Or like a meteor’s ray
Of brilliancy upon the sight,
He calmly passed away.
And thus a gentle spirit’s gone
To seek its home above,
And mingle with that holy throng,
With Him whose name is Love.”
_December 6th._
Cold and unpleasant. Have been to St. Paul’s again--the hospital
where I had the quarrel a few days since--with some more tea and
raspberry-sauce for the sick. The doctor happened to be in, making his
“grand round.” Now is my time, thought I; so, setting down my dishes,
I approached him and asked an explanation of his strange conduct
toward me a few days before. He replied, in anything but a pleasant
tone: “You are a nurse in Wolfe Street Hospital, and have no business
to interfere with mine; and I don’t want you to come here any more.”
“You are mistaken, doctor. I do not belong to Wolfe Street, or any
other hospital,” was my somewhat indignant reply. “Well, where do you
belong? and what is your business?” On showing my appointment from
Judge Edmunds, I noticed a sudden change in his appearance, and I never
saw any one more profuse with apologies. “I acknowledge my rudeness.
I know I was hasty; but I felt vexed to think a nurse from another
hospital should trouble herself about my affairs. But it’s all right
now; I do not intend to cease to act the part of a gentleman. I hope
you will continue your visits to my hospital. Come whenever it suits
your convenience best, and bring in for the boys any thing you see
fit. You need never trouble yourself to ask me; I will trust to your
judgment.” Of course I couldn’t help forgiving the doctor; but, after
all, I can’t see why I should be entitled to more consideration, or my
judgment considered superior to what it would have been had I been a
nurse in some particular hospital. How much better it would be to treat
every one with true politeness, which costs nothing, and thereby save
ourselves much deep mortification.
_December 11th._
This morning I went to Camp Convalescent with an ambulance filled
with quilts, flannel shirts, socks, towels, handkerchiefs, sixteen
pies--which I made last evening--and two large pails of stewed fruit,
which I distributed among our needy soldiers. I found three quite
sick, for one of whom I procured admittance to the “Examining Board”
for discharge, and took the other two to Fairfax Street Hospital, in
Alexandria. Came home, wrote two letters, and then went with some
delicacies to St. Paul’s.
Poor Clark--the young man previously referred to as being so seriously
wounded in the body--was, to all human appearance, dying. His
grief-stricken mother is with him. I remained two or three hours: he
still lingered. As it was getting late, and being very tired, I came
home, when Mrs. May went over and stayed until a late hour with them.
_December 12th._
Cold and windy. This morning went again to St. Paul’s. To my surprise
I found young Clark still living, but another poor sufferer had
passed away before him; he had just breathed his last. His mother,
who was with him when he died, was then making preparations to
take the body of the poor boy to her home. As I could render no
assistance, I left these scenes of mourning and grief, and went to
other hospitals. In visiting five, I found a large number whose names
were added to my list. This cold weather is causing much sickness.
Another of our boys--Henry Tenyck, of the 5th, for whom I have felt
a deep solicitude--is no more. In one of the hospitals I saw a man
who had been accidentally shot through the lungs, for whose recovery,
his physician says, “there is no hope.” Sad sights are an everyday
experience. Death is at work, as the lone ambulance on its way to the
“silent city” too plainly tells. Soon after returning home from a tour
through the hospitals, a gentleman called, who was in search of a sick
son, and wanted to know if I could give him any information in regard
to him. As soon as the name--Frank Rowley--was mentioned, I recognized
it as the name of one of the boys whom I had “stolen” a few days before
from old “Camp Misery,” and, donning my hat and shawl, I accompanied
the anxious father to the hospital where his son was. That joyful
meeting of father and son I shall never forget. As the young man caught
a glimpse of his father on his entering the room, he sprang up in bed,
and, with extended arms, exclaimed, “Oh, my father! my father!” while
the tears chased each other in quick succession down his pale cheeks.
In a moment they were clasped in each other’s arms, and both weeping
for joy. I left them to enjoy their visit without interruption. The
evening has been devoted to letter-writing for soldiers.
_December 15th._
A terrible battle has been raging all day at Fredericksburg, but no
particulars have been received. We can only hope and pray that the God
of battles may speed the right.
Have visited four hospitals: took clothing, wine, and fruit. I first
went to Prince Street Hospital, with some clothes for Monroe, of the
Sixteenth, another of our noble, patient boys, who is as brave under
sufferings as amid the dangers of battle. For months he has lain upon
his narrow cot, much of the time suffering intensely from a severe
wound in the thighs, yet never uttering a word of complaint. We hope
the crisis is passed, as he seems to be convalescing, though yet very
low.
My next visit was to the Methodist Episcopal Church, with a bottle of
wine for one very sick with pneumonia, who has failed very rapidly
during the past few days. From here I went to the McVey House, a
hospital recently established as a branch of Camp Convalescent. While
there, two more brave soldiers closed their eyes in death--one from
Michigan, and the other from Maine. They came from far-distant homes,
but died together. In the same hospital, with their cots only a few
feet apart, they laid their lives a sacrifice upon their country’s
altar at the same time.
Dr. Holmes, of Lansing, is here to take the body of young Morehouse
home to his weeping relatives and friends; while the Maine soldier will
soon sleep with his comrades in yonder cemetery.
“Farewell! A little time, and we,
Who knew thee well, and loved thee here,
One after another, shall follow thee
As pilgrims through the gate of Fear,
Which opens on Eternity.”
My last visit was at Washington Hall, where I found several new
arrivals, some of whom are very sick. Oh, how much there is to be
done! The entire evening has been devoted to making pies and stewing
fruit, to take to the hospitals to-morrow, though I have felt more like
folding my hands and weeping over the sad experiences of the day.
_December 16th._
After visiting Fairfax Hospital, I went again to Camp Convalescent
with pies, stewed fruit, and under-clothing. Mrs. May and Mrs. Bonine
accompanied me, and assisted in giving out my supplies to those who
seemed most in need, though that was rather a hard matter to decide.
We succeeded in getting four, who were wholly unfit for service,
admitted to the “Examining Board” for discharge, and two others who
were very sick were brought by us to Alexandria, and admitted into
Fairfax Street Hospital. Cousin George Jennings, whom I found here
about the middle of last month, is still at the old camp; having taken
“French leave,” he is now with us, and will remain until to-morrow. He
is still quite lame from the effects of a wound received on the 15th
of last April, at the battle of Wilmington Island, and there is no
prospect of his ever being fit for duty again; yet he is kept, like
multitudes of others, who ought to be discharged and sent home to their
friends. What a comfort to himself and family, could he have been with
them when his only son, a dear little boy of fifteen months, was buried
a few weeks ago. But no, he must follow the intricate windings of “red
tape” a little longer.
* * * * *
Though the wounded from Fredericksburg are daily expected, as yet none
have arrived. Burnside’s army has been forced to fall back and recross
the Rappahannock. Our loss is estimated at ten thousand--another great
slaughter and nothing gained. Oh! when will these scenes of carnage
cease? Echo answers, “when!”
_December 18th._
Have been busy this forenoon cooking and unpacking the goods which I
brought yesterday from our storerooms in Washington. This afternoon
cousin Jennings’ “leave” having expired, I ordered an ambulance and
took him back to camp--taking my sauce and pies along of course--and
brought back three sick men to McVey Hospital. I had some trouble in
getting them admitted, as there was a new surgeon in charge of the
camp, whose office was in this building, and none hereafter were to
be removed without his permission. It was now dark, and the nurses
dare not admit them without the doctor’s knowledge. Dr. Curtis was a
stranger to me, and, not knowing what kind of a reception I might meet
with, I hesitated a moment, quite undecided what course to pursue;
but, finding there was no way but to go and see him, I ran up-stairs
to his office and related what I had done. “Well,” said the doctor
good-naturedly, “you mustn’t do so any more, but come to me and I
will give you permission at any time to remove as many as you wish.
I am trying to get matters systematized, so that I shall know just
how many men I have in camp. I only want to know who are removed,
when and where; you may tell the ward-master to admit those you have
with you, and I will see that they are not reported without leave.” I
left his office with a lighter heart than I had entered it, hastened
down-stairs, did my errand, and returned home, where, to my great
surprise, I found the Rev. Dr. J. A. B. Stone, President of Kalamazoo
College. He has been to Fredericksburg to look after his son, and
obtained for him a leave of absence. How many a father has visited that
gory field in search of sons, and found them, if found at all, torn and
mangled and bleeding, or, it may be, already cold in death.
This evening I have been reminded of other days--those years so
pleasantly and profitably spent at Kalamazoo, which I shall always
look upon as an era in the history of my life; but other scenes
far different now occupy my time. I am pursuing a course of study
altogether different, but perhaps not less instructive. Received a
letter from John R. Stone of Ionia, containing a draft for forty
dollars, cheerfully contributed by friends and acquaintances in
response to an appeal made them to defray for a time my personal
expenses on account of the state of the finances of our association.
I thank those dear friends in behalf of the soldiers, for it is in
reality a gift to them.
_December 23d._
I spent the day in cooking at McVey Hospital. All were so kind--doctor,
steward and nurses--and the patients so grateful, that my work was
a real pleasure. This hospital is not as comfortably supplied as
most hospitals in the city; I have furnished it with a number of
sheets, pillows, and towels, besides what I have given to individual
cases. During the past few days hundreds of wounded have arrived from
Fredericksburg, among whom I have found a large number of Michigan
soldiers--fourteen in one hospital. Doctor Stone accompanied me one day
in my hospital visits, as he wished to learn something of the manner
in which they are conducted. Before leaving for Michigan he added ten
dollars to the amount I had received from home the day of his arrival.
The doctor carries home with him my heart’s best thanks.
_December 25th._
Another “merry Christmas!” “Merry,” did I say? Sad and sorrowful
would perhaps be more appropriate. To me it has been a day both of
joy and sorrow. I spent most of it in Grace Church Hospital, having
been previously invited to assist about a dinner to which the inmates
have done ample justice. In all the hospitals, as far as I have yet
learned, they have had a nice Christmas dinner. This is indeed a source
of pleasure. But the thought that within the past few days many a home
circle has been broken, many a hearth made desolate, and thousands of
hearts wrung with anguish, is cause enough for sadness. Add to this
the vast amount of suffering at present endured; list to the mournful
music daily heard; behold the lone ambulance slowly moving on to yonder
cemetery; count there the newly-made graves; think of the dark future
into which we are plunging, and it seems there would be no place left
for joy. But it is not always best to look on the dark side of any
picture; this gloomy cloud which at present hangs over our country may,
after all, have a “silver lining.” All will yet be over-ruled for good;
the Almighty has, I believe, a hand in this war, and he hath his own
ends to accomplish.
“His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.”
_December 31st._
Busy as usual in going to the hospitals with divers articles. There is
great excitement in town from the various rumors afloat--the rebels
being reported “in considerable force at Mount Vernon.” Our commissary
stores are in readiness to be removed at a moment’s notice.
With this day closes the year 1862. Oh, what memories cluster around
the past! Terrible battles have been fought, precious blood has been
shed, noble lives sacrificed, widows and orphans multiplied. “The stars
of night have wept o’er scenes of carnage,” the earth has been drenched
with the blood of her heroes, while the slain are in our midst. The
sound of the war-drum is still heard calling the brave to the conflict.
The lamp of sacrifice has not yet been extinguished, but burns brightly
on every loyal hearth.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER VI._
MRS. MAY GOES TO THE FRONT--THE NEW HOME--IONIA FRIENDS--THE
TWENTY-SIXTH MICHIGAN INFANTRY--SOLDIER ACCIDENTALLY SHOT--A NEW YORK
SOLDIER--SICKNESS IN CAMP--PHILIP HACKER--SORROW OF FRIENDS--DEATH OF
LIEUTENANT BURCH--FALMOUTH--RAILROAD ACCIDENT--ANOTHER SAD SIGHT--A
MEETING AT THE CAPITOL--A DAY IN WASHINGTON--THE MOVE--SAD MEMORIES.
My work for the month of January was so similar to that of previous
months, that to give daily extracts from my journal would only be a
repetition of the same old story.
Early in the month, my good friend, Mrs. May, with whom I had boarded
three months, went to the front, taking her family with her, which
compelled me to seek a home elsewhere. But the furniture[2] not being
removed, I remained at the same place until the 20th--Mrs. Windsor,
of New York, remaining with me--when the furniture was sold at public
auction. I then went to live with Mrs. Munsell, at No. 32 Patrick
street, the lady I have before mentioned as accompanying the wounded
from the battle-field of Chantilly to Alexandria. I found in her a true
friend. But, ere the return of peace, she entered into her rest, her
life having been worn out in the loyal cause. Her grave may be seen at
a little Quaker settlement near Sulphur Springs, Maryland, whither she
had gone to repair her wasted energies and declining health.
[2] Which was confiscated property.
What fitting tribute shall we bring
Thy memory to enshrine?
Fresh laurel-wreaths in early spring
For thee will love entwine.
Though missing my friends very much, and seeing some lonely hours, the
old saying that “there is no great loss without some small gain,” was
verified in this case, as Mrs. Munsell very kindly shared with me the
rations drawn from the Government, thus lessening my expenses.
I had scarcely become settled in my new home when, unexpectedly, I
received a call from some Ionia friends. The surprise was as pleasant
as complete. Before leaving, one of the party placed a sum of money
in my hands, saying, “That is for your own individual self;” but it
went into the general fund to help defray expenses, “self” being an
after-consideration.
I employed my time as usual--evenings, in making pies, puddings,
custards, stewing fruit, writing letters, making shirts, knitting
socks, etc., and during the day distributing my supplies among the sick
and wounded in the various hospitals. I also continued visits to the
camps, procuring discharges and bringing away the sick. The weather,
much of the time, was cold and unpleasant, wind and rain, snow and mud,
seeming to be the order of the day.
During this month, Camp Convalescent was removed two miles farther
away--near Fort Blenker--where wood and water were plenty; and the
erection of barracks commenced, some of which were completed and
occupied before the close of the month. On the whole, a great change
for the better took place, but there was still plenty of room for
improvement. A noble work was accomplished among those destitute
neglected ones by Miss Bradley of Maine--a sanitary agent, having her
headquarters in this Camp. Many a soldier can point to her as the
means, under God, of saving his life.
A short time before the Camp was removed, we had a few days of severe
cold weather. The sick were brought into Alexandria, several of them
so nearly frozen that they never spoke afterwards. I saw two such who
were taken to St. Paul’s; they survived only a few hours, and died
without returning to consciousness. Upon whom does the responsibility
rest? There was blame attached to some one--a fearful neglect of duty
somewhere.
The Twenty-sixth Michigan Infantry were at this time stationed near
Alexandria, and doing provost duty in the city. As they had not
been long enough in the service to become acclimated, they suffered
much from sickness. Pneumonia, measles, typhoid fever and small-pox
altogether did fearful work in the regiment. I supplied them from time
to time with butter, fruit, jellies, wine, eggs, chicken, etc., besides
pillows, towels, handkerchiefs, flannel (when needed and to be had),
stationery, and the like.
As the regimental hospital would not accommodate all the sick, many
were taken to Alexandria. At one time I had on my list eighty names of
men belonging to this regiment, in one hospital. At that time I had few
acquaintances in the regiment, except among the sick, and “their name
was legion.”
I remember the first time we heard the tramp of the soldiers of the
Twenty-sixth. As they were passing our door, some one of the family
remarked, “We are safe now, for Michigan’s on duty.” Poor boys! some
of them never knew what it was to perform a soldier’s duty, for they
died before having an opportunity to strike one blow in defence of
liberty--sacrifices, nevertheless, to the cause. One of their number,
Ira Nash, was accidentally shot by a comrade the 6th inst., from the
effects of which he died the 25th. During those weeks of suffering,
he was a perfect embodiment of patience. He entertained no feelings
of resentment toward his unfortunate comrade who was the cause of his
untimely death, but freely forgave. His brother came on as soon as
he heard of the accident, remained with him until he died, and then
returned home with his remains to the young wife so soon left a widow,
and the many friends who mourn their loss.
Several of the Fifth Infantry wounded at Fredericksburg died during
this, the first month of the year--three in one hospital, all belonging
to the same company. The sister of one of these--Albert Foot--came to
see him, and with sisterly devotion watched over him until failing
health compelled her to return home. Others of the same, and other
regiments, died in different hospitals, whose names space forbids
mentioning. Oh, how often I thought of the friends in far-off homes
when the lives of their loved ones were ebbing away. What would
that fond mother have given to have taken the place of the stranger
by the side of her dying boy; or that devoted wife, could she have
wiped the clammy death-sweat from the brow of her departing husband;
or that loving sister to have spoken words of comfort to cheer her
soldier-brother through the “dark valley” or the affianced to have
performed the last kind office of affection for the one “dearer than
all others”?...
The month of February witnessed a great decrease in the number of
patients in our hospitals, some having been discharged, others returned
to duty, a few were transferred, while death removed its multitudes.
The Twenty-sixth lost many a noble man from its ranks--something like
eighteen or twenty. Among others who closed their earthly existence
during this month was Corporal Philip Hacker of the Fifth, a noble
Christian young man, who had chosen the ministry as his profession. He
was wounded in the hip, the ball never being extracted. He lingered
an intense sufferer six weeks. I watched over him with a sister’s
solicitude; saw him day by day grow weaker, his cheeks thinner and
paler, until the sands of life ran out, and “he was not, for God took
him.” His poor sorrowing mother, who was on her way to see him, had
already reached Washington. But, alas! hers was the consolation that
the grave affords. It was hard for me to give him up, but who could
fathom the depths of that mother’s grief? But her cup was not yet full.
After remaining with me a few days, she went to see another son, who
belonged to the Second Infantry, then stationed at Fortress Monroe.
This proved to be their last meeting; at the siege of Knoxville he
fell mortally wounded, a Minie ball having penetrated his brain. They
left him buried where he fell asleep, in Tennessee.
“O woman!--noble, suffering heart--
Hope for a fairer dawn;
The hand that dealt the trial
Will give a bright’ning morn.”
It is the hope of this “bright’ning morn,” the re-union in heaven,
that makes this bereaved mother’s grief endurable. It was sad indeed
to witness the sorrow of friends who had come to look up their dear
ones, and found them very often, alas! already dead or dying. I can see
before me, even now, a pale-faced sister watching by the bedside of a
dear brother; but soon he passes away. Again, I see an aged father,
bowed with the weight of years, whose locks are white with the frosts
of many winters, watching day and night by his darling boy; but,
after long weeks of suffering, the stern messenger comes, and none
can stay his hand. There, too, comes the heart-broken widow, weeping
bitter tears o’er her early slain, while her children look in vain
for father’s coming. Brothers, too, I see searching for brothers, and
friend inquiring for friend.
* * * * *
Among the many who died with that loathsome disease, small-pox, which
prevailed to quite an alarming extent, was the young and gifted
Lieutenant W. W. Burch, of the Twenty-sixth Michigan.
The following lines were written upon his death by Sarah J. C.
Whittlesey, of Alexandria, Va. As they seem so appropriate, I will
reproduce them:
“Toll, toll for him, the youthful one, O funeral bell of time!
He died with manhood’s morning sun just risen at matin chime.
Toll, toll for him, the youthful one, O solemn bell! O funeral bell!
Cathedral bell of time!
“Mourn, mourn for him, the youthful one, O heart of life and bloom!
Death dimmed the splendor of thy sun, O earth! within his tomb.
Mourn, mourn for him, the gifted one, O kindred heart, O poet heart!
O heart of life and bloom!
“Moan, moan around the soldier’s bed, O waves of the year’s
spring-tide!
Chant dirges o’er his buried head--in life’s young spring he died.
Moan, moan around the soldier’s bed, O solemn waves! O sobbing waves!
O waves of the year’s spring-tide!
“Weep, weep beside the stranger’s rest, O heart of woman fair!
Far from a mother’s faithful breast he died, and slumbers there.
Weep, weep beside the stranger’s rest, O mother heart! O maiden heart!
O heart of woman fair!
“Rest, rest within our Southern land, young soldier, good and brave;
A white-rose wreath the stranger’s hand will lay upon thy grave,
For those who weep in far North-land--thy childhood’s home--a stricken
band,
Who mourn the lost and brave.”