first time, a soldier’s burial; and a more solemn scene my eyes had
never beheld. The lone ambulance, the plain coffin, the sad strains of
music, the slow tread of the escort, the salute fired over the grave,
the absence of all mourning friends, rendered the scene peculiarly
solemn and impressive!
Who would believe that the human heart could ever become so lost to
all feelings of humanity as to rejoice and exult over the sufferings
and death of even an enemy? And yet I was told by the Rev. Mr. Reid
that he had seen those calling themselves ladies dance to the tune
of the “Dead March,” and clap their hands and exclaim, “Good, good!
there goes another Yankee!” on seeing a soldier’s funeral procession
passing slowly to the city of the dead. This seems almost incredible,
but Mr. R.’s word is unimpeachable. Rebel women there were exceedingly
bitter toward the North--that “Hydra-headed monster,” Secession, being
the great object of their worship. All the finer feelings and tender
sympathies of woman’s nature seem to have given place to malignant hate
and fiend-like cruelty.
I devoted my time evenings to cooking and preparing things for
distribution at the hospitals next day. The 24th inst. I went to Camp
Convalescent with forty-two pies and several gallons of sauce. The boys
seemed to think a piece of dried-apple-pie, however plain, one of the
greatest luxuries they ever enjoyed. The moment it was known there were
pies in camp our ambulance would be surrounded, and we, the occupants,
literally taken prisoners; some begging for themselves, others for a
sick comrade who was unable to leave the quarters. At such times how
earnestly I have wished that the miracle of the “loaves and fishes”
might be repeated.
The last three or four days of the month I spent in going the rounds
of the hospitals attending to special cases; and ere its close many a
noble heart ceased to beat, many a manly form was cold in death, and
many a newly-made grave might have been seen in the Soldier’s Cemetery;
yet comparatively few of the Michigan soldiers in the hospitals I
visited died--only four, I believe--two of the Eighth, one of the
Sixteenth Infantry, and poor William Eaton, of the First Cavalry, who
lingered beyond all expectation. He was the first Michigan soldier that
died to whom my attention was particularly called, and for whom I had
felt a special interest, and his death seemed like taking another from
our already broken circle.
“Warrior, rest! thy toils are ended,
Life’s last fearful strife is o’er;
Clarion-calls with death-notes blended
Shall disturb thine ear no more.
“Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber;
Peaceful, but how cold and stern;
Thou hast joined that silent number,
In the land whence none return.”
_CHAPTER IV._
MOUNT VERNON--JOHN DOWNEY--CHAPLAIN HOPKINS--MRS. MUNSELL--COLD
WEATHER--NEW ARRIVALS--GEN. BERRY AND DR. BONINE--DEATH OF
MASSACHUSETTS SOLDIERS--THANKSGIVING--RED TAPE--KIDNAPPING.
_November 4th._
As a party, consisting of Dr. Bonine and wife, Mrs. May and daughters,
and Mrs. Johnson, wife of Adjutant Johnson, of the Second Michigan
volunteers, were going to Mount Vernon this forenoon, they insisted
upon my going with them, and as I had never been there, and fearing
that another opportunity might not present itself during my stay here,
I consented to do so, provided they would call at Camp Convalescent
on their way, as I had a few quilts to dispose of. My request being
granted, we are soon on our way; arriving at camp, we distribute
our quilts, and head our horses for Mount Vernon, seven miles from
Alexandria. It is nearly noon when we arrive, and a few minutes after
we are within the same walls where once had lived and died the “Father
of his country.” The mansion is a two-story frame building, made in
imitation of marble, with a colonnade fronting the river. We are
conducted through the house--that is, the portion of it open to the
public--by the gentleman in charge of the estate, whom, I am sorry
to learn, is a secessionist. There are but few articles of furniture
left--an old harpsichord, table, sofa, a large blue platter, and a
bedstead--is about all. The bedstead, said to be a _fac-simile_ of the
one on which that great and good man died, stands in the room which
witnessed the closing scene of his life--a pleasant room on the second
floor, commanding a fine view of the Potomac. As I stood and looked
out upon the lovely landscape before me, I could not help thinking
how many times Washington had looked from the same window, upon the
same scenery--the same pleasant grove, the same sweet flowers, the
same grand old Potomac. But now he sleeps peacefully amid all these
beauties--he heeds not the tread of the stranger--the sound of the
war-drum disturbs not his slumbers.
In one of the rooms is Washington’s knapsack, holsters, and
medicine-chest. In the hall hangs the large iron key of the ancient
Bastile of France, presented to General Washington by General La
Fayette. The ceilings are stuccoed and contain many curious devices,
such as flowers, human figures, implements of husbandry, etc.
Having finished our visit here, we repair to the flower-garden,
through which we are conducted by a colored man, who claims to have
been a slave of General Washington. “I’ve lived here right smart; heap
o’ years afore mass’ and missis died,” he tells us. This garden is
beautiful, but sadly neglected. The greenhouse[1] contains many choice
plants. A variety of evergreens and stately forest trees, including
a large and beautiful magnolia--which we are told Washington brought
from Florida and planted with his own hands--constitute a fine grove
in front of the mansion. We gathered a few stray leaves, which had
fallen to the ground, as precious mementoes of the place. But the
most sacred spot is yet to be visited--the vault--where are deposited
the remains of that noble couple, George and Martha Washington. We
approach the sleeping dead with slow and cautious step, for it seems
that we are treading upon holy ground. Oh, what memories cluster around
this venerated tomb! The past and the present are strangely linked
together. The principle of universal liberty, for which he fought, is
that for which we are now contending. In the outer apartment of the
vault are two large sarcophagi, which can plainly be seen through the
iron grating; but the remains are deposited in the inner apartment.
On either side of the tomb are monuments erected to the memory of
different members of the family. We gather a few pebbles from the
vault as sacred relics from a consecrated tomb, and leave the sainted
dead to their silent slumbers.
[1] Since burned.
We next direct our steps to the spring-house, which is situated far
down the bank; we drink of the crystal waters of the spring, take a
peep into the house, and clamber back up the steep hill, return to the
mansion, rest for a few moments, drink once more of the sparkling water
from the “old oaken bucket that hangs in the well,” bid farewell to
Mount Vernon, and are soon safely at home again; and, though tired and
hungry, we feel that the trip has not been a lost opportunity. We saw
nothing more of the rebel officer whom we met on our way down, when we
all so much regretted that none of our party was armed, in which case
he would have been halted; for the idea of returning from a pleasure
excursion with a captured prisoner was not only romantic, but pleasing,
especially as our party consisted--with one exception--entirely of
ladies. Mount Vernon has not, like most places of the South, been
visited with the ravages of war, it being neutral ground, and held
sacred by both armies.
LINES SUGGESTED ON LEAVING THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.
Sleep on, brave warrior, sleep,
Thy work on earth is done;
Sleep on--thy mission is fulfilled,
And thou a golden crown hast won.
Sleep on, brave heart, sleep on,
While o’er thy tomb we weep,
And bow in humbleness of heart,
With holy reverence meet.
Sleep on and take your rest,
O noble patriot sire;
By old Potomac’s placid wave
We leave you sleeping sweetly there.
_November 5th._
Having heard that there was a young man in one of the hospitals
at Georgetown, who was with my dear brother while he lay on the
battle-field, after he had received his fatal wound, I resolved to see
him and learn, if possible, the particulars of those long weary days
and nights of suffering, preceding his removal to the hospital. I went,
therefore, this morning, and, after searching through five hospitals,
found him, and learned from him more of the care my brother received
than I had ever known before.
This soldier, John Downey, belonged to the same company with my
brother--Co. K, Eighth Michigan Infantry--and though himself wounded,
he refused to leave his friend until he saw him removed from the field,
each day managing to furnish a little something for him to eat, and a
cup of hot coffee, and suffering himself to be taken prisoner rather
than forsake his comrade. He tried to get a surgeon to dress his
wounds, but could not until it was too late, as each had to wait his
turn where there were so many to be cared for.
Brother was wounded late in the afternoon of September 1, and lay
on the field until the evening of the 5th, arrived at Alexandria
on the morning of the 6th, and died on the 9th. Before leaving the
battle-field he seemed to realize that he could not live, and committed
to the keeping of young Downey photographs of his family which he had
carried with him since first entering the service, saying, “Should
I not recover, please send these to my wife.” The request has been
granted. He saw him as he was put into the ambulance, after the
amputation of his limb, for that painful ride to Alexandria, a distance
of twenty miles or more. Noble boy! I shall ever hold him in grateful
remembrance for his kindness to my dying brother.
Hundreds of others were brought in that night in the same way. Oh, what
untold suffering those long weary miles witnessed! During that tedious
journey, at all hours of the night, whenever the train halted for a few
moments’ rest, two ministering spirits might have been seen going from
ambulance to ambulance with canteens of water, bathing inflamed wounds,
adjusting the little cushions under bleeding “stumps,” administering
some gentle stimulant to those weak and exhausted from the loss
of blood, speaking words of encouragement to the desponding, and
commending the dying to the Saviour. These were the Rev. Mr. Hopkins,
chaplain of the Mansion House Hospital, and Mrs. Munsell, a lady whose
soul seems absorbed in her work for the soldiers--a Southern lady, a
native of South Carolina, but loyal and true. They were returning from
the battle-field, where they had been working night and day among the
wounded and dying.
* * * * *
As the cold weather set in unusually early, and continued for some
time, the number of sick increased very rapidly.
The 18th inst., Dr. Cleveland, of the Second Michigan, came in from
the front with two hundred sick, one of whom died on the way. Large
accessions were also made to our hospitals from the surrounding camps,
especially the old Convalescent; and new arrivals always implied
increased labor. Of the sick thus brought in, death kindly relieved
many of their sufferings; yet I remember but two from Michigan who
died that month. These were Henry T. Gilmore of the Eighth, and Daniel
Morrell of the Fifth Volunteers. The last named I saw many times. Poor
boy! he lingered days after it became apparent that he must die. It was
my privilege frequently to administer to his wants, though I met with
some opposition from the surgeon-in-charge. He told me his patients
were sometimes injured by persons coming in and distributing food
indiscriminately to them; and what he would be glad for one patient to
have, would be injurious to another. But I still insisted upon taking
nourishment to Daniel, as he couldn’t relish anything cooked in the
hospital. I finally obtained the doctor’s consent, provided I would
bring only such and such articles. Having previously learned from
the nurses what he was allowed to eat, I complied with the surgeon’s
wishes. I always made it a rule to do so, believing that their judgment
was superior to mine, or at least ought to be, though I sometimes saw
those whom I thought knew less.
Toward evening of the 10th, after visiting hospitals all day, I
called at the Lyceum Hall, where I found Sergeant Colburn, a noble
Massachusetts soldier, dying. He had suffered long months from the
effects of three fearful wounds, yet he had always appeared hopeful;
but those ghastly wounds had made too great a drain upon his system.
Nature yielded to the stern mandate of the “king of terrors.” I sat by
his bedside some two hours bathing his parched lips and heated brow,
and watching the flickering taper of life, slowly yet surely burning
out; but as there was a prospect of his lingering some hours longer,
and having other duties to attend to, I rose to go, promising to call
again in the morning. He extended his cold, bony hand, and bade me
“good-by,” while he gave me a look that said, “You will not see me in
the morning.” And sure enough, the next morning all that remained of
Sergeant Colburn was the clay tenement robed in white. The brother whom
he had so anxiously hoped to see ere his departure arrived soon after
his death, and returned with the remains of this once noble form to the
stricken band at home. And thus one after another sealed his devotion
to his country with his life-blood, “all warm from his heart.”
Never more the roar of battle
E’er shall break our soldier’s sleep--
Safe the rest they won, and o’er it
Angel sentries guardiance keep.
_November 27th._
Thanksgiving day, Miss Jones came on from Philadelphia with a sumptuous
dinner for her boys in Lyceum Hospital. She had eight barrels and
five boxes filled with good things, consisting of vegetables of all
kinds, fruits, roast turkey, nice home-made bread, butter, cheese,
pickles, jellies, tea, coffee, sugar, celery, etc. It was a complete
surprise, and, as may be imagined, a joyful one. It was my happy
privilege to assist in preparing and distributing this beautiful
Thanksgiving dinner. After all had eaten until they could eat no more,
there still remained several barrels unopened, which Miss Jones took
to Camp Convalescent and distributed among the poor, half-fed soldiers
belonging to her own State. What a luxury, roast turkey at this camp!
When she retires this night, how happy she will be in the thought of
having made so many hearts rejoice--while many a “God bless you” will
follow her to her home. Truly, it is more blessed to give than to
receive.
In all of our hospitals they have had an extra dinner, and, in some,
pleasant gatherings in the evening of all who are able to leave their
rooms, at which speeches were made, toasts given, and a general good
time enjoyed.
* * * * *
Towards the latter part of November, I learned from bitter experience
the meaning of the phrase “red tape,” so commonly made use of in the
army.
I also fell in with a practice which I had always greatly abhorred,
that of kidnapping--not black men however, but white men--soldiers.
But in this business I never had--as many kidnappers must have--any
remorse of conscience. Perhaps it was because I stole with the
free will and consent of the stolen, but somehow I felt that I was
bidden “God-speed.” I know I had the benediction of the soldiers
and their friends, and God’s approval; what more could I ask? My
kidnapping consisted in bringing sick men from Camp Convalescent
without permission. My reason for this course will be seen at length.
At one of my visits to this--as the boys called it--“confounded old
camp,” I found several Michigan soldiers very ill, lying upon the
cold damp ground, with no fire, no medical attendance, little or
nothing they could eat, with such care only as their comrades, under
the circumstances, could give. I resolved to get them admitted, if
possible, into some hospital before I slept. So going to the commanding
officer--Col. Belknap--I told him there were several sick men in camp
whom I wished to take with me to Alexandria. He very politely refers
me to Dr. Jacobs, the surgeon-in-charge, who will give permission to
remove them. On calling at his office, I found that he had left for
Alexandria only a few moments before. Hurrying back to Alexandria, I
find the doctor and make my wishes known, and receive the reply, “I
will gladly do so, but you must first get a written statement from
the surgeon of the hospital where you wish to take them, certifying
that he will admit them; then come to me and I will give you a written
permit to remove as many as you like.” We drove over to Fairfax street
Hospital in full faith that the required certificate would be obtained;
but imagine my disappointment on hearing Dr. Robertson--who, by the
way, was one of the kindest and best surgeons it was my good fortune
to meet while in the army--say, “I wish I had the authority to give
you such a statement--you will have to see Dr. Summers.” (I will
here state that these hospitals were divided into the First, Second
and Third Divisions. Dr. R.’s hospital was in the first division, of
which Dr. S. had charge, and, consequently, subject to his orders.)
My heart almost failed me as I turned away, for I had but little hope
of success left, and was not much disappointed to hear Dr. S. sternly
say, “I have no authority to give you any such permission. You will
have to go to Washington and see the Medical Director.” It was now
dark, and Saturday at that, consequently I could not see the Medical
Director before Monday. I returned home well-nigh discouraged, but
made up my mind that, if I lived to see another day, I would go on my
own responsibility and bring them away. So early the next morning, “it
being the first day of the week,” I sent for my ambulance and started
for camp, having first been assured by Dr. Robertson that he would
assume the responsibility of admitting the boys into the hospital,
in case I should succeed in getting them out of camp. An hour later
I had the pleasure of seeing six of them safely quartered in Dr.
R.’s comfortable hospital, where they were kindly cared for. One,
however--Edward Furnam, sick with pneumonia--needed care only a short
time. He lingered a few days, and then went to join the army composed
of the “boys in white.” Of all the soldiers to whose comfort it was my
privilege to administer, there is none whom I remembered with feelings
more peculiarly sad. His imploring look for help as I saw him that
Saturday evening in his tent--his expressions of gratitude after his
removal to the hospital, the feeling experienced upon seeing, so soon,
so unexpectedly, his vacant bed, have left an indelible impress on my
mind. The others recovered, one of whom I was joyfully surprised to
meet at Portland, Michigan, last winter; and who still claims that his
timely removal from camp was the means of robbing Death of his prey.
[Illustration: _Orville Wheelock_]
_CHAPTER V._
A CRUEL EXPERIMENT--THE QUARREL--MY BROTHER’S LAST
LETTER--THE APOLOGY--SPECIAL CASES OF INTEREST--A HAPPY
MEETING--BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG--MCVEY HOSPITAL--REV. J. A. B.
STONE--CHRISTMAS--RUMORS--CLOSE OF THE YEAR.
_December 1st._
Quite a change in the weather. Though the first day of winter, it is
warm and pleasant. Have been to three hospitals with various articles,
both of food and clothing. At the Baptist Church I saw a noble-looking
man cold in death, who might have been living still but for the wicked
experiment of a surgeon in probing his wound, and then injecting a
substance which so irritated the nervous system that it produced
convulsions, followed by lockjaw; and death, in a few hours, was the
result. He was able to be about the ward at the time the probing was
done, but from that moment he suffered the most excruciating pain,
till death came to his relief. He leaves a wife and two children to
mourn his untimely death. For the truth of this statement, I refer to
Dr. Hammond--surgeon-in-charge--in whose absence the operation was
performed, and from whom I learned the above facts.
In St. Paul’s Hospital, among the many serious cases, there is one
whose pale face and patient endurance of suffering have enlisted all my
sympathy. This is a New York soldier, a beautiful young man of perhaps
twenty-two summers. He has received a mortal wound in the body; life is
slowly ebbing away, and he expects soon to receive a “starry crown, and
robe of white.”
_December 3d._
Among the hospitals visited to-day was St. Paul’s, where I had a
quarrel with a surgeon. As I entered the hospital I met the doctor in
one of the aisles. I saw at once there was something wrong, but not
for a moment thinking that I was the “rock of offence,” when in an
authoritative manner he demanded to know what I had in that bowl. “Tea,
doctor,” was my reply. “Who is it for?” “That New York man over there;
he can’t drink the tea made here, so I bring him some occasionally--any
objections, doctor?” “I’ve no objections to the tea, but I don’t want
_you_ to bring any more here.” Before I had time to reply, he had
left the ward. As the poor fellow drank the tea, and returned the
bowl--being weak and childish--he burst into tears and begged me to
“come again,” while others expressed their regrets, saying, “The
doctor is real mean to act so.” “Never you mind, boys,” said I; “I
shall surely come again; the doctor and I will have a settlement, and
we will find out what all this means.” I left the hospital, feeling
deeply grieved at the rude treatment I had received; having given, to
my knowledge, no provocation whatever.
The evening after this unpleasant experience, I received a letter from
my widowed sister, enclosing my brother’s photograph; also, a letter he
had written a short time before he was wounded--the last ever traced
by his dear hand for me. It was sealed and directed, but not mailed,
having been found after his death in his diary and sent to his wife,
who forwarded to me. The following is the letter, written only twelve
days before the battle of Chantilly, where he received that fatal wound:
“CAMP NEAR CEDAR MOUNTAIN, VA.,
_August 18th, 1862_.
“VERY DEAR SISTER--After so long a delay, I attempt to answer your
very kind letter, dated, I think, about the first of July. I have not
your letter with me now, as I send all the letters I get to Anna.
It was about a month in tracing me out, which accounts for your not
receiving an answer sooner; and, since receiving it, we have been
constantly on the move, and, as I am still acting Orderly Sergeant,
I have my hands full, as you may well imagine. I, as well as the rest
of our regiment, have seen some hard times since leaving home last
Spring. I have seen the time more than once that it would have been
a luxury to have lain down in the road, or most any place. Had any
one told me that I could have endured what I have, I certainly should
not have believed him; yet I am still in good health. I wrote Anna
yesterday. I told her you would have to wait until we get settled
before I wrote you, expecting to be on the move again to-day. But this
morning things looked as though we were going to stay here a day or
two, and I thought I would write you a good long letter and give you
a description of the country and of our different marches, thinking
perhaps it would interest you; but I had scarcely began when the
order came for ‘three days’ rations in our haversacks;’ so, you see,
we shall soon be on the march again. We are at present some four or
five miles from Culpepper Court House, and about two from the late
battle-ground. Jackson has retreated across the Rapidan, and I presume
we shall cross over in pursuit of him. He _must_ be overcome, cost
what it may. Do not forget to pray for me. Do what you can to comfort
and cheer Anna. Tell her all will yet be well. Our regiment is in the
9th corps, which is attached to ‘Pope’s Grand Army of the Potomac.’
You must watch the papers and keep track of our brigade. Colonel Crist
is in command; look for his brigade to learn the fate of the Michigan
8th. I have much to write, but must close. Remember me at the Throne
of Grace.
“Your brother,
ORVILLE WHEELOCK.
“P. S.--Direct to Co. K, 8th Mich. Vols., 9th Corps, Washington, D. C.”