no great loss without some small profit, Jim.” And they laughed again
heartily. At last one of them explained. “You see, miss, we’ve each of
us lost a leg, and one pair will do us both.” And this was true; they
had been brought into the tent for the amputation, and laid side by
side. We were both deeply impressed. I had not counted the feet or the
socks, but He who counts the hairs of our heads had counted both. Mrs.
Porter and I divided the one pair between us, and each put a sock on
the one foot. Tears of sympathy blinded our eyes as we remembered that
henceforth these two heroes must walk lame through life.
It was wonderful with what heroism these men could bear their
sufferings and losses. They were full of hope, and grateful for every
little kindness. They literally overwhelmed me with thanks. But it was
left for an Irishman to express his thanks for timely help in the most
original manner. He said in the most impassioned tones, his face all
aglow,--
“And sure it’s an angel ye are, and may ye be in heaven three weeks
before the devil finds out ye’re dead.”
THE WONDERFUL POTATO-PATCH.
In the spring of 1862 potatoes were very scarce and dear.
The women of Muscatine, Iowa, who were earnest workers in the Soldiers’
Aid Society of that town, were anxious to secure potatoes to send to
the army. They decided to canvass the town and the region round about
for that purpose.
But the first grocery they entered the proprietor said, “No, I have no
potatoes to spare; but I have a field about a mile out of town that you
may have the use of, if you wish to raise potatoes.”
The proposition was accepted gladly; and they at once began to solicit
potatoes for planting.
At the appointed day for planting, the loyal old men who had not
gone to the front, and the women and children, rallied for the work.
Wagons were in readiness to carry out the ploughs, harrows, hoes, and
potatoes. The men ploughed and harrowed and furrowed the ground, the
women and children followed, dropping and covering the potatoes, and
the field in due time was planted.
When the time came to cultivate the potatoes, a “potato picnic” was
announced; and when the day arrived, wagons were in readiness to take
all who were willing to work to the field. A picnic dinner was served,
and although the work was hard, these hours of toil were enlivened with
laughter and song and wit and wisdom; and the weeds were destroyed, and
the potatoes cultivated. And so it was each time when the cultivation
of the field was needed.
Happily the Colorado beetle, known as the potato bug, had not been
heard of as yet.
But there came a time of drought and great anxiety, for men, and women
too, for women toiled in the fields in those heroic days. They watched
the clouds with sinking hearts, as they sailed carelessly by, giving
never a drop of rain to revive vegetation and moisten the parched earth.
Every one felt as much interest in the potato-field the women had
planted as though it had been their own.
There are, perhaps, a score or more of men and women still living in
that loyal town, who will remember that “Sanitary Potato-Patch;” and
the remarkable fact, that one day a cloud sailed over it and drenched
the field with rain, scattering only a few sprinkles over the fields
adjoining.
The yield of that potato-field was immense; and the entire crop was
in time shipped to me at St. Louis, and distributed in camps and
hospitals.
I do not now remember how many bushels they raised on that patch of
ground, but I distinctly remember that they sent me by one shipment
fifteen hundred bushels of potatoes.
Never were potatoes more needed, or more acceptable to men suffering
from that army scourge, “scurvy,” than were those fifteen hundred
bushels, distributed to Iowa soldiers and to all in the general
hospitals. To me the supply seemed inexhaustible.
One of the first stops made by the steamer sent down with them was at
Island No. 10, above Memphis, Tenn., where one hundred bushels were put
off, with the injunction that they must be divided equally among the
men and officers of an Iowa regiment stationed there.
There were over one thousand men in all.
On my return trip the steamer stopped again at Island No. 10. My feet
had scarcely touched the shore till I was surrounded by soldiers, who
reported that the officers had eaten up most of the potatoes, and that
they had been given only about three messes.
I was indignant, and went directly to the colonel’s headquarters with
the complaint. He was greatly surprised, and sent for the quartermaster
and other officials, who listened to the complaints very serenely. When
they had heard all I had to say the quartermaster said,--
“You only gave us one hundred bushels of potatoes; how long did you
think they would last?”
“About a month I thought.”
“We have ten companies of one hundred men each. Every company got ten
bushels. That divided among one hundred men would only give them about
two messes apiece.”
“That is so,” I confessed with some confusion.
“I see,” he continued, “that you are not accustomed to feeding armies.”
“If that is the way they eat, I don’t want the task of feeding them. I
accept your explanation, and beg you to excuse my ignorance in these
matters.”
And so we parted. I had a few minutes later, as the boys gathered
about me at the landing, the privilege of explaining why they did not
get more than two or three messes of potatoes,--that there were too
many of them. That if there had been ten men and one hundred bushels
of potatoes, instead of one thousand men and one hundred bushels of
potatoes, they would have fared better.
SAVED BY LEMONADE.
The many-colored signal lights of the fleet of steamers at Milliken’s
Bend, and the bright camp-fires on the land, that glowed with such
unwonted splendor in the gloaming, soon all faded out of sight as our
boat steamed away toward St. Louis; and soon the black curtain of night
shut us in with its thick heavy folds like a funeral pall, and our
fight with disease and death began in earnest.
Never before in the history of wars, so full of untold agonies, did
the timbers of a steamer bear up such a burden of pain, despair, and
death, as did the _City of Memphis_ as she steamed away from Sherman’s
army. Wherever there was room for a sick or wounded soldier, on the
cabin floor without mattress or pillow, in the staterooms, under the
stateroom berths, out on the guards, on the top, or hurricane deck, on
the lower deck, every space was filled with sore, weary, aching human
bodies, mangled or fever-smitten. Of the seven hundred and fifty sick
and wounded on board, about twenty-five were delirious; and their
pitiful cries mingled with the whirr of the wheels, and the splash of
the waters, as the monster boat, with its heart of fire and its breath
of steam, pulled heavily against the mighty tides of the Mississippi
River, were heart-breaking. No one who was on that boat can ever forget
that first night out. Nor can I be charged with over-drawing the
picture. No pencil can paint it black enough.
Nothing has ever haunted my waking and sleeping dreams, not even the
ghastly scenes of the battle-field, as the memory of the concentrated
horrors of that journey. The groans and cries of the wounded and dying
still ring through my soul; and from feelings of compassion I draw the
curtain over the darkest scenes, that even at this distance make me
shudder, and give to my readers only the more pleasant incidents of the
journey, which was in truth a funeral march.
One man lying on the floor of the ladies’ cabin on his blanket, with
his fever-racked head on his knapsack, gave me such an appealing look
that I went to him.
“What can I do for you?” I inquired.
“You can write to my wife if you get through alive, and tell her I died
on the _City of Memphis_.”
“While there is life there is hope. You are not dead yet, and may not
die.”
“Oh, yes, I will! there is no chance for me. Now take down her name,”
and he gave me the name and address of his wife.
“Now I must do something to help you,” I said. “Could you drink a cup
of tea?”
“No, nothing--it’s too late.”
“Could you drink a glass of lemonade?”
How his face brightened! “Where could you get it?” he asked eagerly.
“Make it. I have lemons and sugar, and there is a whole river full of
water at hand.”
The poor man cried with joy; and others wept, too, as they drank the
refreshing beverage, for, providentially, I had a heavy lot of lemons
with me.
The patient began to mend at once, and by the time we reached Cairo was
able to sit up.
Years afterwards I was on a Mississippi River steamer bound for St.
Louis, when I noticed a lady and gentleman regarding me with some
interest, and heard the gentleman say,--
“I am sure it is she.”
The lady came directly to me, with the question,--
“Did you come up the Mississippi River on the _City of Memphis_ with
the wounded after Sherman’s defeat?”
“Yes, I did.”
“It’s she! It’s she!” the lady exclaimed joyfully, much to the
amusement of some of the passengers who had not heard the question.
The gentleman joined us, and made himself known as the man who started
the lemonade treat on that doleful night. “That saved my life,” he said
reverently.
“I want you to know,” said his wife, with tears on her face, “that we
have never for a day forgotten you, though we did not know your name.
We prayed for you as the unknown lady; and the children were taught to
end their evening prayer with, ‘and God bless the unknown lady that
saved papa’s life.’”
It was a very happy and pleasant meeting, although purely accidental.
NOT TIME TO SEND FOR THE COLONEL.
Clinton B. Fisk was chosen colonel of a regiment made up largely
of ministers and religious men. The morality of the regiment was a
matter of favorable comment, not only in the camp where they were
drilled before leaving the State, but also as they advanced down the
Mississippi River. Some one suggested that Colonel Fisk should do the
swearing of the regiment, as he was “as religious as a preacher.”
The colonel, who was not to be nonplussed by such a proposition,
readily accepted the duty, the men all assenting.
“Soldiers,” he said, with great gravity, “if there is any necessary
swearing to be done in this regiment, call on your colonel.”
Weeks passed, during which not an oath was heard in camp. The first
hard camping-place was at Helena, Ark. The regiment pitched their tents
on the bluff back of the town, on yellow clay, which after a rain
became like putty. It was more than a mile to the steamboat-landing;
and all the supplies had to be hauled through the miry streets of the
town and over the corduroy road,--a road made of logs firmly fastened
together,--and then up a long, steep hill, where the mud-like yellow
putty gathered upon the wheels and upon the feet of men and beasts.
Colonel Fisk sat in his tent one day attending to official business,
when he heard one of his men, a teamster, swearing like a Hessian. He
recognized his voice, and determined to reprove the man at the first
opportunity. He had not long to wait. “John,” he called, “come here.”
John responded with a military salute, and stood before his colonel
unflinchingly.
“John, did I not hear some one swearing dreadfully down the hill a
little while ago?”
“Yes, Colonel, that was me.”
“You, John? I am surprised. Don’t you remember that I was to do the
swearing for this regiment?”
“Yes, Colonel, I know; but, you see, I was coming up the hill with a
big load, and the breeching broke. The swearing had to be done right
away, and you weren’t there to do it.” And the teamster made the
military salute and retired.
Many of the other privates were so full of wit that it was almost
impossible for the officers to reprove them. General Fisk, years
afterward, used to say laughingly, that it was little worth while to
try to argue a question with John, his teamster, as he always got the
best of the argument.
A VISIT TO PARSON BROWNLOW.
The Confederates had been driven back from Chattanooga and Knoxville,
and the lines of railroad travel had been re-established. I had
occasion at that time to go to Knoxville. The journey was a dangerous
one; but the mission was important, and I took the chances. I was
delighted to learn, after reaching Knoxville, that Parson Brownlow, the
hero of East Tennessee, was at home. It was afterward arranged that I
should meet him at his own house.
He dwelt in an unpretentious, two-story frame structure, having a
little portico in front. Firmly attached to the little portico was a
tall flagstaff, from which floated a large Union flag. This flag had
been put up at the beginning of the war, and had never been hauled
down. Parson Brownlow was tall, lithe, and sinewy in form. His hair
was black and abundant. He was a quiet talker while conversing on
ordinary subjects; but when the war, the causes which led to it, the
plotting and scheming by which the loyal sentiment of East Tennessee
was silenced, was the theme, his eyes flashed fire, his wit, sarcasm,
and denunciation flowed in electric currents. His sentences were short,
terse, and emphatic. One could better understand, looking into his
face when he straightened himself up to his full height and poured out
his torrent of accusations, why men whom he charged with treason and
falsehood, and arraigned before God and men, should fall back in fear
and shame.
He pointed out to me the little prison, with its iron-barred windows,
in which he was for a time confined as a prisoner. The jail stood
on the bank of the River Holstein, and he was put into a cell which
overlooked the river and forest beyond. For a time his enemies had
possession of the town, and he was placed where he could see nothing
that was going on, and it was well. Many of his neighbors who had
assumed to be loyal brought out Confederate flags, which they had kept
concealed in flour-barrels, and flung them to the breeze. But there was
one Union flag which did not come down, and that was the broad standard
which floated over the little portico of Parson Brownlow’s house.
Mrs. Brownlow, a quiet, lovely little woman, added a word in
explanation now and then; but when her boys were spoken of, she sighed
heavily as though her heartstrings would snap asunder. And yet she had,
in defence of the flag, shown uncommon courage. There were only two
children at home; one a young lady, the other a girl of about ten or
twelve years. We all stood out on the little portico, and Miss Brownlow
described to me her heroic defence of the flag which was waving above
us. She was a beautiful and stately woman; and as she stood there that
day describing the scene, when with drawn pistol she challenged the men
sent to take down that flag, she was the most perfect personification
of the Goddess of Liberty I ever saw. As her eyes flashed fire, and her
words rang out clear, full, and emphatic, we could well understand why
the men retired.
The flag was watched and defended until a Union force came to their
relief. The little force advanced carefully, until the head of the
column reached the crest of the hill which environs the place.
Looking out over the town, which was quietly sleeping in the gray
of the morning, they saw among the Confederate flags the Stars and
Stripes waving from one pole. It was like an inspiration. They made
an impetuous charge, and captured the town. The flag over Parson
Brownlow’s house never came down.
The influence of Parson Brownlow on Tennessee, and especially East
Tennessee, still lives, and will live for ages. He was a man of great
soul, of intense convictions, and of courage equal to his convictions.
If he had been a coward, his blood would have watered the soil of
Tennessee. But his courage, his wonderful mastery of the English
language, and the fearful majesty of his presence, cowed his enemies;
and those who had planned to take his life were glad to send him away
out of their presence.
My visit to Parson Brownlow, his burning words, and the story of the
flag, can never be forgotten. He was by far the ablest man Tennessee
has ever produced.
A RICH REWARD FOR SERVICES.
SAVING THE LIFE OF A BROTHER.
I went out to Sedalia, which was in the heart of the State of Missouri,
with supplies.
It was a crisp winter morning in January when the train reached the
place. I went directly to a large hospital near the railroad station.
Visitors were not received at that hour; but a pass from Mr. Stanton,
Secretary of War, unbarred the door which opened from the vestibule
into a large, long room filled with cots. On each cot lay a sick or
wounded soldier.
Breakfast was being served by the attendants. Glancing down the room, I
saw one of my own brothers, a lad of sixteen, who, fired with the war
spirit, had gained consent to go. I had thought that he was a hundred
miles or more away. There was a look of utter disgust on his face as he
rejected the breakfast and waved the attendant away.
“If you can’t eat this you’ll have to do without; there is nothing
else,” was the attendant’s discouraging response. On a dingy-looking
wooden tray was a tin cup full of black, strong coffee; beside it was
a leaden-looking tin platter, on which was a piece of fried fat bacon,
swimming in its own grease, and a slice of bread. Could anything be
more disgusting and injurious to fever-stricken and wounded patients?
And nearly every soldier in that hospital was prostrated by fever or
severe wounds; yet this was the daily diet, with little variation.
Typhoid fever and acute dysentery was the verdict of a conference of
physicians that consulted in regard to my brother.
There was little hope of his recovery. An old, experienced physician
said, “If he can have good care and nursing his recovery is possible,
but not probable.” And the sad news was telegraphed to the dear old
home. The surgeon removed him into a little inner room, and my fight
with death began in earnest.
Oh! those dreadful days and nights of watching; no joys of earth can
ever obliterate their memory.
The restless tossing of the fever-stricken ones in the adjoining room,
the groans of the wounded, the drip, drip, drip, of the leaking vessels
hung above the worst wounded ones to drop water on the bandages and
keep them cool and moist, put every nerve on the rack, and pulsated
through heart and brain till it seemed as though I should go wild. It
was an inside view of the hospitals that made me hate war as I had
never known how to hate it before.
The pitiful cry of helpless ones calling, “Nurse, nurse! water, water!”
and the weary, sleepy nurses making no response--sitting, perhaps, fast
asleep, yet willing to do their duty when I aroused them, still rings
in my ears.
The surgeon in charge and all the attendants were kind and respectful,
coming into our room on tiptoe lest their rude steps and ways might
jostle a soul, hanging by a thread, out of life. Each day a telegram
was sent to those who watched and prayed far away: “No better--sinking.”
But a new anxiety disturbed me. The acting medical director, who
visited the hospital each day, coming in reeling drunk on the second
day, ordered that I should only be admitted for an hour each day, in
the afternoon.
No one in the hospital was ready to enforce such a brutal order.
Immediately the chief officers at Sedalia and St. Louis were advised of
the state of affairs.
The next day, when the acting medical director came into the hospital,
he was too drunk to talk plainly, or to walk without staggering, and
yet his word was law. He was not too drunk to notice my presence when
he staggered into that little room, however. He said,--
“Madam, it’s against my rules to have any ladies in my hospitals, and
you must leave here.”
“The devotion of a sister is stronger than all hospital rules,” I
answered calmly.
“You can’t stay in this hospital. I’m boss here.” I made no answer.
One or the other of us must certainly leave that hospital. Letters and
telegrams poured in upon the chief officers at St. Louis, from all
the leading officers and surgeons in the army at Sedalia, and he was
relieved from duty before the rising of another sun. And as he was
only acting medical director, not yet having been mustered in, he was
dismissed from the service, and I never saw his face again.
There was general rejoicing throughout the hospital, the camp, and the
town, for the man had been a disgrace to the army. After this, there
were only disease and death to fight. The powers of human endurance are
wonderful. For seven days and nights I never closed my eyes to sleep,
only as I leaned my head down on the side of the cot on which the one
lay who was hovering between life and death.
My eldest brother, Dr. William H. Turner, who was a surgeon in the
Union army, came up on a leave; but as the forces were ordered on
the expedition against Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, he received a
telegram to join his command the very next day. He had little hope of
ever seeing his brother’s face again; but good nursing brought him,
and many others in that hospital, through to health again. He not only
recovered, but he returned to the army; and when his term for three
years had expired, he re-enlisted and served till the close of the war.
He is still living. He has a ranch and a placer gold mine, with first
water rights, near Helena, Mon., where he lives with his family.
In the corner near our little room lay a fair-faced boy of sixteen.
The surgeons had given him up to die. When we looked into each other’s
faces I asked the question, “Can I do anything for you?” The tears came
welling up into his great brown eyes; and after a moment’s struggle,
he burst into tears, sobbing like a child. I laid my face down on the
pillow and cried too. No one laughed and called him babyish. Poor
boy! sick and homesick, and needing so much care and love, and yet
getting so little; lingering on the borderland, with no hand to help,
and no voice to cheer him. No wonder he cried aloud; great stalwart
men, stricken down in the midst of the fight, wounded, sick, and sore,
understood it; and tears were on many a bronzed face as, taking his
thin hands in my own, I cried with him.
As soon as he could command himself he said, “If only I could go home,
mother could nurse me up in a little while.”
“You shall go home. I’ll get you a furlough as soon as you get well
enough,” I answered hopefully.
From that hour there was a marked improvement in that patient’s
symptoms, and many other overcharged hearts were relieved by this
outburst of feeling. In less than two weeks this boy, closely wrapped
in blankets, was helped to the train, for he was going home on a
furlough. Friends were to meet him at St. Louis, and accompany him to
his home and his mother in Denmark, Iowa.
And she did nurse him up; and he returned well and strong, to beat the
drum for the rallying of the serried ranks of men, who, with set faces
and glittering steel, marched to battle.
Never was a mother more grateful than that Iowa mother was for the
little kindnesses shown to her suffering boy. I afterwards met him in
the ranks; for he came down to the Sanitary boat to meet me. He was
well and strong, and very grateful for the little help I had rendered
him.
SAVED BY A BIRD.
The surgeon in one of the Nashville hospitals said, pointing to one
of his patients, “There is a young man slowly starving to death. His
fever is broken, and he might get well, but we cannot get him to eat
anything. If you can tempt him to eat he may recover.”
I went over and stood beside his cot. “I am glad to see you looking so
much better,” I said enthusiastically. He shook his head. “Oh, yes you
are; and now what can I bring you to eat? I’ll bring you something real
nice; what shall it be?”
“Nothing.” And he turned his face away in disgust.
“I’ll tell you what you can eat;” for I suddenly remembered that I
had seen a lot of birds hanging in a meat-shop as I came down to that
hospital; “you can eat a nice broiled bird.”
He looked up in surprise with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Maybe I
could.”
“Why, of course you could; and I will go right away and get one for
you.”
“It will be too much trouble.”
“No, it will not be a bit of trouble. You lie still and think what good
eating a bird is till it comes.”
I hurried away lest he should change his mind, bought some birds,
and took them to the Christian Commission Home, where there was an
excellent cook.
“Aunt Debby,” I said, as I marched into the kitchen with the birds, “I
want you to broil two of these birds the very best you can. A soldier’s
life depends upon them.”
“Laws, missus! You ’most scare me to death talking dat way. I’ze weak
as a rag, and ken do nuthen.”
“But you’ll do it right, and then the soldier will get well. I’ll help
you.”