed the cherries still lying in the dust, Cole growled out, “Just
look at them good cherries; you ought to be made get down and lick ’em
up.” I regretted the loss of the cherries as much as Cole, but I did not
feel called upon to “get down and lick ’em up.” Cole meant well,
however, and was a brave soldier, and if living I would like to know
where he is today, for we took many walks together, from Mother B.’s
tent up to the big brick house.
Mother B. had an assistant, whose name was Frank Williams, from St.
Paul, Minn. He had been sick, and not being able for field service, was
detailed for hospital duty. He and I were great friends, and he often
came to our room and talked with my parents. He was a Christian, and
sometimes had prayers in our room. One day I entered the tent, when to
my dismay I found it full of men, and a prayer meeting in progress. I
was about to beat a hasty retreat, when my friend Frank very kindly
invited me to come in, found a seat for me, and put in my hands a little
leaflet bearing upon its white surface the hymn beginning, “Just as I
am, without one plea.” A chaplain conducted the services; my friend and
some of the other soldiers offered prayer. I was the only child present.
I have no recollection of any woman being there, although Mother B. or
one of the lady nurses may have been. That prayer meeting was indelibly
impressed upon my childish mind, and even now stands out clear cut and
in bold relief, over every other prayer meeting I have ever attended.
And, let me be where I may when “Just as I Am” is sung, the mingled joys
and sorrows of the long years vanish as it were, and again I am a little
child in that prayer tent on a Southern battle-field, and again I hear
those bearded men singing as with one voice:
Just as I am: without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that thou bidds’t me come to Thee,
Oh Lamb of God! I come, I come.