JUST as my father recovered sufficiently to walk about a little, he was
seized with a violent attack of inflammatory rheumatism, and lay
helpless for several weeks. During this time we had four men nurses who
assisted my mother in caring for him. They were ward-master Gilmore,
Cole, the artilleryman before spoken of, Thomas Terrie, a Scotchman, and
Thomas Enslow, from one of the New England States. The latter two were
my devoted friends, and gave me little trinkets and keepsakes.
The room adjoining ours was occupied by an old Quaker lady and her son.
The mother’s name was Ann Roman, the boy’s Isaac. He was wounded, and
she had come to take him home, but he was not able to travel, and a
furlough could not immediately be secured. They were detained several
weeks and we became great friends. They were the first Quakers I had
ever seen, and “auntie” Roman’s Quaker garb and quaint “thees” and
“thous” were a novelty to me, and I sometimes addressed her in her own
dialect, much to her amusement. Isaac suffered much from his wound, and
was a little inclined to be cross, while I was greatly inclined to be
noisy. Many times in trying to suppress a laugh I would giggle, and
“auntie” would say, “Thee had better go into the hall, where thee can
give vent to the giggles;” and fearing a scolding from Isaac, I always
went. But Isaac grew better, and through a plea made by Mother B. to
Gen. Grant, then at Memphis, a furlough was secured, and mother and son
went to their home at Old’s Post Office, Washington County, Ohio. I have
their address yet, written in my little cramped hand, on a faded bit of
blue paper, at auntie’s dictation. After their departure we were given
their room, which we occupied during the rest of our stay in the
hospital.
While here I had a severe attack of quinsy, and was very sick for
several days and nights. I had a burning fever, and in my delirium would
cry out for water from the “cool well” on the bank of the river, in far
away Ohio. The water at Corinth was not satisfying. It had to be boiled
before drinking, and the tin fruit can on the window ledge outside was a
familiar “institution.” Everything which had no particular name was
called an “institution.” A place where cooking was done was called a
“shebang,” and I was always running across one. In one of my morning
rambles I came upon a little bake shop where bread and pies were made
for the camp. A man was sitting on the steps, who at once entered into
conversation with me. Learning that I was there with my parents, he went
in and got a pie which he told me to take to my mother. It became so
common for me to come home carrying something good to eat, that about
the hospital they called me “The little forager.”
My mother and I took supper with the officers in their mess room one
evening. I came to their door just at their supper hour. They invited me
to remain. With the sublime confidence of childhood I took a seat at the
table with them. There were a number of them and they had a man cook. My
mother coming to look after me, was invited to partake of the evening
meal in such a cordial manner that she could not but accept. I remember
that there was no fork at my plate and I was too timid to make it known,
but one of the officers soon noticed my dilemma and the omission was
promptly supplied. I do not know the names of any of these men, but I
know they were gentlemen and soldiers, and I have never forgotten their
gallant and courteous treatment of my mother and myself.