[Illustration: _Cordially Yours
Annie Wittenmyer_]
UNDER THE GUNS
A WOMAN’S REMINISCENCES
OF
THE CIVIL WAR
BY
MRS. ANNIE WITTENMYER
AUTHOR OF “WOMAN’S WORK FOR JESUS,” “A JEWELLED MINISTRY,”
“HISTORY OF THE TEMPERANCE CRUSADE,” “THE WOMEN OF
THE REFORMATION,” AN HISTORICAL WORK, ETC.
WITH AN
INTRODUCTION
BY
MRS. GENERAL U. S. GRANT
BOSTON, MASS.
E. B. STILLINGS & CO., PUBLISHERS
55 SUDBURY STREET
1895
COPYRIGHT,
BY ANNIE WITTENMYER,
1895.
TO THE
ARMY NURSES OF OUR RECENT CIVIL WAR,
WHO WALKED AS ANGELS OF MERCY ON MANY
BATTLE-FIELDS, AND MINISTERED TO
THE SICK, WOUNDED, AND DYING, IN LOATHSOME,
OVER-CROWDED HOSPITALS;
AND TO THE
NOBLE WOMEN OF IOWA
WHO SO GENEROUSLY SUSTAINED ME IN MY ARMY WORK;
AND TO THE
PATRIOTIC WOMEN OF AMERICA
WHO SENT THEIR HUSBANDS, BROTHERS, AND SONS TO
THE DEFENCE OF THEIR COUNTRY WITH A
DEVOTION AND COURAGE
EQUAL TO THAT OF ANY GRECIAN MOTHER OR ROMAN MATRON,
THIS VOLUME
IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE
AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
In preparing this little volume for publication, no attempt whatever
has been made to record, as facts of history, the military movements
of the army during our recent Civil War. The great captains, who led
the Union forces through the terrible conflict from Fort Sumter to
Appomattox, have already covered, to a large extent, the military
history of the war.
My purpose has been simply to bring out in connection with these great
military events, with which they were so intimately connected, a few of
the many incidents and heart histories that were crowded into my own
life, from April 20, 1861, to Nov. 23, 1865.
_The stories and reminiscences in this book are true to life, every one
of them._ They are told just as they occurred, without any attempt at
literary embellishment; and most of them can be substantiated by living
witnesses.
Camps and hospitals were established near my own home in Keokuk, Iowa,
early in April, 1861. I began at once my ministrations to the sick in
these newly established hospitals, and, during my daily visits, closed
the eyes of the first Iowa soldier who died in the war. From that time
on till the close of the war I was actively engaged all along the lines.
I was loyally and generously sustained by the women of Iowa; was
elected by the Iowa Legislature sanitary agent of the State; was
commissioned by Iowa’s grand old war governor, Samuel J. Kirkwood; was
furnished by Secretary Stanton with a pass to all parts of the field,
and government transportation for myself and supplies. This official
order of Mr. Stanton’s was supplemented by the following charge:--
“It is especially enjoined upon all officers to furnish this lady
every facility in carrying out her generous purposes, it being shown
that she is worthy of great respect.”
I had also the co-operation of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions,
and the chief medical officers and government officials, so that I had
unusual facilities for doing good.
I was greatly indebted to General and Mrs. Grant for sympathy and aid.
When Mrs. Grant was at her husband’s headquarters the place was a
haven of rest for me, and a welcome always awaited me. Indeed, Mrs.
Grant would have joined me in the work, but her husband was afraid her
strength and sympathies would be overtaxed. During these brief visits I
learned to appreciate the unselfishness and noble qualities of General
Grant, and the strength and purity of his character; and the loveliness
and sterling worth of Mrs. Grant, and her wifely devotion.
I was also under great obligations to General John A. Logan, who
was ever ready to aid me. When it was almost impossible to get from
Bridgeport to Chattanooga, he sent me up in a little steamer which he
loaded with my supplies. Later, I met Mr. Orson, the president of the
United Telegraph Association; and General Logan introduced me with such
kindly appreciative words, that without a hint from either of us, he
filled out an order allowing me “to telegraph free to the end of the
war.” I still have that little order in my possession.
It is due our brave soldiers that I should say that I felt as safe in
their midst as I would have done in my own home, even though at times I
was the only woman in the midst of an army of twenty thousand fighting
men, as was the case at Milliken’s Bend, after the repulse of General
Sherman at Haines’ Bluff.
Not one impertinent or rude word was ever spoken to me in all those
years. No purer or grander army ever marched to the music of fife and
drum than the army that stood for the defence of our flag and the unity
of our government from 1861 to 1865.
A woman could walk in their midst in white, and a little child would
have been as safe as in its mother’s arms.
As I was all along the lines from Vicksburg to Petersburg, and was on
some of the bloodiest battle-fields, and as I followed Sherman’s army
along the fiery lines from Chattanooga to Atlanta, I necessarily had to
pass through many perils, and witness many exciting scenes. A few of
these stories I have now thought best to publish.
For more than twenty years my friends have urged their publication; but
I shrank from the task, because of their personal character.
In giving these simple, true stories to the public, I shall hope that
the same earnest, charitable spirit will be exercised by my readers as
I manifested toward the sick and wounded during my army work.
ANNIE WITTENMYER.
SANATOGA, PA., _Dec. 3, 1894_.
INTRODUCTION.
The author of this most interesting and historic volume, Mrs. Annie
Wittenmyer, I very often met whilst on my frequent visits to the
headquarters of my husband, General Ulysses S. Grant.
She there on her mission of mercy as she came to the front with
supplies for the sick and wounded; I there simply to give the general a
glimpse of his dear ones (some of the children being always with me).
And I would gladly have joined Mrs. Wittenmyer in all her works of
devotion; but the general forbade it, saying, when I returned from the
hospitals ladened with petitions and heart-breaking stories, “Julia,
cease, cease; I cannot listen; I hear this all day, every day, and I
must have some rest from all this sorrow and misery. If you insist on
going again to the hospitals, I will have to send you home.”
Mrs. Wittenmyer was ever deeply interested in her efforts to relieve
suffering; ever appealing for the discharge of the brave men who
were made helpless by their wounds; ever braving dangers and enduring
hardships in the performance of her self-assumed, patriotic heart
duties.
I used to look upon this brave, heroic woman with profound respect and
admiration, which, if it were possible, has grown the greater in the
thirty years that have passed since then.
JULIA DENT GRANT.
2108 R STREET, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
_Nov. 27, 1894_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A Boy sent by Express, C. O. D. 5
A But’ful Guv’ment Mule 226
A Fighting Editor 86
A Painful Accident 128
A Perilous Ride 11
A Rich Reward for Services--Saving the Life of a Brother 72
A Terrible Storm at Chattanooga 51
A Visit from General Grant and General McPherson 174
A Visit to Parson Brownlow 68
A Visit to Captain Walke’s Gunboat 190
A Woman wounded in Battle 17
A Young Nurse at Gettysburg 224
Army Life at Helena, Arkansas 48
Army Tricks 41
Blowing up of Fort Hill 102
Braving Dangers 21
Bursting of a Shell behind my Carriage 131
Could you get me a Raw Onion and some Salt? 230
Exhibitions of Mother-love 142
Fred D. Grant--The Brave Orderly at Vicksburg 204
General Grant’s Kindness 43
Getting Two Thousand Sick and Wounded out of Helena 106
Hardships of Camp-life at Vicksburg 125
Healed Soul and Body 152
He died cheering the Flag 237
Hospital Abuses--Putting Logwood in the Coffee 193
How I got the Cotton 244
How Mother Bickerdyke cut Red Tape 82
How Pres. Lincoln received the News of Sheridan’s Victory 239
I have the Best Mother in the World 160
I have the Comforter 98
Johnnie Clem 36
Liberty Hicks 181
Meeting a Rebel Woman at Nashville 134
Memorial Day 272
Men who commanded Themselves and did not swear 232
My First Interview with General Grant 1
Not Time to send for the Colonel 66
Reminiscences of General Grant 202
Running the Blockade at Vicksburg 92
Saved by a Bird 78
Saved by Lemonade 62
Saving the Life of Young Pike 170
Searching for the Dead 164
Secretary Stanton’s Generous Gift 251
Sharing Poor Quarters with Dorothy L. Dix 120
The American Republic--its Glories and its Dangers 268
The Clock at Vicksburg 115
The First Soldiers wounded in the Civil War 89
The Hospitals of Vicksburg at the Time of the Surrender 186
The Hospital at Point of Rocks, Va. 209
The New York Herald Reporter who lived for Two Worlds 156
The Sad Fate of Jennie Wade 206
The Sequel to “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” 247
The Special-diet Kitchen Work 259
The Surrender of Vicksburg 147
The Sweet Singer of the Hospitals 217
The Wonderful Potato-patch 58
Trading Tobacco for Coffee 183
Two Dreadful Days on the Battlefield. Shiloh 28
Very Timely Arrest 166
Visiting Hospitals under the Guns 138
We honor Our Grand Old Heroes 4
A WOMAN’S REMINISCENCES
OF
THE CIVIL WAR
UNDER THE GUNS.
MY FIRST INTERVIEW WITH GENERAL GRANT.
A large army had been thrown in and about Cairo, Ill., and General S.
R. Curtis of Iowa gave me a letter and a pass to go down and visit
the hospitals there. General Grant was in command, with headquarters
at Cairo. Fortunately for me, I had friends at that point. The great
hospitals were at Mound City, six miles above. I missed the boat
that plied between the two places at irregular hours, and my friends
proposed that we call upon General Grant. We found the modest, quiet,
uncrowned hero busy at his desk, with his staff and orderlies about
him. I was painfully conscious that I had no business of sufficient
importance to warrant such an intrusion upon the man who stood between
us and the army threatening that city that hour. I had not thought of
that before coming. But I felt very grateful to my friend, who came
at once to my aid, by explaining that I had come down from St. Louis
to visit the hospitals, and was the bearer of a letter and pass from
General Curtis, and that I also had a pass from General Frémont, and
had merely called to pay my respects.
We fell at once into pleasant conversation, and I found that the
General was personally acquainted with friends and relatives of my own.
“I will send you up to Mound City,” he said.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I can go up to-morrow,” I urged.
But he was writing an order, and soon despatched an orderly with it to
Captain somebody. Immediately my pride took alarm. What if he should
send me to Mound City on one of those screaming, whistling little
tug-boats?
“Have you met my medical director?” he asked.
“No, I have not met him,” I was forced to answer.
“I will send him up with you,” and an orderly was despatched to command
his presence. Directly the boat was reported as ready; and the General
himself accompanied me to the boat--the _City of Memphis_--the largest
and finest steamer on the Mississippi River.
The General simply said, “Take this lady to Mound City, and remain
till she is ready to return. Wait for the Medical Director, and till I
leave the boat.” So I was for a little space of time the commander of
the biggest steamer on the Mississippi River. As I walked the length
of that great boat, so rich and gaudy in tinsel and curtains and
furniture, the patriotic blood coursed hotly through my veins. Why this
extravagance? Why this pomp and display? And when the medical director,
who was supposed to be in charge of all of the sick and dying in that
great army, came in full military dress, with gloves and sash and sword
and spurs, my heart sank down to zero. But I was not long in reaching
the truth, and changing my mind. A dozen boats or more had just been
impressed into the United States service, and lay there at the wharf
with steam up. They had not yet been dismantled; and it was the kindly,
proper thing to do to send me to Mound City, and it was military
etiquette for the medical director to dress as he did. I was afterwards
on the same boat many times; once after Sherman’s defeat at Yazoo, when
there were seven hundred and fifty wounded and sick soldiers on board.
General Grant was just gathering these boats, and these forces, that he
might move on Fort Donelson.
WE HONOR OUR GRAND OLD HEROES.
BY ANNIE WITTENMYER.
We honor our grand old heroes
Who stood in the thick of the fight,
Where deadly missiles were flying,
And valiantly fought for the right.
They stood with God in the conflict,
They fought on God’s side in the fray;
The Lord and his angels helped them,
And Freedom and Right won the day.
Sacred to Freedom forever
Is the soil where they fought and bled;
No bondsman shall wear a shackle,
No tyrant shall lift up his head.
Above the flags of all nations
Our beautiful banner floats high;
Its stars like the stars of heaven,
And its blue as blue as the sky.
Long may it wave in its beauty,
The symbol of Freedom and Right;
Not a star be lost from its azure,
Not a blot stain its spotless white!
A BOY SENT BY EXPRESS, C. O. D.
In the winter of 1862, just before General Grant moved upon Fort Henry
and Fort Donelson, I went out to Sedalia, Mo., with a heavy lot of
supplies.
Sedalia is 188 miles south-west of St. Louis, and was an important
military station at that time.
The people in that section were very disloyal and belligerent.
The train on which I journeyed was fired into three times the day I
made the journey, by “bushwhackers,” men who carried on an irregular
warfare.
The train was well guarded. There were at least fifty well-armed Union
soldiers on board to guard it, who took turns on the platform, ready to
spring off, gun in hand, if the train were attacked. But when a volley
was fired into the train, before the engineer could stop it, and the
soldiers could get started in pursuit, the enemy had mounted their
horses, and were far away. When the second volley crashed into the
train, a bullet passed through the window beside me, and whizzed very
near to my eyes. If it had come a little closer, it would have gone
through both of them. Fortunately I had just leaned back against the
seat; for if I had been sitting in an upright position, as I was a few
moments before, the ball would have gone through my head.
A mother and her little girl, who was five or six years old, sat in the
seat in front of me. The poor little child was so terrified that she
tried to hide under the seat. Her appeals, as she lifted her beautiful
tear-stained face, were very touching.
“Do you think they’ll fire again, mamma?”
“I hope not, my darling,” and the mother would tenderly cover her with
the skirts of her dress, and try to soothe her.
“O mamma! do get down on the floor; if you don’t, you might get killed.”
It was pitiful to see a child in such terror, crouching on the floor.
We did not reach Sedalia till midnight, and it was not till the train
drew up at the station that the child could be comforted.
The next morning early I went into the nearest hospital. The building
was an old, dilapidated frame structure, that had been used as a store.
Scores of wounded and sick men were crowded into these poor narrow
quarters.
But it is not my purpose just now to speak of them, or of the hospital
management, but of a child I found there.
He was lying on a cot in a little back room. They called him “Willie.”
He said he was “goin’ on eight;” but if he was that old, he was very
small of his age. His face was wondrous fair and beautiful, and his
hair hung in golden ringlets about his head. He had been very ill, and
was still too weak to leave his bed. But he was bright and happy, and
a great favorite with the men, who, lying on their beds, whittled toys
for Willie with their pocket-knives out of anything they could utilize
for that purpose, such as sticks and bones.
I took a great deal of pains to ascertain the facts about the boy. He
was a fatherless, motherless child, who had followed the soldiers when
they marched away from the town where he was temporarily staying. No
one cared, and no one followed to bring him back, and so he went on
with them.
The simple story, as he told it, seemed to be sustained by the facts I
afterwards gathered.
“I wanted to go to the war,” he said; “I had no mother, and I did not
want to stay at that place. I did not like the people, so when the
soldiers went to the war I went too. Some of the men said, that first
day, ‘Little boy, you had better run back home;’ but I told them I had
no home, that my mother was dead, and that I was not going back; that
I was going to the war, so they put me in a wagon to ride. At night I
had no place to sleep; but a man who said he had a little boy at home,
about as big as me, said I could sleep with him, and he hugged me up
under his blanket.
“Then after that I had a place in a wagon, the colonel said I might.
Sometimes I rode on the horses behind the big officers. But they
wouldn’t let me go to fight; they made me stay back in the wagon. I
didn’t like that; I wanted to go to the fights.”
A few days after I found Willie I was in the hospital, when a gentleman
came in seeking some one. He was from Ohio. He happened to see Willie,
and was wonderfully attracted to the child, and Willie seemed to take
a great fancy to the gentleman. He came daily to see Willie during his
stay in Sedalia. “This child,” he said to me one day, with tears in his
eyes, “looks so much like my own boy, my only child, who died a few
months ago, that I want to adopt him if my wife will consent. But her
heart is so nearly broken by grief, that she may shrink from the plan.”
I told him that I, too, had taken a great fancy to the boy, and had
determined that he should have a good home, and that through my friend,
General Curtis, who commanded at St. Louis, I should hold the boy till
the best of references were furnished. To this he made no objections;
and as soon as he reached St. Louis he sent the very best indorsements,
furnishing the most ample evidence that he was in every way worthy
of such a charge, as he was a wealthy Christian gentleman. Dr. Irwin,
Acting Medical Director, readily concurred; and it was agreed that if,
when the boy was able to travel, they wanted him, he should be sent.
Soon after he reached home, a telegram came: “All right--send Willie
by express, C. O. D.” (collect on delivery). When the contents of the
telegram became known, there was great excitement among the patients.
How could they part with Willie? And yet as he was to have a good home
they rejoiced with Willie, who was delighted with the news that he was
to go.
As soon as he was able to travel, we prepared him for the journey. His
name and address, and name and address of the gentleman to whom we
were sending him, were written with ink on white muslin, and sewed to
his coat and jacket, and on the shawl we wrapped about him, and on the
blanket we bundled him up in.
A stalwart expressman came for him, and, after giving a regular receipt
for him, took him up in his arms to carry him away. Dr. Irwin and the
surgeons of the hospital, and even the nurses and cooks, all came to
bid Willie good-by. His farewells were very touching.
When he was carried from his little room out into the main ward, a few
golden curls lay out on the folds of the coarse gray blanket, and his
laughing eyes turned kindly from one to another, as they called to him:
“Good-by, Willie!” “Be a good boy, Willie.” “Don’t forget me, Willie.”
As we were about to pass through the last door-way, Willie, who had
said “good-by” to each one as they greeted him, called out at the top
of his voice, “_Good-by, everybody_.” There was a chorus of good-bys in
response; but an Irishman by the door was heard above them all, as he
said:--
“Good luck to ye now! and may ye live a hundred years, and get into
heaven afore the Divil has a chance at ye.”
We accompanied him to the train, the surgeons and myself, and saw him
safely aboard with his luncheon; and we stood there together in silence
as the train pulled out, for a vacancy was felt in every heart.
A telegram was received a few days later, telling us that Willie had
arrived safely.
A great deal was crowded into the next few months. Battle after battle
followed. Fort Henry and Fort Donelson had fallen, Nashville had
surrendered, the bloody struggle at Pittsburg Landing had taken place,
and the Union forces had taken possession of Corinth, Miss.; but Willie
was not forgotten.
The gentleman adopted him as his own child, and his wife was greatly
comforted by the presence and love of little Willie.
A PERILOUS RIDE.
In digging the ship canal across the point opposite Vicksburg, hundreds
of men were killed or wounded in the great trench. By long practice the
gunners on the bluffs of Vicksburg acquired the ability to drop a shell
into the great ditch, causing terrible slaughter. The heavy guns of
the Union forces answered the enemy’s batteries, but failed to silence
them. “Whistling Dick,” as we all soon learned to call one great cannon
used by the enemy, kept the music going night and day. The loud, clear,
musical whistle which accompanied every discharge won for that gun the
attention of all. “Whistling Dick” was a gun of long range, and was
effective in execution, especially along the canal. But one day, after
a loud, sharp whistle, there was an explosion, and “Whistling Dick” was
heard no more. The work of death went on, however; for there were other
effective guns, and the most determined resistance to the project of
the Union troops was shown.
The wounded soldiers were taken to a hospital hastily improvised at a
point just opposite Vicksburg, where, although more than a mile nearer
the enemy, with only the Mississippi River between them, they were
nevertheless comparatively safe, being protected by a high embankment.
I had been sending supplies to this little hospital with lavish hand.
It seemed dreadful that wounded men should lie there night and day
under the guns of two armies, the battle always on, the shriek and
thunder of shell and shot over them, and all around them, and shaking
the very earth on which they lay. Weary, homesick, and suffering, they
were isolated from the army and from all other companionship, except
that of the surgeon and his force of detailed soldiers. But this
surgeon (I have forgotten his name, or I would mention it with the
highest respect) was a thoughtful and kind-hearted man, who desired
the best for his men and heartily sympathized with them. One day he
came into my quarters on the Sanitary boat with radiant face. He had
thought of something which would please his “boys,” and that was that I
should visit them. At first the thing seemed impossible. The distance
was many miles. I could not go in an ambulance, or on foot, and the
dangers of the journey were appalling. But he had thought of all that,
and explained the whole scheme. He could get a good, safe horse, and I
could ride on a cavalry saddle; and although there was some water in
the canal, and the banks were steep, the crossing was entirely safe,
and there were places where the horse could climb.
I could not refuse to go to the men who had faced the cannon, and gone
down wounded and helpless to the gates of death for my country and my
flag. General Cyrus Bussey, who was afterwards the Assistant-Secretary
of the Department of the Interior, and his plucky, lovely little wife,
who is now among the glorified in heaven, volunteered to accompany
me. Mrs. Bussey had her own horse and a side-saddle. I had a great
raw-boned animal, which looked as though he had been in several wars,
with a good new cavalry saddle, which some officer had kindly lent for
the occasion. “This horse is good and safe,” the surgeon explained, by
way of apology; “they say he wouldn’t shy or jump if a shell burst just
before him.”
The guns of two armies were screaming over us when we reached the point
which our guide designated as “the safe place to cross the canal.” He
did not know that some of the barriers at the mouth of the canal had
given way, and that the water in the canal was several feet deeper than
when he had crossed that morning. The tide was swift and turbulent; but
the surgeon said cheerfully, “It’s perfectly safe; just follow me.” The
next moment his horse went down into the muddy, swirling flood, and,
struggling heroically, swam to the opposite shore.
The surgeon called back to us that he had missed the crossing, and
designated a point a little higher up, which, as he said, “was
perfectly safe.” I had misgivings, but, settling myself well in the
saddle, gave the horse loose rein. He marched bravely in, and went
down into the flood with a plunge. General Bussey, fearing I would
be drowned, spurred his horse in after me, and the two brave animals
struggled together until we reached the opposite shore. Thanks to my
Kentucky training, I kept the saddle, and the only damage done was a
good drenching.
As General Bussey expressed a wish that Mrs. Bussey should not
attempt to cross, she remained at a cabin near by, which was somewhat
protected, till we returned.
Reaching the embankment opposite Vicksburg we scattered, the surgeon
taking the lead. I followed about fifty yards behind him, and General
Bussey about fifty yards behind me. The road was fair, and we flew over
that stretch at a full gallop. My shaggy, raw-boned steed made good
time. It was a wild ride. We were surrounded by batteries. The mortar
boats of the Union army, placed as near to Vicksburg as possible, were
sending their uncertain shells thundering over our heads into the
doomed city with deafening fury. The heavy guns along the heights of
Vicksburg were answering the long line of batteries and heavy mounted
guns on our side of the river; and only the river lay between us and
the enemies’ works. Shot and shell screamed over us. Sometimes it
seemed as if the sky was torn to pieces above us; but my horse did not
flinch. On and on we went, in a full gallop. If a gun was levelled at
us that day from any of the near batteries, we were not in range when
the shot came over, and so we reached the hospital in safety.
What shall I say of this hospital? What can I say of these wounded,
suffering men? Language is inadequate to describe their condition.
Longing for home and mother, for human sympathy, their moans were
answered only by the guns. They longed for quiet and sleep, but the
guns of two armies were thundering night and day over their heads. How
could flesh and blood, brain and nerve, endure it? My garments were
still dripping, but I went from cot to cot to speak the words of cheer.
The men tried to express their thanks for my coming in a befitting
manner; but their “God bless you for coming!” was choked with tears. As
I saw those brave men lying there weak and helpless, and every nerve
racked with the thunders of battle, I could not beat back my own tears.
Indeed, as I live it all over again, and write of it, the tears will
come again, although more than thirty years have rolled by since that
time. I sobbed out as best I could: “God bless you, boys; keep good
courage. I will get you out of this if it is possible.”
The return trip was safely made. Again we swam the canal; Mrs.
Bussey joined us, and we returned to camp. The next morning I called
on General Grant, and reported the condition of these wounded men.
General Grant was most thoughtful and careful of his sick and wounded.
He took in the situation at once. Calling Rawlins, he said, “Those
wounded men must be moved from the Point right away. Send an order to
the medical director to that effect.” And that night, under the cover
of the darkness, they were removed to hospitals at Milliken’s Bend,
twenty-five miles away from the belching batteries.
A WOMAN WOUNDED IN BATTLE.
A woman who had served as a private soldier in the ranks was severely
wounded and taken prisoner at Chickamauga. She fell in a charge made
upon the Confederates; and as the troops immediately fell back she was
left with the other wounded on the field, in the enemy’s lines. As she
was dressed as the other soldiers were, her sex was not discovered till
she was under a surgeon’s care in the hospital. She was wounded in the
thigh. No bones were broken; but it was a deep, ugly flesh wound, as if
torn by a fragment of a shell.
A day or two afterwards she was sent with a flag of truce into the
Union lines.
The sum and substance of the official message sent with this woman
was: “As the Confederates do not use women in war, this woman, wounded
in battle, is returned to you.” There was great indignation in the
regiment to which this woman belonged; and officers and men hastened to
protest, that, although she had been with them for more than a year,
not one in the regiment suspicioned that she was a woman. She stood
the long, hard marches, did full duty on the picket-line and in camp,
and had fought well in all the battles in which the regiment took part.
She was in the hospital at Chattanooga for some time, where I first met
her. When she was able to bear the transportation, she was removed to
a hospital at Nashville. I met her there again and again, and tried to
ascertain why she had enlisted.
“Had you a husband in the regiment?” I questioned.
“No.”
“A lover or friend?”
“No, I didn’t know any of them.”
“Well, why did you enlist?”
“I thought I’d like camp-life, and I did.”
“You did your full share of the hard work, I am told, marching, going
on picket duty, and chopping wood?”
“Yes; I was put on detail just like the others, and I never made any
excuse. I was awfully afraid they would find me out, and then I’d have
to go.”
“But they did not find you out?”
“No; not till I was wounded. The most I care about now is that they
won’t let me go back.”
“Where did you come from? and what is your real name?”
“I don’t want to tell, and I sha’n’t tell, either.”
When she was able to sit up the question of clothing became an
important one. The surgeon said, “She must have women’s clothes to put
on.” We women from the North, by gift and by purchase, provided the
necessary outfit for a woman’s wardrobe. To raise some funds for her we
had her photograph taken, first in the uniform of a private soldier,
and then dressed as a woman. She sold them to soldiers and visitors for
twenty-five cents each, and raised considerable money. I have the two
I purchased, which I have treasured in my war album all these years.
She was stout and muscular, with heavy features, high cheek bones, and
her black abundant hair was cut very close. She was perhaps twenty-six
or twenty-eight years old, but when in her military rig looked like a
beardless boy.
The time came at last when she must be dismissed from the hospital;
and I was commissioned by the officers to find out all I could about
her, and where she lived, as she had been more friendly to me than to
the others. The interview was a long one. I can give only the main
points. “The time has come,” I said, “when you must be sent out of the
hospital. Where do you wish to go?”
“I’ll stay in Nashville,” she answered.
“But you can’t stay in Nashville. This city is within the military
lines, and no one can come in, stay here, or go out of this town,
without a pass. You have come into these lines in disguise as a
soldier, but you are now known. So if you will not go willingly, you
will be sent out in charge of a provost marshal. That is, you will be
taken under arrest by the government officers to Louisville, and left
there. Then what will you do? You are not strong enough to do hard
work, and I doubt if you could get any work there to do.”
“I’m awfully sorry I can’t go back into the army.”
“You certainly cannot, the case is too well known; and recruiting
officers have been warned, and will be on the lookout hereafter. If you
will give your name and place of residence, the government will send
you home, and the trip will not cost you anything.”
“If I tell you my name, and the place I wish to go to, will you keep it
a secret?”
“I will be obliged to tell the officers.”
“Will you ask them not to publish it?”
“I certainly will; and I will never tell it to any one, except the
officers from whom I will get the order for pass and transportation.”
“I will trust you,” she said; and she whispered her name and residence.
Two days after that she was on her way to her home in the Northwest.
I never knew what became of her.
BRAVING DANGERS.
In December, 1862, General W. T. Sherman gathered his forces at the
landing at Helena, Ark., and on the 21st of the month the great
fleet, with flags flying, moved down the Mississippi River. A very
strict order had been issued by him against any citizen or reporter
accompanying the expedition; and severe penalties were threatened in
case the order should be disobeyed.
It was well known that the movement was against Vicksburg, but the
bravest reporter feared to defy that order.
As some time passed without news of Sherman’s army, the _Blue Wing_
was sent down with communications, but she was captured by the
Confederates. The government finally decided to send down two gunboats
and the _White Cloud_, a wooden steamer. I at once asked the privilege
of loading the _White Cloud_ with sanitary supplies. Mr. Plattenburg,
agent of the Sanitary Commission, who was also at Helena, had a heavy
lot of supplies.
As I had a pass for myself and all goods, from the Secretary of War,
I had no trouble in securing a passage on the _White Cloud_. I do not
recall as to how Mr. Plattenburg secured the privilege of going with
the little expedition; I only know that he went, and that the boat was
loaded with our supplies.
Thousands of soldiers were about the landing when our little fleet
moved out with banners flying. We all knew that untold dangers were
before us. And our heroism created the greatest enthusiasm. When the
_White Cloud_ moved out into the channel and turned her prow down
stream, I stepped out “on the guards” to take a last look at Helena.
My appearance was greeted with such an outburst of applause from the
thousands on the wharf that I fled to the cabin, after waving my
handkerchief in acknowledgment of the salute.
We were fired into frequently from the banks. Whenever we reached a
point of especial danger the _White Cloud was sent eight or ten miles
in advance so as to draw the enemy’s fire_, and thus uncover his
batteries; for it was not likely that if the gunboats were in sight we
would be attacked. Every moment, night and day, we were in expectation
of shot or shell from some concealed battery from the shore. But they
had been forewarned that the gunboats were coming, and so did not
attempt to capture the _White Cloud_. The sharpshooters on the shore
fired into us again and again. No one was killed; but sleep and
rest were impossible, and there were many narrow escapes. We reached
Milliken’s Bend one morning about daylight, to find General Sherman’s
army quartered there.
There was a great fleet of boats, and the sick and wounded were on
them. A tugboat was detailed to me; and I went with my supplies from
boat to boat, distributing such comforts and delicacies as I had,
to the men who had been wounded in the fight near Vicksburg. It was
decided by the medical authorities to send a steamer up the river with
a load of the wounded at once. The _City of Memphis_, the largest
steamer on the Mississippi River, was selected for this purpose. A
regiment and a battery were removed from the boat, and she was put in
order; that is, the filth was shovelled overboard.
I was told by a chaplain at the time that there were so many of our
men dying that the firing of salutes over their graves was ordered
discontinued. The constant noise of funerals was demoralizing. During
the afternoon the boat was loaded up with the worst patients on the
several boats. They were placed in the berths, and under the berths,
and on the floor, and out upon the guards. Wherever there was a place
where a fever-stricken, or a torn and broken body could be laid, it was
occupied. About seven hundred and fifty were put on board.
The sun was sinking;-behind the long, low line of cypress trees,
festooned with their trailing mosses, when our boat turned her prow up
the Mississippi River.
Long rows of men lay on the floor with their knapsacks for their
pillows. Among them was a Missouri soldier, severely wounded and
delirious, who all the night long called piteously for his sister.
His cry, “O sister!” was so plaintive and pathetic that I would go to
him every little while and ask,
“What do you want?”
“I am glad you have come--I want a drink of water.”
When the water was given he would remain quiet for a little time.
The next morning, as soon as it was light, he was taken to the
amputating-table, and one of his limbs sawed off above the knee. He
sank very low under the operation--so low that no attempt was made
to remove him from the table. The surgeon in charge said to me, “Get
him to take some food or drink if you can; he is sinking very fast.”
I offered him every delicacy in my possession, but he turned away in
disgust. There had been some of my supplies transferred to this boat.
While working with the men on the lower deck, and helping dress their
wounds, I found a barrel of sauer-kraut. I allowed the attendants to
open it; but afterwards, as I came up to the upper cabin, I called the
surgeon’s attention to it, so as not to be blamed in the matter if the
results were bad.
It happened that I met him near the amputating-table. As I passed the
patient I turned to give him a sympathetic look. He beckoned to me, and
I hastened to him. “I want some kraut,” he said.
I stepped over to where the surgeon was ministering to a man, and
questioned as to whether it was best to grant his request. “Give him
anything he wants--he can’t live anyway,” was his answer. I sent an
attendant down to get the kraut; and he brought up a big tin cup full,
and placed it on his breast and went his way.
Shortly afterwards, passing that way, I noticed him, feebly, ravenously
trailing the kraut to his mouth; and I never saw any one eat as much
kraut as he did in my life. He never stopped till he emptied the cup.
No one attempted to hinder him, as it was expected he would die soon.
From that hour he began to mend, and by the time we reached St. Louis
his case was considered hopeful.
Months afterwards, as I was passing through one of the St. Louis
hospitals, I heard the _thud, thud_, of crutches coming after me. I
turned to see who was following me; and a merry voice greeted me,
“Here’s your sauer-kraut man! Here’s your sauer-kraut man!” And there,
sure enough, was my Missouri soldier, able to get around lively on
crutches, and as blithe and merry as though he had never felt the keen
edge of the surgeon’s knife.
The dangers and hardships of that trip can never be forgotten. There
were many touching incidents. If this little story falls under the eyes
of that Missouri soldier, I would like to hear from him.
He told me, that day that I last met him, his story, which was full of
the pathos of home love and tender sacrifices. He was the youngest of
his father’s family; and they did not want to spare him to the country,
though they were loyal to the Stars and Stripes. But the lawless bands
of marauders, who were significantly called “Bushwhackers,” were
prowling over the State of Missouri, and his life was unsafe. He did
not venture to sleep in a house for months before he left his home,
and at last sleeping in the bushes became dangerous. Several times,
as he was asleep out in the undergrowth, he narrowly escaped the
bushwhackers, who were seeking him. I never saw him again, but hope he
got back to his own home safely.
During the trip up to Cairo twenty died, one with lockjaw. It was
pitiful to see a great stalwart man deprived of the power of speech,
starving to death. Not one particle of food could pass between his
closely-set teeth. His mind was clear, and daily he wrote out his
requests in regard to his friends and other matters.
Never was ocean traveller gladder to see the headlands of his own
native country than were we to see Cairo. A company of ladies came on
board, fresh nurses and surgeons were obtained, also comforts for the
wounded in the shape of cots, mattresses, etc. Many of the patients
were removed from the overcrowded boat into comfortable hospitals
at Cairo, thus relieving all parties. As soon as the boat landed,
I went to the house of a friend; and as I had not had one hour of
unbroken sleep for about ten days, I redeemed the time by taking a nap
thirty-six hours long.
TWO DREADFUL DAYS ON THE BATTLEFIELD. SHILOH.
The hospital steamer on which myself and two other ladies took passage
to Pittsburg Landing from Cairo, Ill., reaching Savannah, Tenn., eight
miles below there, about four o’clock A.M., April 7. There we heard the
news of the terrible battle that had been fought the day before. Some
said: “The Union army is defeated and driven to the very banks of the
river, and are all likely to be captured to-day.” We were soon out of
our berths and on the outlook. The boat, with a full head of steam,
made all possible speed to reach Pittsburg Landing.
Two gunboats, the _Tyler_ and the _Lexington_, lay out in the stream,
sending shot and shell over the heads of the Union Army into the
Confederate ranks. As the boat steamed up to the Landing, where already
a great fleet of steamers was lying, the shells went screaming over our
heads with deafening fury. All was in seeming confusion at the Landing.
The roadways, dug out of the steep bank, were insufficient for such
an emergency. In the hard fight on the day before, a vast amount of
ammunition had been used, and the officers all well knew that with the
dawn of the coming day the battle would be renewed with desperate fury.
Every teamster was, therefore, doing his utmost to get ammunition and
provisions to the front. They would bring their mules to the steep,
roadless bank, that stood at an angle of forty-five degrees; and while
the driver held the lines with a strong, steady hand, and set his boot
heels so as to keep a standing position as he ploughed his way to the
bottom, his mules put their little front feet down, settled themselves
on their haunches, on which the wagon rested, and skeeted to the bottom
with the driver. It was a wild sight. Each teamster had an assistant
who held a torch made of pine. Hundreds of torches lighted up the black
night. There was a clamor that cannot be described in the loading up,
and a steady stream of loaded wagons going up the hill by the regular
roadways.
As soon as the first rays of the morning light made objects distinct,
the firing began. Both armies had rested, face to face, on their arms,
and a hasty breakfast had been snatched of what they could get before
daylight, for all well knew that a bloody day was before them. Each
man, as he lifted his head from the ground where he had pillowed it the
night before, wondered if he should live to see the setting of another
sun.
Our hospital boat was lying alongside of other steamers. The rain
was falling steadily. We could hear the heavy guns, the screaming of
the shells, the thunder of the battle going on near by. As the light
increased, we shivered to see the wounded lying on bags of grain and
out on the guards, and the dead, who had been carried from the boats,
lying mangled and bloody along the shore of the river. At first we
could only cover our faces with our hands in a shiver and chill of
agony, in the attempt to hide the horrid sights of war from our eyes.
But as we stood there a feeble hand was lifted, and a feeble voice
called out,--
“Say, lady! Can’t you bring me a drink of water?”
Immediately a hundred hands were lifted. We could scarcely see them in
the faint light of the early morning, but we could hear the voices.
“Bring me some water.”
“Bring me something to eat.”
I called out cheerily,--
“Yes, yes; _we’ll help you all we can_.”
It was a great relief to have something to do. We went with gladness to
our work. I was the pioneer, and went right onto the boat lying nearest.
The surgeon in charge of our hospital boat had gone off to the field.
There was no one in authority left on the boat, and we took possession.
I had several boxes of canned oysters, and three or four barrels of
crackers, but we soon exhausted these; then we began on the beef in the
storeroom.
Barrels of soup were made and distributed. The other two ladies made
the soup, and I distributed it from boat to boat, and from one to
another. Oh, the sights and scenes I witnessed that day!
As I was carrying a bucket of soup across a gang-plank, an officer met
me. He came bounding forward, with his sword clanging by his side.
“Madam,” he said, “what are you doing?”
I was startled nearly out of my wits, but I managed to say,--
“I am carrying soup to the wounded.”
“Why, you ought not to do that. See here, soldier, I detail you to
carry soup for this woman.”
The soldier sprang forward and took the bucket of soup from my hand,
and the officer went on. I never knew who he was. If this falls under
his eyes, I want to thank him for his thoughtfulness. On and on, all
day, I went with my assistant, while the two lady helpers worked as
fast as they possibly could, to get the food ready.
The distribution of food was very rapid. Men with broken legs and
arms and gashed faces would hold out their tin cups or canteens to be
filled. The tin cups were easily filled, but the canteens took longer.
When they saw us coming, they would pound on the floor or on the side
of the boat, calling piteously,--
“_Don’t pass me by._ I am here, lady; please give me some soup.”
“Please, lady, pour some water on my arm, it is so dry and hot and the
wound hurts so.”
Without a moment’s relaxation the day passed in this kind of work.
In the afternoon the gunboats stopped firing, and the news came that
the Confederates were driven back.
Oh, how much that meant to us all; for through all that morning the
boats had their full head of steam on, so that if the army was driven
to the river, as many as possible could escape by that means.
Now and then I would help a surgeon who was dressing some of the worst
wounds. My clothing was wet and muddy to the knees, and covered with
blood, but I did not see it. I had not eaten a mouthful of food since
the night before, but I did not know it. I was entirely unconscious of
weariness and human needs.
It was about ten o’clock at night when some one asked,--
“Did you have supper?” This little question called me to the
consciousness of my condition.
“No,” I answered; “I have not had a mouthful to eat since yesterday
evening.”
A surgeon operating near by looked at me earnestly, and then said,
with the voice of authority,--
“Madam, stop work immediately. We will have you on our hands next.”
I was cutting a fragment of a blue blouse away from the arm of a
wounded young soldier. I continued my work till the bits of the blouse
were gotten out, as far as I could see, then laid on a wet compress.
“Oh! thank you,” he said, with grateful tears in his eyes.
I went back to the cabin of the hospital boat and had my supper. After
changing my clothes I sat down on a divan, feeling almost too weak
and exhausted to stir. A chaplain came on the boat, inquiring for me.
When he met me he seized my hand and began to bellow. I have never
heard anything like it. When I saw him, I knew that he was crazy. The
officers of the boat ran back to see what was the matter, and somehow
the surgeon in charge managed to get him into a stateroom and lock him
in, and place guards at the door, and the next day he was sent up with
the other patients to St. Louis on that boat.
Early the next morning I was transferred with the little baggage I had
to another boat set aside for hospital workers. My fine dress, which I
had worn for the first time the day before, was wet and muddy, and I
pitched it into the river.
Dr. Grinstead, now living in Washington City, was placed in charge of
the boat.
The Confederates had retreated toward Corinth, Miss., but there was
still firing in the distance. Early in the day I went up the steep bank
and out on the battle-field.
The wounded had been gathered up as far as I could see, but many of the
dead were still lying where they fell.
Not far from the landing there were some tents. In one of these tents
a son of Sam Houston, of Texas, lay on the ground with others, the
gray and the blue lying together. Young Houston was severely wounded
in the thigh. I talked with him kindly of his grand, loyal father, and
ministered to him as best I could. I saw him many times afterwards,
the last time a prisoner at Camp Douglass, near Chicago. If this by
any possibility passes under his notice, and he has not forgotten my
treatment of him when he was a wounded prisoner, I will be glad to hear
from him. I went toward a house on the right, but before I reached it I
saw two men coming, carrying a wounded soldier.
They had made a seat by clasping their hands, and his arms were thrown
about their necks. I went forward to meet them.
“Oh, set me down by that tree! I can go no farther,” he cried.