saw so many terribly mangled bodies last evening. I took a quantity of
pillows, chicken-soup, and crackers. The moment I entered the hospital,
oh, what begging for pillows came from all parts of the room! “Please,
give me a pillow, I’m wounded in the head, and my knapsack is so hard,”
said one. Another wants one for the stump of his arm or leg. “I don’t
think it would be so painful if I only had a pillow, or cushion, or
something to keep it from the hard floor; there, that small one will
do for me; please lady, let me have that.” “Oh,” said another, “if I
only could have one of those pillows for my back; it is all raw from
lying on the hard floor; Oh! can’t you spare me one?” For a few moments
I stood with the pillows in my arms, unable to decide what to do. I
could not supply all, and to whom should I give? The calls did not
cease until the last one was given out, and then the cry was, “Can’t
you bring more?” Concluding they were as needy as any, I came home, got
another armful, and returned, thus supplying the worst cases in that
room. While there, an incident occurred, to which I can never refer
without weeping. As I was busy dishing out my broth, a friend of mine,
Lieutenant Grisson, who was himself wounded, said: “I wish you would
see if you can’t do something for that captain who lies the third from
me; he is dreadfully wounded.” On going to him, I inquired if there
was anything I could do for him, and if he would like a little broth.
“Just a little, if you please,” he said. After placing a pillow under
his head, and another under his back, I fed him as much as he wished,
then asked what more I could do for him? He looked up with tearful
eyes, and said: “Oh, you are so kind, I don’t know what to call you,
unless it be sister.” “Very well,” I replied, “I’ll be your sister;
but tell me, Captain, is there nothing more I can do for you before
I go.” “If you will please write a few lines to mother.” Taking her
address, I inquired whether there was anything in particular he wished
me to write. I shall never forget the expression of his countenance as
he looked up and said: “Oh! give her _some_ encouragement, but tell
her I’m trusting in God.” He hesitated a few moments, and then added:
“It will be so hard for mother, for she is a widow, and I am her only
son.” I tried to speak a few words of comfort, telling him that if his
trust was in God all would be well, for his hopes were anchored upon a
sure foundation, and the one in whom he trusted would be the widow’s
God. In a moment the thought of the anguish that would soon pierce that
lone widowed mother’s heart, rushed upon my mind, and poor, weak human
nature was overcome, and I could only bow my head and weep. The poor
fellow seemed fully conscious of the fact that he must die; and while
he would have his mother know the worst, he wished the sad intelligence
to be gently broken. The language of his heart seemed to be, “Who will
care for mother, now?”
* * * * *
After giving out the rest of my supplies, I bade the “boys”
good-evening, with a promise to see them again soon, and left this
wretched hospital only to visit another nearly, if not quite, as bad.
This was formerly a large grocery-store, only a short distance from
our quarters. Mr. Green and Mrs. Johnson accompanied me to this abode
of misery. As we entered the building, oh, what a sight met our eyes!
A small piece of candle was burning upon the counter--it being about
nine in the evening--which but dimly lighted the large room, making the
bloody scene before us all the more horrifying. There lay the wounded,
stretched upon the floor side by side, in close proximity, weltering in
blood and filth.
They were faint and hungry, some having only a short time before
arrived from the battle-field, with wounds still undressed, their
blankets and clothing saturated with blood, and not unfrequently
covered with vermin. It was a sight well-calculated to appal the
stoutest heart; but, nerving ourselves for the task, we went to work
feeding those poor sufferers, bathing and dressing their wounds. While
busy, a call from behind the counter attracted my attention, and on
going to ascertain who was there I found two soldiers, who said they
were nearly starved, and wished to know if we hadn’t something for
them too. “Certainly,” I replied, and, taking a large cup, I filled it
with hot broth, and crept along on my hands and knees to where they
were lying, for I did not dare trust myself to walk, fearing I should
stumble over them, as it was so dark, the candle having been removed to
another part of the room, and the space between them and the counter so
narrow.
I learned that one of them belonged to the Eighth Michigan. When I told
him that I too was from Michigan, the poor boy burst into tears and
wept aloud. “Oh,” said he, “can’t you get me out of this filthy place?
for it seems as though I shall be eaten up alive.” But, as every spare
foot of space was occupied, we were obliged to leave them there for
the night, but requested the nurse to remove them in the morning, even
if they had to be taken out of doors. I came home late in the evening,
weary and foot-sore. Since then, have written several letters for
soldiers, and the midnight hour finds me still with pen in hand.
* * * * *
The wounded have been arriving since early this morning; new scenes of
distress await us on the morrow. “As we look around, we see the work
of death on every side. Rank after rank is falling on the battlefield
of life, and the cold earth on which we tread is arched with graves.”
_CHAPTER XIV._
WRETCHED CONDITION OF OUR HOSPITAL--A REBEL FAMILY--HOME
DUTIES--ARRIVAL OF THE WOUNDED--SAD SCENES AND INCIDENTS--BATTLEFIELD
OF DEC. 13TH, 1862--TENT HOSPITALS--MR. WATERS--PAPER MILL
HOSPITAL--THE CITY EVACUATED--THE SLAUGHTER ESTATE--MRS. WASHINGTON’S
MONUMENT--NINTH CORPS BURYING-GROUND--FAREWELL TO THE BLOODY CITY.
_Monday, 16th._
Early this morning I started out, accompanied by one of the “boys”
detailed to assist us, for an old four story factory, situated in
the outskirts of the city, with beef-soup, crackers, and pillows.
Another revolting scene, one from which the mind instinctively turns,
was there witnessed. I found the wounded, as in other hospitals,
lying upon the hard floor, some with but many without even a blanket.
Everything in the shape of knapsacks, haversacks, canteens, and even
boots, are used for pillows. For one to stand and look in upon them
in all their destitution and suffering, and to hear the begging for
pillows upon which to rest aching heads, wounded limbs, and broken
bones, and to see the empty cups held up for a little soup--“just a
little, please,”--would be a soul-sickening sight! A mere spectator
could not live here; not if he had a heart to feel for others’ woes.
There must be something to stimulate; and the hope of being able,
though in a small degree, to alleviate the suffering seen on every
hand nerves one for the work and enables him to labor on week after
week composedly, it may be, amid scenes the most revolting, with
ghastly death staring him in the face at every turn. This is no place
for idlers or the faint-hearted. Strong nerves, brave hearts, and
willing hands are needed. My next visit was to the hospitals on the
Heights, where I found a large number who have, to-day, arrived from
the battlefield. Many of these were wholly unprovided for; some were
lying upon the ground, others sitting upon old boxes, benches, and even
the wood-pile, while the hot sun was pouring his searching beams upon
them. Among these seemingly neglected ones was a poor fellow who had
lost part of his lower jaw; his swollen face was bound around with an
old blood-stained bandage, and the bloody water was running from his
mouth. He could not speak, but looked, oh, so imploringly for help! I
resolved to do something for him. My first thought was to provide for
him a bed; but where was the bedding to come from? It was suggested
that I should go to a “Secesh” family, living about eighty rods from
there, and try and beg some. I readily yielded to the suggestion; but,
on making known my errand, the woman--I can not call her lady--of the
house utterly refused to let me have any, saying that they needed what
little they had for themselves. I did not doubt her word, but told her
she must try and divide with me, even if it were no more than a couple
of quilts or blankets, as I wished to fix a bed for a soldier who was
very badly wounded. But she still refused. “Very well,” I replied, “I
shall report you to the Provost Marshal,” and turned to leave, when an
old gentleman--her father, I concluded--said, “I reckon we can spare
a couple of blankets and a mattress;” and, without waiting for her
consent, went into an adjoining room and brought them out. This was
better than I expected, and more than I had asked for; but, on seeing
the blankets, I recognized them as belonging to “Uncle Sam.” The look
of gratitude the poor boy gave, as he lay down to rest upon his new
bed, with a clean bandage about his face, will never be effaced from
memory.
* * * * *
A few words in regard to our home-duties, perhaps, would not be amiss.
We made our coffee in a caldron-kettle, stewed our fruit in a large
copper boiler, and made our soups, puddings, and tea over the stove.
It took one to attend to the storeroom, one or two busy cooking, and
several constantly employed carrying and distributing supplies to the
various hospitals. Our rooms were continually besieged with weary,
hungry soldiers, who were more fortunate than their comrades in not
being wholly disabled. To all such, wherever they hailed from, coffee
and crackers were furnished as long as the supply lasted. Among the
soldiers detailed to assist us were Leonard Sears and George Taylor, of
the Eighth Michigan; James Meade and Frank Phillips, of the Twentieth;
Hall, of the Fourth; Lewis Gridley, of the Second; and one whose name
I have forgotten, whom we always called “Curly.” Poor boy! he was
mortally wounded at the battle of Cold Harbor, and died while _en
route_ for Washington. In addition to the above there were three from
the Twenty-Sixth, whose names I have not. These were not able-bodied
men from the ranks, but convalescents from the hospitals, who were
detailed at different times and places during the summer of 1864. They
were faithful to duty, and did us excellent service.
_Tuesday, the 17th._
The wounded still arriving. Early this morning a long train came in and
parked across the way from us. Among those who assisted in the work of
feeding these was Chaplain Way, of the Twenty-Fourth Michigan Infantry,
who always seems to know just what, when, and where to do. He is
always willing to assist, and always at work.
Many of these had been in the hands of the rebels, and were nearly
starved. Most of them were seriously, and many mortally wounded. Death
was at work while on their way from the field; his cold, icy fingers
had chilled the life-current in the hearts of some. There was one
poor man with both thighs amputated. As I handed him a cup of wine,
he raised up, drank a few swallows, and, without a murmur or even a
groan, lay down again. Instead of complaining at his hard lot, he had a
word of thanks for this small favor. “Oh, what bravery this!” thought
I, as I passed on to the next ambulance. After all had been fed, the
train moved on toward Belle Plain, where they are to be taken on board
transports and carried further North. The suffering experienced during
that tedious ride, what pen can portray? During the day I have been to
several hospitals, with soup, crackers, milk-punch, tea, etc. One of
these, formerly a stable, I found in a most deplorable condition. The
wounded, terribly mangled and covered with blood, were lying upon the
floor. Many of these were rebels. Only a few hours had elapsed since
their arrival from the field of battle. A more heart-sickening sight I
have not witnessed since coming to this bloody city. I could not pass
them by neglected. Though enemies, they were nevertheless helpless,
suffering human beings. I deemed it best to act in accordance with the
injunction: “If thine enemy hunger, feed him.”
With these few extracts from my journal, something of an idea can be
formed, not only of our work while in Fredericksburg, but also of the
wretched condition of our hospitals--though, in most of these, great
improvements were made before the place was evacuated. Cots were
furnished, and other comforts supplied, which it was impossible to
have at first; for the wounded were brought in, not only by hundreds,
but by thousands. Day after day, long trains freighted with human
suffering continued to arrive, until it was estimated that there were
at least ten thousand wounded in the city at a time. All the public
buildings--the Court-House, churches, hotels, warehouses, factories,
the paper mill, theatre, school-buildings, stores, stables, many
private residences--and, in fact, everything that could give shelter
was converted into receptacles for the wounded, until Fredericksburg
was one vast hospital.
Our daily duties were so similar, that an account of one day’s work
would be a fair specimen of every day’s. We knew no rest until the
wounded were all removed. Night ever found us weary and foot-sore.
There was a large number of faithful laborers at Fredericksburg. The
different commissions and State associations were there, each with a
noble corps of earnest workers. Among these untiring ones was Mrs.
General Barlow, whose husband commanded the First Division, Second
Corps. Many of the improvements made in our hospitals--especially of
the Second Corps--were the result of her personal efforts. She worked
on through sunshine and storm, until her overtaxed system yielded
to the ravages of disease, and she fell a martyr to the cause she
had so faithfully served. But the laurels she won “are unfading,
and will be verdant in heaven.” Among the many faithful workers in
Fredericksburg, I knew of none who accomplished more than Mrs. Samson,
of Maine, and Miss Hancock, of Pennsylvania. They were not only
earnest and faithful, but efficient--going where many would not think
of venturing, overcoming obstacles to others insurmountable, yielding
to discouragements never. Heat or cold, storm or sunshine, distance
or danger, were never allowed to interfere with duty. There were many
others whose noble deeds are recorded on high.
We were aided in our work by a number of volunteer laborers, who, one
after another, remained a few days or weeks, as they had opportunity.
Among these were Colonel Barnes, Messrs. Bayley and Wallace, of
Detroit; also, Messrs. Thompson, Moses, Pierce, Horton, Willcox, and
Green. Each day’s work was full of incident, sad yet interesting. One
morning, accompanied by Mr. Horton, I went with supplies to one of the
hospitals, which I found in a most destitute and neglected condition.
It was filled with wounded, brought in the night before. As yet
they had eaten nothing, neither had they been visited by a surgeon,
consequently their wounds remained undressed. The hospital was filthy
beyond all comparison. After dishing out our soup and crackers to
those poor half-starved men, Mr. H. began the work of dressing wounds,
while I started in search of a surgeon, or some one, to assist him. At
the Cavalry Corps Hospital--more than a mile distant--I secured the
services of Steward Smith; and, as we were hurrying back to that abode
of wretchedness, we were overtaken by Steward Dennis, of the Sixth
Cavalry, who volunteered to assist us; and very soon both were at work
in good earnest, while I hastened “home” to replenish our supply of
rags, bandages, shirts, drawers, pillows, and handkerchiefs; and then,
assisted by the nurse, began the work of cleaning the hospital. Before
leaving, all had been fed, wounds dressed, clean clothing provided, the
worst of the filth and dirt removed, and a large quantity of lemonade
made for the “boys.” One poor fellow died during the day, and three
more before morning. In a few days, those who survived were removed,
and the hospital again filled with others. Thus they continued to come
and go, until the last wounded were brought from the field.
The next day I made another visit to the hospitals on the “Heights.”
Mr. Marvin, A. C. C. delegate, accompanied me. The heat was oppressive.
The perspiration dropped profusely from our faces while climbing that
long hill with our loaded baskets. We found a large number of new
arrivals. In the open air, near one of the hospitals, amputations were
being performed, and, from the pile of dissevered limbs near by, it was
evident that the number was fearfully large. A young man in one of the
wards, who had just been brought from the amputating-table, and had
sufficiently recovered from the effects of chloroform to realize his
loss, was most bitterly deploring it. To him his loss was irreparable.
All efforts to pacify him were made in vain; he gave himself up to
weeping, lamenting his great misfortune.
But his was an exceptional case. The language of the wounded was
oftener in accordance with the spirit of the following touching poem:
“The knife was still; the surgeon bore
The shattered arm away;
Upon his bed, in painless sleep,
The noble hero lay.
He woke, but saw the vacant place
Where arm of his had lain,
Then faintly spoke: ‘Oh! let me see
My strong right arm again.’
“‘Good-by, old arm!’ the soldier said,
As he clasped the fingers cold;
And down his pale but manly cheek
The tear-drops gently rolled.
‘My strong right-arm, no deed of yours
Now gives me cause to sigh;
But ’tis hard to part such trusty friends--
Good-by, old arm! Good-by!
“‘You’ve served me well these many years.
In sunlight and in shade;
But, comrade, we have done with war--
Let dreams of glory fade.
You’ll never more my sabre swing
In battle fierce and hot;
You’ll never bear another flag,
Or fire another shot.
“‘I do not mourn to lose you now
For home and native land;
Oh! proud am I to give my mite
For freedom, pure and grand.
Thank God, no selfish thought is mine,
While here I bleeding lie;
But bear it tenderly away.
Good-by, old arm! Good-by!’”
I often wondered at the cheerfulness and fortitude with which they
bore not only their great losses, but so much pain. If they were
heroes amid the fierce conflict of battle, they were equally so when
suffering in hospitals. On our return from this sad visit we were
joined by Captain Williams, of the Seventh Michigan Infantry, who
pointed out to us the battlefield of December 13th, 1862, and the
very places where Michigan regiments were stationed; also the line
of works charged on and carried. As I gazed upon those long lines of
fortifications, “rising one above the other, tier upon tier,” upon
which rebel batteries were planted that mowed our men down so fearfully
as they advanced in solid phalanx, facing those unyielding guns which
continually belched forth their missiles of death, I did not wonder
that they were compelled to fall back. It seems like madness to have
attempted to carry such works by direct attack. It was done at a
fearful loss of life. The blood poured forth on that eventful day
quenched the light in many a home. The battle work of thousands was
that day completed, and they left sleeping upon the “green couch of
our final rest.” By how many, ere the heart grew still, might not the
confession and the earnest appeal expressed in the following have been
made?
“I’m no saint!
But, boys, say a prayer--there is one that begins
‘Our Father,’ and then says, ‘Forgive us our sins;’
Don’t forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I’ll try to repeat it, and you’ll say ‘Amen!’
Ah! I’m no saint!”
Not far from the 20th of the month, tent hospitals were erected about a
mile and a half from the city along the south bank of the Rappahannock,
to which many of the more seriously wounded were removed, as the
atmosphere, being so much purer than in the city, would greatly favor
their recovery. To one of these tents Mr. Waters--whom I had previously
mentioned--was taken. The evening before his removal, when I took him
his supper--consisting of tea and custard, which he had requested--I
found him in great distress of mind. He had heard it rumored that he
was to be removed, but knew not whither, and anxiously inquired, “What
does it all mean?” He was well aware that frequently, when soldiers
were given up to die, they were taken into what was called the “death
ward,” and the poor man thought that was where he was to go; but when
he learned where he was going, and the reason therefor, the tears
started from his eyes, and, with quivering lips, he exclaimed, “Oh! I
thought my death-warrant was sealed.” “Well, what if it were; are you
afraid to die?” I asked. “Oh, no,” he replied, “for my trust is in
Jesus. I feel that all would be well with me were I to die; but I have
a large family who need me so much; for their sakes I hope my life
will be saved.” When about to leave him he extended his hand, saying,
“Now be sure and find me at the other hospital, won’t you?” The promise
was made and kept, but I found him fast sinking into the grave. He
expressed little hope of recovery, but a good hope in Jesus. He was
soon after removed to Washington and taken to Armory Square Hospital,
where he lingered until the 26th of June, when he exchanged his suit
of blue for a robe of white, and laid him down to rest. After I had
taken my leave of Mr. W.--the evening in question--and as I was hastily
leaving the hospital, my attention was attracted to a soldier who was
weeping and sobbing as though his heart would break. On going to him I
recognized one to whose wants I had frequently ministered. On inquiring
the cause of his trouble, “Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, “the doctor isn’t
going to let you bring anything more into the hospital; but, if you
don’t, I shall starve to death.” I could scarcely convince him that
it was only a rumor, and that I should continue my visits as before,
but he would not relinquish his hold on my hand until he had exacted a
positive promise that I would surely come again; and not until my next
visit was he fully reassured that all was right. In a few days my poor
one-armed boy was sent off, and I saw him no more. The same evening I
again visited “Planter’s Hotel.” Edward Fisher, whom I found in the
afternoon peaceful and happy, was now raving with delirium. Approaching
his bed and calling him by name, I asked if he knew me; for a moment he
appeared rational, looked up and smiled, but the next he was wild and
delirious again. He had already given an arm for his country, and now
he was about to offer his young life a sacrifice upon the same altar.
Ere the morning’s dawn he was enrolled in the army of the “Boys in
White.”
Upon one of my visits to the Paper Mill Hospital I found seventy men
who had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Although late in the
afternoon, I promised the “boys” that they should have something
to eat before I slept that night; so hurrying home I made farina
and corn-starch puddings for these seventy hungry men. But, before
returning to the hospital, rations had been issued, which, together
with the puddings, they declared just made a good meal. At that late
day I knew of no excuse for being short of government rations, and
there must have been great neglect on the part of some one; though when
we first occupied Fredericksburg it was almost impossible to procure
transportation sufficient to convey supplies from Belle Plain, a
distance of twelve miles from the city, and twenty-five or thirty from
the army. Much suffering and many deaths were the unavoidable result.
Presently it began to be rumored that the city was about to be
evacuated. It was thought by many that either Bowling Green or Port
Royal would be the new base of operations--though all was conjecture.
But soon the order to evacuate was received; consequently our supplies,
not yet disposed of, were packed, transportation procured, passes
obtained, and everything put in readiness for a move. Wednesday, the
25th of May, all the Michigan delegation, except myself, went on board
transports bound for Washington. As I had a promise of transportation
to the “new base,” I greatly preferred going there to returning to
Washington. Our tent hospitals were not broken up until the 27th,
though the last of the wounded (in the city) were removed the 25th.
That morning I visited the Amputation Hospital--so called from the fact
that nearly all the wounded there had been subjected to the amputating
knife. This, I believe, was the last hospital in the city broken up.
Most of the patients in it at this time were from Michigan. Among the
number was a brave Indian chief, who had received a mortal wound, and
died soon after arriving at Washington. The others, as far as I know,
recovered. The afternoon of the same day I made another visit to our
tent hospitals, taking sundry articles for distribution, among which
was a bottle of sherry brandy, for Mr. Waters, who, I knew, would
greatly need stimulants during his tedious journey to Washington. That
day I took my farewell leave of him. In one of the wards was a man in
the agonies of death, alone and unconscious. Taking a fan, I stood by
his cot and brushed away the flies, which were buzzing and swarming
around him like bees. But the struggle was soon over; he died without
returning to consciousness. I deeply regretted afterwards that I did
not obtain the address of some member of his family, and write the
anxiously awaiting friends, whose dreadful suspense, perhaps, was not
relieved until the official announcement of his death reached them.
The Slaughter estate, on which these tents were pitched, was a
lovely place. The site of the mansion was delightful. A beautiful
flower-garden, in which various kinds of roses blossomed abundantly,
making the very atmosphere heavy with their fragrance, gradually sloped
toward the river. But the old house was deserted; it bore fearful
testimony to the destructive effect of balls, of both friend and foe. I
never saw a building more completely riddled with shot and shell.