THEIR WORK
INTRODUCTION TO WOMAN'S WORK
[By J. L. Underwood.]
Throughout the South the women went to work from the first drum-beat.
A great deal of it was done privately, the left hand itself hardly
knowing what the modest, humble right hand was doing. In nearly every
neighborhood soldiers' aid societies, or relief associations, were
organized and did systematic and efficient work throughout the four
years. Supplies of every kind were constantly gathered and forwarded
where most needed. The old men and women did an immense amount of
work.
In all the railroad towns, hospitals and wayside houses were
established for the benefit of the travelling soldier. These were
maintained and managed almost exclusively by the women. They prepared
as best they could such articles as pickles and preserves and other
delicacies for the use of the hospitals. They sent testaments and
other good books and good preachers to the army, and being nearly all
women of practical piety, they helped greatly to infuse that spirit of
patriotism which gave such strength to the Confederate army. The world
has never known an army in which there were so many earnest, practical
Christians like Jackson, Cobb, Lee, Polk, Price, and Gordon among the
commanding officers, where there were so many ministers of the gospel
of good standing who were fighting soldiers, and so many men in ranks
who were God-fearing men. The world has never known an army where so
many officers and soldiers came from homes where there were pious
wives, mothers, and sisters. The inspiration of the knightly hearts of
the Confederacy was home and the inspiration of a pious home was
godly woman. The world will never know how effective were the prayers
and letters of the women at home in those great religious revivals
with which the Confederate army was so often and so richly blessed.
Thousands of men who entered the army wicked men went home or to their
graves genuine Christians. The war ended; but the good woman's work
never ends. Our Confederate women began immediately to look after the
soldiers' orphans and the soldiers' graves. In all directions the
Confederate monuments have been erected mainly by their efforts.
Soldiers' homes have been established and in some few of the States
homes provided for the Confederate widows. It is safe to say that
women collected two-thirds of the money raised for all these objects.
It is their dead they are honoring. And they will continue to break
the alabaster box. Let them alone.
THE SOUTHERN WOMAN'S SONG
[Confederate Scrap Book.]
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
Little needle, swiftly fly,
Brightly glitter as you go;
Every time that you pass by
Warms my heart with pity's glow.
Dreams of comfort that will cheer,
Dreams of courage you will bring,
Through winter's cold, the volunteer.
Smile on me like flowers in spring.
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
Swiftly, little needle, fly,
Through this flannel, soft and warm;
Though with cold the soldiers sigh,
This will sure keep out the storm.
Set the buttons close and tight,
Out to shut the winter's damp;
There'll be none to fix them right
In the soldier's tented camp.
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
Ah! needle, do not linger;
Close the thread, make fine the knot;
There'll be no dainty finger
To arrange a seam forgot.
Though small and tiny you may be,
Do all that you are able.
A mouse a lion once set free,
As says the pretty fable.
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
Swiftly, little needle, glide.
Thine's a pleasant labor;
To clothe the soldier be thy pride,
While he wields the sabre.
Ours are tireless hearts and hands;
To Southern wives and mothers,
All who join our warlike bands
Are our friends and brothers.
Stitch, stitch, stitch.
Little needle, swiftly fly;
From morning until eve,
As the moments pass thee by,
These substantial comforts weave.
Busy thoughts are at our hearts--
Thoughts of hopeful cheer,
As we toil, till day departs,
For the noble volunteer.
Quick, quick, quick.
Swiftly, little needle, go;
For our homes' most pleasant fires
Let a loving greeting flow
To our brothers and our sires;
We have tears for those who fall,
Smiles for those who laugh at fears;
Hope and sympathy for all--
Every noble volunteer.
THE LADIES OF RICHMOND
The editor of the Lynchburg _Republican_, writing to his paper in
June, 1862, says:
The ladies of Richmond, as of Lynchburg, and indeed of the whole
country, are making for themselves a fame which will live in all
future history, and brilliantly illuminate the brightest pages of the
Republic's history.
Discarding all false ceremony and giving full vent to those feelings
and sentiments of devotion which make her the noblest part of God's
creation and the fondest object of man's existence, the ladies of this
city from all ranks have gone into the hospitals and are hourly
engaged in ministering to the wants and relieving the sufferings of
their countrymen.
Mothers and sisters could not be more unremitting in their attention
to their own blood than these women are to those whom they have never
seen before, and may never see again. They feed them, nurse them, and
by their presence and sympathy cheer and encourage them. "Man's
inhumanity to man makes countless millions mourn," but woman's
sympathy would heal every wound and make glad every heart.
THE HOSPITAL AFTER SEVEN PINES
[Richmond During the War, pages 135-136.]
On this evening, as a kind woman bent over the stalwart figure of a
noble Georgian, and washed from his hair and beard the stiffened mud
of the Chickahominy, where he fell from a wound through the upper
portion of the right lung, and then gently bathed the bleeding gash
left by the Minie ball, as he groaned and feebly opened his eyes, he
grasped her hand, and in broken whispers, faint from suffering,
gasping for breath, "I could-bear-all-this-for-myself-alone-but
my-wife and my-six little-ones," (and then the large tears rolled down
his weather-beaten cheeks,) and overcome he could only add, "Oh, God!
oh, God!-how will-they endure it?" She bent her head and wept in
sympathy. The tall man's frame was shaking with agony. She placed to
his fevered lips a cooling draught, and whispered: "Think of yourself
just now; God may raise you up to them, and if not, He will provide
for and comfort them." He feebly grasped her hand once more, and a
look of gratitude stole over his manly face, and he whispered, "God
bless you! God bless you! God bless you! kind stranger!"
BURIAL OF LATANE
["The next squadron moved to the front under the lamented
Captain Latane, making a most brilliant and successful charge
with drawn sabres upon the enemy's picked ground, and after a
hotly-contested, hand-to-hand conflict put him to flight, but
not until the gallant captain had sealed his devotion to his
native soil with his blood."--Official Report of the Pamunkey
Expedition, Gen. J. E. B. Stuart, C. S. A., 1862.]
[From a private letter.]
Lieutenant Latane carried his brother's dead body to Mrs.
Brockenbrough's plantation an hour or two after his death. On this sad
and lonely errand he met a party of Yankees, who followed him to Mrs.
B.'s gate, and stopping there, told him that as soon as he had placed
his brother's body in friendly hands he must surrender himself
prisoner. * * * Mrs. B. sent for an Episcopal clergyman to perform the
funeral ceremonies, but the enemy would not permit him to pass. Then,
with a few other ladies, a fair-haired little girl, her apron filled
with white flowers, and a few faithful slaves, who stood reverently
near, a pious Virginia matron read the solemn and beautiful burial
service over the cold, still form of one of the noblest gentlemen and
most intrepid officers in the Confederate army. She watched the sods
heaped upon the coffin-lid, then sinking on her knees, in sight and
hearing of the foe, she committed his soul's welfare and the stricken
hearts he had left behind him to the mercy of the "All-Father."
"And when Virginia, leaning on her spear,
_Victrix et vidua_, the conflict done,
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear
That starts as she recalls each martyred son,
No prouder memory her breast shall sway,
Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latane!"
MAKING CLOTHES FOR THE SOLDIERS
[In Our Women in the War, pages 453-454.]
Money was almost as unavailable as material with us for a time. "Uncle
Sam's" treasury was not accessible to "rebels." Our government was
young, and Confederate bonds and money yet in their infancy. We could
do nothing more than wait developments, and try to meet emergencies as
they trooped up before us. In the meantime, children grew apace. Our
village stores were emptied and deserted. Our armies in the field
became grand realities. All resources were cut off. Our government
could poorly provide food and clothing and ammunition for its armies.
Then it was our mothers' wit was tested and did in no sort disappoint
our expectations. Spinning-wheels, looms and dye-pots were soon
brought into requisition. Wool of home production was especially
converted, by loving hands, into warm flannels and heavy garments,
with soft scarfs and snugly-fitted leggings, to shield our dear boys
from Virginia's wintry blasts and fast-falling snows. Later on, when
the wants and privations of the army grew more pressing, societies
were formed to provide supplies for the general demand. Southern homes
withheld nothing that could add to the soldiers' comfort. Every
available fragment of material was converted into some kind of
garment. After the stores of blankets in each home had been given,
carpets were utilized in their stead and portioned out to the
suffering soldiers. Wool mattresses were ripped open, recarded, and
woven into coverings and clothing. Bits of new woolen fabrics, left
from former garments, were ravelled, carded, mixed with cotton and
spun and knitted into socks. Old and worn garments were carried
through the same process. Even rabbits' fur was mixed with cotton and
silk, and appeared again in the form of neat and comfortable gloves.
Begging committees went forth (and be it truthfully said, the writer
never knew of a single one being turned away empty) to gather up the
offerings from mansion and hamlet, which were soon cut up, packed, and
forwarded with all possible speed to the soldiers.
And who can tell what pleasure we took in filling boxes with
substantials and such dainties as we could secure for the hospitals.
Old men and little boys were occupied in winding thread and holding
brooches, and even knitting on the socks when the mystery of "turning
the heel" had been passed. The little spinning-wheel, turned by a
treadle, became a fascination to the girls, and with its busy hum was
mingled oft times the merry strain of patriotic songs.
"Our wagon's plenty big enough, the running gear is good,
'Tis stiffened with cotton round the sides and made of Southern wood;
Carolina is the driver, with Georgia by her side;
Virginia'll hold the flag up and we'll take a ride."
THE INGENUITY OF SOUTHERN WOMEN
[Our Women in the War, pages 454-455.]
During all that time, when every woman vied with the other in working
for the soldiers, there were needs at home too urgent to be
disregarded. These, too, had to be met, and how was not long the
question. For those very women who had been reared in ease and
affluence soon learned practically that "necessity is the mother of
invention," and the story of their ingenuity, if all told, might
surprise their Northern sisters, who always regarded them as
inefficient, pleasure-loving members of society. Whatever may have
been the fault of their institutions and rearing, the war certainly
brought out the true woman, and no woman of any age or nation ever
entered, heart and soul, more enthusiastically into their country's
contest than those who now mourn the "Lost Cause." While our armies
were victorious in the field hope lured us on. We bore our share of
privations cheerfully and gladly.
We replaced our worn dresses with homespuns, planning and devising
checks and plaids, and intermingling colors with the skill of
professional "designers." The samples we interchanged were homespuns
of our last weaving, not A. T. Stuart's or John Wanamaker's sample
envelopes, with their elaborate display of rich and costly fabrics.
Our mothers' silk stockings, of ante-bellum date, were ravelled with
patience and transformed into the prettiest of neat-fitting gloves.
The writer remembers never to have been more pleased than she was by
the possession of a trim pair of boots made of the tanned skins of
some half-dozen squirrels. They were so much softer and finer than the
ordinary heavy calf-skin affairs to be bought at the village "shoe
shop," that no Northern maiden was ever more pleased with her
ten-dollar boots. Our hats, made of palmetto and rye straw, were
becoming and pretty without lace, tips, or flowers. Our jackets were
made of the fathers' old-fashioned cloaks, in vogue some forty years
agone--those of that style represented in the pictures of Mr.
Calhoun--doing splendid service by supplying all the girls in the
family at once. We even made palmetto jewelry of exquisite designs,
intermingled with our hair, that we might keep even with the boys who
wore "palmetto cockades." The flowers we wore were nature's own
beautiful, fragrant blossoms, sometimes, when in a patriotic mood,
nestled, with symbolic cotton balls. For our calico dresses, if ever
so fortunate as to find one, we sometimes paid a hundred dollars, and
for the spool of cotton that made it from ten to twenty dollars. The
buttons we used were oftentimes cut from a gourd into sizes required
and covered with cloth, they having the advantage of pasteboard
because they were rounded. On children's clothes persimmon seed in
their natural state, with two holes drilled through them, were found
both neat and durable. In short, we fastened all our garments after
true Confederate style, without the aid of Madame Demorest's guide
book or Worth's Parisian models, and suffered from none of Miss Flora
McFlimsey's harassing dilemmas.
MRS. LEE AND THE SOCKS
R. E. Lee, in his recollections of his father, General Lee, says:
"His letters to my mother tell how much his men were in need. My
mother was an invalid from rheumatism, and confined to a roller chair.
To help the cause with her own hands, as far as she could, she was
constantly occupied in knitting socks for the soldiers, and induced
all around her to do the same. She sent them directly to my father and
he always acknowledged them."
It was well known in the army what great pleasure it gave the General
to distribute these socks.
FITTING OUT A SOLDIER
[Mrs. Roger A. Pryor's Reminiscences of Peace and War, pages
131-133.]
When I returned to my father's home in Petersburg I found my
friends possessed with an intense spirit of patriotism. The First,
Second and Third Virginia were already mustered into service; my
husband was colonel of the Third Virginia Infantry. The men were to be
equipped for service immediately. All of "the boys" were going--the
three Manys, Will Johnson, Berry Stainback, Ned Graham; all the
young, dancing set, the young lawyers and doctors--everybody, in
short, except bank presidents, druggists, a doctor or two (over age),
and young boys under sixteen. To be idle was torture. We women
resolved ourselves into a sewing society, resting not on Sundays.
Sewing-machines were put into the churches, which became depots for
flannel, muslin, strong linen, and even uniform cloth. When the hour
for meeting arrived, the sewing class would be summoned by the ringing
of the church bell. My dear Agnes was visiting in Petersburg, and
was my faithful ally in all my work. We instituted a monster sewing
class, which we hugely enjoyed, to meet daily at my home on Market
street. My colonel was to be fitted out as never was colonel before.
He was ordered to Norfolk with his regiment to protect the seaboard.
I was proud of his colonelship, and much exercised because he had
no shoulder-straps. I undertook to embroider them myself. We had
not then decided upon the star for our colonels' insignia, and I
supposed he would wear the eagle like all the colonels I had ever
known. We embroidered bullion fringe, cut it in lengths, and made
eagles, probably of some extinct species, for the like were unknown
in Audubon's time, and have not since been discovered. However,
they were accepted, admired, and, what is worse, worn.
The Confederate soldier was furnished at the beginning of the war with
a gun, pistol, canteen, tin cup, haversack, and knapsack--no
inconsiderable weight to be borne in a march. The knapsack contained a
fatigue jacket, one or two blankets, an oil-cloth, several suits of
underclothing, several pairs of white gloves, collars, neckties, and
handkerchiefs. Each mess purchased a mess-chest containing dishes,
bowls, plates, knives, forks, spoons, cruets, spice-boxes, glasses,
etc. Each mess also owned a frying-pan, oven, coffee-pot, and
camp-kettle. The uniforms were of the finest cadet cloth and gold
lace. This outfit--although not comparable to that of the Federal
soldier, many of whom had "Saratoga" trunks in the baggage train--was
considered sumptuous by the Confederate volunteer. As if these were
not enough, we taxed our ingenuity to add sundry comforts, weighing
little, by which we might give a touch of refinement to the soldier's
knapsack.
There was absolutely nothing which a man might possibly use that
we did not make for them. We embroidered cases for razors, for soap
and sponge, and cute morocco affairs for needles, thread, and
courtplaster, with a little pocket lined with a bank note. "How
perfectly ridiculous," do you say? Nothing is ridiculous that helps
anxious women to bear their lot--cheats them with the hope that they
are doing good.
THE THIMBLE BRIGADE
[From Dickison and His Men, pages 161-162.]
With prayerful hearts, the devoted women of Marion formed themselves
into societies for united efforts in behalf of our gallant defenders.
At Orange Lake, we formed a Soldiers' Relief Association, playfully
called the "Thimble Brigade;" and, with earnest faith in the blessing
of God upon our work, we began our mission of love. With grateful
hearts we labored to provide comforts for the brave soldiers, who
around their campfires were keeping watch for us. The following notice
will be read by our sisterhood with mingled emotions of pleasure and
sadness:
"In this number of the Ocala _Home Journal_ will be found the
proceedings of a meeting of the ladies of the neighborhood of Orange
Lake, held for the purpose of organizing a 'Soldiers' Friend'
Association. They have not only succeeded in perfecting their
organization, but have already accomplished a great deal for the
benefit of the soldiers. They have made thirty pairs of pants for the
soldiers at Fernandina, the ladies furnishing the material from their
own private stores, besides knitting socks and making other garments.
The manner in which they have commenced this patriotic work is,
indeed, encouraging to all who have the soldier's welfare at heart,
and we know that they will labor as long as the necessities of the
soldier require it."
NOBLE WOMEN OF RICHMOND
[In A Rebel's Recollections, pages 66-69.]
In Richmond, when the hospitals were filled with wounded men brought
in from the seven days' fighting with McClellan, and the surgeons
found it impossible to dress half the wounds, a band was formed,
consisting of nearly all the married women of the city, who took upon
themselves the duty of going to the hospitals and dressing wounds from
morning till night; and they persisted in their painful duty until
every man was cared for, saving hundreds of lives, as the surgeons
unanimously testified. When nitre was found to be growing scarce, and
the supply of gunpowder was consequently about to give out, women all
over the land dug up the earth in their smokehouses and tobacco barns,
and with their own hands faithfully extracted the desired salt, for
use in the government laboratories.
Many of them denied themselves not only delicacies, but substantial
food also, when, by enduring semi-starvation, they could add to the
stock of food at the command of the subsistence officers. I myself
knew more than one houseful of women, who, from the moment that food
began to grow scarce, refused to eat meat or drink coffee, living
thenceforth only upon vegetables of a speedily perishable sort, in
order that they might leave the more for the soldiers in the field.
When a friend remonstrated with one of them, on the ground that her
health, already frail, was breaking down utterly for want of proper
diet, she replied, in a quiet, determined way, "I know that very well;
but it is little that I can do, and I must do that little at any cost.
My health and life are worth less than those of my brothers, and if
they give theirs to the cause, why should not I do the same? I would
starve to death cheerfully if I could feed one soldier more by doing
so, but the things I eat can't be sent to camp. I think it a sin to
eat anything that can be used for rations." And she meant what she
said, too, as a little mound in the church-yard testifies.
Every Confederate remembers gratefully the reception given him when he
went into any house where these women were. Whoever he might be, and
whatever his plight, if he wore the gray, he was received, not as a
beggar or tramp, not even as a stranger, but as a son of the house,
for whom it held nothing too good, and whose comfort was the one care
of all its inmates, even though their own must be sacrificed in
securing it. When the hospitals were crowded, the people earnestly
besought permission to take the men to their houses and to care for
them there, and for many months almost every house within a radius of
a hundred miles of Richmond held one or more wounded men as especially
honored guests.
"God bless these Virginia women!" said a general officer from one of
the cotton States, one day; "they're worth a regiment apiece." And he
spoke the thought of the army, except that their blessing covered the
whole country as well as Virginia.
FROM MATOACA GAY'S ARTICLES IN THE _PHILADELPHIA TIMES_
In a diary kept at the time by an official in the War Department I
find this entry:
_May 10, 1861._--The ladies are sewing everywhere, and are full of
ardor. Love affairs are plentiful, but the ladies are postponing all
engagements till their lovers have fought the Yankees. Their influence
is very great. Day after day they go in crowds to the fair grounds,
where the First South Carolina Volunteers are encamped, showering upon
them smiles and every delicacy which the city can afford. They wine
them and dine them, and they deserve it, for they are just from the
taking of Sumter, and have won historic distinction. I was presented
to several very distinguished looking young men, all of them privates,
and was told by their captain that many of them were worth from a
hundred thousand to half a million. These are the men the _Tribune_
thought would all of them want to be captains; but that is only one of
the hallucinations under which the North is now laboring.
THE WOMEN OF RICHMOND
[By Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
But of what importance was the fact that I was homeless, houseless and
moneyless, in Richmond, the heart of Virginia? Who ever wanted for
aught that kind hearts, generous hands or noble hospitality could
supply, that it was not here offered without even the shadow of a
patronage that could have made it distasteful? What women were ever so
refined in feeling and so unaffected in manner; so willing to share
all that wealth gives, and so little infected with the pride of purse
which bestows that power? It was difficult to hide one's needs from
them; they found them out and ministered to them with their quiet
simplicity and the innate nobility which gave to their generosity the
coloring of a favor received, not conferred.
Would that I could do more than thank the dear friends who made my
life for four years so happy and contented; who never made me feel by
word or act that my self-imposed occupation was otherwise than one
which would ennoble any woman. If ever any aid was given through my
own exertions, or any labor rendered effective by me for the good of
the South--if any sick soldier ever benefited by my happy face or
pleasant smiles at his bedside, or death was ever soothed by gentle
words of hope and tender care--such results were only owing to the
cheering encouragement I received from them.
TWO GEORGIA HEROINES
[Mary L. Jewett, Corresponding Secretary Clement Evans Chapter, U. D.
C.]
"To such women as these should a shaft of precious stone be erected."
'Twas thus an old soldier spoke of the wife of Judge Alexander
Herrington, of Dougherty County, Georgia, many years ago, when the
heroism of the Southern women was mentioned. She was president of the
ladies' relief association during the war, and as such had thirty
machines brought to her home and the neighbors gathered together and
made leggings and clothing for "our boys," as they were called. Many
and many days did she work with bleeding hands, caused by the constant
use of the shears, for with her own hands she did the cutting for the
others to stitch. This was a work that is far beyond the understanding
of the present day, for she had never known a day's toil, being the
wife of a wealthy planter and slave owner. Not only did she and Judge
Herrington give money, cattle, cotton, and slaves to be used in the
erecting of breastworks, but he being too old, and their only son
being a mere child, they bravely sent two of their daughters to the
field as army nurses, one of which served through the entire war.
After the war, with slaves and money gone, her husband died, and it
was then that she and her children suffered through the days of
reconstruction, with never a murmur from her lips for the things she
had given up and lost.
THE SEVEN DAYS' BATTLE
[Mrs. R. A. Pryor's Reminiscences.]
All the afternoon the dreadful guns shook the earth and thrilled our
souls with horror. I shut myself in my darkened room. At twilight I
had a note from Governor Letcher, telling me a fierce battle was
raging, and inviting me to come to the governor's mansion. From the
roof one might see the flash of musket and artillery.
No; I did not wish to see the infernal fires. I preferred to watch
and wait alone in my room. And so the night wore on and I waited and
watched. Before the dawn a hurried footstep brought a message from the
battlefield to my door:
"The general, madame, is safe and well. Colonel Scott has been killed.
The general has placed a guard around his body, and he will be sent
here early to-morrow. The general bids me say he will not return. The
fight will be renewed, and will continue until the enemy is driven
away."
My resolution was taken. My children were safe with their grandmother.
I would write. I would ask that every particle of my household linen,
except a change, should be rolled into bandages, all my fine linen be
sent to me for compresses, and all forwarded as soon as possible. I
would enter the new hospital which had been improvised in Kent &
Paine's warehouse, and would remain there as a nurse as long as the
armies were fighting around Richmond.
But the courier was passing on his rounds with news to others.
Presently Fanny Poindexter, in tears, knocked at my door.
"She is bearing it like a brave, Christian woman."
"She? Who? Tell me quick."
"Mrs. Scott. I had to tell her. She simply said, 'I shall see him once
more.' The general wrote to her from the battlefield and told her how
nobly her husband died, leading his men in the thick of the fight, and
how he had helped to save the city."
Alas! that the city should have needed saving. What had Mrs. Scott and
her children done? Why should they suffer? Who was to blame for it
all?
Kent & Paine's warehouse was a large, airy building, which had, I
understood, been offered by the proprietors for a hospital immediately
after the battle of Seven Pines. McClellan's advance upon Richmond had
heavily taxed the capacity of the hospitals already established.
When I reached the warehouse, early on the morning after the fight at
Mechanicsville, I found cots on the lower floor already occupied, and
other cots in process of preparation. An aisle between the rows of
narrow beds stretched to the rear of the building. Broad stairs led to
a story above, where other cots were being laid.
The volunteer matron was a beautiful woman, Mrs. Wilson. When I was
presented to her as a candidate for admission, her serene eyes rested
doubtfully upon me for a moment. She hesitated. Finally she said:
"The work is very exacting. There are so few of us that our nurses
must do anything and everything--make beds, wait upon anybody, and
often a half a dozen at a time."
"I will engage to do all that," I declared, and she permitted me to go
to a desk at the farther end of the room and enter my name.
As I passed by the rows of occupied cots, I saw a nurse kneeling
beside one of them, holding a pan for a surgeon. The red stump of an
amputated arm was held over it. The next thing I knew I was myself
lying on a cot, and a spray of cold water was falling over my face. I
had fainted. Opening my eyes, I found the matron standing beside me.
"You see it is as I thought. You are unfit for this work. One of the
nurses will conduct you home."
The nurse's assistance was declined, however. I had given trouble
enough for one day, and had only interrupted those who were really
worth something. A night's vigil had been poor preparation for
hospital work. I resolved I would conquer my culpable weakness. It was
all very well,--these heroics in which I indulged, these paroxysms of
patriotism, this adoration of the defenders of my fireside. The
defender in the field had naught to hope from me in case he should be
wounded in my defence.
I took myself well in hand. Why had I fainted? I thought it was
because of the sickening, dead odor in the hospital, mingled with that
of acids and disinfectants. Of course, this would always be there--and
worse, as wounded men filled the rooms. I provided myself with sal
volatile and spirits of camphor,--we wore pockets in our gowns in
those days,--and thus armed I presented myself again to Mrs. Wilson.
She was as kind as she was refined and intelligent. "I will give you a
place near the door," she said, "and you must run out into the air at
the first hint of faintness. You will get over it, see if you don't."
Ambulances began to come in and unload at the door. I soon had
occupation enough, and a few drops of camphor on my handkerchief tided
me over the worst. The wounded men crowded in and sat patiently
waiting their turn. One fine little fellow of fifteen unrolled a
handkerchief from his wrist to show me his wound. "There's a bullet in
there," he said proudly. "I am going to have it cut out, and then go
right back to the fight. Isn't it lucky it's my left hand?"
As the day wore on I became more and more absorbed in my work. I had,
too, the stimulus of a reproof from Miss Deborah Couch, a brisk,
efficient, middle-aged lady, who asked no quarter and gave none. She
was standing beside me a moment, with a bright tin pan filled with
pure water, into which I foolishly dipped a finger to see if it were
warm, to learn if I would be expected to provide warm water when I
should be called upon to assist the surgeon.
"This water, madame, was prepared for a raw wound," said Miss Deborah,
sternly. "I must now make the surgeon wait until I get more."
Miss Deborah, in advance of her time, was a germ theorist. My touch
evidently was contaminating.
As she charged down the aisle, with a pan of water in her hand,
everybody made way. She had known of my "fine-lady faintness," as
she termed it, and I could see she despised me for it. She had
volunteered, as all the nurses had, and she meant business. She had
no patience with nonsense, and truly she was worth more than all the
rest of us.
"Where can I get a little ice?" I one day ventured of Miss Deborah.
"Find it," she rejoined, as she rapidly passed on; but find it I never
did. Ice was an unknown luxury until brought to us later from private
houses.
But I found myself thoroughly reinstated--with surgeons, matrons and
Miss Deborah--when I appeared a few days later, accompanied by a man
bearing a basket of clean, well-rolled bandages, with promise of more
to come. The Petersburg women had gone to work with a will upon my
table-cloths, sheets, and dimity counterpanes--and even the chintz
furniture covers. My springlike green and white chintz bandages
appeared on many a manly arm and leg. My fine linen underwear and
napkins were cut, by the sewing circle at the Spotswood, according to
the surgeons' directions, into two lengths two inches wide, then
folded two inches, doubling back and forth in a smaller fold each
time, until they formed pointed wedges or compresses.
Such was the sudden and overwhelming demand for such things that but
for my own and similar donations of household linen the wounded men
would have suffered. The war had come upon us suddenly. Many of our
ports were already closed and we had no stores laid up for such an
emergency.
The bloody battle of Gaines' Mill soon followed. Then Frazier's farm,
within the week, and at once the hospital was filled to overflowing.
Every night a courier brought me tidings of my husband. When I saw him
at the door my heart would die within me. One morning John came in for
certain supplies. After being reassured as to his master's safety, I
asked, "Did he have a comfortable night, John?"
"He sholy did. Marse Roger sart'nly was comfortable las' night. He
slep' on de field 'twixt two daid horses."
The women who worked in Kent & Paine's hospital never seemed to weary.
After a while the wise matron assigned us hours, and we went on duty
with the regularity of trained nurses. My hours were from 7 to 7
during the day, with the promise of night service should I be needed.
Efficient, kindly colored women assisted us. Their motherly manner
soothed the prostrate soldier, whom they always addressed as "son."
Many fine young fellows lost their lives for want of prompt attention.
They never murmured. They would give way to those who seemed to be
more seriously wounded than themselves, and the latter would recover,
while from the slighter wounds gangrene would supervene from delay.
Very few men ever walked away from that hospital. They died, or
friends found quarters for them in Richmond. None complained. Unless a
poor man grew delirious, he never groaned. There was an atmosphere of
gentle kindness; a suppression of emotion for the sake of others.
Every morning the Richmond ladies brought for our patients such
luxuries as could be procured in that scarce time. The city was in
peril, and distant farmers feared to bring in their fruits and
vegetables. One day a patient-looking, middle-aged man said to me,
"What would I not give for a bowl of chicken broth like my mother used
to give me when I was a sick boy?" I perceived one of the angelic
matrons of Richmond at a distance, stooping over the cots, and found
my way to her and said, "Dear Mrs. Maben, have you a chicken? And
could you send some broth to No. 39?" She promised, and I returned
with her promise to the poor, wounded fellow. He shook his head.
"To-morrow will be too late," he said.
I had forgotten the circumstance next day, but at noon I happened to
look toward cot No. 39, and there was Mrs. Maben herself. She had
brought the chicken broth in a pretty china bowl, with napkin and
silver spoon, and was feeding my doubting Thomas, to his great
satisfaction.
It was at this hospital, I have reason to believe, that the little
story originated, which was deemed good enough to be claimed by other
hospitals, of the young girl who approached a sick man with a pan of
water in her hand and a towel over her arm.
"Mayn't I wash your face?" said the girl, timidly.
"Well, lady, you may if you want to," said the man, wearily. "It has
been washed fourteen times this morning. It can stand another time, I
reckon."
I discovered that I had not succeeded, despite many efforts, in
winning Miss Deborah. I learned that she was affronted because I had
not shared my offerings of jelly and fruit with her, for her special
patients. Whenever I ventured to ask a loan from her, of a pan or a
glass of water, or the little things of which we never had enough, she
would reply, "I must keep them for the nurses who understand
reciprocity. Reciprocity is the rule some persons never seem to
comprehend." When this was hammered into my slow perception, I rose to
the occasion. I turned over the entire contents of a basket the
landlord of the Spotswood had given me to Miss Deborah, and she made
my path straight before me ever afterward.
At the end of a week the matron had promoted me. Instead of carving
the fat bacon, to be served with corn bread, for the hospital dinner,
or standing between two rough men to keep away the flies, or fetching
water, or spreading sheets on cots, I was assigned to regular duty
with one patient.
The first of these proved to be a young Colonel Coppens, of my
husband's brigade. I could comfort him very little, for he was wounded
past recovery. I spoke little French, and could only try to keep him,
as far as possible, from annoyance. To my great relief, place was
found for him in a private family. There he soon died--the gallant
fellow I had admired on his horse a few months before.
Then I was placed beside the cot of Mr. (or Captain) Boyd, of
Mecklenburg, and was admonished by the matron not to leave him alone.
He was the most patient sufferer in the world--gentle, courteous,
always considerate, never complaining.
"Are you in pain, Captain?"
"No, no," he would say gently.
One day when I returned from my "rest," I found the matron sitting
beside him.
She motioned me to take her place, and then added, "No, no; I will not
leave him."
The captain's eyes were closed, and he sighed wearily at intervals.
Presently he whispered slowly: "There everlasting spring abides;" then
sighed, and seemed to sleep for a moment.
The matron felt his pulse and raised a warning hand. The sick man's
whisper went on: "Bright fields beyond the swelling flood, Stand
dressed in living green;" and in a moment more the Christian soldier
had crossed the river and lain down to rest under the trees.
Each of the battles of those seven days brought a harvest of wounded
to our hospital. I used to veil myself closely as I walked to and
from my hotel, that I might shut out the dreadful sights in the
streets--the squads of prisoners, and worst of all, the open wagons
in which the dead were piled. Once I did see one of these dreadful
wagons. In it a stiff arm was raised, and shook as it was driven
down the street, as though the dead owner appealed to Heaven for
vengeance--a horrible sight, never to be forgotten.
After one of the bloody battles--I know not if it was Gaines' Mill or
Frazier's Farm or Malvern Hill--A splendid young officer, Colonel
Brokenborough, was taken to our hospital, shot almost to pieces. He
was borne up the stairs and placed in a cot--his broken limbs in
supports swinging from the ceiling. The wife of General Mahone and I
were permitted to assist in nursing him. A young soldier from the camp
was detailed to help us, and a clergyman was in constant attendance,
coming at night that we might have rest. Our patient held a court in
his corner of the hospital. Such a dear, gallant, cheery fellow,
handsome, and with a grand air even as he lay prostrate. Nobody ever
heard him complain. He would welcome us in the morning with the
brightest smile. His aid said, "He watches the head of the stairs and
calls up that look for your benefit."
"Oh," he said one day, "you can't guess what's going to happen. Some
ladies have been here and left all these roses, and cologne, and such;
and somebody has sent champagne. We are going to have a party."
Ah! but we knew he was very ill. We were bidden to watch him every
minute and not be deceived by his own spirits. Mrs. Mahone spent her
life hunting for ice. My constant care was to keep his canteen--to
which he clung with affection--filled with fresh water from a spring
not far away, and I learned to give it to him so well that I allowed
no one to lift his head for his drink during my hours.
One day, when we were alone, I was fanning him, and thought he was
asleep. He said gravely, "Mrs. Pryor, beyond that curtain they hung up
yesterday, poor young Mitchell is lying. They don't know. But I heard
when they brought him in. As I lie here I listen to his breathing. I
haven't heard it now for some time. Would you mind seeing if he is all
right?"
I passed behind the curtain. The young soldier was dead. His wide-open
eyes seemed to meet mine in mute appeal. I had never seen or touched a
dead man, but I laid my hands upon his eyelids and closed them. I was
standing thus when his nurse, a young volunteer like myself, came to
me.
"I couldn't do that," she said. "I went for the doctor. I'm so glad
you could do it."
When I returned Colonel Brokenborough asked no questions and I knew
that his keen senses had already instructed him.
To be cheerful and uncomplaining was the unwritten law of our
hospital. No bad news was ever mentioned; no foreboding or anxiety.
Mrs. Mahone was one day standing beside Colonel Brokenborough when a
messenger from the front suddenly announced that General Mahone had
received a flesh wound. Commanding herself instantly, she exclaimed
merrily: "Flesh wound. Now you all know that is just impossible."
The general had no flesh. He was thin and attenuated as he was brave.
As Colonel Brokenborough grew weaker, I felt self-reproach that no one
had offered to write letters for him. His friend the clergyman had
said to me: "That poor boy is engaged to a lovely young girl. I wonder
what is best? Would it grieve him to speak of her. You ladies have so
much tact; you might bear it in mind. An opportunity might offer for
you to discover how he feels about it."
The next time I was alone with him I ventured: "Now, Colonel, one
mustn't forget absent friends, you know, even if fair ladies do bring
perfumes and roses and what not. I have some ink and paper here. Shall
I write a letter for you? Tell me what to say."
He turned his head and with a half-amused smile of perfect intelligence
looked at me for a long time. Then an upward look of infinite
tenderness; but the message was never sent--never needed from a true
heart like this.
One night I was awakened from my sleep by a knock at my door, and a
summons to "come to Colonel Brokenborough." When I reached his bedside
I found the surgeon, the clergyman, and the colonel's aid. The patient
was unconscious; the end was near. We sat in silence. Once, when he
stirred, I slipped my hand under his head, and put his canteen once
more to his lips. After a long time his breathing simply ceased, with
no evidence of pain. We waited awhile, and then the young soldier who
had been detailed to nurse him rose, crossed the room, and stooping
over, kissed me on my forehead, and went out to his duty in the
ranks.
Two weeks later I was in my room, resting after a hard day, when a
haggard officer, covered with mud and dust, entered. It was my
husband. "My men are all dead," he said, with anguish, and, falling
across the bed, he gave vent to the passionate grief of his heart.
Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed, thousands wounded.
Richmond was saved!
DEATH OF MRS. SARAH K. ROWE, "THE SOLDIERS' FRIEND"
[From Southern Historical Papers.]
ORANGEBURG, S. C., _June 2, 1884_.
I feel warranted in informing you of the death of Mrs. Sarah K. Rowe,
which occurred yesterday, the 1st of June, at her country home in this
county. Mrs. Rowe was known for four and a half years, '61 to '65, as
"the soldiers' friend." I detract nothing from great women all over
the South, Cornelias of heroic type, when I state that Mrs. Rowe was
pre-eminently the soldiers' friend. If this should meet the eye of
Hood's Texans, of Polk's Tennesseeans, of Morgan's Kentuckians, or of
Pickett's Virginians, any of whom passed on the South Carolina
Railroad during the war, her face beaming with benevolence, her arms
loaded with food, will be remembered as one of the sunny events of a
dark time. From the first note of war Mrs. Rowe gave all she had and
could collect by wonderful energy to the soldiers. She had her
organized squads. The gay, strong soldier to Virginia was fed and
cheered on; the mangled and sick were nursed and cared for. She had a
mother's blessing for the brave; a mother's tears and sympathy for the
dying and the dead. Mrs. Rowe emphatically lived and spent herself for
the cause, and when it failed, like a noble woman she submitted, with
the remark, "It is all right." The sight of a bandaged head or limb
under her soft touch was an everyday picture. The echo of a thousand
cheers as the troop trains passed her was recurring every day. She
bandaged and waved God-speed as well. A few days ago Mrs. Rowe showed
by request a part of her great legacy--the letters from the soldiers
she had nursed to life again. Truly her reward was rich. She passed
away, of paralysis, at a ripe old age. The soldiers and survivors
buried her. The Young and "Old Guard" lowered her remains to mother
earth. When Fame makes up its roll her precious name should stand
out--the soldiers' friend.
Yours truly,
JOHN A. HAMILTON.
"YOU WAIT"
[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
Pleasant episodes often occurred to vary disappointments and lighten
duties of hospital life.
"Kin you writ 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
"Goobers" by the soldiers generally--lean, yellow, attenuated, 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 unlucky 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."
"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 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 will find
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 letter
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 to
write a 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.
"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!"
ANNANDALE--TWO HEROINES OF MISSISSIPPI
[By Anna B. A. Brown, in Memphis Commercial World.]
In these hurried days, when we spend the major portion of our lives
trying to keep up with the electric currents that control the
universe, it is good to be able to turn aside for a while in the
byways of the South and feel the restfulness of old plantation life,
whether it be a reality or an echo from the past. A day spent in touch
with old Southern home life is a day full of restful peace and happy
memories.
In Madison County, Mississippi, one finds many bits of ante-bellum
life that the turbulent tide of commerce has not yet swept away--big
plantations, historic old mansions, tumble-down slave quarters--that
are the abiding proofs of the prosperity and hospitality of a people
who lived and loved when knighthood was yet in flower, and whose
children live yet to preserve the old traditions. Many of the old
plantations are still tilled by the descendants of the original
owners. Many have passed into stranger's hands. Some stand tenantless
and lonely, with ghostly visitants slipping at midnight down the great
stairways to tread a stately measure on the ball floor, a silent
assemblage of long-ago belles and beaux returned from the cities of
the dead or from the still trenches of Seven Pines, Chickamauga, or
Shiloh.
One of these silent homes is Annandale, a bit of historic Mississippi
architecture that stands near Canton, once the home of Southern
chivalry and romance, now empty, save for the memories that cluster
thickly within its walls. Annandale is the property, and was until
recently the home of the Mississippi branch of the Johnstone family,
and preserves to memory the name of the county in Scotland that
cradled the ancestors who bore this illustrious name. It is still
known as their home, though Vicksburg now claims the daughter of the
house, and only in the summers are the doors opened again for that
lavish hospitality for which the old place was noted. Two brothers of
the Johnstone family came over from Scotland in 1734, having been sent
by George III, on business of great import to the colonies. One had
the appointment of governor to his majesty's colony of North Carolina,
the other that of surveyor-general. The Johnstone family remained
loyal to their king as long as native pride would permit, and then,
true to the spirit that demanded the Magna Charta at Runnymede
centuries before, they went to the American settlements in the fight
for liberty. They were prominent in the Revolution, and after the war
took part in the political work of building up the nation.
John T. Johnstone, a prominent member of this family, moved from
North Carolina to Mississippi in 1836 and bought large tracts of land
in Madison County. On the plantation near Annandale he built a
comfortable home--a fine house for those days of pioneer effort. His
neighbors were the families of Hardeman, Hinton, Ricks, Winters and
Christmas, and there are still marvelous tales told in that locality
of the lavish manner of living, the wonderful hospitality dispensed
and the gay companies that assembled in the old home. A few years
of this charmed life Mr. Johnstone called his, and then he was
gathered to his illustrious fathers, and the burden of this great
estate fell on the shoulders of his young widow. She stood the
test of generalship, as other Southern women of her day have done, and
the affairs of the plantation, the slave quarters and the household
moved as smoothly as clock work and success smiled on her. The
material side of her plantation's progress did not overshadow the
religious side, and services for bond and free were held daily in a
gothic church on the estate, the chapel of the cross which Mrs.
Johnstone had erected in memory of her husband. The daughter of the
house was carefully educated, and as she neared womanhood Mrs.
Johnstone had a new home built, the present Annandale, and the
same lavish hospitality was continued.
Then came the war. There was no husband, brother or son to send to
the front, but the women, true to the patriotic sentiments of their
house, gave of their best. The big mansion was turned into a factory
for supplying Confederate needs. Mrs. Johnstone and her fair
daughter, Helen, became the head of a busy body of working women,
who gave of their time and talent for the South. All day was heard
the whir of spinning-wheels, the slipping of the shuttles in the
looms; all day busy fingers carded, wove, spun and sewed, that the
soldiers might be made more comfortable. One company of soldiers was
equipped throughout the war solely at Miss Johnstone's expense, while
she and her mother furnished clothing to two hundred others. The
setting of dainty stitches, the manufacture of rolled and whipped
ruffles, were laid aside for the time. The rich carpets were torn from
the floors and made into blankets; the rare bronzes and brasses were
torn from their pedestals or their fastenings and sent to the
foundries to be made into cannon; silk dresses were transformed
into banners to lead the gray-clad men to victory, and dainty
linen and cambric garments and rare household napery and linen were
ruthlessly torn in strips to bandage the wounds of the men in the
hospitals. The granaries, smokehouses, and wine cellars gave up
their stores for the Confederacy, the wealth of these two loyal women
being laid gladly on their country's altar. Yet, through all this
troublous season, hospitality and merriment still reigned. The
rebel lads adored the loyal women; the Union soldiers tried more
than once to burn the house that sheltered such secessionists.
During the war the fair daughter of the house was married to Rev.
George Carroll Harris, of Nashville, and for many years rector of
Christ Church, and widely known throughout the South.
In 1880 Mrs. Johnstone died, and historic Annandale passed into her
daughter's hands, and is still owned by her. A few years ago the son
of Dr. and Mrs. Harris, George Harris, married Miss Cecile Nugent, of
Jackson, Mississippi, and they live on his place in the Delta, and
with the marriage of the daughter Helen to the son of the late Bishop
Thompson the younger generation of Annandale closed another chapter of
romances for the old home. But even though the windows are darkened
and no material form passes daily over the threshold, the inner air is
still palpitant with memories, and who knows what gay revels the
ghostly companies of the past may not hold in the grand salon when
midnight has come and the human world is wrapped in slumber?
A PLANTATION HEROINE
[In Southern Soldier Stories, pages 203-205.]
It was nearing the end. Every resource of the Southern States had been
taxed to the point of exhaustion. The people had given up everything
they had for "the cause." Under the law of a "tax in kind," they had
surrendered all they could spare of food products of every character.
Under an untamable impulse of patriotism they had surrendered much
more than they could spare in order to feed the army.
It was at such a time that I went to my home county on a little
military business. I stopped for dinner at a house, the lavish
hospitality of which had been a byword in the old days. I found before
me at dinner the remnants of a cold boiled ham, some mustard greens,
which we Virginians called "salad," a pitcher of buttermilk, some corn
pones and--nothing else. I carved the ham, and offered to serve it to
the three women of the household. But they all declined. They made
their dinner on salad, buttermilk, and corn bread, the latter eaten
very sparingly, as I observed. The ham went only to myself and to the
three convalescent wounded soldiers who were guests in the house.
Wounded men were at that time guests in every house in Virginia.
I lay awake that night and thought over the circumstance. The next
morning I took occasion to have a talk on the old familiar terms with
the young woman of the family, with whom I had been on a basis of
friendship in the old days that even permitted me to kiss her upon due
and proper occasion.
"Why didn't you take some ham last night?" I asked urgently.
"Oh, I didn't want it," she replied.
"Now, you know you are fibbing," I said. "Tell me the truth, won't
you?"
She blushed, and hesitated. Presently she broke down and answered
frankly: "Honestly, I did want the ham. I have hungered for meat for
months. But I mustn't eat it, and I won't. You see the army needs all
the food there is, and more. We women can't fight, though I don't see
at all why they shouldn't let us, and so we are trying to feed the
fighting men--and there aren't any others. We've made up our minds not
to eat anything that can be sent to the front as rations."
"You are starving yourselves," I exclaimed.
"Oh, no," she said. "And if we were, what would it matter? Haven't
Lee's soldiers starved many a day? But we aren't starving. You see we
had plenty of salad and buttermilk last night. And we even ate some of
the corn bread. I must stop that, by the way, for corn meal is a good
ration for the soldiers." A month or so later this frail but heroic
young girl was laid away in the Grub Hill church-yard.
Don't talk to me about the "heroism" that braves a fire of hell under
enthusiastic impulse. That young girl did a higher self-sacrifice than
any soldier who fought on either side during the war ever dreamed of
doing.
LUCY ANN COX
[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, pages 54-55. From the
Richmond _Star_, July 21, 1894.]
On the evening of October 15th an entertainment was given in
Fredericksburg, Virginia, to raise funds to erect a monument to the
memory of Mrs. Lucy Ann Cox, who, at the commencement of the war,
surrendered all the comfort of her father's home, and followed the
fortunes of her husband, who was a member of Company A, Thirteenth
Virginia Regiment, until the flag of the Southern Confederacy was
furled at Appomattox. No march was too long or weather too inclement
to deter this patriotic woman from doing what she considered her duty.
She was with her company and regiment on their two forays into
Maryland, and her ministering hand carried comfort to many a wounded
and worn soldier. While Company A was the object of her untiring
solicitude, no Confederate ever asked assistance from Mrs. Cox but it
was cheerfully rendered.
She marched as the infantry did, seldom taking advantage of offered
rides in ambulances and wagon trains. When Mrs. Cox died, a few years
ago, it was her latest expressed wish that she be buried with military
honors, and, so far as it was possible, her wish was carried out. Her
funeral took place on a bright autumn Sunday, and the entire town
turned out to do honor to this noble woman.
The camps that have undertaken the erection of this monument do honor
to themselves in thus commemorating the virtues of the heroine, Lucy
Ann Cox.
"ONE OF THEM LEES"
[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
There was little conversation carried on, no necessity for
introductions, and no names ever asked or given. This indifference to
personality was a peculiarity strongly exhibited in hospitals; for
after nursing a sick or wounded patient for months, he has often left
without any curiosity as regarded my name, my whereabouts, or indeed
anything connected with me. A case in point was related by a friend.
When the daughter of our general had devoted much time and care to a
sick man in one of the hospitals, he seemed to feel so little
gratitude for the attention paid him that her companion to rouse him
told him that Miss Lee was his nurse. "Lee, Lee?" he said. "There are
some Lees down in Mississippi who keeps a tavern there. Is she one of
them Lees?"
Almost of the same style, although a little worse, was the remark of
one sick, poor fellow who had been wounded in the head and who, though
sensible enough ordinarily, would feel the effect of the sun on his
brain when exposed to its influence. After advising him to wear a wet
paper doubled into the crown of his hat, more from a desire to show
some interest in him than from any belief in its efficacy, I paused at
the door long enough to hear him ask the ward-master, "who that was?"
"Why, that is the matron of the hospital; she gives you all the food
you eat, and attends to things."
"Well," said he, "I always did think this government was a confounded
sell, and now I am sure of it, when they put such a little fool to
manage such a big hospital as this."
SOUTHERN WOMEN IN THE WAR BETWEEN THE STATES
[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 32, pages 146-150. T. C.
DeLeon, in New Orleans _Picayune_.]
The great German who wrote:
"Honor to woman! to her it is given
To garden the earth with roses of heaven!"
precisely described the Confederate conditions--a century in advance.
True, constant, brave and enduring, the men were; but the women set
even the bravest and most steadfast example. Nor was this confined to
any one section of the country. The "girl with the calico dress" of
the lowland farms; the "merry mountain maid" of the hill country, and
the belles of society in the cities, all vied with each other in
efforts to serve the men who had gone to the front to fight for home
and for them. And there was no section of the South where this desire
to do all they might and more was oftener in evidence than another. In
every camp of the early days of the great struggle the incoming troops
bore trophies of home love, and as the war progressed to need, then to
dire want, the sacrifices of those women at home became almost a poem,
and one most pathetic. Dress--misconceived as the feminine fetich--was
forgotten in the effort to clothe the boys at the front; the family
larder--ill-stocked at the best--was depleted to nothingness, to send
to distant camps those delicacies--so equally freighted with
tenderness and dyspepsia--which too often never reached their
destination. And later, the carpets were taken from the floors, the
curtains from the windows--alike in humble homes and in dwellings of
the rich--to be cut in blankets for the uncomplaining fellows,
sleeping on freezing mud.
So wide, so universal, was the rule of self-sacrifice, that no one
reference to it can do justice to the zeal and devotion of "Our
Girls." And the best proof of both was in the hospitals, where soon
began to congregate the maimed and torn forms of those just sent
forth to glory and victory. This was the trial that tested the
grain and purity of our womanhood, and left it without alloy of fear
or selfishness. And some of the women who wrought in home and
hospital--even in trench and on the firing line--for the "boys,"
had never before handled aught rougher than embroidery, or seen
aught more fearsome than its needle-prick. Yes, these untried
women, young and old, stood fire like veteran regulars, indeed, even
more bravely in moral view, for they missed the stimulus of the
charge--the tonic in the thought of striking back.
During the entire war--and through the entire South--it was the
hospital that illustrated the highest and best traits of the tried and
stricken people. Doubtless, there was good work done by the women of
the North, and much of it. Happily, for the sanity of the nation,
American womanhood springs from one common stock. It is ever true to
its own, as a whole--and, for aught I shall deny--individually. But
behind that Chinese wall of wood and steel blockade, then nursing was
not an episode. It was grave duty, grim labor; heartbreaking
endurance--all self-imposed, and lasting for years, yet shirked and
relinquished only for cause.
But the dainty little hands that tied the red bandages, or "held the
artery" unflinching; the nimble feet that wearied not by fever cot, or
operating table, the active months of war, grew nimbler still on
bridle, or in the dances when "the boys" came home. This was sometimes
on "flying furlough," or when an aid, or courier, with dispatches, was
told to wait. Then "the one girl" was mounted on anything that could
carry her; and the party would ride far to the front, in full view of
the enemy, and often in point-blank range. Or, it was when frozen ruts
made roads impassable for invader and defender; and the furlough was
perhaps easier, and longer. Then came those now historic dances, the
starvation parties, where rank told nothing, and where the only
refreshment came in that intoxicant--a woman's voice and eyes.
Then came the "Dies Irae," when the Southern Rachel sat in the ashes
of her desolation and her homespun was sackcloth. And even she rose
supreme. By her desolate hearth, with her larder empty, and only her
aching heart full, she still forced a smile for the home-coming "boy"
through the repressed tears for the one left, somewhere in the fight.
In Richmond, Atlanta, Charleston and elsewhere was she bitter and
unforgiving? If she drew her faded skirt--ever a black one, in that
case--from the passing blue, was it "treason," or human nature?
Thinkers who wore the blue have time and oft declared the latter. Was
she "unreconstructed?" Her wounds were great and wondrous sore. She
was true, then, to her faith. That she is to-day to the reunited land
let the fathers of Spanish war heroes tell. She needs no monument; it
is reared in the hearts of true men, North and South.
A MOTHER OF THE CONFEDERACY
[In Southern Historical Papers, Volume 22, pages 63-64. From the
Memphis, Tenn., _Appeal-Avalanche_, June 30, 1894.]
Just upon the eve of preparations by ex-Confederates to celebrate the
Fourth of July in a becoming manner and spirit, the sad news is
announced of the death of the venerable Mrs. Law, known all over the
South as one of the mothers of the Confederacy. She was also truly a
mother in Israel, in the highest Christian sense. Her life had been
closely connected with that of many leading actors in the late war, in
which she herself bore an essential part. She passed away, June 28th,
at Idlewild, one of the suburbs of Memphis, nearly 89 years of age.
She was born on the River Yadkin, in Wilson County, North Carolina,
August 27, 1805, and at the time of her death was doubtless the oldest
person in Shelby County. Her mother's maiden name was Charity King.
Her father, Chapman Gordon, served in the Revolutionary War, under
Generals Marion and Sumter. She came of a long-lived race of people.
Her mother lived to be 93 years of age, and her brother, Rev. Hezekiah
Herndon Gordon, who was the father of General John B. Gordon (now
Senator from Georgia), lived to the age of 92 years.
Sallie Chapman Gordon was married to Dr. John S. Law, near Eatonton,
Georgia, on the 28th day of June, 1825. A few years later she became a
member of the Presbyterian Church, in Forsyth, Georgia, and her name
was afterward transferred to the rolls of the Second Presbyterian
Church in Memphis, of which church she remained a member as long as
she lived.
She became an active worker in hospitals, and when nothing more could
be done in Memphis she went through the lines and rendered substantial
aid and comfort to the soldiers in the field. Her services, if fully
recorded, would make a book. She was so recognized that upon one
occasion General Joseph E. Johnston had 30,000 of his bronzed and
tattered soldiers to pass in review in her honor at Dalton. Such a
distinction was, perhaps, never accorded to any other woman in the
South--not even Mrs. Jefferson Davis or the wives of great generals.
Yet, so earnest and sincere in her work was she that she commanded the
respect and reverence of men wherever she was known. After the war she
strove to comfort the vanquished and encourage the down-hearted, and
continued in her way to do much good work.
"THE GREAT EASTERN"
[In Christ in Camp, pages 94-98; J. William Jones, D. D.]
Here is another sketch of a soldier's friend who labored in some of
our largest hospitals.
"She is a character," writes a soldier. "A Napoleon of her department,
with the firmness and courage of Andrew, she possesses all the energy
and independence of Stonewall Jackson. The officials hate her; the
soldiers adore her. The former name her 'The Great Eastern,' and steer
wide of her track, the latter go to her in all their wants and
troubles, and know her by the name of 'Miss Sally.' She joined the
army in one of the regiments from Alabama, about the time of the
battle of Manassas, and never shrunk from the stern privations of the
soldier's life from the moment of leaving camp to follow her wounded
and sick Alabamians to the hospitals of Richmond. Her services are not
confined, however, to the sick and wounded from Alabama. Every sick
soldier has now a claim on her sympathy. Why, but yesterday, my system
having succumbed to the prevailing malaria of the hospital, she came
to my room, though a stranger, with my ward nurse, and in the kindest
manner offered me her pillow of feathers, with case as tidy as the
driven snow. The very sight of it was soothing to an aching brow, and
I blessed her from heart and lips as well. I must not omit to tell why
'Miss Sally' is so disliked by many of the officials. Like all women
of energy, she has eyes whose penetration few things escape, and a
sagacity fearful or admirable, as the case may be, to all interested.
If any abuse is pending, or in progress in the hospital, she is
quickly on the track, and if not abated, off 'The Great Eastern' sails
to headquarters. A few days ago one of the officials of the division
sent a soldier to inform her that she must vacate her room instantly.
'Who sent you with that message to me?' she asked him, turning
suddenly around. 'Dr. ----,' the soldier answered. 'Pish!' she
replied, and swept on in ineffable contempt to the bedside, perhaps,
of some sick soldier."
CORDIAL FOR THE BRAVE
[Eggleston's Recollections, pages 70-71.]
The ingenuity with which these good ladies discovered or manufactured
onerous duties for themselves was surprising, and having discovered or
imagined some new duty they straightway proceeded to do it at any
cost.
An excellent Richmond dame was talking with a soldier friend, when he
carelessly remarked that there was nothing which so greatly helped to
keep up a contented and cheerful spirit among the men as the receipt
of letters from their woman friends. Catching at the suggestion as a
revelation of duty, she asked, "And cheerfulness makes better soldiers
of the men, does it not?" Receiving yes for an answer, the frail
little woman, already over-burdened with cares of an unusual sort, sat
down and made out a list of all the men with whom she was acquainted
even in the smallest possible way, and from that day until the end of
the war she wrote one letter a week to each, a task which, as her
acquaintance was large, taxed her time and strength very severely.
Not content with this, she wrote on the subject in the newspapers,
earnestly urging a like course upon her sisters, many of whom adopted
the suggestion at once, much to the delight of the soldiers, who
little dreamed that the kindly, cheerful, friendly letters which every
mail brought into camp were a part of woman's self-appointed work for
the success of the common cause. From the beginning to the end of the
war it was the same.
HOSPITAL WORK AND WOMEN'S DELICACY
[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
There is one subject connected with hospitals on which a few words
should be said--the distasteful one that a woman must lose a
certain amount of delicacy and reticence in filling any office in
them. How can this be? There is no unpleasant exposure under proper
arrangements, and if even there be, the circumstances which
surround a wounded man, far from friends and home, suffering in a
holy cause and dependent upon a woman for help, care and sympathy,
hallow and clear the atmosphere in which she labors. That woman
must indeed be hard and gross who lets one material thought lessen
her efficiency. In the midst of suffering and death, hoping with
those almost beyond hope in this world; praying by the bedside of the
lonely and heart-stricken; closing the eyes of boys hardly old enough
to realize man's sorrow, much less suffer by man's fierce hate, a
woman must soar beyond the conventional modesty considered correct
under different circumstances.
If the ordeal does not chasten and purify her nature, if the
contemplation of suffering and endurance does not make her wiser and
better, and if the daily fire through which she passes does not draw
from her nature the sweet fragrance of benevolence, charity, and
love,--then, indeed, a hospital has been no fit place for her.
A WAYSIDE HOME AT MILLEN
[Electra Tyler Deloache, in Augusta _Chronicle_, October 29, 1905.]
Only a few of the present inhabitants of Millen know that it was once
famous as the location of a Confederate Wayside Home, where, during
the civil war, the soldiers were fed and cared for. The home was built
by public subscription and proved a veritable boon to the soldiers, as
many veterans now living can testify.
The location of the town has been changed slightly since the 60's, for
in those days the car sheds were several hundred yards farther up the
Macon track, and were situated where the railroad crossing is now. The
hotel owned and run by Mr. Gray was first opposite the depot, and the
location is still marked by mock-orange trees and shrubbery.
The Wayside Home was on the west side of the railroad crossing and was
opposite the house built in the railroad Y by Major Wilkins and
familiarly known here as the Berrien House. The old well still marks
the spot. The home was weather-boarded with rough planks running
straight up and down. It had four large rooms to the front,
conveniently furnished with cots, etc., for the accommodation of any
soldiers who were sick or wounded and unable to continue their
journey. A nurse was always on hand to attend to the wants of the
sick. Back of these rooms was a large dining hall and kitchen, where
the weary and hungry boys in gray could minister to the wants of the
inner man. And right royally they performed this pleasant duty, for
the table was always bountifully supplied with good things, donated by
the patriotic women of Burke county, who gladly emptied hearts and
home upon the altar of country. This work was entirely under the
auspices of the women of Burke. Mrs. Judge Jones, of Waynesboro, was
the first president of the home. She was succeeded by Mrs. Ransom
Lewis, who was second and last. She was quite an active factor in the
work, and it was largely due to her efforts that the home attained the
prominence that it did among similar institutions.
Miss Annie Bailey, daughter of Captain Bailey, of Savannah, was matron
of the home. She was assisted in the work by committees of three
ladies, who, each in turn, spent several days at the home. The regular
servants were kept and extra help called in when needed.
This home was to the weary and hungry Confederate soldier as an oasis
in the desert, for here he found rest and plenty beneath its shelter.
And the social feature was not its least attraction, when a bevy of
blooming girls from our bonny Southland would visit the home, and
midst feast and jest spur the boys on to renewed vigor in the cause of
the South. They felt amidst such inspirations it would be glorious to
die but more glorious to live for such a land of charming women. One
of our matrons with her sweet old face softened into a dreamy smile by
happy reminiscences of those days of toil, care, and sorrow, where
happy thoughts and pleasantries of the past crowded in and made little
rifts of sunshine through the war clouds, remarked: "But with all the
gloom and suffering, we girls used to have such fun with the soldiers
at the home, and at such times we could even forget that our loved
South was in the throes of the most terrible war in the history of any
country!"
The home was operated for two years or more and often whole regiments
of soldiers came to it, and all that could be accommodated were taken
in and cared for.
It was destroyed by Sherman's army on their march to the sea. The car
shed, depot, hotel and home all disappeared before the torch of the
destroyer and only the memory, the well, and the trees remain to mark
the historic spot where the heroic efforts of our Burke county women
sustained the Wayside Home through long years of the struggle.
Mrs. Amos Whitehead and others who have "crossed the river" were
prominently connected with this work; in fact, every one lent a
helping hand, for it was truly a labor of love, and was our Southern
women's tribute to patriotism and heroism.
A NOBLE GIRL
[From the _Floridian_, 1864.]
Upon the arrival of the troops at Madison sent to reinforce our army
in East Florida, the ladies attended at the depot with provisions and
refreshments for the defenders of their home and country. Among the
brave war-worn soldiers who were rushing to the defence of our State
there was, in one of the Georgia regiments, a soldier boy, whose bare
feet were bleeding from the exposure and fatigue of the march. One of
the young ladies present, moved by the impulse of her sex, took the
shoes from her own feet, made the suffering hero put them on, and
walked home herself barefooted. Wherever Southern soldiers have
suffered and bled for their country's freedom, let this incident be
told for a memorial of Lou Taylor, of Madison county.
THE GOOD SAMARITAN
[In Christ in Camp, pages 98-99; J. William Jones, D. D.]
At Richmond, Va., there was a little model hospital known as the
"Samaritan," presided over by a lady who gave it her undivided
attention, and greatly endeared herself to the soldiers who were
fortunate enough to be sent there. "Through my son, a young soldier of
eighteen," writes a father, "I have become acquainted with this lady
superintendent, whose memory will live in many hearts when our present
struggle shall have ended. But for her motherly care and skilful
attention my son and many others must have died. One case of her
attention deserves special notice. A young man, who had been
previously with her, was taken sick in camp near Richmond. The surgeon
being absent, he lay for two weeks in his tent without medical aid.
She sent several requests to his captain to send him to her, but he
would not in the absence of the surgeon. She then hired a wagon and
went for him herself; the captain allowed her to take him away, and he
was soon convalescent. She says she feels that not their bodies only
but their souls are committed to her charge. Thus, as soon as they are
comfortably fixed in a good, clean bed, she inquires of every one if
he has chosen the good part; and through her instruction and prayers
several have been converted. Her house can easily accommodate twenty,
all in one room, which is made comfortable in winter with carpet and
stove, and adorned with wreaths of evergreen and paper flowers, and in
summer well ventilated, and the windows and yard filled with
green-house plants. A library of religious books is in the room, and
pictures are hung on the walls."
FEMALE RELATIVES VISIT THE HOSPITALS.
[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
There was no means of keeping the relations of patients from coming to
them. There had been rules made to meet their invasion, but it was
impossible to carry them out, as in the instance of a wife wanting to
remain with her husband; and, besides, even the better class of people
looked upon the comfort and care of a hospital as a farce. They
resented the detention there of men who in many instances could lie in
bed and point to their homes within sight, and argued that they would
have better attention and food if allowed to go to their families.
That _maladie du pays_ called commonly nostalgia, the homesickness
which rings the heart and impoverishes the blood, killed many a brave
soldier, and the matron who day by day had to stand helpless and
powerless by the bed of the sufferer, knowing that a week's furlough
would make his heart sing with joy and save his wife from widowhood,
learned the most bitter lesson of endurance that could be taught.
My hospital was now entirely composed of Virginians and Marylanders,
and the nearness to the homes of the former entailed upon me an
increase of care in the shape of wives, sisters, cousins, aunts, and
whole families, including the historic baby at the breast. They came
in troops, and, hard as it was to know how to dispose of them, it was
harder to send them away. Sometimes they brought their provisions with
them, but not often, and even when they did there was no place for
them to cook their food. It must be remembered that everything was
reduced to the lowest minimum, even fuel. They could not remain all
day in the wards with men around them, and if even they were so
willing, the restraint on wounded, restless patients who wanted to
throw their limbs about with freedom during the hot days was
unbearable.
Generally their only idea of kindness was giving the sick men what
food they would take in any quantity and of every quality, and in the
furtherance of their views they were pugnacious in the extreme.
Whenever rules circumscribed their plans they abused the government,
then the hospitals, and then myself. Many ludicrous incidents happened
daily, and I have often laughed heartily at seeing the harassed
ward-master heading away a pertinacious female who, failing to get
past him at the door, would try the three others perseveringly. They
seemed to think it a pious and patriotic duty not to be afraid or
ashamed under any circumstances. One sultry day I found a whole
family, accompanied by two young lady friends, seated around a sick
man's bed. As I passed through six hours later, they held the same
position.
"Had not you all better go home?" I said good-naturedly.
"We came to see my cousin," answered one very crossly. "He is
wounded."
"But you have been with him all morning and that is a restraint upon
the other men. Come again to-morrow."
A consultation was held, but when it ceased no movement was made, the
older ones only lighting their pipes and smoking in silence.
"Will you come back to-morrow and go now?"
"No! You come into the wards when you please, and so will we."
"But it is my duty to do so. Besides, I always ask permission to
enter, and never stay longer than fifteen minutes at a time."
Another unbroken silence, which was a trial to any patience left, and
finding no movement made, I handed some clothing to the patient near.
"Here is a clean shirt and drawers for you, Mr. Wilson. Put them on as
soon as I get out of the ward."
I had hardly reached my kitchen, when the whole procession, pipes and
all, passed me solemnly and angrily; but, for many days, and even
weeks, there was no ridding the place of this large family connection.
Their sins were manifold. They overfed their relative who was
recovering from an attack of typhoid fever, and even defiantly seized
the food for the purpose from under my very nose. They marched on me
_en-masse_ at 10 o'clock at night, with a requisition from the boldest
for sleeping quarters. The steward was summoned, and said "he didn't
keep a hotel," so in a weak moment of pity for their desolate state, I
imprudently housed them in my laundry. They entrenched themselves
there for six days, making predatory incursions into my kitchen during
my temporary absences, ignoring Miss G. completely. The object of
their solicitude recovered and was sent to the field, and finding my
writs of ejectment were treated with contemptuous silence, I sought an
explanation. The same spokeswoman alluded to above met me half-way.
She said a battle was imminent she had heard, and she had determined
to remain, as her husband might be wounded. In the ensuing press of
business she was forgotten, and strangely enough, her husband was
brought in with a bullet in his neck the following week. The back is
surely fitted to the burden, so I contented myself with retaking my
laundry and letting her shift for herself, while a whole month slipped
away. One morning my arrival was greeted with a general burst of
merriment from everybody I met, white and black. Experience had made
me sage, and my first question was a true shot, right in the center.
"Where is Mrs. Daniels?"
She had always been spokeswoman.
"In ward G. She has sent for you two or three times."
"What is the matter now?"
"You must go and see."
There was something going on either amusing or amiss. I entered ward
G, and walked up to Daniel's bed. One might have heard a pin drop.
I had supposed, up to this time, that I had been called upon to bear
and suffer every annoyance that humanity and the state of the country
could inflict, but here was something most unexpectedly in addition;
for lying composedly on her husband's cot (for he had relinquished it
for the occasion) lay Mrs. Daniels and her baby (just two hours old).
The conversation that ensued is not worth repeating, being more of the
nature of a soliloquy. The poor wretch had ventured into a bleak and
comfortless portion of the world, and its inhuman mother had not
provided a rag to cover it. No one could scold her at such a time,
however ardently they might desire to do so. But what was to be done?
I went in search of my chief surgeon, and our conversation although
didactic was hardly satisfactory on the subject.
"Doctor, Mrs. Daniels has a baby. She is in ward G. What shall I do
with her?"
"A baby! Ah, indeed! You must get it some clothes."
"What must I do with her?"
"Move her to an empty ward and give her some tea and toast."
This was offered, but Mrs. Daniels said she would wait until dinner
time and have some bacon and greens.
The baby was a sore annoyance. The ladies of Richmond made up a
wardrobe, each contributing some article, and at the end of the month,
Mrs. D., the child, and a basket of clothing and provisions were sent
to the cars with a return ticket to her home in western Virginia.
Sadie Curry And "Clara Fisher"
[I. L. U.]
In later years of the war a great many of the wounded soldiers were
brought from east and west to Augusta, Ga. Immediately the people from
the country on both sides of the Savannah River came in and took
hundreds of the poor fellows to their homes and nursed them with every
possible kindness. Ten miles up the river, on the Carolina side, was
the happy little village of Curryton, named for Mr. Joel Curry and his
father, the venerable Lewis Curry. Here, many a poor fellow from
distant States was taken in most cordially and every home was a
temporary hospital. Among those nursed at Mr. Curry's, whose house was
always a home for the preacher, the poor man, and the soldier, was
Major Crowder, who suffered long from a painful and fatal wound, and a
stripling boy soldier from Kentucky, Elijah Ballard, whose hip wound
made him a cripple for life.
Miss Sadie Curry nursed both, night and day, as she did others, when
necessary, like a sister. Her zeal never flagged, and her strength
never gave way. After young Ballard, who was totally without
education, became strong enough, she taught him to read and write, and
when the war ended he went home prepared to be a book-keeper. Others
received like kindness.
But this noble girl had from the beginning of the war made it her
daily business to look after the families of the poorer soldiers in
the neighborhood. She mounted her horse daily and made her round of
angel visits. If she found anybody sick she reported to the kind and
patriotic Dr. Hugh Shaw. If any of the families lacked meal or other
provisions, it was reported to her father, who would send meal from
his mill or bacon from his smoke-house.
In appreciation of her heroic work, her father and her gallant
brother-in-law, Major Robert Meriwether, who was in the Virginia army,
now living in Brazil, bought a beautiful Tennessee riding horse and
gave it to her. She named it "Clara Fisher" and many poor hearts in
old Edgefield were made sad and many tears shed in the fall of 1864,
when Sadie Curry and "Clara Fisher" moved to southwest Georgia.
Bless God, there were many Sadie Currys all over the South, wherever
there was a call and opportunity. Miss Sadie married Dr. H. D. Hudson
and later in life Rev. Dr. Rogers, of Augusta, where she died a few
years ago.
MANIA FOR MARRIAGE
[In Diary of a Refugee, pages 329-330.]
There seems to be a perfect mania on the subject of matrimony. Some of
the churches may be seen open and lighted almost every night for
bridals, and wherever I turn, I hear of marriages in prospect.
"In peace Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war he mounts the warrior's steed,"
sings the "Last Minstrel" of the Scottish days of romance; and I do
not think that our modern warriors are a whit behind them, either in
love or war. My only wonder is, that they find time for love-making
amid the storms of warfare. Just at this time, however, I suppose our
valiant knights and ladies fair are taking advantage of the short
respite, caused by alternate snows and sunshine of our variable
climate having made the roads impassable to Grant's artillery and
baggage-wagons.
A soldier in our hospital called to me as I passed his bed the other
day, "I say, Mrs. ----, when do you think my wound will be well enough
for me to go to the country?"
"Before very long, I hope."
"But what does the doctor say, for I am mighty anxious to go?"
I looked at his disabled limb and talked to him hopefully of his being
able to enjoy country air in a short time.
"Well, try to get me up, for, you see, it ain't the country air I'm
after, but I wants to get married, and the lady don't know that I am
wounded, and maybe she'll think I don't want to come."
"Ah," said I, "but you must show her your scars, and if she is a girl
worth having she will love you all the better for having bled for your
country, and you must tell her that--
"'It is always the heart that is bravest in war
That is fondest and truest in love.'"
He looked perfectly delighted with the idea; and as I passed him again
he called out, "Lady, please stop a minute and tell me the verse over
again, for, you see, when I do get there, if she is affronted, I wants
to give her the prettiest excuse I can, and I think that verse is
beautiful."
GOVERNMENT CLERKSHIPS
[In Richmond During the War, pages 174-175.]
From the Treasury Department, the employment of female clerks extended
to various offices in the War Department, the Post Office Department,
and indeed every branch of business connected with the government.
They were all found efficient and useful. By this means many young men
could be sent into the ranks, and by testimony of the chiefs of
bureaus, the work left for the women was better done; for they were
more conscientious in their duties than the more self-satisfied, but
not better qualified, male attaches of the government offices. The
experiment of placing women in government clerkships proved eminently
successful, and grew to be extremely popular under the Confederate
government.
Many a young girl remembers with gratitude the kindly encouragement of
our Adjutant-General Cooper, our chief of ordnance, Colonel Gorgas, or
the first auditor of the Confederate treasury, Judge Bolling Baker, or
Postmaster-General Reagan, and various other officials, of whom their
necessities drove them to seek employment. The most high-born ladies
of the land filled these places as well as the humble poor; but none
could obtain employment under the government who could not furnish
testimonials of intelligence and superior moral worth.
SCHOOLS IN WAR TIMES
[In Richmond During the War, pages 188-189.]
As the war went on a marked change was made in the educational
interests of the South. For a certain number of pupils, the teachers
of schools were exempt from military duty. To their credit be it
recorded that few, comparatively, availed themselves of this
exception, and the care of instructing the youth devolved, with other
added responsibilities, upon the women of the country. Only the boys
under conscript age were found in the schools; all older were made
necessary in the field or in some department of government service,
unless physical inability prevented them from falling under the
requirements of the law. Many of our colleges for males suspended
operation, and at the most important period in the course of their
education our youths were instructed in the sterner lessons of
military service.
HUMANITY IN THE HOSPITALS
[Richmond _Enquirer_, June 6, 1862.]
In our visits to the various hospitals, we cannot but remark, admire,
and commend the kindly harmony and sweet-tempered familiarity which
mark the intercourse of the ladies who have devoted themselves to the
care of the sick and the wounded. There is a unity in the actions and
solicitude of all which only a unity of motive could induce. The
amiable and unpretending sister of mercy, the earnest bright-eyed
Jewish girl and the womanly, gentle, and energetic Protestant, mingle
their labors with a freedom and geniality which would teach the most
prejudiced zealot a lesson that would never be forgotten. The
necessity of charity, once demonstrated, teaches us that we are one
kindred, after all, and whatever differences may exist in the peculiar
tenets of the many, all hearts are alike open to the same impulses,
and the couch of suffering at once commands their sympathy and reminds
them of an identity of hope and a common fate.
MRS. DAVIS AND THE FEDERAL PRISONER
[Augusta, Ga., _Constitutionalist_.]
A clerical friend of ours in passing through one of our streets a few
days since, to perform a ministerial duty--attending to the sick and
wounded in the hospitals--encountered a stranger, who accosted him
thus: "My friend, can you tell me if Mrs. Jeff Davis is in the city of
Augusta?"
"No, sir," replied our friend. "She is not."
"Well, sir," replied the stranger, "you may be surprised at my asking
such a question, and more particularly so when I inform you that I am
a discharged United States soldier. But (and here he evinced great
feeling), sir, that lady has performed acts of kindness to me which I
can never forget. When serving in the valley of Virginia, battling for
the Union, I received a severe and dangerous wound. At the same time I
was taken prisoner and conveyed to Richmond, where I received such
kindness and attention from Mrs. Davis that I can never forget her;
and, now that I am discharged from the army and at work in this city,
and understanding that the lady was here, I wish to call upon her,
renew my expressions of gratitude to her, and offer to share with her,
should she unfortunately need it, the last cent I have in the world."
Can it be truly charged on a nation that it was wantonly, criminally
cruel, when a generous foe bears testimony to the mercy, kindness, and
lowly service of the highest lady of the land?
SOCKS THAT NEVER WORE OUT
General Gordon tells of a simple-hearted country Confederate woman who
gave a striking idea of the straits to which our people were reduced
later in the war. She explained that her son's only pair of socks did
not wear out, because, said she: "When the feet of the socks get full
of holes, I just knit new feet to the tops, and when the tops wear out
I just knit new tops to the feet."
BURIAL OF AUNT MATILDA
[Mrs. R. A. Pryor's Reminiscences.]
This precise type of a Virginia plantation will never appear again, I
imagine. I wish I could describe a plantation wedding as I saw it that
summer. But a funeral of one of the old servants was peculiarly
interesting to me. "Aunt Matilda" had been much loved and, when she
found herself dying, she had requested that the mistress and little
children should attend her funeral.
"I ain' been much to church," she urged. "I couldn't leave my babies.
I ain' had dat shoutin' an' hollerin' religion, but I gwine to heaven
jes' de same"--a fact of which nobody who knew Aunt Matilda could have
the smallest doubt.
We had a long, warm walk behind hundreds of negroes, following the
rude coffin in slow procession through the woods, singing antiphonally
as they went, one of those strange, weird hymns not to be caught by
any Anglo-Saxon voice.
It was a beautiful and touching scene, and at the grave I longed for
an artist (we had no kodaks then) to perpetuate the picture. The level
rays of the sun were filtered through the green leaves of the forest,
and fell gently on the dusky pathetic faces, and on the simple coffin
surrounded by orphan children and relatives, very dignified and quiet
in their grief.
The spiritual patriarch of the plantation presided. Old Uncle Abel
said:
"I ain' gwine keep you all long. 'Tain' no use. We can't do nothin'
for Sis' Tildy. All is done fer her, an' she done preach her own
fune'al sermon. Her name was on dis church book here, but dat warn'
nothin'; no doubt 'twas on de Lamb book, too.
"Now, whiles dey fillin' up her grave, I'd like you all to sing a hymn
Sis' Tildy uster love, but you all know I bline in one eye, an' I
dunno as any o' you all ken do it"--and the first thing I knew, the
old man had passed his well-worn book to me, and there I stood at the
foot of the grave, "lining out":
"'Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep,
From which none ever wake to weep.'"
Words of immortal comfort to the great throng of negro mourners who
caught it up line after line, on an air of their own, full of tears
and tenderness,--a strange, weird tune no white person's voice could
ever follow.
"ILLEGANT PAIR OF HANDS"
[Phoebe Y. Pember.]
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. 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 essay in the surgical line. I had been
spectator often enough to be skilful. 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 have 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."
THE GUN-BOAT "RICHMOND"
[Scharf's Confederate Navy.]
The "Ladies' Defence Association" was then formed at Richmond,
with Mrs. Maria G. Clopton, president; Mrs. General Henningsen,
vice-president; Mrs. R. H. Maury, treasurer, and Mrs. John Adams
Smith, secretary. At its meeting, on April 9th, an address,
prepared by Captain J. S. Maury, was read by Rev. Dr. Doggett. In this
address it was eloquently stated that the first efforts of the
association would be "directed to the building and putting afloat
in the waters of the James River a steam man-of-war, clad in
shot-proof armor; her panoply to be after the manner of that
gallant ship, the noble _Virginia_." Committees were appointed to
solicit subscriptions, and so much encouragement was received that
the managers of the association called upon President Davis for
sanction of its purpose, which he gladly gave, and it was announced
that the keel of the vessel would be laid in a few days; that
Commander Farrand would be in charge of the work, and that he would be
assisted by Ship-builder Graves.
Words can but inadequately represent the energy with which the women
of Virginia undertook this work, or the sacrifices which they made to
complete it. That their jewels and their household plate, heirlooms,
in many instances, that had been handed down from generation to
generation and were the embodiments of ancestral rank and tradition,
were freely given up, is known. "Virginia," said they in their appeal,
"when she sent her sons into this war, gave up her jewels to it. Let
not her daughters hold back. Mothers, wives, sisters! what are your
ornaments of silver and gold in decoration, when by dedicating them to
a cause like this, you may in times like these strengthen the hand or
nerve the arm, or give comfort to the heart that beats and strikes in
your defence! Send them to us."
The organization, moreover, did not confine itself to urging upon the
women of the State that this was particularly their contribution to
the maintenance of the Confederacy. "Iron railings," the address
continued, "old and new, scrap-iron about the house, broken
ploughshares about the farm, and iron in any shape, though given in
quantities ever so small, will be thankfully received if delivered at
the Tredegar Works, where it may be put into the furnace, reduced, and
wrought into shape or turned into shot and shell." A friendly invasion
of the tobacco factories was made by a committee of ladies, consisting
of Mrs. Brooke Gwathney, Mrs. B. Smith, and Mrs. George T. Brooker,
and the owners cheerfully broke up much of their machinery that was
available for the specified purpose. Mrs. R. H. Maury, treasurer of
the association, took charge of the contributions in money, plate, and
jewelry; the materials and tools were sent to Commodore Farrand, and
an agent, S. D. Hicks, was appointed to receive the contributions of
grain, country produce, etc., that were sent in by Virginia farmers to
be converted into cash. By the end of April the construction had
reached an advanced stage; President Davis and Secretary Mallory had
congratulated the Ladies' Association upon the assured success of its
self-allotted task, and by the sale of articles donated to a public
bazaar or fair, almost a sufficient sum to complete the ship was
secured.
The _Richmond_ was completed in July, 1862, and although detailed
descriptions are lacking all mention made of her is unanimous that
she was an excellent ship of her type. Captain Parker says that "she
was a fine vessel, built on the plan of the _Virginia_."
Note.--Mrs. General Henningsen received from New Orleans boxes
containing articles to be sold for contribution to building the
Richmond. Among the articles were two beautiful vases, which were
bought by a gentleman of Richmond and are now in the possession of
his family. The Richmond was destroyed on the evacuation of the
Capital City.--J. L. U.
CAPTAIN SALLY TOMPKINS
[By J. L. Underwood.]
Southern women have cared little for public honors nor have they
courted masculine titles. But a recent number of the Richmond
_Times-Dispatch_ recalls the pleasant bit of history that in the case
of Miss Sallie Tompkins a remarkable honor was deservedly conferred
upon a worthy Virginia girl by the Confederate authorities.
While yet a very young woman Miss Tompkins used her ample means to
establish in Richmond a private hospital for Confederate soldiers. She
not only provided for its support at her own expense, but devoted her
time to the work of nursing the patients.
The wounded were brought into the city by the hundreds and there was
hardly a private house without its quota of sick and wounded. Quite a
number of private hospitals were established but, unlike Miss
Tompkins's splendid institution, charges were made by some of them for
services rendered. In course of time abuses grew with the system, and
General Lee ordered that they all be closed--all except the hospital
of Miss Tompkins. This was recognized as too helpful to the
Confederate cause to be abolished.
In order to preserve it it had to be brought under government control,
and to do this General Lee ordered a commission as captain in the
Confederate army to be issued to Miss Sallie Tompkins. Though a
government hospital from that time on, Captain Tompkins conducted it
as before, paying its expenses out of her private purse.
The veterans are proud of her record, and a movement is now on foot
among them to place Captain Tompkins in a position of independence as
long as she lives.
THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL
[From the Gray Jacket, pages 143-146.]
'Twas nightfall in the hospital. The day,
As though its eyes were dimmed with bloody rain
From the red clouds of war, had quenched its light,
And in its stead some pale, sepulchral lamps
Shed their dim lustre in the halls of pain,
And flitted mystic shadows o'er the walls.
No more the cry of "Charge! On, soldiers, on!"
Stirred the thick billows of the sulphurous air;
But the deep moan of human agony,
From the pale lips quivering as they strove in vain
To smother mortal pain, appalled the ear,
And made the life-blood curdle in the heart.
Nor flag, nor bayonet, nor plume, nor lance,
Nor burnished gun, nor clarion call, nor drum,
Displayed the pomp of battle; but instead
The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the draught,
The bandage, and the splint were strewn around--
Dumb symbols, telling more than tongues could speak
The awful shadows of the fiend of war.
Look! Look! What gentle form with cautious step
Passes from couch to couch as silently
As yon faint shadows flickering on the walls,
And, bending o'er the gasping sufferer's head,
Cools his flushed forehead with the icy bath,
From her own tender hand, or pours the cup
Whose cordial powers can quench the inward flame
That burns his heart to ashes, or with voice
As tender as a mother's to her babe,
Pours pious consolation in his ear.
She came to one long used in war's rude scenes--
A soldier from his youth, grown gray in arms,
Now pierced with mortal wounds. Untutored, rough,
Though brave and true, uncared for by the world.
His life had passed without a friendly word,
Which timely spoken to his willing ear,
Had wakened God-like hopes, and filled his heart
With the unfading bloom of sacred truth.
Beside his couch she stood, and read the page
Of heavenly wisdom and the law of love,
And bade him follow the triumphant chief
Who bears the unconquered banner of the cross.
The veteran heard with tears and grateful smile,
Like a long-frozen fount whose ice is touched
By the restless sun, and melts away,
And, fixing his last gaze on her and heaven,
Went to the Judge in penitential prayer.
She passed to one, in manhood's blooming prime,
Lately the glory of the martial field,
But now, sore-scathed by the fierce shock of arms,
Like a tall pine shattered by the lightning's stroke,
Prostrate he lay, and felt the pangs of death,
And saw its thickening damps obscure the light
Which make our world so beautiful. Yet those
He heeded not. His anxious thoughts had flown
O'er rivers and illimitable woods,
To his fair cottage in the Western wilds,
Where his young bride and prattling little ones--
Poor hapless little ones, chafed by the wolf of war--
Watched for the coming of the absent one
In utter desolation's bitterness.
O, agonizing thought! which smote his heart
With sharper anguish than the sabre's point.
The angel came with sympathetic voice,
And whispered in his ear: "Our God will be
A husband to the widow, and embrace
The orphan tenderly within his arms;
For human sorrow never cries in vain
To His compassionate ear." The dying man
Drank in her words with rapture; cheering hope
Shone like a rainbow in his tearful eyes,
And arched his cloud of sorrow, while he gave
The dearest earthly treasures of his heart,
In resignation to the care of God.
A fair man-boy of fifteen summers tossed
His wasted limbs upon a cheerless couch.
Ah! how unlike the downy bed prepared
By his fond mother's love, whose tireless hands
No comforts for her only offspring spared
From earliest childhood, when the sweet babe slept,
Soft--nestling in her bosom all the night,
Like a half-blown lily sleeping on the heart
Of swelling summer wave, till that sad day
He left the untold treasure of her love
To seek the rude companionship of war.
The fiery fever struck his swelling brain
With raving madness, and the big veins throbbed
A death-knell on his temples, and his breath
Was hot and quick, as is the panting deer's,
Stretched by the Indian's arrow on the plain.
"Mother! Oh, mother!" oft his faltering tongue
Shrieked to the cold, bare wall, which echoed back
His wailing in the mocking of despair.
Oh! angel nurse, what sorrow wrung thy heart
For the young sufferer's grief! She knelt beside
The dying lad, and smoothed his tangled locks
Back from his aching brow, and wept and prayed
With all a woman's tenderness and love,
That the good Shepherd would receive this lamb,
Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,
And shelter him in His all-circling arms,
In the green valleys of Immortal rest.
And so the angel passed from scene to scene
Of human suffering, like that blessed One,
Himself the man of sorrows and of grief,
Who came to earth to teach the law of love,
And pour sweet balm upon the mourner's heart,
And raise the fallen and restore the lost.
Bright vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine
Through all the darkness of this weary world--
Its selfishness, its coolness, and its sin,
Pure as the holy evening star of love,
The brightest planet in the host of heaven.