point than Fort Hill. The land stood high, and the approach was almost
perpendicular at some points. In the assignment of troops to positions,
General John A. Logan’s division was placed in front of Fort Hill.
General Logan was a man of energy, and a great fighter. With the
consent of his superiors in command, he planned to mine Fort Hill. The
work was begun at a distance in the rear, behind a bluff, so as to hide
the operation from the Confederates. General Logan’s engineers, with
scientific precision, directed the tunnel toward Fort Hill. There were
weary days and nights of digging before they reached the foundation of
the fort. But there came to the ears of the Confederates at last, even
amid the thunder of the cannon and the screaming of shells, the sounds
of the mining. Night after night they listened with their ears to the
ground to the sound of the Union picks. The Confederates soon began
to countermine, and it was not long before the toilers in the Union
tunnel heard the thud of the Confederate picks nearly over their heads.
They were too high to strike the Union tunnel, but it was evident
that no time must be lost in blowing up the fort. Tons of powder were
carried in, and one bright afternoon about two o’clock the slow fuse
was lighted and the tunnel was cleared. The regular firing of the
battle was going on. There was nothing in the movements of the army to
indicate that anything unusual was about to occur.
As I was driving around the lines that day, I met General McPherson and
his staff, riding at full speed. Halting, he said,--
“You are going in the wrong direction. Fort Hill will be blown up in a
few minutes. Better drive to General Logan’s headquarters.”
“Oh, no,” I answered; “I’ll be near enough to see the terrible tragedy.
It will be heart-breaking.”
They galloped on; but I lingered along the roadway in sight of Fort
Hill.
Suddenly a terrific explosion shook the foundations of the earth, and
the heavy timbers of the fort and tons of earth were lifted skyward.
The next moment the dust and smoke hid everything from view. General
Logan and his men pushed into the breach, hoping to effect an entrance
before the Confederates had recovered from the shock; but a glittering
wall of bayonets met them, and they were pushed back inch by inch. All
that afternoon and evening hand-grenades were tossed back and forth as
in a game of baseball; but an entrance could not be made.
A strange incident occurred at the blowing up of Fort Hill, which is
perhaps without a parallel. There was at the time of the explosion
a slave boy about eighteen years old working with others in the
Confederate tunnel. This boy was lifted up with timbers and tons
of earth, and thrown into the Union lines. He fell among the men
of Williams’s Battery of Ohio. When the men ran to pick him up, he
exclaimed with terror, “Is you Yanks goin’ to kill me?”
“Oh, no; we don’t kill colored folks,” was the prompt reply.
“Oh, golly, I went up free miles.”
“Could you see anything?” was asked.
“When I’se goin’ up,” he said, “’most eberything was comin’ down, and
when I’se comin’ down ’most eberything was goin’ up.”
“Who commanded Fort Hill?” inquired one of the gunners.
“My massa,” replied the boy.
“Where is your massa now?”
“’Fore God, genl’men, I can’t tell you; he was goin’ up when I’se
comin’ down.”
Pictures of the boy were preserved by Williams’s Battery, taken soon
after the explosion, showing the boy in the patched tow garments he
wore in his wild flight for liberty. General Logan kept him at his
headquarters for some time.
I saw him there many times. After the war he went to Washington with
them I think, and remained some years.
GETTING 2,000 SICK AND WOUNDED OUT OF HELENA, ARK.
On the 10th of August, 1863, accompanied by my secretary, Miss Mary
Shelton, now Mrs. Judge Houston of Burlington, Iowa, I started on my
return trip to Vicksburg, with a heavy shipment of hospital supplies.
The _Van Phul_, the steamer on which we took passage at St. Louis,
reached Helena, Ark., on the 16th of August.
When the boat landed at that post, we found, on inquiry, that there
were over two thousand sick and wounded there, and so stopped over with
a part of our supplies, the rest going on to Vicksburg, where I had a
covered barge that had done duty on the Yazoo River during the siege,
but which was then lying at the wharf of Vicksburg.
We found the hospitals at Helena, if they may be called hospitals, in
a dreadful condition. The Methodist and Baptist churches were crowded
with very sick and severely wounded men.
There were very few cots in these two churches; most of the men were
lying in the narrow pews, with the scant, uneven cushions for their
beds. The weather was extremely hot, and flies swarmed over everybody
and everything. The faces of some of the men, who were too helpless
to keep up a continual fight with them, were black with swarms of
hungry, buzzing flies. A few pieces of mosquito-bars were spread over
the faces of some of the weakest patients; but, lying loose over
their faces, they were of little advantage. Barrels in which had been
shipped pickled pork now served as water-tanks, and were placed near
the pulpit. They were filled every morning with the tepid water of the
Mississippi River.
There was a barge of ice lying at the landing, brought down on purpose
for the sick; but I could find no one who had authority to issue it,
and so it was slowly melting away under the blaze of an August sun.
The men in charge were, however, willing to sell, and I had money to
buy; and soon great crystal cakes of Northern ice were floating in
every barrel of water in every hospital in Helena.
Acres of tents had been pitched by the roadside; and the mud, that in
the winter had made the streets and roadways almost impassable, had now
turned to dust, and every breeze sent it in clouds into the faces of
the sick and wounded men.
There was another camp, called the Convalescent Camp, on the sandy
beach of the river, the water being very low at the time. We found
no convalescence there. The sun beat down on the white tents and the
glistening sand till the heat was like a furnace.
Just back of these hospital tents and churches, there was a wide
cypress swamp, stagnant and green and deadly.
The men were discouraged. “We have been left here to die;” “No man
could recover in such a place as this,” was the verdict of all who had
the strength and courage to express their feelings. The air was heavy
with the deadly malaria, that ladened every breeze with poison.
It was good service to provide them with light hospital garments to
take the place of their heavy soiled clothing, and with delicate
food to take the place of coarse army rations; but, as one man said,
“It’s no use, ladies; we are all doomed men. It is only a question of
time--your efforts will only prolong our suffering; we are all the same
as dead men.”
For two long days, through sun and dust, we went from hospital to
hospital, till we, too, became hopeless.
Every wrong that they had suffered, every peril that had threatened
them, was burned into our hearts and brains, till they became our own.
There were no high officials that we could appeal to. General Steele
was pushing the Confederate forces toward Little Rock. There was no one
having authority nearer than Memphis, Tenn.; and I determined to go to
Memphis, and invoke the help of the authorities there.
I waited for an up-bound steamer all night. I could not sleep; my heart
and brain and blood seemed to be on fire. Thousands of despairing,
suffering men were all around me; it seemed as if sleep had forever
left my eyes and slumber my eyelids. All night long I waited for an
upward-bound steamer, and while I waited I wrote letters to the wives
and mothers of the men who had asked me to write for them. About
daylight a boat came up from Vicksburg, bound for St. Louis; and I
boarded her for Memphis, leaving Miss Shelton at the house where we had
taken board, to complete the task of letter-writing. When I reached
Memphis, I drove directly to the office of the medical director. An
orderly was the sole occupant of the office. He informed me that the
medical director had gone out hunting, and would not be back till
evening. I was greatly disappointed, as I had hoped much from him, but
I was not discouraged. I decided to appeal to the commanding general.
The adjutant-general was the only person in the office.
“I wish to see the general,” I said, addressing the adjutant.
“The general is sick to-day, and cannot see any one. Perhaps he can see
you to-morrow.”
“My business is important and urgent; I cannot wait till to-morrow.
Will you take a message to the general for me?”
“I cannot do that, madam; the general is very sick, and I cannot
disturb him, but perhaps I can attend to the business.”
Thus encouraged, I began in a very energetic manner a statement of the
condition of the sick and wounded at Helena. In the midst of it the
door opened, and the general stood before me. I took in the situation
in an instant, realizing that, sick or well, or whatever his condition,
he was the man who had the authority, and I immediately turned to him
with the case. I pleaded for those men as one would plead for his own
life, and I concluded with a definite request: “I want you, General, to
send down four steamers immediately, fitted out with cots and supplies,
to bring all these suffering men away from that death-trap.” He said
that it should be done. “But, General,” I continued, “I want the order
issued before I leave this office. I want to go back and tell the men
that the boats are coming--it may save some lives.”
“I assume, madam, that the order has been given,” said the adjutant,
“and I will promulgate it immediately.”
“May I depend on you to send the boats down there by to-morrow noon?”
“The boats will be there without fail.”
“Remember,” I said, “I have no other appeal but the newspapers and the
great, generous people of the North who sustain them, if you fail.”
“I hope, dear madam, that you will make no mention of this in the
papers--the boats will be there.” These last words were uttered as he
closed the door of my carriage. I hurried away, as a steamer was coming
in, and I desired, if possible, to get back to Helena that night.
I felt a little more certain of the boats coming because of my threat
to appeal to the North through the newspapers, of which officials stood
in some fear. There were, however, other reasons why I was justified
in putting the case in that way of which it is not best to speak now.
I reached Helena at half-past eleven o’clock that night, full of hope,
and ready to rest and sleep.
The next morning early we were out in the hospitals, not for the
purpose of distributing supplies, but as the messengers of glad
tidings. And never did women go with gladder hearts to bear good
news, since Mary left the tomb of her risen Lord, than we did that
morning, as we went from hospital to hospital telling the men the boats
were coming. We went to the two churches first; and in each I took a
position in the pulpit, and called out at the top of my voice,--
“Attention, soldiers! Four hospital steamers will be here to-day to
take you to Northern hospitals.” The effect was magical. Men who were
lying seemingly half-dead in their hopeless despair lifted their heads,
and questioned anxiously,--
“What did you say?” and the glad message was repeated again and again,
with the assurance that the boats would surely come.
“Then I’ll get well.” “Where are my shoes?” “Where is my hat?” and so
we left them getting ready for the journey, and went from hospital to
hospital with the glad message.
In one tent by the roadside, a beautiful brown-eyed boy about sixteen
years old, after I had made the glad proclamation, questioned, “Is that
so, lady?”
“Yes, it is so; we are looking for the boats every minute.” He slipped
out of his cot; and, kneeling beside it, he lifted his eyes heavenward,
and the tears running down his face, he repeated over and over,--
“Thank God, deliverance has come at last.”
In one ward a man looked at us very earnestly, and then questioned,--
“Is it the truth ye are telling us, now?”
“Yes, it is the truth.”
“Now, surely, ye wouldn’t be after decavin’ a poor sick man that’s most
dead with the heat, and the flies, and the cypress swamp, would ye,
now?”
“No, sir, I would not.”
My anxiety was intense. What if the boats should not come? I stepped
out of the tent and looked up the river, and there in full view the
little fleet of four boats were coming around the bend of the river.
We both cried out in our joy, “The boats! the boats are coming!” but
tears of thankfulness almost choked our voices. The excitement was
intense. No one stood on the order of his going. The surgeons were
willing all should go, and desired to go with them, and they did. Every
man who could, rushed for the boats. Some who were not able to walk
managed some way to get from their cots and crawl out toward the boats.
Oh! it was pitiful to see the helpless ones, the wounded ones, who
could not move, waiting with anxiety for their turn to be carried to
the boats, and pleading, “Please, ladies, don’t let me be left behind.”
“No, no! Don’t be alarmed, you shall go,” was repeated over and over.
At last all were crowded into the four steamers, and the boats steamed
away with their precious freight up the Mississippi River. We stood at
the landing as the boats moved away. The poor fellows out on the guards
tried to give three cheers, but the effort was a failure. We waved our
handkerchiefs, and they waved their hats, or their hands, as long as
the boats were in sight.
What a load of anxiety and responsibility was lifted from our hearts!
Gathering up the supplies still left over, we took the first steamer
bound for Vicksburg.
When we reached the conquered city we found thousands of sick and
wounded still crowded into the hospitals there, and we remained for
some time ministering to them as best we could.
THE CLOCK AT VICKSBURG.
Vicksburg was situated on a high bluff. In the centre of the town stood
the Court House.
On the Court House tower, there was a large white-faced clock, that
turned its four white faces to the four points of the compass. Very
early in the struggle, while yet the army was on the west side of the
river, the artillerymen of the Union army attempted to destroy that
clock, and by stopping the time confuse the enemy. There was quite a
rivalry as to who should with shot or shell dash that clock to pieces.
But somehow they could not hit the clock. The rivalry continued;
and when the army environed Vicksburg, there were eighteen miles of
batteries pointing towards the town and often turned towards the clock.
Shot and shell flew thick and fast, riddling the flag that waved above
the clock, tearing away part of the stairway below, and chipping the
casement that enclosed it. But steadily the hours and days went by,
till weeks lengthened into months, and yet the clock untouched and
unhalting measured off time.
After the surrender I climbed the broken stairs, and saw the damage the
shot and shell had done. The framework was chipped all around. But I
found out why the shot and shell could not hit the clock.
Aunt Dinah, the cook, had said to me,--
“You o’ter see our preacher--he’s the powerfulest preacher in dis town,
he is.”
I expressed a willingness to see him, of which I suppose he was duly
informed by Aunt Dinah, as he called the next day.
He was a middle-aged man of strong muscular frame; and his face, which
was black, was surmounted by a wealth of white hair. I found him very
intelligent, and he gave me a great deal of information about the life
in Vicksburg during the siege. At last I asked him how it happened that
the colored people’s church, a large brick structure, was in ruins.
“Was it destroyed by shot and shell?” I inquired.
“No, missus; no shot nor shell ever cum near dat church; but you see we
colored people ust to go dare to pray, an’ we prayed mighty powerful
for de Yanks an’ for freedom. Den de white people da cumed, an’ den we
had secret prayer. Somebody would say, ‘We’ll have secret prayer,’ den
we knode jus’ what to pray fur. But de white folks dey ’spicioned wat
we wus praying fur, and dey tore dow’ de church.”
“And that stopped your praying?”
“Oh, no, missus; dat couldn’t stop our praying. We jus’ ’greed to pray
when de town clock struck twelve night or day.”
“Why, our men tried to stop that clock; hundreds of guns were turned
upon it during the siege, but somehow they did not happen to hit it.”
The old man’s face was radiant. The joy of his heart was shining
through the black skin, as he swayed and clapped his hands. “Oh, honey,
dar’s no happen about dat. De good Lor’ he jus’ put his han’ over it,
and kep’ it goin’ an’ goin’ for us poor color folks to pray by.”
What perfect trust! It is easier to accept the theory of the old
colored preacher than to explain why it was that the army, with a
cordon of guns pointing toward that clock, did not reach the clock, or
stop the regular swing of its pendulum, or the merry chimes of its bell.
Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster and myself met at the house of a mutual
friend on the banks of the Hudson River one beautiful cloudless
day, and I told her this story of the clock at Vicksburg, and she
immediately wrote the following poem:--
THE CLOCK AT VICKSBURG.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Month by month the shot and shell
’Round the ’leaguered city fell.
Through its fiery tropic air
Throbbed the anguish of despair.
Stubbornly the fated gray
Struggled through each pallid day.
Stubbornly the loyal blue
Fought the weary conflict through.
High above the central square
Towered the old clock, white and fair.
Steadily its iron tongue
Over strife and silence rung.
Till the sullen foemen swore
“They shall keep that clock no more.”
All day long with bated breath
Life looked steadily at death.
Little ones forgot to play,
Christians ne’er forgot to pray.
Fair through all the siege it stood,
That old clock in sober mood,
As though now and then ’twould frown
On the sadness of the town.
Whistling balls around it flew,
Black against the sky’s deep blue.
All untouched, it told the time
With a regnant cheery chime,
Till the hour when victory
Broke the spell--the place set free.
* * * * *
In the city’s open square
Swarthy faces sobbed in prayer,
“Bless the Lord! the work is done;
Bless the Lord! our freedom’s won.
By that clock in yonder street,
True as steel our sad hearts beat.
In our homes or by the way,
When it struck, we paused to pray.
_At its noon-hour day by day
Every bondsman stopped to pray._”
Was it strange that old clock stood
Safe amid the storm of blood?
Why, of course it could not fall,
Guarded by the Lord of all,
Who through choiring songs of heaven
Hears the cry of earth’s forgiven.
And till now its honest face
Is a witness of His grace.
SHARING POOR QUARTERS WITH DOROTHY L. DIX.
In the winter of 1864-1865, the Union forces were concentrated in front
of Petersburg and Richmond. There was more or less skirmishing and
fighting all the while between the two great armies facing each other
for the last desperate struggle.
The hospitals were overcrowded at City Point and Point of Rocks. Every
cot was occupied, every tent was crowded, and the thousands of troops
coming down quartered wherever they could find a vacant place.
I had not been in the cabin of a steamer bound for City Point very
long till Miss Dorothy L. Dix came in. After the usual greetings, she
informed me that she, too, was going to City Point.
Miss Dix was the stateliest woman I ever saw, and she was very
dignified in manner and conversation.
Although at that time she was about sixty years old, she was tall,
straight as an arrow, and unusually slender. Her hair, which was
abundant, was very dark brown, almost black, and was combed and coiled
on the top of her head, except two locks in front, which were combed
smoothly over each ear and carried in a loop up over the coil on top
of her head. This peculiar manner of dressing her hair seemed to add
to her height and dignity. Her dress was always exceedingly plain,
but neat, and her linen collar and cuffs were always immaculate. She
wore no jewels, not even a breastpin. She required the same degree of
plainness on the part of her nurses.
It was not long after the boat left the dock at Washington till we had
passed Alexandria and Mount Vernon, and were steaming on to Fortress
Monroe at the mouth of the Potomac, with the ocean in full view.
There was always a long stop at this point, as it was not only a strong
military station, well-fortified and strongly guarded by troops and
gunboats, but it was a great hospital centre. Thousands of sick and
wounded lay sorely stricken in these great barracks and tents by the
sea.
It was about nine o’clock that evening when we reached City Point. We
had discussed the question of lodging before we left the boat, and Miss
Dix had said,--
“I have no concern. There are always plenty of cots, and I’ll find room
in some of the nurses’ tents,” and she urged me to go with her.
But I was equally confident, and assured her that the Christian
Commission would take care of me. Mr. Cole, of Boston, the chief agent,
was standing beside a tent, in deep thought, when I approached. When he
saw me he lifted up his hand in dismay.
“I have no place for you; every foot of space is occupied,” was his
greeting.
“How about the little tent where I stayed the last time?”
“It is full of delegates lying on the ground on their blankets. I’ve
given up my little corner to Dr. ----, and have no place to sleep
myself.”
“How about the storeroom?”
His face brightened.
“I never thought of that; but it’s full of barrels and boxes, and is
not in order.”
“No matter; there will be shelter and room, and there is a lock on the
door, and I’ll get on all right.”
A candle and some matches were procured, and, accompanied by the agent
and his assistant, I went into the storeroom near by. It was a great,
rough, strong plank barracks; boxes and barrels were piled up nearly
to the roof. There was a vacant space where they handled the supplies,
near the door.
“There is not a cot on the premises; they have all been taken for the
sick and wounded. What will you do?”
“I’ll sleep on the floor, of course,” I answered cheerfully.
But they turned some of the boxes around, and gathered up all the straw
and shavings that were in sight, that had been used in packing, and put
them together, and I placed my satchel for a pillow; and after I had
assured them that it would be all right, they left, and I locked the
door after them.
They had not been gone ten minutes till there was a knock at the door.
I went very close to the door and called,--
“What is wanted?”
“Mrs. Wittenmyer, Miss Dix is here, and she has no place to stay. Can
she come in?”
“Certainly; of course she can.”
And I opened the door, and that stately woman, with all her dignity
upon her, which was really a part of herself, entered, glad to find
even such a shelter as that. My candle lighted up the building
sufficiently to show its unsightliness, and the dust and rubbish that
were all about us. As Miss Dix was old enough to have been my mother,
of course there was but one thing to do, and that was to give up my bed
of shavings and straw to her, and with the stub of an old broom try to
clear a place on another part of the floor for myself. She generously
offered to divide her bed; but there was not enough to divide, so I
spread my blanket-shawl down on the rough, uneven floor for my bed, and
I took my satchel for a pillow.
I was weary and anxious, and for a few moments I felt the service was
too hard to be endured much longer. But there came another train of
thought, as I heard the booming of the cannon at no great distance.
“How glad the brave men on the picket-line, where to sleep is death,
the men in the trenches, and working the guns, would be to have a
good dry floor to sleep on, and the right and privilege to sleep,” I
said to myself. Somehow my bed grew soft and my pillow downy, and all
the clouds of care and spirit of self-pity cleared away before the
magic power of patriotism and sympathy for the brave men who stood so
gallantly for my country and its flag; and I never in all my life had a
better bed, or a sweeter night’s sleep.
HARDSHIPS OF CAMP-LIFE AT VICKSBURG.