THE BOYS IN WHITE.
[Illustration: _Julia S. Wheelock_]
THE BOYS IN WHITE;
THE
EXPERIENCE
OF
A HOSPITAL AGENT
IN AND AROUND WASHINGTON.
BY JULIA S. WHEELOCK.
“Whether on the tented field,
Or in the battle’s van,
The fittest place for man to die
Is where he dies for man.”
NEW YORK:
PRINTED BY LANGE & HILLMAN,
STEAM BOOK AND JOB PRINTERS, 207 PEARL ST.,
NEAR MAIDEN LANE.
1870.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
JULIA S. WHEELOCK,
In the Clerk’s Office of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia.
Printed by LANGE & HILLMAN,
207 Pearl Street,
Near Malden Lane, N.Y.
PREFACE.
From September, 1862, to July, 1865, I was in the hospitals in and
around Washington. I kept a journal of my experience, portions of which
appear in this volume. The journal was kept for my personal benefit,
and not for publication. Much of it was written late at night when so
wearied by excessive labor, anxiety, and excitement, that I would not
unfrequently fall asleep with the pen in my hand. I often sat upon a
box or some rude bench, and held my book on my lap as I wrote, and now
this journal, condensed, is thrown into the lap of the public and of
my friends, who have earnestly requested that “The Boys in White” may
be embalmed, as well as the “Boys in Blue.” My object in going South
was to help care for a wounded brother. When I left home I expected
to remain only until he became able to travel; but, upon arriving in
Alexandria, we found that death had already done its work. A little
mound of earth in the soldier’s cemetery marked the spot where that
dear, almost idolized brother slept, and thus our bright hopes and
fond anticipations were suddenly and forever blighted. I resolved to
remain and endeavor, God being my helper, to do for others as I fain
would have done for my dear brother. A field of labor soon presented
itself which I most gladly entered. Justice to our noble soldiers
demands that I should here state that, during my hospital and army
experience of nearly three years, I was uniformly treated with the
utmost courtesy and respect. I know it was thought and even said by
some, that a lady could not be associated with the army without losing
her standard of moral excellence. I pity those who have such a low
estimate of the moral worth and true nobility of the soldier.
I have sometimes been asked if I did not feel afraid when in the midst
of so many soldiers. I can truthfully say that I never knew what fear
was when in the army, for I felt that every noble boy in blue was my
brother and protector. What cause had one to fear, when brave, heroic
hearts and strong arms were ever ready to defend?
Any one, during war’s dark hours, whose mission was to do good, was
almost an object of worship by those so wholly excluded from home
influences. For, if there ever was a time when the better angel of
their nature guarded the citadel of their hearts, it was in the
presence of woman--when she was a true representative of what that
sacred word implies.
I take this opportunity to express my sincere thanks to the officers
of the “Michigan Relief Association,” with which I was connected,
for their kindness and forbearance; to our military State agents,
Dr. J. Tunnecliff and Rev. D. E. Willard, to whom I never appealed
in vain for aid or counsel; also to military agents of other States,
and to the officers and agents of various “State Reliefs.” We were
greatly indebted to the Christian Commission for large supplies which
we frequently drew from their stores, and for occasional drafts on
the Sanitary Commission. Officers of the Government, and hospital
officials, as a rule, were kind and obliging. Our thanks are also due
to our Congressmen and other Michigan gentlemen residing in Washington,
who were ever ready to assist us in our work.
That this little volume may be the means of renewing the acquaintance
and of strengthening the friendship of those who labored together
in this blessed work, as well as of the soldiers themselves, is the
earnest desire of my heart. If this shall be the result, I shall feel
that I have not written in vain.
I take the liberty of publishing the following private letter from
Grace Greenwood:
WASHINGTON, _May 10th, 1869_.
MY DEAR MISS WHEELOCK:
I am pleased to hear that you propose to make a book of your varied
and interesting reminiscences of the war, and of the touching records
of our brave soldiers which you have treasured up.
I well remember seeing you at your post of duty with the army, at
the camp of a portion of the Second Corps, on the Rapidan, in that
critical time of the great struggle, the winter of 1864, just before
the grand move of the army under General Grant, which resulted in the
fall of Richmond.
I saw you at your lonely and sad, but most noble and womanly work, and
felt gratified that the poor, sick soldiers had such a friend in their
darkest hours.
Truly those past heroic days should be kept in remembrance, and every
faithful record of them should be welcome to us. So I hope your little
literary enterprise may be successful.
Truly yours,
GRACE GREENWOOD.
THE BOYS IN WHITE.
_CHAPTER I._
RETROSPECT--HOME-LEAVING--LAKE
ERIE--ALLEGHANIES--ACCIDENT--WASHINGTON--PROVOST MARSHAL--THE
PRESENTIMENT--BLIGHTED HOPES--ORVILLE WHEELOCK--MY BROTHER’S GRAVE.
ALEXANDRIA, VA., _Oct. 1, 1862_.
Well, here I am, strange as it seems, in the rebellious city of
Alexandria! Alone, among strangers, hundreds of miles from home and
kindred, surrounded by scenes new and strange; scenes of sadness, of
suffering, of death.
As I look over the past, it does not seem possible that only three
weeks have elapsed since leaving home. Oh! what a lifetime one may live
in a very short period, when it is measured by heart-throbs instead
of years. While retrospecting, memory goes back to the morning of
the 10th of the month just closed. Its dawn is calm and beautiful.
Nine o’clock finds me in the old red school-house in the township
of Ionia, Michigan, where are assembled the rural children and youth
for instruction. All are joyous and happy. Three days more and the
term will close. This day promises to end as it began, full of joy
and gladness--yet, knowing that the fearful battles of Bull Run and
Chantilly had recently been fought, we were anxiously waiting for
tidings from the loved one who had gone to battle for the “dear old
flag,” and, if need be, die to maintain its honor. But the interval
that had elapsed since the occurrence of those bloody conflicts gave
us reason to hope that _our_ soldier brother was safe. Nor voice, nor
spirit, nor sighing wind, nor playful breeze, told of the future. But
time on rapid wing approached with tidings the most heart-crushing. A
child is made the bearer of the sad message.
About three o’clock, while engaged in hearing a recitation, there is
a gentle tap at the door--a little girl steps upon the threshold; her
eyes are red with weeping, and, in great agitation, she says: “Orville
is wounded; his limb is amputated. He has sent for Anna, and she
starts for Washington to-morrow!” My womanly heart said, that “Orville
Wheelock, my brother, must not suffer alone. I will accompany Anna to
Washington.”
The dawn of the morning of the 11th was calm and peaceful, but to
us every breeze seemed laden with sighs from some stricken heart.
Little Minnie gathered a bouquet of flowers to send to “dear papa,”
and every blossom was a wish that he might come home. At nine o’clock
sister and I bade adieu to friends, and in Ionia village we were joined
by Mrs. Peck, the sister of my brother’s wife, who was starting to
Washington to care for her wounded husband. Off at two o’clock. Soon
the enterprising little town of Ionia is lost in the distance. Familiar
objects fade from our view, and all becomes new and strange--as this is
my first ride over the Detroit and Milwaukee Railroad. The scenery is
rather monotonous along the line of the road--the country most of the
way being new--though every few miles we pass thriving little villages
which have sprung up within a few years as if by magic, and which
northern industry and enterprise will soon convert into fine cities,
and those dismal swamps and marshes into beautiful meadow lands. At
Detroit we take the steamer “May Queen,” bound for Cleveland. The
evening is delightful. The stars one by one shine forth from the blue
canopy above, and their gentle light is reflected from the blue expanse
below; and while we gaze, the full-orbed moon emerges from the waters,
and, “blending her silvery light with that of her sister stars,” adds
new lustre to the scene.
At eight o’clock we leave the shores of Michigan, and are soon plowing
our way through the blue waters of Lake Erie. How pleasantly and
quickly would have passed the hours of that long night, were it not for
the sad mission upon which we were going. The battle-field with its
thousands of mangled forms, the dead and the dying, and all the horrors
connected with such scenes of carnage, are spread out before us. These,
with the conflicting hopes and fears, which alternately take possession
of our hearts, banish “tired nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep.”
We land in Cleveland at 5 A. M., purchase tickets for Washington via
Philadelphia. After four weary hours of waiting, we find ourselves
comfortably seated in the cars, and are hurried on toward our
destination. We arrive at Pittsburg at 2 P. M., where we change cars,
and hasten away, leaving the dingy, smoke-wreathed city in the distance.
As we approach the Alleghanies, the scenery becomes picturesque and
grand, often approaching the sublime. Those mountain ranges with their
lofty peaks towering heavenward, those rocky cliffs and deep gorges,
those long tunnels through which we pass, where in a moment midnight
darkness succeeds to the brightness of noon, producing feelings--one
might imagine--akin to a sudden exchange of worlds. While passing
through these tunnels an almost breathless silence prevails--scarce a
whisper is heard until we again emerge into the light. Next we describe
a semi-circle around a sharp curve; then we pass through some deep cut;
across valleys, where now and then we catch a glimpse of some little
town with its long rows of white-washed buildings, nestled cosily at
the foot of the mountains. New objects appear for a moment and are
gone, until at length the day wears away, and night drops her sable
curtain o’er the scene.
We pass Harrisburg in the night, so we have not even a glimpse of the
capital of the old Keystone State. All is hushed and still; we have
just composed ourselves for a little sleep, when suddenly there is a
crashing and jarring which throws many from their seats; but in a few
moments all is explained--the cars are off the track. The first thought
is, that some villainous “Reb” had placed obstructions on the track,
but the truth is soon known: an innocent horse is the cause of the
accident, and “Johnny Reb” is for once wrongfully accused.
No one seriously hurt; only a few moments’ delay; the passengers
are crowded into the few remaining cars, and we are soon on our way
again, leaving the poor horse on both sides of the track. We arrive in
Philadelphia at four A. M., where we wait for the eleven o’clock train
to Baltimore. We saw but little of the city. Being very tired, and
having our minds constantly occupied with anxious thoughts and fearful
forebodings, we felt no desire for sight-seeing.
The seven long hours we have to wait at length wear away, and once
more we find ourselves hurrying on toward the monumental city, where
we arrive about three P. M. The bloody scene which transpired in the
streets of this great and beautiful city, the 19th of April, 1861, came
fresh to memory. It was here the loyal blood of Massachusetts’ patriot
sons was first shed--not, however, by a manly foe, but by a furious,
disgraceful mob, which mad riot incited to deeds of violence and blood.
But, oh! what thousands since then have fallen, and still the sword is
unsheathed! We would adopt the language of the Psalmist: “How long, O
Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph?”
After a short delay, once more the shrill whistle is heard, and again
we are moving on toward the nation’s capital, where we arrive in good
time. The first object that attracts our attention is that magnificent
building--the Capitol. But, as it is getting late, we engage a hack,
and go directly to Columbian Hospital in search of Mr. Peck, having
learned that he was there; but to the great disappointment of us all,
and especially of his poor wife, we found that he had been sent only
the day before to Point Lookout, and, it being impossible for her
to procure transportation to that place, the hope of seeing him had
to be abandoned. Oh, how trying, after travelling three weary days
with a babe in her arms, to be just one day too late. Too late! How
significant and full of meaning those little words! How many have been
one day too late, and no hope of a re-union on earth! It now being too
late to go to Alexandria--the boats having already stopped running--the
fond hope of seeing the dear husband and brother that day had to be
given up. Oh, how could we remain even for one night with only the
Potomac between us and the dear object of our search! What if this
should be his last night on earth? What if his released spirit should
take its everlasting flight ere the dawn of another day? How could we
say, “Thy will be done”? But there is no alternative. We must wait.
On our way to Columbian Hospital we passed thousands of our soldiers,
some of them apparently having recently arrived--judging from their
clean uniforms--while others had evidently seen hard service, looking
worn and tired, and well-nigh discouraged. We concluded that they
belonged to Pope’s grand army, which had so recently retreated from
the disastrous battle-field of Bull Run. We wondered how such numbers
could have been defeated. To us, having never before seen more than
a single regiment at a time, it was a vast army. We began to realize
that we had a mighty foe to contend with, and as we looked upon those
war-scarred heroes--heroes, notwithstanding the retreat--we could not
help repeating to ourselves: “Poor boys, how little you or we know what
lies before us; there may be many battles to be fought, and, perhaps,
some more inglorious retreats. Many of you will see home and friends no
more; your final resting-place will be upon Southern soil.”
Early next morning we hastened to the Provost Marshal’s office to
obtain passes for Alexandria. Arriving at the office, hope almost dies
within us, for we see this notice: “No passes granted on Sunday.”
What is to be done, now? Shall we retrace our steps, and wait another
twenty-four hours in such terrible suspense? No, we resolved not to
leave until an effort had been made, and the last argument exhausted
in setting forth the justice of our claim. We entered the office,
found it already filled with applicants, saw one after another as
they applied and were refused. Tremblingly we crowd our way to the
Marshal’s chair, and with the greatest respect, and more deference
than is meet should be paid to mortals, request passes to Alexandria.
He straightens himself up, and with the cold dignity of a prince,
replies: “Don’t you know we don’t give passes on Sunday? Why do you
ask us to violate orders?” Still acting as spokesman, I inquired: “Will
no circumstances justify you in granting a pass to-day?” “Well, what
are the circumstances,” said he, in the same stern manner. Our story
was briefly told, after which, with some hesitation, and watching us
closely to see whether we were deceiving him, he directed them to be
made out. Oh, what a load was that moment lifted from our hearts! Those
little strips of paper, how precious! With tears of gratitude we left
the office, and immediately started for the boat landing, and were
soon on the steamer “James Guy,” and off for Alexandria, eight miles
down the river. How delightful, had we been on a pleasure excursion!
Scenes and scenery so entirely new! The forts along the river, with
those iron-throated monsters looking defiantly upon us, almost
causing one to shrink back with terror, were a great curiosity. The
beautiful residence of Gen. Robert E. Lee, now his no longer--having
been forfeited by treason--on Arlington heights, half hidden amid
stately forest trees and luxuriant evergreens, was pointed out to us;
also the Washington Navy Yard, the Arsenal and the Insane Asylum. But
what attracts our attention more than all else, are the multitudes of
soldiers with their snowy tents skirting the banks on either side of
the river, and extending back as far as the eye can reach, covering
every hill-side and every valley, which, with the desolate appearance
of the country, remind us that we are in the presence of WAR.
Soon the ancient city of Alexandria--ancient in American
history--heaves in sight. It presents a gloomy, dingy, dilapidated
appearance. As we set foot upon the “sacred soil,” we experience
quickened heart-beatings, for we know that this terrible suspense will
soon give place to, it may be, a dreadful reality. As we pass up King
street we pause a moment to look at the building where the brave young
Ellsworth fell, drop a tear to his memory, and hasten on. Turning from
King into Washington street, we notice a soldier in full uniform with
a shouldered musket, pacing to and fro in front of what appeared to
be a church. We are told by the guard that it is the Southern M. E.
Church, but now used for a hospital. We enter the building, make known
the object of our visit, but find he is not there. My poor sister could
go no farther; she seemed to have a presentiment that her worst fears
were about to be realized. “Oh!” she says, “his wound is fatal, for
he came to me in my dreams only a few nights since, looking worn and
pale and haggard, having lost a limb in battle, and seemed to say,
‘My work is done, I’m weary and must rest.’” She felt that his work
_was_ done, and if so, well done, having “fought the good fight and
kept the faith,” and that he had gone to receive the crown. And yet,
amid these consoling reflections, thoughts of her own desolation and
the great loss she would sustain if her fears were realized, would
rush upon her with an overwhelming force, crushing out life’s bright
hopes, while the language of her heart was, “Who will care for the
fatherless now?”--forgetting for the time the promise of God, “Leave
thy fatherless children with me and I will preserve them alive.” We
tried to comfort her, saying we should soon have him with us; that one
so strong, physically, would certainly survive the amputation of a
limb; and, bidding her be of good cheer, Mrs. Peck and I hastened to
the next hospital--the Lyceum Hall--but to our anxious inquiry met with
the same reply as before. We cross the street to the Baptist church,
which is also used for a hospital, our fears every moment increasing.
Happening to look back before entering this hospital, to the one we
had just left, we saw some one beckoning to us to return. Hope began
to revive; we hurried back and were told he was there, and doing well,
though still very weak. Our informant asked us if we would see him?
“No,” we replied, “not until we have informed his wife,” requesting him
in the meantime to try and prepare his mind to see her, cautioning him
to break the news very carefully, fearing that the excitement might
prove injurious to one so weak. Having given these instructions, I left
Mrs. P., and hurried back with a light heart and a quick step to the
hospital where my sister was waiting in such agony of suspense. She
heard my voice before reaching the hospital, exclaiming at almost every
step: “I’ve found him! I’ve found him! Oh, Anna, come quickly!” I did
not realize that I was in the streets of a city, attracting the notice
of passers-by, nor did I much care, for a deep anxiety and long days of
suspense had given place to joyful hopes and sweet anticipations.
She rose to accompany me, hesitated a moment, and then sank back upon
her seat, and with a look almost of despair, says: “Julia, are you
_sure_, have you seen him?” I assured her, that though I had not seen
him, there could be no mistake, for they certainly would not have said
he was there, had he not been. Thus reassured she rose the second
time, took my arm, and we started. We had gone but a few steps when
our ears were saluted with the sad and mournful tones of the fife and
muffled drum, and on looking back we saw a soldier’s funeral procession
approaching--a scene I had never before witnessed, but one with which I
was destined to become familiar. How unlike a funeral at home! No train
of weeping friends follow his bier; yet one of our country’s heroes,
one of the “boys in white,” lies in that plain coffin. He is escorted
to his final resting-place by perhaps a dozen comrades, who go with
unfixed bayonets, and arms reversed, keeping time with their slow tread
to the solemn notes of the “Dead March,” plaintively executed by some
of their number.
“Aye! follow his corpse to its last long rest,
With the fife and muffled drum;
It is meet that he should be honored thus,
Who a soldier’s work has done.”
The tear of sympathy unbidden starts at the sight of the “unknown,” and
for the bereaved friends who weep in far off homes. In a few minutes
we are at the Lyceum Hospital where, instead of the realization of
our hopes, heart-rending tidings await us. He who, but a few moments
before, was the bearer of such good news, again makes his appearance;
but why is his countenance so sad? His own words will tell. “I was
mistaken, he is not here;” but something either in his tone or manner
indicated that he had been there, and at the same moment we all
inquired: “Oh, where is he?” “He is dead!” was the reply. Oh, that
terrible word--“dead!” How suddenly it blighted our fond hopes, and
turned our anticipated joy into the deepest grief.
From the hospital we were conducted to the Rev. Mr. Reid’s, my poor
sister being carried in an almost senseless condition, where we spent a
sleepless night brooding over our sorrow and shedding the unavailing
tear. Oh! that never-to-be-forgotten day! A day not only of bright,
but blighted hopes, a day of mourning, of sadness and bereavement,
a day that revealed to an anxious wife that she was a widow and her
children fatherless; a day that said to my sad heart, “Thy brother has
fallen.” He died like thousands of others, far from home and friends,
with no loved kindred near. But God had sent an angel of mercy in human
form--that noble girl, Miss Clara F. Jones, of Philadelphia--to watch
over and administer to his wants. She watched him day by day as he grew
weaker, she stood beside him in his dying moments, held his icy hand
in hers, wiped the death dew from his brow, received his last message
for his wife and child, and, when life had fled, prepared him as far as
she could for his burial. Such are her daily duties. May God reward her
with the rich blessing of his love.
My brother was one of those with whom religion was a vital principle.
He heeded the injunction of the Saviour, “Go work in my vineyard.”
And when the tocsin of war was sounded, and there was a call for
volunteers, he committed all to God, and cheerfully responded to that
call and hastened to the rescue of his imperilled country, and, while
battling for freedom and humanity, he felt that he was fighting for
God, and that he was still in his Master’s service.
The night of his death Mr. Reid spent the evening with him, speaking
words of comfort and Christian consolation. But to the dying saint
death had no terror, for “his anchor was cast within the veil,” and
“that anchor holds.” He could adopt the sweet words of the poet:
“Father! the pearly gates unfold,
The sapphire walls, the streets of gold
Are bursting on my sight;
The angel bands come singing down,
And one has got my starry crown
And one my robe of white.”
The morning of the 15th, sister Anna and I, accompanied by Rev. Mr.
Reid and wife, Miss Jones and Chaplain Gage, visited brother’s grave.
Oh! how could we realize, as we stood by that little, narrow, turfless
mound, that dear Orville lay there? His poor heart-broken widow threw
herself upon his grave and gave vent to her deep grief in sobs and
bitter tears. Nearly three hundred brave “boys in white” lay side by
side in the same enclosure, with not even a stone to mark the place
where they were sleeping, nor a spear of grass growing upon their
graves, simply buried out of sight; but each little mound is cherished,
oh, how sacredly by some one!
Night winds are mournfully sweeping,
Whispering oak-branches wave
Where your loved ashes are sleeping,
Forms of the true and the brave!
Silence reigns breathless around you,
All your stern conflicts are o’er;
Deep in the sleep that hath bound you,
Trumpet shall rouse you no more.
Sweet and serene be your slumbers!
Hearts for whose freedom ye bled,
Millions whom no man can number,
Tears of sad gratitude shed.
Never shall morn brightly breaking
Enter your chambers of gloom,
Till the last trumpet awaking,
Sounds through the depth of the gloom.
We returned to Mr. R.’s, feeling that the grave was a poor place to go
for consolation in times of affliction; but there is comfort in the
promise, “Thy brother shall rise again.” If you ask where my brother
shall rise, I reply: “The scene of his death and burial is to be the
scene of his resurrection.” “How beautiful the thought, that, when the
trumpet sounds, the dead shall come forth from the spot whereon they
fell. The sailor who found a watery grave will emerge from his long
deep resting-place; the warrior who fell upon the battle-field will
rise side by side with him who was slain by his hand, their feuds all
ended.”
“Whole families will stand together on some green spot which they have
adorned with care; brother and sister will rise side by side, and long
parted friends will re-unite.”
“They will rise to enjoy all that angels feel of the celestial love
and peace, to swell the anthem of the redeemed, which, beginning upon
the outer ranks of the hosts of God, rolls inward, growing deeper and
louder until it gathers and breaks in one full deep symphony of praise
around the throne.” “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive
honor, and power, and glory, and dominion for ever and ever!”
Viewed in this light, what a glorious idea the resurrection is! How
does it destroy the fear of death, and take away the dark appearance of
the grave!
_CHAPTER II._
MR. REID--LOYAL FRIENDS--VISIT TO THE LYCEUM--HOSPITAL--MISS
JONES--LIEUTENANT STEVENSON--THE DECISION--FRIENDS--RETURN--THE FIRST
WOUNDED--APPOINTMENT AS AGENT--FAIRFAX SEMINARY--HOSPITAL OF THE FIRST
MICHIGAN CAVALRY--NEW SCENES--FIRST HOSPITAL WORK.
Our kind host and his excellent lady were untiring in their efforts
to give consolation. We found them to be the most devoted friends of
the soldiers, and the purest patriots of which our country can boast.
They had been driven from their home in Martinsburg, Va., where Mr.
Reid was preaching, and were refugees for several months, Mr. R. barely
escaping with his life. They know full well what it costs to be loyal
to the flag of their country in these perilous times, having sacrificed
everything but life itself in its defence. When treason became so bold
and threatening that he no longer dare pray, as had been his wont, for
the President of the United States and his advisers, he would pray for
those in authority, “and the Lord knew,” he says, “I did not mean Jeff.
Davis.” Their sacrifice and sufferings have only made the fires of
loyalty burn with an intenser heat upon the altar of their hearts.
The second day after our arrival, Chaplain Anderson, of the Third
Michigan Volunteers, called to see us; also, some of the good loyal
ladies of the city--of whom I am sorry to learn there are so few--and
extended their kind sympathy. We felt very grateful to those dear
friends: we did not expect to find so much true sympathy among
strangers. But, oh! they could not heal the wound that death had made.
_Sept. 16th._
To-day we visited the Lyceum Hospital, where so recently dear Orville
took his leave of earth. Only a few days ago he was among the sufferers
there; now he is forever at rest. The hospital is full of the wounded
from the late battles, suffering, oh, so much, and yet so patiently!
There are many others upon whom Death has already set his seal, and
whose places will soon be vacant, or occupied by others. Oh, how I long
to stay and go to work for them! Perhaps I might be the means of saving
somebody’s _husband or brother_.
This hospital was in a most wretched condition until the advent of Miss
Jones, under whose wise management and untiring efforts it has greatly
improved. Everything that woman can do will be done by her for her
“boys,” as she calls them. She is indeed an angel of mercy to those
poor sufferers. Mrs. May, wife of Chaplain May, of the Second Michigan,
called on us this afternoon. She is one of those who has a heart to
sympathize with the afflicted everywhere.
During the day we have had some business to attend to concerning
my deceased brother’s effects and back pay. But now, as the shades
of another night draw around us, and all is hushed and still, what
thronging memories come! How keen, how intense the agony of mind under
God’s afflictive dispensations, and how hard at such times, without
large supplies of grace, to say from the heart, “Even so, Father, for
so it seemed good in thy sight!”
_Sept. 17th._
This morning we took leave of our kind host and lady, the dear Miss
Jones, and other friends, and, with one long, lingering look at that
hospital, around which, to us, a sacred solemnity still lingers,
hastened to the wharf and took the first boat to Washington. We had
scarcely landed, when a fine-looking officer approached us, and
extended his hand to my sister, inquiring at the same time, “Did you
find your husband?” She could make no reply; there was no need of
words, he understood it all. We soon recognized the countenance of
Lieutenant Stevenson, of the Second Michigan Volunteers, with whom we
fell in company on our way to Washington. In a moment he is gone, and
we see him no more; but the earnest solicitude of the stranger to know
whether our fond hopes were realized, and his kind sympathy in our
affliction, will long be cherished as one of the pleasant remembrances
of this sad journey. And we will pray God to watch over and protect
him and return him in safety to his dear family. But should he fall
amid the din of battle, or become a victim to disease, may kind hands
administer to his wants, and loving, sympathizing friends comfort the
bereaved widow and orphans. We engage a room for the night at Mr.
Treadway’s, a family formerly from Detroit, now residing at No. 541
H Street (which has since become noted as the place where that dark
assassination plot was concocted which robbed the nation of its chosen
leader), and then call to see Hon. J. M. Edmunds, President of the
Michigan Soldiers’ Relief Association, to learn what was necessary to
be done in order to secure a pension for my sister. He received us
kindly, and gave us the desired information.
My mind is at length made up to remain, and engage in the work of
caring for the sick and wounded, as my desire to do so has increased
with every day and almost every hour since our arrival. I am also
encouraged to do so by Mrs. Brainard, an agent of the Michigan
Association, boarding at this place.
_Sept. 18th._
Sister Anna and Mrs. Peck started for Michigan this morning. One week
ago to-day, we left home for this city. Oh! what bitter experiences,
what anxious fears, what terrible suspense, what dreadful realities
have been ours in this one short week! As I bade my sister “good-by” at
the cars, she exclaimed, “Oh, Julia! How can I return to my children
without their father? Their injunction, ‘Be sure and bring papa home
with you,’ still rings in my ears.” My heart was too heavily burdened
to reply; the train moved on; I retraced my steps, and have spent the
remainder of the day in my room lonely and sad, reflecting upon the
past and trying to penetrate the future.
A few days after my sister’s arrival home, instead of joy and gladness,
the friends meet with bowed heads and stricken hearts to observe the
solemn services of a soldier’s funeral. Rev. Isaac Errett officiated.
His sermon being extemporaneous, not even a synopsis of it was
preserved. The following appropriate hymn was sung:
“Servant of God, well done!
Rest from thy loved employ.
The battle fought, the victory won--
Enter thy Master’s joy.
“At midnight comes the cry,
‘To meet thy God prepare!’
He woke and caught his Captain’s eye,
Then, strong in faith and prayer,
“His spirit, with a bound,
Left its encumbering clay;
His tent, at sunrise, on the ground
A darkened ruin lay.
“Soldier of Christ, well done!
Praise be thy new employ;
And, while eternal ages run,
Rest in thy Saviour’s joy.”
* * * * *
I remained at Mr. Treadway’s until the 31st, and, while awaiting an
opening for work, visited hospitals with Mrs. Brainard. The 25th, I saw
for the first time the wounded as they came from the battle-field--the
bloody field of Antietam. They were taken to the Patent Office
Hospital. Oh! those bloody, mangled forms will long be fresh in
memory. Some were able, with the help of a comrade, to crawl up the
stairs, while others were carried up on stretchers. A few moans were
heard, but no complaining, and no loud groaning, as I expected to hear.
Mrs. B. had a basket filled with cakes and crackers, which we handed
them as they were carried past us. How eagerly they were caught by
those who had an arm to raise.
The sight was too much for me; I was completely unnerved, and found it
impossible to conceal the emotions so deeply stirred in my inmost soul.
I returned to my room to weep over the sufferings I was powerless to
alleviate. Oh, cruel, cruel war!
_Sept. 29th._
This morning I received an appointment from Judge Edmunds, as visiting
agent for the society of which he is the President. Alexandria is to
be my field of labor for the present--the very place I had wished and
prayed for, since there the object of my hopes, only two weeks ago
so bright, lies buried. How rejoiced I am in the prospect of work. I
trust I shall be enabled to do some little good--to alleviate some poor
sufferer, and to encourage the desponding.
During my short stay in Washington I have seen but little--speaking
of the city itself--to attract notice. The public buildings are very
fine, the Capitol magnificent; remove these, and Washington is shorn of
its beauty.
_Sept. 30th._
I came over to Alexandria this morning, in company with Mrs. Brainard,
Mrs. Colonel Fenton, and Miss Moor. I have engaged board at Mrs.
May’s, at five dollars per week. Soon after arriving, an ambulance,
which Mrs. M. had ordered, reported, and we all went out to Fairfax
Seminary Hospital, a distance of about three miles from the city. This
is a large hospital, and will accommodate several hundred patients. It
is situated in a delightful place, standing on a high eminence, and
commanding a fine view of the country for miles around. It was formerly
a theological seminary; hence Seminary Hospital. The patients appeared
comfortable, and, as a general thing, cheerful. The hospital wore an
air of neatness, which made it seem quite home-like. On our way back
we called at the hospital of the First Michigan Cavalry, which we
found much more comfortable than I expected; in fact, I think those
large airy tents are much better for hospital purposes than close
rooms. The country, before the war, must have been beautiful; but now,
so desolate! Fences gone, buildings in ruins, shrubbery destroyed,
fields uncultivated--all showing the sad effects of desolating
war--while in every direction may be seen the “canvas home” of the
soldier. Frequently we passed squads of men under drill--recruits, I
suppose--their glistening bayonets and gleaming swords sparkling and
flashing in the sunlight, innocent of the destructive work they will
soon aid in executing. Every now and then we caught sight of the stars
and stripes proudly floating from some strongly-fortified place, with
its big guns bidding defiance to the enemy. At almost every step I was
reminded of that dear brother, who only three weeks ago closed his eyes
in death, and now lies buried in yonder cemetery. He no more rallies at
the bugle’s call, or starts at the tap of the drum, but he sleeps with
his comrades in arms, in the sacred soil “of historic old Virginia”
where, through the branches of the tall cedars over his head, the
sighing winds of autumn sing his requiem, and the placid waters of the
Potomac murmur at his feet.
“Sleep, brother, sleep, for your last march is ended,
Thy bright morning star has in midnight descended--
Sleep ’neath the flag which your valor defended,
War’s battle-drum shall awake you no more.
“Rest from life’s wearisome troubles and sorrows.
Rest from the griefs which assail us each morrow,
Yours is the peace that we gladly would borrow,
Yours is a joy of a battle safe o’er.”
_Oct. 1st._
To-day, the date at which my journal begins, I have spent nearly all my
time in the hospitals; in fact this has been my first hospital work,
though having been to them before, but simply as a visitor. Now I have
something to do, and I am happy in the hope of being able to do some
good. The experience of this day teaches me that no one--especially
a lady--who is in sympathy with our cause can visit these hospitals
without doing good. Her very presence is cheering to the soldier. A
kind, cheerful look, a smile of recognition, one word of encouragement,
enables him to bear his sufferings more bravely.
I am now, where I have earnestly prayed to be ever since the war began,
among the sick and wounded, that I might in some degree supply personal
wants and relieve present necessities; yet I have never seen an opening
before. But that mysterious Providence “whose ways are past finding
out” has appointed me a field of labor, the path hereto passing through
the deep waters of affliction. I sometimes feel like exclaiming,
O God! I dare not pray,
Thou answerest in so strange a way.
_CHAPTER III._
MICHIGAN RELIEF ASSOCIATION--ALEXANDRIA HOSPITALS--CONVALESCENT
CAMP--FORT LYON--GENERAL BERRY’S BRIGADE--SOLDIER’S BURIAL--REBEL
WOMEN--EVENING WORK--DEATH OF MICHIGAN SOLDIERS.
Perhaps I ought here to give a brief account of the Society with which
I was connected. This Association was organized in the autumn of 1861,
but was not, according to the report of one of its officers, called
into full activity until the spring of 1862. “This was the first
organization of the kind upon the Atlantic slope, and the last to
leave it.” Its officers at the time I became a member were: Hon. J. M.
Edmunds, of Detroit, President; S. York Atlee, of Kalamazoo, and Mr. F.
Myers, Vice-Presidents; Dr. H. J. Alvord, of Detroit, Secretary; and Z.
Moses, of Grand Rapids, Treasurer.
Mrs. Brainard and myself were at this time the only regularly employed
visiting agents, and were the only agents who remained with the
Association year after year. Others were employed for a few weeks or
months, as the exigencies of the times demanded. Our time and labor
were gratuitously bestowed, as were also the services of the officers;
hence it will be seen that it cost comparatively little to keep the
“institution” running--a large proportion of all the funds received
going to the direct relief of our needy soldiers. The above-named
officers, with the exception of one of the Vice-Presidents and the
Secretary, remained with the Association during the entire period of
its existence, and were earnest and efficient laborers. I will now give
a condensed report of my work for the month of October, 1862:
This was my initiation month. I spent my time in preparing and
distributing supplies to the hospitals in the city--of which there
were fourteen, including some twenty different buildings--and the
surrounding camps. These hospitals would accommodate from two to
fifteen hundred patients each. All of the largest and finest private
residences, the churches--with two exceptions--school buildings, and
hotels, were converted into hospitals. The largest of these was the
“Mansion House,” formerly known as the old “Braddock House,” in one of
the rooms of which--at this time used for an office--General George
Washington held his Councils of War. The same old furniture was still
in use.
Our Michigan soldiers were scattered through all these hospitals, and
to find out and visit every one was no small task, it being almost
a day’s work to go through one of the largest. After having gone
the rounds once, and obtained a list of the names of those I was to
visit, the number of their ward, and what each one needed, the work
of supplying these wants would have been comparatively light, were
it not for the changes which were constantly taking place by death,
discharges, transfers, furloughs, new arrivals, and returns to duty,
which were of almost daily occurrence.
In my visits to these hospitals I seldom went empty-handed; sometimes
taking cooked tomatoes or stewed fruit, at others, chicken broth,
pickles, butter, cheese, jelly, tea hot from the stove, and, in
addition to these, I would frequently buy oranges, lemons, and fresh
fruit, according as the appetite seemed to crave. Besides, I gave
out clothing to those most in need--such as shirts, drawers, socks,
slippers, dressing-gowns, towels and handkerchiefs, also stationery and
reading-matter. During this month I received a nice box of goods from
Ionia. Could the donors have known how much good that one box did, they
would have felt amply repaid for all they ever did for the soldiers,
and encouraged to renewed efforts in the good work.
I made several visits to old “Camp Convalescent”--very properly called
“Camp Misery”--which was about a mile and a half from the city. Pen
would fail to describe one-half its wretchedness. Here were from ten
to fifteen thousand soldiers--not simply the convalescent, but the
sick and dying--many of them destitute, with not even a blanket or an
overcoat, having little or no wood, their rations consisting of salt
pork and “hard tack,” whatever else might have been issued they had no
fire with which to do the cooking, consequently much of the time they
were obliged to eat their pork raw. Oh! how many times my heart was
wrung with pity, and indignation too, on seeing those shivering forms
with their thin, pale faces, cold and hunger-pinched, sitting upon the
sunny side of their tents, eating their scanty meal.
While our hearts were justly filled with indignation toward the rebel
government for its inhuman treatment of their prisoners, should they
not also have been toward our own, for thus shamefully neglecting those
within its reach? I do not pretend to say that this camp equalled
Southern prison-pens in degradation and wretchedness; but _they_ were
beyond our control, while over _this_ floated the flag of our country.
Think of men sick with fever, pneumonia, or chronic diarrhœa, eating
raw pork and lying upon the cold, damp ground, with only one blanket,
and, it may be, none, and the wonder will be, not that they died, but
that any recovered. I would not be understood to say that all in this
camp were thus feeble and destitute, but there were many such; while,
at the same time, there were others, who, had they possessed a spirit
of true manliness and patriotism, would have been ashamed to have been
seen hanging around the Convalescents’ Camp, but would have been found
at the front, at their posts of duty.
There were, at this time, some two hundred Michigan men in this camp.
Their tents were pitched on a side-hill, so that, when it rained, the
water would run through them like a river, in spite of the little
trench surrounding each one. I was frequently told that when there was
a drenching rain they were obliged to stand up all night to keep their
clothing from being completely saturated, and, wrapping their blankets
around them, they like true soldiers submitted to their fate.
During the cold, chilly nights, those not fortunate enough to possess
a blanket were compelled to walk to and fro the entire night to keep
warm, thus pacing off the long, weary hours while waiting for the dawn,
and, when the sun was up, lie down and sleep beneath his cheering
rays, and so prepare themselves for another night’s tramp. Methinks
there will be a fearful account for some one to settle when the “final
statements” are forwarded to the Court of Heaven.
In going to “Camp Misery” I always filled my ambulance--when I had
one--with quilts, under-clothing, towels, handkerchiefs, pies, stewed
fruits, and whatever else I happened to have on hand. Mrs. May and
daughters usually accompanied me, and assisted in distributing the
goods. This was always a pleasant task; pleasant, because some hearts
were made happier, and a few shivering forms more comfortable. And
yet there was sadness mingled with all the pleasure experienced in
this blessed work. To have so many cups presented as the last spoonful
of sauce was dished out, and after the supply of clothing had been
exhausted, to hear the appeals--“Say, got any more socks there?”
“Drawers all gone?” “Can’t you let me have a flannel shirt?” “I’ve the
rheumatis awful.” “Haven’t another of those quilts, have you?” “Pretty
cold nights,”--and not satisfied until they had taken a peep into the
ambulance to be sure there was not something held in reserve for some
one more highly favored than themselves, would produce a sadness of
heart which could be relieved only by a continued distribution of the
articles needed. We could only tell them to keep up good courage--that
we would come again soon, and leave them, a little comforted, with the
hope of being served the next time.
I have sometimes been told that soldiers were not half as destitute as
they often pretended to be, and that we were frequently imposed upon.
Be that as it may, the fact that imposition was practised upon us by
unprincipled men rendered the needy no less deserving, and would not
have justified us in ceasing our efforts in their behalf. The soldier
had my confidence. I looked upon him as good and true, consequently I
might not have detected frauds as readily as some; neither do I believe
I was imposed upon as frequently as I would have been had I always
doubted his word and suspected he was trying to deceive me.
Then there was the camp of paroled prisoners, where some fifteen
hundred were waiting to be exchanged, who demanded not only our
sympathy but our supplies; yet they were not as destitute as many at
Camp Convalescent, as clothing was issued by the Government soon after
their arrival. Neither were they as reduced and emaciated as many who
were returned to us from Southern prisons during the latter part of the
war. The troops stationed at Fort Lyons were also greatly in need. Upon
one of my visits to this fort, among other things wanted, one of the
sick--a young, delicate-looking boy--wished to know if I couldn’t bring
him a feather-bed; but the nearest I could come to it was a good soft
pillow. There was so much needed and so many to be supplied, that the
little I could do with the limited means at my disposal seemed like a
drop of the ocean.
After one of my visits to these depots of misery, I went out in company
with Mrs. May and daughters to General Berry’s Brigade, encamped near
Munson’s Hill, a few miles from Alexandria. I found several of my
former friends and school-mates, while others, alas! were missing.
Where were “Eldred,” and “Birge,” and “Woodward?” Had they, too, gone
to swell the ranks of the “Boys in White?” Ah! yes; young Birge, the
Christian boy, was sleeping at Fair Oaks; Woodward, only a few weeks
before, closed his eyes in death at Fairfax Seminary; and Eldred--the
gifted, the pride of his class--at Georgetown. They left their books
and college halls for the camp, the bivouac, the battle-field, and a
soldier’s grave.
“Let them rest, the fight is over,
And the victory bravely won;
Softly wrap their banner round them,
Lay them low, their work is done.”