in the same barge with ours, were removed to another boat, and Mrs.
Johnson came on as one of their delegates. While in doubt as to what
course to pursue, being without supplies, we were here, as at White
House, providentially provided for by the arrival of Mr. Howard from
Washington with hospital stores. Before morning the wounded began to
arrive, and with their arrival began our work. Our hospitals were not
yet established, though the location was decided upon. It was situated
about a mile from the Point, along the bank of the Appomattox; and the
next day scores of tents went up, which were soon filled with the
wounded. Soon after landing at City Point I was joyfully surprised in
meeting an old friend--Mr. Fox, of Kalamazoo--a volunteer laborer in
the cause of humanity. But the great event of the day was the honor of
a call from General Grant, the great American hero, who came into our
tent, sat perhaps twenty minutes, conversed freely about the war, and
seemed to take a great interest in the work in which we were engaged.
To the inquiry whether he would be in Richmond by the 4th of July, he
shook his head and replied, “No, not by the fourth; I have not laid my
plans to that effect. I shall go there; I’m just as sure of it as can
be, but we have more hard fighting to do first.” He then added: “I am
nearly worn out, for I have scarcely had a day’s rest since the war
began.” Before leaving he gave each of us his autograph, shook hands
and bade us “good-by.” We assured him he should still have our prayers,
as he already had our confidence. He thanked us, and was gone.
_CHAPTER XVI._
MAJOR BARNES--HOSPITALS ESTABLISHED--MRS. JOHNSON RETURNS TO
WASHINGTON--ARRIVAL OF MRS. GIBBS--HER RETURN WITH A WOUNDED
SON--CAVALRY HOSPITAL--AM TAKEN SICK WITH TYPHOID FEVER--REV.
MR. JOSS--HOT WEATHER--A SEVERE STORM--LEAVING CITY POINT--REBEL
OFFICERS--THE RELAPSE--RETURN TO MICHIGAN--A DARK PERIOD--MY SISTER’S
BEREAVED FAMILY--THE CALL OF DUTY.
As I have before stated, the rest of our agents, with the balance of
our goods, arrived the 22d. Mrs. Brainard, however, remained only
one night, having received orders to return to Washington, where her
services were greatly needed. Our work here was so similar to that
at White House, that it is not necessary to enter into details. I
will only mention an instance or two, and then pass to a more general
account of our work. The day after arriving at City Point, the wounded
began to come in in large numbers. Quite early in the morning a long
train of ambulances filled with mangled bodies arrived, and halted a
short time, until a hospital boat was in readiness to receive them.
While busy at work, a soldier came to me in great haste, and begged me
to go and see his major, saying: “He is dreadfully wounded.” Leaving my
work, I accompanied him. We hastily passed ambulance after ambulance,
until it seemed as though we never would reach the last one. At length
he stopped, and, pointing to one of them, said, “He is in that one.”
Carefully springing upon the step at the rear of the ambulance, and
looking in, I saw Major Barnes, of the Twentieth Michigan, lying by the
side of a brother officer, who was also badly wounded. On inquiring
what I could do for them, “Oh,” said Major B., “if you could only get
me out of this ambulance, for it does seem as though I shall die if I
stay here much longer.” I promised to see what could be done, but found
that the train would so soon move to the landing, that it was thought
best not to make any change until it reaches its destination. I can
never forget the look almost of despair depicted on his countenance
as I reported this, for all hope of recovery seemed to have left him.
Still anxious to do something for him, I hurried back to my tent, and
soon returned with a cup of tea and a pillow. “Oh,” he exclaimed, as
he drank the tea, “that tastes so good.” Placing the pillow under his
head, I bade him be of good cheer, and, with a heavy heart, stepped
down from the ambulance. The train moved on, and I saw him no more. A
few days after, I learned that he died before reaching Washington. Oh!
those sad sights! those tedious, toilsome days! How glad we sometimes
were to have the darkness of night hide from view the revolting scenes
witnessed by day, when the cooling breeze would fan fevered brows and
wounds inflamed, and gently lull to sleep. But even then the moans of
some poor sufferer would often reach our ears, causing us to wish for
immortal bodies, which would neither wear out nor become weary. But
“The hopes, the fears, the blood, the tears
That marked the bitter strife,
Are now all crowned by victory
That saved the nation’s life.”
Our hospitals at this place were very extensive. The Second, Fifth,
Sixth and Ninth Corps were largely represented in this department.
Tents continued to go up until our little canvas village assumed the
proportions of a city. The Cavalry Corps also had a large hospital
about two miles from here. Day after day the wounded came pouring in
from the battles and skirmishes so frequently occurring. Cannonading
was daily heard, frequently rapid and heavy; and occasionally the
rattle of musketry and the screeching of shells saluted our ears, while
the smoke of battle could plainly be seen, and sometimes even the
manœuvering of the troops--thus mingling with our arduous duties great
excitement, and occasionally alarm.
In less than two weeks after landing at City Point, Mrs. Johnson left
me and returned to Washington for a few days’ rest. Mrs. Gibbs, a lady
who was devoting her time and strength to the cause her husband and
son were serving, arrived the day she left; yet I greatly missed her,
for we had worked together nearly six weeks. Her services, especially
as a “dresser,” were invaluable. Mrs. G., finding one of her sons
among the wounded, remained only a week, and then returned with him to
Washington, and I was again left alone, as far as ladies’ help in our
own department was concerned; and yet I was not alone, for nearly every
loyal State was there represented by a corps of faithful laborers, all
earnestly engaged in the same noble work. Mr. Howard[5] remained in
charge of the tents containing our supplies, and worked with a zeal
that knew no respite until our Association, having completed its work
at the front, was recalled from the field. While here I frequently met
“Bridget,” of the First Michigan Cavalry, and occasionally “Anna,”
of the Third Infantry, whose services, according to the testimony of
the surgeons of those regiments, were invaluable. They remained with
their respective regiments until the close of the war--sharing the
ever-varying and shifting fortunes of the same.
[5] He has also ceased from his labors, having died of typhoid fever
two years ago.
I made but one visit to the Cavalry Hospital while at City Point, on
account of its long distance from the other hospitals. It was situated
in a most delightful place. A beautiful lawn with its green carpeting
gradually sloped toward the river, which rolled peacefully along at
the foot of the hill, its banks skirted with a variety of trees,
beneath whose grateful shade convalescents reclined, some with books
in hand, others playing at cards, or some other “innocent” amusement,
to while away the tedious hours of the long, hot day. The tents were
the most comfortable of any I ever saw in the field. Each patient was
provided with a good bed, not the narrow hospital cot, but what are
called single beds, and furnished with mattress, sheets, pillows,
and a “patched” quilt, in lieu of the coarse army blanket. The wards
were decorated with evergreens, and everything looked neat and clean.
Instead of clouds of dust, the air was bright and clear. Compared with
our Infantry hospitals, surrounded with sand and dust, it seemed like
an earthly paradise. But, amid all these natural beauties, many a brave
heart ceased to beat; for Death sought out this lovely retreat, and
bore hence his victims. Though far more comfortable, the sick were no
better supplied with delicacies than those in other hospitals. Hence
we divided our stores with them, sending, from time to time, such
things as they most needed.
While there was so much to be done, duties daily increasing, my work
for the summer was rapidly drawing to a close. The fever which had so
long threatened me finally obtained the mastery. The 6th of July, I
did my last day’s work at that place. From that time until I left City
Point--four weeks later--I was almost entirely confined to my bed.
During that illness I learned from sad experience how to sympathize
with the sick around me; but, when comparing my condition with theirs,
I found I was so much better off than they, that I had no heart to
complain. While I had a bunk--narrow and hard though it was--many of
them had none. My tent could boast a floor, theirs could not. Besides,
I was daily supplied with ice and numerous other articles which many a
poor soldier did not get. For these things, I was indebted to the Rev.
Mr. Joss, of the Sanitary Commission, but for which, especially the
ice, I do not think I should now be here to express to him, through
these pages, my gratitude. Though having good medical treatment, I
feel that, under the blessing of God, I owe my life to this reverend
gentleman.
I have ever looked upon my acquaintance with him as strikingly
providential. While at Fredericksburg, I was led by the providence
of God to care for a brother of his, who was supposed to be mortally
wounded, but who finally recovered, and, hearing of my illness,
directed this brother to find me and return the favors shown him.
They were returned an hundredfold. Oh! that hot, dusty July; those
long, weary days and sleepless nights; the scorching sun, beating down
upon my tent; the swarms of flies; that little rusty tin pail, out of
which, for the want of something better, I drank my gruel; the heated,
suffocating atmosphere; the anxiety to be at work; how fresh in memory!
As the season advanced, the heat became more intense and the dust more
intolerable. The long trains of army wagons that were constantly moving
to and fro, only a few rods from us, were scarcely visible, being so
completely enveloped in clouds of dust.
On the night of the 24th, there was a sudden and most grateful change
in the weather. A heavy rain-storm came up, accompanied with high wind
and severe thunder and lightning. It was a gloomy night, yet full of
grandeur. My tent swayed to and fro in the wind; bright flashes of
lightning and almost Egyptian darkness rapidly succeeded each other,
while the crashing of thunder was far more grand than any discharge
of artillery of human invention. Many tents were blown down, whose
occupants were left to the tender mercies of the storm. When the
morning dawned we seemed to be in a new world. The air was clear and
pure, our clean white tents glistened in the sunlight, the slow-moving
trains were in full view, the trees and bushes were relieved of their
dusty coats, and all nature, animate and inanimate, seemed to rejoice.
The 2d of August, I left City Point, in company with Mrs. Johnson (who
had been with me some ten days), and was taken to Washington. On the
steamer--the “Vanderbilt”--on which we took passage, were twenty-one
rebel officers, prisoners of war. As they frequently passed my window,
I entered into conversation with them. The war, as a matter of course,
was the subject discussed; but they all, with one accord, acknowledged
the hopelessness of their cause, and confessed that it would have been
better had they not appealed to the sword. They said they had no desire
to divide the Union; but they thought their “rights” had been infringed
upon, and for these they were fighting. I inquired what “rights” they
had lost, or had been “infringed upon.” All were silent a moment, then
one replied: “Our rights in regard to slavery.” The interference of
the North with this institution they believed to be the cause of the
war; and yet they confessed that, if it were even so, it was no just
cause for declaring war. I never conversed with a rebel who could give
an intelligent answer to the questions concerning the loss of his
“rights,” but they would invariably fall back, as a last resort; upon
the interference of the North with slavery.
Arriving in Washington, I was taken to the house of a lady widely
known for her labors of love for the soldiers--a loyal Washingtonian,
the only one of her family who remained true to the cause of freedom
and right during the dark days of the rebellion. The fatigue of the
journey brought on a relapse, so that I was not able to leave the city
for five weeks. I then returned to Michigan, and remained through the
winter, recruiting my health and collecting money for the benefit of
the soldiers.
I learned during that illness, as I never could in health, how to
appreciate the gratitude so often manifested by soldiers, even for
trifling favors. I can now understand the feelings expressed by a
wounded soldier in a letter received from him since the close of the
war, in which he asks if I remember the flowers I gave him while in a
hospital at Fredericksburg; and then spoke of the good they did him,
and the tears he shed over them. “Why,” he added, “for a while they
caused me to forget my pain, and I felt a renewed courage to bear my
sufferings more bravely, for to me they were a token of sympathy, and I
felt that I was not forgotten.” As I perused this letter, how vividly
I recalled a little incident that occurred in my own experience,
while sick at City Point. One afternoon, Dr. Smith, of the First
Michigan Cavalry, brought me a bunch of beautiful wild-flowers, most
delicately tinted. I had not seen a flower, or scarcely a green leaf
or a spire of grass for weeks before, which caused them to be the more
fully appreciated. Oh, how many times during those lonely hours they
were as a friend to me, with whom I conversed; and often-times tears
would unbidden start as I gazed upon their loveliness, for of all the
beautiful things in this beautiful world, they alone adorned my “canvas
home.” They were placed in a cup by my bed, where they remained until
they began to wither, and their little petals to fall off; then I
pressed them in my Bible, and I still cherish them as sweet mementoes
from a fragrant oasis in that sandy desert.
The simplest favor was sometimes most blessed in its results. The
following I had entirely forgotten until reminded of it by the soldier
long after he was mustered out of the service. The summer of 1864,
while in a hospital at White House landing, he had a severe attack of
neuralgia. As I was passing one day through the ward in which he was
lying, he inquired if I knew of anything that would relieve him. I
recommended something--I do not remember what--which I promised to
bring him the next day; but when, returning to my quarters, I began to
think of his sufferings, and his look of appeal for help, I could not
rest until my remedy had been tried. Though nearly night, and more than
half a mile distant, I returned with the medicine, bathed his face,
gave directions for its use, and left him with the assurance that it
would help him. I never saw him again, until the time to which I refer,
when he called my mind to this circumstance. “Oh,” said he, “that
medicine acted like a charm; it effected a perfect cure; for from that
hour neuralgia and I parted friendship.”
The summer of 1864 was a dark period--perhaps the darkest in the
history of the rebellion. Thousands, yea, tens of thousands of lives
were sacrificed at the battles of the Wilderness, Spotsylvania, Cold
Harbor, and those in the vicinity of Petersburg, seemingly to little
or no purpose; yet they all had reference to the grand result soon to
be achieved. The terrific explosion of the 30th of July was distinctly
heard at our quarters, a distance of ten miles. Among the many who
fell upon that fearful day, was the eldest son of Rev. Alfred Cornell,
of Ionia--an exemplary, Christian young man, whose life was full of
promise. But as “Death loves a shining mark,” one of his deadly shafts
was aimed at him. The object of those weeks of mining was not obtained;
Petersburg was not taken, Richmond was lost, and our starving soldiers
must wait many more long months before the day of their release dawns.
Oh! how many times during war’s dark hours we felt like exclaiming,
“The dead are everywhere!
The mountain-side, the plain, the wood profound,
All the wide earth, the fertile and the fair,
Is one vast burying-ground!”
But we are comforted with the thought that they died not in vain. No,
“They have fallen, they have fallen,
In the battles of the free,
And their fame will be remembered
In the ages yet to be.
* * * * *
“They have fallen, they have fallen,
In a high and holy cause,
Fighting for our starry banner,
For our country and its laws;
For the glorious cause of freedom,
For the land our fathers loved;
For the rights, which, spite of sceptres,
Man proclaimed and God approved.
“They have fallen, they have fallen,
In the fierceness of the strife,
Leaving us to bear the battle,
And the burden of this life;
While their disembodied spirits
Wing their way to realms above,
Where they sing their songs of triumph
Round the great white throne of love.”
The following is the amount of money collected while in Michigan, in
the winter of 1865:
Proceeds Children’s Fair, Kalamazoo, $10 35
Soldier’s Aid Society, South Jackson, 4 00
Proceeds Oyster Supper, ” ” 50 00
” ” ” Muir, 75 00
” ” ” Salem, 43 85
Collection, Baptist Church, ” 26 15
Cash, Pontiac. By request, name not given, 10 00
Social, Ionia, including a few individual
contributions, 60 70
Proceeds Oyster Supper, Northfield, 25 35
” Tableaux, Galesburg, 25 00
” ” Chelsea, 37 00
Collection, Episcopal Church, Ann Arbor, 23 35
” Dutch M. E. Church, ” ” 2 75
From Brighton, 5 00
Individual contributions, 1 50
-------
Total, $400 00
In regard to the children’s fair here mentioned, I would say that it
was held by only three little children, viz.: Ella May, Frank and Ida
Knappin. The weather was cold and rainy, but they did not mind the
cold, for their hearts were in their work. The tableaux at Chelsea
were gotten up almost entirely through the earnest efforts of Miss
Josie May and Miss White, who, I believe, have never before had credit
therefor.
Had I begun my work of collecting a little earlier, before the holiday
season was over, during which fairs had been held, and various other
means employed to raise money, I might have doubled, and perhaps
tripled the amount collected; for nearly every place I visited I was
met with, “Why didn’t you come sooner? A week or two earlier, and we
might have raised twice as much as we now can.” But if the money only
went for the desired object, it mattered little through what channel
it was conveyed. I would take this opportunity to acknowledge publicly
the receipt of thirty dollars from friends in Muir and vicinity, ten
from South Jackson, and twenty from Salem, besides a few dollars from
individual persons as a present to myself. I here renew my thanks to
each and every donor; for it was only through occasional donations of
this kind that I was enabled to continue my work so long. One of my
former teachers at Kalamazoo, to whom I was indebted thirty dollars for
money hired while in school, kindly took up the note, thus relieving me
of all anxiety of how that debt, though small, was to be paid.
I know of no better way than through the pages of this little book
to notify the members of the Twenty-sixth regiment of Michigan
Infantry of the beautiful gold watch, with chain, pin, and corps
badge, purchased with the money so generously donated by themselves
in the spring of 1864. It is handsomely engraved with name, date, and
regiment. To me it has a value far exceeding its intrinsic worth, for
many of those represented in the gift are now “sweetly embalmed and hid
away in white.” Those who survive will please accept the gratitude of
the recipient, by whom their memory will ever be sacredly cherished.
I returned to Washington _via_ Harbor Creek, Penn., where I visited
the bereaved family of my sister who died the previous October. Had I
consulted my own ease or pleasure, I should have yielded to the earnest
entreaties of those motherless boys, and remained with them while their
loss was so fresh in memory and so keenly felt; but duty pointed her
finger to the thousands of sick and wounded in our hospitals, many of
whom, like themselves, were boys in their teens, having been tenderly
reared, each one some mother’s darling or some father’s fond hope,
far from home and its comforts, their young lives going out one after
another in those distant hospitals, in the camp or on the field of
carnage--and I could not turn a deaf ear to her call. Fifty dollars
more, contributed by friends in Harbor Creek for soldiers, were added
to the amount collected in Michigan.
_CHAPTER XVII._
FALL OF RICHMOND--SURRENDER OF LEE--MY RETURN TO WASHINGTON--THE
ILLUMINATION--THE ASSASSINATION OF THE PRESIDENT--HIS REMAINS IN
STATE--FUNERAL OBSEQUIES--THOUGHTS AND REFLECTIONS UPON HIS LIFE AND
MANY VIRTUES--HOSPITAL WORK IN WASHINGTON, ALEXANDRIA AND SURROUNDING
CAMPS--THE ARMY RECALLED--THE MICHIGAN “HOME”--TRIP TO BALTIMORE
AND ANNAPOLIS--HOSPITAL DISCONTINUED--THE GRAND REVIEW--CLOSING
REFLECTIONS.
I arrived in Washington the evening of the 13th of April, the night
before that great national calamity, the assassination of our beloved
President.
The evening of my arrival there was a grand illumination of the city in
honor of our recent victories, which resulted in the fall of Richmond,
the surrender of Lee, and the overthrow of the rebellion.
Lights gleamed from nearly every window--the White House was
beautifully illuminated and gaily decorated with the stars and
stripes--numerous small flags floated from the windows, while larger
ones were festooned over the doors or proudly waved from lofty
flag-staffs. O ye starry emblems of liberty, what rivers of blood it
has cost to maintain your honor!
The stately Capitol, with its myriads of lights blazing from its
windows and surrounded with brilliant transparencies, looked indeed
like a “city set upon a hill, whose light cannot be hid.” The
streets were thronged with admiring spectators. The President, with
the General-in-chief of our armies, rode up and down Pennsylvania
avenue--alas! for the last time together--rejoicing that the dove had
at last returned to the ark with the olive branch of peace. Every
loyal heart beat high with hope, not only at the national capital, but
throughout the length and breadth of our land. The voice of praise and
thanksgiving ascended to Him, who, ruling among the nations of the
earth, as well as in the armies of heaven, had crowned the cause of
right with victory.
Mothers wept for joy for the “dear boys” who would soon “come
marching home.” Wives with anxious hearts anticipated the moment when
they should welcome their heroic husbands’ return. Children waited
impatiently to hear “father’s” well-known footstep. Even those who had
not nothing to expect, whose dear ones were numbered with the slain,
shared in the general joy.
All were happy--the white man that the war was over, the black man that
he was free. But this rejoicing is of short continuance. Treason calls
for another victim--the country’s foremost man and best. While the
children rejoice, the father himself is stricken down. The nation’s
life is sealed with the blood of its martyr head! The fruit of those
long years of toil will be reaped by others. The work for which he was
raised up being accomplished, he enters into his rest; and this almost
universal rejoicing is succeeded by a world-wide grief. On the night of
the 14th an assassin commits the dark and villainous deed that plunges
the nation into the deepest woe! The next morning, at twenty-two
minutes past seven, the solemn tolling of bells announces the death of
Abraham Lincoln!
The following is an extract from my journal of April 15th, 1865:
“Soon the sad tidings will be borne with the speed of lightning to
the remotest part of our country and of the civilized world. The wild
excitement which might be expected seems hushed to silence for want
of words to express the deep emotions which stir the heart. Many
anticipate a riot before morning. Strict orders have been issued from
the War Department, death being the penalty of a traitorous sentiment
uttered. No one is allowed to leave or enter the city. Trains have
stopped running, except for the mail; boats can neither land at nor
leave the wharf.