CHAPTER I.

Transcriber’s Note

Italic text displayed as: _italic_

THREE YEARS

IN

FIELD HOSPITALS.

THREE YEARS

IN

FIELD HOSPITALS

OF THE

ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.

BY

MRS. H.

PHILADELPHIA:

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

1867.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States

for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

INTRODUCTION.

This simple story of hospital scenes, and the unpretending sketches

of the few brave soldiers to which they allude, is arranged from the

meager notes which were hurriedly written at the time they occurred,

when there was not the most remote idea of ever preparing them for

publication.

The events of the war are “graven as with an iron pen” upon my

memory. To preserve some slight memento of them for friends at home,

was the primary object of these notes: to gratify the same persons

are they now grouped together.

MRS. H.

UPPER MERION,

Montgomery County, Penna.,

_October 1, 1866_.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

Antietam—Hospitals—Frederick City—Virginia—Breaking

up of the Hospitals—Moving North with the Army 9

CHAPTER II.

Battle of Gettysburg—The Wounded—Incidents in Hospital—Sanitary

Commission Work—The Flag on “Round

Top” 38

CHAPTER III.

The Campaign of 1864—Port Royal—White House—City

Point 58

CHAPTER IV.

First Visit to Annapolis—Stories of Starved Men—Burial

at Andersonville—Neely’s Life in the Dungeon of Castle

Thunder—Sergeant Kerker—Captains Wilson and Shelton

in the “Iron Cage,” in Buncombe County, Tenn.—The

Boy and the Flag—Gould’s returning Consciousness—Mr.

Brown in Danville Prison 91

THREE YEARS IN FIELD HOSPITALS.

CHAPTER I.

Antietam.—Hospitals.—Frederick City.—Virginia.—Breaking up of the

Hospitals.—Moving North with the Army.

When the first sounds of war were heard, and there dimly dawned the

startling fact that traitors were imperiling the life of the nation,

we all remember how thousands rushed to arms at our country’s call,

eager to proffer aid in this her hour of need. City, village, and

country alike gave, as their first offering, their young men, the

pride and strength of the land.

The first that our quiet valley knew of the preparation for war,

a company was being gathered from about our very doors,—with Col.

Hartranft (now major-general—and nobly has he won the double stars,

to which his bravery entitles him) as their chosen commander. We

saw them as they stood beneath the shade of a spreading tree, with

uplifted hand, vowing true allegiance to the best government the

world has ever yet beheld; and as that roll now shows, many upon

far-off battle-fields have sealed it with their blood.

They followed where Burnside led; and all along that way, which

occupied four years of these eventful times, we trace their course,

marked by the battles in which they so bravely bore their part.

As the soldiers went out from among us, there came the yearning

wish to lessen somewhat the hardships of their lonely camp life,

especially when sick in hospital or wounded. What each family first

began to do for _their_ relatives and friends, soon became general;

and thus by uniting together, “Soldiers’ Aid Societies” were formed.

With all loyal women of the land, I worked zealously in their

behalf; worked, because there was irresistible impulse _to do_, _to

act_. Anything but idleness, when our armies were preparing for the

combat, and we knew not who should be the first to fall, who be

called _widow_, or who _fatherless_. At length the battle of Antietam

came so startlingly near, that it brought before us the horrors

and sufferings of war as we had never previously felt it. From our

midst six women felt called upon to offer their services, for a few

weeks, to nurse the wounded. Though strongly urged to make one of the

number, I declined. The idea of seeing and waiting upon wounded men,

was one from which I shrank instinctively.

But when my husband returned, soon after, with the sad story that

men were actually dying for food, home comforts and home care; lying

by the roadside, in barns, sheds, and out-houses; needing everything

that we could do for them, I hesitated no longer, but with him went

earnestly to work in procuring supplies of food, medicine, and

clothing. Through the kindness of friends and neighbors, we were

enabled to take with us a valuable supply of articles that were most

urgently required. Fortunately they were hurried through without

delay, came most opportunely, and were invaluable. The name of

Antietam is ever associated in my mind with scenes of horror.

As I passed through the first hospitals of wounded men I ever saw,

there flashed the thought—_this_ is the work God has given _me_ to do

in this war. To care for the wounded and sick, as sorrowing wives and

mothers at home would so gladly do, were it in their power. From the

purest motives of patriotism and benevolence was the vow to do so,

faithfully, made. It _seemed_ a long time before I felt that I could

be of any use—until the choking sobs and blinding tears were stayed;

then gradually the stern lesson of calmness, under all circumstances

was learned.

We found the men, who had so bravely fought, still scattered over

the hardly-contested field. At this time, 6th of October, 1862, they

were all under some kind of shelter. A sad want of suitable food

and medical stores was still felt; and though both were forwarded as

rapidly as possible, yet it was insufficient to relieve the distress.

At that early day in the history of the war, we found our noble

United States Sanitary Commission here, doing a vast amount of good.

From their store-room were sent, in every direction, supplies to

relieve the greatest suffering. And to it, strangers as we were to

them, we daily came for articles which we found, in our visits to

the hospitals, were most urgently needed, and which our own more

limited stores could not furnish. They were as freely given to us for

distribution, as they had been in like manner intrusted to them by

friends at home. The Montgomery County delegation occupied one room

in a house adjoining the “German Reformed Church Hospital.” In this

uncomfortable, little place, crowded with boxes and swarming with

hospital flies, the six ladies continued their labors during the day,

waiting and working faithfully among the wounded. And so dividing

their number that part went daily in the ambulance, which was

furnished for their use, to look after and prepare food for those in

the country that urgently required it, while the remainder attended

to the same kind offices for those who were in town. Of the six who

at that time volunteered their services, one remained in the hospital

for two years; two others, from that date until the close of the

war, were known as reliable, valuable helpers.

Added to this fatiguing kind of labor, there seemed no limit to the

numbers who came looking after their dead and wounded, the “loved

and lost.” From that little room persons were constantly aided in

their search for missing friends, food furnished at a time when it

was almost impossible to buy at _any_ price, and they directed to

lodgings in the town or elsewhere.

Among these was a young wife, whose frantic grief I can never forget.

She came hurriedly, as soon as she knew her husband was in the

battle, only to find him dead and buried two days before her arrival.

Unwilling to believe the fact that strangers told her—how in the

early morning they had laid him beside his comrades in the orchard,

she still insisted upon seeing him. Accompanying some friends to the

spot, she could not wait the slow process of removing the body, but,

in her agonizing grief, clutched the earth by handfuls where it lay

upon the quiet sleeper’s form. And when at length the slight covering

was removed, and the blanket thrown from off the face, she needed but

one glance to assure her it was all too true. Then, passive and quiet

beneath the stern reality of this crushing sorrow, she came back to

our room. The preparations for taking the body to Philadelphia were

all made for her, and with his remains she left for her now desolate

home.

My imperfect notes of this date are filled with names of terribly

wounded men, who are scattered over the entire extent of the field,

recalling most vividly scenes that can _never_ be forgotten. Those

were fortunate who were in barns, where they were sure of a little

hay or straw upon which to rest their shattered limbs, while many of

the others lingered a few days, with no bed nor pillow other than

a knapsack or piece of clothing. And then—the weary marches over,

_their_ last fight ended, they closed their eyes, and sank to rest.

Upon one end of the piazza, at Locust Spring, lay Lieut. Williams, of

Connecticut. For three weeks he lingered in intense suffering, and

then passed from earth. That same piazza had been thickly strewn with

the dying, and the wounded, ever since the battle. In the house were

several officers, all seriously wounded. The barns were crowded with

the sufferers; among them Lieut. Maine, of the 8th Connecticut—nursed

by his wife, patient and gentle, while life lasted. In one of the

tents was a zouave; a shell had torn his chin and fractured the

shoulder; both legs broken; the fingers of one hand partly gone,—yet

he is cheerful, and thinks he got off well. Near him lay a young

boy, from Union, Centre County, Penna., wounded in the chest badly,

but, as his surgeon said, not fatally. His thoughts, sleeping and

waking, were of home. He was constantly repeating, “Oh, take me to

my mother.” And when I told him that I would do all I could for him,

that I knew many persons in Centre County, he brightened up and

quickly said: “Then you _will_ take me to my mother.” Of his wound

he never seemed to think, but at each visit we saw that he was fast

passing beyond our care; and in a few days, repeating, while life

lasted, the same words, he “fell asleep,” and so went to his “long

home.” In a miserable little log-house near the Potomac, thirty men

lay upon the floor, ill with fever; some had a little straw, but no

pillows were to be found; at that time it was unavoidable, but their

food was hardly fit for well men; medicines very scarce;—this house

the counterpart of many others, both as to occupants, food, etc.

On the same road were several places filled with wounded rebels; in

their hurried flight, they had been left by thousands, and now had to

be provided for. The Episcopal church in the town had also been taken

for their use. The rest of the churches, and half the houses in the

place, were crowded with our wounded troops.

Going into the hospital one evening, I found, lying upon a stretcher

near the door, Wm. P. C., of the 12th New York State Vols., “the only

son of his mother, and she was a widow.” To my question, if I could

do anything for him, he replied: “Not now; he was waiting for the

surgeon to attend to him.” A few hours later, when taken from the

operating table, I found him perfectly calm and quiet; after making

him as comfortable as could be done for the night, promised to care

for him on the morrow. When I first wrote to his mother, it was only

to tell her he was wounded. The following day was a decided change

for the worse, and he thought he could not live. Even then, it was

not upon his own sufferings and death that his mind dwelt, but upon

his absent mother and sisters. He would constantly exclaim, “This

will kill my mother; oh, break it gently to her.” After messages to

them, would ask that some portion of Scripture be read to him, and

the prayers which he named repeated with him. Thus occupied, the

hours fled too rapidly, as we felt that each moment was precious to

him who was upon the brink of that unknown river, whose crossing

must be _alone_. By his lonely bedside, I wept bitter tears for the

home so darkened, the light of a mother’s life departed, and the

sorrowing sisters of whom he spake. Conscious almost to the moment

of his departure, he calmly and trustfully passed “into the spirit

land.” Upon the evening of the same day, 13th of October, 1862, with

my husband and a lady friend, we accompanied the detachment of his

own regiment which carried his body to the grave. In the Lutheran

church-yard, with the solemn burial-service of the Episcopal Church,

Mr. Holstein committed his remains to the grave. “Earth to earth,

ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” Soon after came the most touching

letter of thanks from his sister. I thought _then_, as I _still_

think, that those kindly words amply repaid me for the little I had

done for him, or all I _could_ do, for other soldiers, in the future.

A few months afterward we stood again beside his open grave; this

time, at the request of his sister, that we should once more look

upon the body we had placed there, and know that it was _indeed_ her

brother. Painful as it was, her request was complied with to the

letter; the body, disinfected, was prepared for reinterment. With

my husband as its escort, the homeward journey was taken; at length

reached Utica, N. Y., in safety; then, his last request complied

with, carried by loving hands to its final resting-place. Again came

words of thanks, dearer far to me than any earthly treasure.

While the army rested in the vicinity of Sharpsburg, in addition

to the wounded, scores of fever-patients came pouring in; some new

regiments went down by hundreds. About this time the wounded were

gathered up from the numerous scattering hospitals, and sent to

“Smoketown” or “Frederick City.” As the short supply of medicine,

food, and clothing continued, we left, when the party of six went

home. Going directly to Philadelphia, came to the house of a relative

as the wedding-party of a dear friend was about proceeding to

the church; with the family, we stood around the chancel, as our

beloved Bishop Potter pronounced the words which made the twain one;

and then, as the guests returned to the house, for a few moments

mingled with the crowd. But think of the _contrast_! Only yesterday

walking among, and waiting upon the mangled, brave defenders of our

country’s flag; men who were in want of suitable food, lying upon

the hard ground; needing beds, pillows, clothing, covering,—_is it_

any wonder that I turned away, sick at heart, coldly calculating

how many lives of noble men might have been saved with the lavish

abundance of the wedding festivities which I saw? Of the wedding, I

knew nothing more; but quietly withdrew to an upper room. From thence

sent notes, imploring help for the wounded, to friends throughout the

city: so prompt and abundant was the response, that in forty-eight

hours we were on our way back to Antietam, with boxes of medical

stores, valued at one thousand dollars. Delicacies, clothing, etc.,

all selected to meet the wants as we represented. We were again most

warmly welcomed by our friends, the surgeons, under whose direction

our labors had heretofore been carried on. The supplies, as they

said, were in many instances a perfect “Godsend,” as we had articles

which it was impossible to obtain there. This time, our location was

a better one, near the Lutheran church, occupying part of a house

devoted to fever-patients. A narrow entry separated our room from the

one where twenty men laid upon the floor. Here, in one corner, was a

graduate of Yale College; his opposite neighbor, a young lawyer, from

near Pittsburg, who was an only son; next to him, upon the floor, the

son of a Presbyterian clergyman; the rest of the occupants, Eastern

and Western men, indiscriminately mingled. All privates. But _all_,

far superior to the same number from any portion of the rebel ranks

that I have ever seen.

The next house was filled in like manner: soon after we came, and

before the names and faces of the men were familiar, I went there,

carrying some nourishing food. A Pittsburg colonel had just requested

that I would find some of his regiment, if possible, that _he_ could

not trace. As I opened the door, and asked, “Are there any from

Pennsylvania here?” a number replied in the affirmative; but the one

nearest me sank back gloomily upon his handful of straw, murmuring:

“Well, as I am from Massachusetts, I suppose _that_ means that _we_

are not to have any of that nice supper.” I quickly corrected his

mistake, and explaining my errand, told them the supper was for

_all_: there could be no distinction of _States_, where all the

soldiers needed care. Thus early was I taught a lesson I never forgot.

It was but a few days until they were _all_ moved into our house,

and this same Massachusetts soldier, Mr. B., was one that required

more kindness and attention than any of the others, during the short

time he lived. In the same room was Jim C., a boy of nineteen,

belonging to the 32d Massachusetts Vols.; he had been very ill with

fever, but was thought convalescent; but owing to some imprudence,

there was a relapse, and he sank rapidly. When he knew there was no

hope of his recovery, his greatest comfort seemed to be to have the

Scriptures read to him; recognizing my voice, called: “Oh, pray for

me! I have sinned, have sinned; but I repent, and ‘believe in God the

Father,’” etc. “Jim, who taught you the Creed?” “I don’t know; but I

want to say it all;” so it was repeated with him; and again, with the

earnestness of a child, the Lord’s Prayer was uttered. He listened

with the closest attention, as different passages were recited to

him; and would frequently interrupt the reading, saying: “Yes, I _do_

believe; say that over again.” It was a most affecting sight, the

dying boy begging God’s forgiveness of his sins, that he might be

“taken up,” as he expressed it; and then his body laid in the earth

without a fear. The few days he lingered were all thus spent, and

when death was near, almost to the last moment that consciousness

remained, and his voice could be heard, prayers for pardon were upon

his lips. The evening of the 24th of October, 1862, he suddenly and

peacefully died. Early the following morning, wrapped in his blanket,

he was given a soldier’s burial in the little church-yard.

“Leave him to God’s watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him.”

At this time our valued friend, Mrs. E...., who had been the

directing power among the party of six, and who returned with us to

Sharpsburg, had unmistakable symptoms of camp fever. She was taken

home as quickly as possible; the attack at first seemed a light one,

until an unlooked-for relapse brought her within the very shadow of

the “dark valley,” and she appeared sinking beyond all human skill.

But prayers were heard, and answered, and a life so precious spared

to be the sunlight of her husband’s home, and a blessing to all

around her.

Her sister, “Miss Lizzie,” then came to assist: from this period

almost to the close of the war, she was my excellent co-worker.

Among the wounded at Antietam, Gettysburg, and in Virginia, her kind

ministrations will be long remembered.

The 26th of October the army, which had been resting for more than

a month in the vicinity of the battle-field of Antietam, took up

its line of march southward; by the evening of the same day their

camping-grounds were nearly all vacated. The 30th of the month, the

last of the troops were moving, and the town looked deserted; but in

the hospitals the duties continue the same, and cases of the deepest

interest are daily found. Of the numbers we had known upon our first

arrival, many had gone to their “dreamless sleep” by the side of

comrades who had early fallen; and we now saw many hillocks in the

little inclosures, where a few weeks ago lonely graves were found.

The little hospital in our house continues full. When a soldier

dies, his vacant place upon the floor is soon filled by another;

and thus the _number_ remains the same. D—g, from Pittsburg, an

orphan, with only an elder brother to grieve for him, was a case that

seemed particularly hard. “Leave of absence,” at the right time,

might possibly have saved his life; but his furlough came a few

hours _after_ death had released the suffering body from sorrow and

disappointments.

Mr. B., the Massachusetts soldier, mentioned some time since, was

now extremely ill: as I was busied in waiting upon them, one Sunday

morning, he inquired if I would write home for him, as he dictated;

and replying that I certainly would, he directed me where to find

his little writing-case, preferring that his own paper and envelopes

should be used, that his wife might recognize his writing upon them.

In a calm, composed manner, speaking so clear and distinct that the

surgeon involuntarily paused in his work to listen, he gave the

parting messages to wife and children; wished a lock of his hair

cut for his wife, while he was living; then, taking a ring off his

finger, it was inclosed, as he directed, to his little daughter;

after disposing of other keepsakes to his children, added: that their

likenesses, with his wife’s, that had so often comforted him in hours

of sadness, and weary marches, though dimmed with the smoke and dust

of battles, would be buried by his side. This was _all_ he had of

his distant home—pictures that were so dear, that even when life was

gone, they must not be separated from him. Then, giving instructions

as to the final disposition of his property, and the education of his

children, he commended them, in a few earnest words, to the loving

care of their Heavenly Father. As he directed, I closed the letter,

and kept it until a few days later, when another was added to it,

to say that the patient sufferer was at rest. Death, to him, was

not unlooked for, though it came suddenly; as I was reading to him

in the evening, he fell asleep, and never more wakened upon earth.

In the morning we found his lifeless body, wrapped in his blanket,

lying in the entry near our door,—the same resting-place that his

fellow-soldiers had found. The first coffin that we knew used in

the hospital was made for Mr. B., of rough boards—the remains of

our packing-boxes. His request was faithfully carried out, and the

pictures placed beneath his folded hands.

Our party having for some time consisted of Mr. H., myself, and

friend, we stayed until the town was deserted; the few that were

left being taken to “Smoketown” and “Locust Spring.” Our services no

longer required, we went home the last of November; staying there

only long enough to arrange about the forwarding of supplies to us,

as we should need them in the hospitals.

Another trip to Antietam and Harper’s Ferry, and Mr. H. returned, ill

with the fever; fortunately, it was not a serious attack. We remained

there only long enough to nurse him through it, when our trips to the

hospitals at Antietam and Frederick City were resumed. While in the

latter place, our home was the house of a well-known loyal family.

They _felt_, what we at the North knew nothing of, that loyalty

meant life was at stake, homes deserted, property destroyed, and the

friends of early, happier years, _all_ given up,—for what? devotion

to the country, and the flag!

As “Stonewall’s” men marched through the town, they manifested their

contempt for the “Starry Flag” by trailing it in the dust, at their

horses’ feet, as they rode along. Our friends, pained to know of

their ill deeds, and unwilling to look upon the disgraceful act they

were powerless to prevent, closed their doors and windows, that they

might be out of sight. Their old neighbors pointed them out to the

rebels, as they passed exultingly through their streets, as hated

Unionists. But their joy was of short duration; soon driven out by

our forces, and many prisoners taken, a long line of the captured

were marched by their door. Now was _their_ hour of triumph; the flag

which had been so cautiously concealed, and sacredly guarded, was

brought from its hiding-place, and secured to the staff. Mrs. J....,

an elderly lady, a Virginian by birth, determined they _should_ again

pass under the flag they had dishonored.

“In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.”

The rebels could only threaten, as they moved on, that if again in

possession of the city, they and their home were doomed. Some months

after this had occurred, I stood by that attic window as she related

the story, and pointed out how defiantly she had waved it over them.

Its weight was as much as I could raise, and yet, in the excitement,

my friend was all unconscious of it. It was long after, before I saw

or heard of Whittier’s “Barbara Frietchie,”—that charming story, so

told that it will live for ages to come; and have often wondered

whether _his_ original and _my_ friend were the same. In visits to

the hospitals, collecting and distributing articles needed among the

wounded, the time was occupied until the battle of Fredericksburg.

Soon after as possible, we went to Virginia, and remained in the

Second Corps Hospital, near Falmouth. Army life taught, perhaps,

_all_ who were in it many useful lessons. I never knew before how

much could be done, in the way of cooking, with so few utensils.

We thought we had some experience in that line at Sharpsburg, but

here the conveniences were still fewer. When we commenced, a little

“camp-stove,” very little larger than a lady’s band-box, fell to

our lot, upon which to prepare the “light diet,” as it is termed.

Three articles—a coffee-pot, a half-gallon tin-cup, and a small

iron-boiler—were the sum total of kitchen furnishing: we soon learned

to manage nicely; by beginning in time, were always ready at the tap

of the drum. For several weeks, seventy men were daily supplied with

all the “light diet” they required, prepared upon it; our soldier

assistants worked admirably with it;—and gradually, from the Sanitary

Commission and friends at home, _this_ department was fitted for

work; an abundance of delicacies could be made with the condensed

milk and fresh eggs, which were regularly forwarded to us; bread and

biscuit were also sent, with farina, wines, butter, dried fruits,

etc., so that the men fared well. Penn Relief, Reading, Pottstown,

Danville, and some portions of Montgomery County, were the sources

from which our supplies, at _this_ time, principally came. From

the commencement until the close of the war, they never wearied in

well-doing; but worked on devotedly, as only those could whose hearts

were in it. The memory of them, and their good deeds, will ever be

lovingly cherished by those whose hands were made the channel through

which this stream of life-sustaining gifts flowed.

We still depended entirely upon home-supplies for our own use;

frequently, during that winter, our bread was _four_ or _five_ weeks

old; we never called it stale even then, though at home we would

think it unfit for the table in as many days. Several trips were made

to Washington, to purchase bread for us; at length, at the request

of the surgeon in charge, we drew army rations, and were spared much

trouble. Our dwelling was a little “Sibley” tent, whose only floor

was the fragrant branches of the pines—giving additional care to our

attentive “orderly,” in its frequent renewing; there, while fully

occupied, the winter slowly wore away. The deep mud, and impassable

roads, cut by the army, precluded travel; no chaplain, that _I_

ever saw, came to our camp until the roads were in good order: men

sickened and died, with no other religious services, save the simple

Scripture reading, and prayers, which I was in the daily practice of

using for them; and which invariably were received with a pleasant

“thank you,” and adding: “We are always glad to see you, and have you

read to us.”

A boy, belonging to the 148th P. V., George S. L...., whose home

was in Centre County, Penna., was very low from hemorrhage; his

nurse came to ask if _I_ would try to induce him to eat; he had

refused all food that had been offered, and it was important that

his strength should be kept up: I prepared some article as directed

by the surgeon, and took it to him; when I entered the tent, he was

lying with closed eyes, and a face colorless as the canvas above

him; I spoke, telling him that I came, at the surgeon’s request,

to feed him, that he was not to speak or make any exertion—merely

swallow what I gave him. The blue eyes opened _wide_, scanned my

face steadily for a moment; possibly satisfied with the scrutiny,

no objection was made, and he really enjoyed the slight repast. I

told him at such an hour I would be there again, and would prepare

his food and drink. For two weeks, all he ate was what I gave him;

during that time was a very decided change for the better, and he

could now converse without danger. The week preceding the battle

of Chancellorsville, we were obliged to go home for a short time;

but left, to carry on the work, my valuable assistant, Miss P. When

George found we expected to leave, he cried bitterly, exclaiming that

“he knew he should die, if I left him;” and thanking, and blessing me

for my care.

As soon as it was possible, after the battle, to get within our

lines, we were at our posts. During our absence the hospital had been

moved two miles, and was now located near Potomac Creek. Of course,

as soon as we arrived, my first inquiry was for George; the surgeon

replied, “he was living, that was all; was in a stupor, and knew no

one.” I could not realize that the boy must die; when I hastened to

his tent, and spoke, asking if he knew me, his reply was, calling me

by name: “Do you think I _ever_ could forget you?” My daily reading

was again resumed; the blue eyes now regularly brimmed over at my

approach: it was his expressive, silent greeting; though apparently

insensible to all around him, my voice would at any time rouse him,

and a faint smile light up his wasted face. He lingered a few days

longer, and then, one quiet morning, with the precious words of faith

and hope yet sounding in his ears, he gently passed from earth.

Trains of wounded were still coming from the late battle, when

we arrived; some had lain for many days upon the field, and were

gathered up in out-of-the-way places; one such group, of five, “shot

to pieces,” as they said, were entirely overlooked, until found by a

New Hampshire chaplain, who brought them water for their wounds, and

obliged the rebels to bring them food: finding they had not died, as

they had hoped, they sheltered them slightly from the weather; and

at length, to their great joy, they were sent to our lines. In the

number were many badly, some singularly wounded. While the hospital

continued crowded, the duties were wearisome, giving but little time,

either day or night, for any of the attendants to rest; there was

much daily occurring of interest among those who now filled the wards.

Our nearness to the “front,” within sound of musketry and cannon,

prepared us for whatever might occur, so that we were always

anticipating more than passed around us. As soon as transportation

could be had, the number in the hospital was lessened by sending the

patients North. And now that milder days gave promise of the coming

spring, the “surgeon in charge” commenced the work of beautifying

the grounds; soon the sloping hillsides were covered with a neatly

planted garden, containing a large variety of vegetables. Flowers,

roots, and seeds were sent to us; and as if by magic, beds of flowers

were scattered everywhere; many springing into beauty in the form

of the _corps badge_—needing but a few weeks’ sunshine and showers

to perfect the red color of the division. Rustic work of the most

artistic order graced the grounds; all this was done for a twofold

reason—to give employment to the convalescents, and amusement to the

patients. In front of our tent was a rustic arbor, so complete that

any of our country homes would prize it for its beauty.

Work went on, and everything made _apparently_ as lasting as though

we expected to spend the summer within sight and sound of rebel

batteries. A few days previous to the army moving, a portion of the

sixth corps was sent across the river to attract the attention of

the rebels in that direction, and to ascertain what force they had

remaining. We were close to one of our batteries during a portion of

the time this was occurring, intently watching the skirmishers, and

the rebels, that were plainly seen in the woods near them. Within a

few minutes after we left the spot, the rebels again renewed their

leaden compliments to the battery where we had been: they returned

them in like manner; in the distance, we plainly heard the sharp

firing which ensued. Things continued in this way until Saturday,

the 13th of June, 1863: while at dinner, the order was received

to break up the hospital; quietly and rapidly was it obeyed; the

ambulances were in readiness to take all who could not walk, and in

_two hours_ the seven hundred men were on their way to the station.

It was surprising to see how quickly crutches were thrown aside, and

all who _could_, were willing to start for the cars—exulting in the

prospect of going that much nearer home. When the order to “break up”

was given, the gardener was putting the finishing touches to some

ornamental rustic work about our tent: _instantly_ hammer and hatchet

were thrown aside, flowers remained unplanted, and, with a hurried

“good-by,” he fell into line with his comrades. The remainder of that

day was a busy scene of destruction and confusion; but the night

found us still occupying our tent, though nearly all the others,

except a few of the officers’ quarters, had been “struck.” The next

day, Sunday, came with all the loveliness of June; but there was

nothing in _our_ surroundings to point it out to us as a day of rest.

Almost the first object which the early morning revealed to us

was the Army of the Potomac in motion. Looking down upon the

plain beneath, far as the eye could reach, was a moving mass of

men, horses, and artillery, with the heavy army wagons and trains

of ambulances; gleaming through and above it all, in the bright

sunlight, were the _bayonets_—upheld by that heroic column, which the

future record proved to be firm and enduring as their trusty steel.

It _was_ a grand sight, never to be forgotten; in one continued

stream, this mighty army poured along. At six in the evening, our

hospital train of empty ambulances was in readiness; and then the

torch was applied to all that remained of so much beauty about our

camp. We sat, quietly watching the flames as they curled and flashed

from one arbor to another, encircling in a wall of fire the evergreen

screens which had so pleasantly shielded us from heat and dust,

and crumbling into ashes in a few moments the work of months. All

hospital and army property which could not be transported, was thus

consumed, two officers remaining to see that the work of destruction

was complete; what could not be _burned_, the axe rendered useless.

As the flames lessened, we took our places and moved on with the

train, expecting to join the division at Stafford Court House;

halting there long enough for a hasty supper, the march was resumed.

To lookers-on, if any could be found in that desolate region, it

must have presented the appearance of an almost unending torch-light

procession: as from nearly every ambulance and wagon was suspended

a lantern, to point out the dangers of an unknown road. At the

crossing of Aquia Creek, rested for an hour; and here all were glad

to sleep, even for that short time. A little distance beyond, passed

a Connecticut battery of six siege guns—32-pounders, each drawn by

ten horses. Very early in the morning, the sixth army corps came up,

moving quickly by, cheering as they passed, and calling, “On for

Pennsylvania!” Breakfasted near Quantico Creek, in a rebel house; the

occupants enjoyed our coffee, as a luxury beyond their reach since

the commencement of the war; on the surrounding hills, found many

deserted rebel camps, abatis, and defenses of various kinds. This

day’s march brought us to Dumfries, and camped in its vicinity at 11

P.M., the occupants of our ambulance most thoroughly _used up_, all

but myself; assisted in arranging our little tent, prepared lunch,

and made very strong tea with thick, muddy water—tired and hungry

as we were, it was not as unpalatable as one would imagine. After

three hours’ rest, the order was given, quietly, to move quickly as

possible, but cautiously, as we were in sight of rebel camp fires.

Here, as elsewhere in this hurried journey, whenever such orders were

given, some of the soldiers _ran_ with our ambulance, steadying it,

as the wretched roads required. The rebels were continually harassing

the rear of our column. _We_ had left Stafford Court House late in

the evening; the next morning our cavalry had a short fight with them

there.

The morning of the 16th of June was cool and delightful, but the

mid-day heat was intense; the soldiers feeling it painfully, but

bearing it cheerfully. From this place onward, our course could

be traced by the blankets, coats, and knapsacks thrown aside by

the foot-sore and weary men; broken, abandoned wagons and disabled

horses, seen all along the route. The difficulty of procuring water

was greater than any previous time; numbers of wells by the roadside

were observed filled with stones; the water was always muddy and

bad, and could be had only at long distance from the road. This day

found both men and horses needing a full night’s rest: quite early

in the evening we halted at the edge of a beautiful wood in Fairfax

County, and in its shade our little tent was pitched; with the dawn

we were astir, deeply thankful for our safe, refreshing rest and

shelter during the night. Of course, in all this journey, our bed was

a soldier’s couch—the _ground_; with a gum-blanket, and satchel for a

pillow, could at any time or hour sleep soundly.

We crossed the stony Occoquan at Wolf’s Ford; on the heights were

the remains of formidable-looking rebel fortifications. Here, June

15th, 1863, we heard the first tidings that the rebels were in

Pennsylvania; the excitement the news created was intense. This

day’s heat told sadly upon the men; despite their eagerness to reach

Pennsylvania, they could not bear up, and many fell by the wayside

from exhaustion: in one division, one hundred and twenty reported

with sunstroke. During the hurried march, numbers of cavalry horses

had been abandoned by their riders, who only required a few days’

rest to recruit, and again they were ready for duty. They were to be

seen all along our route, undisturbed by the passing column, except

when caught by some of the foot soldiers. It was amusing to observe

the ingenious arrangements made to answer for the horses’ trappings:

a piece of old tentcanvas was soon converted into an admirable

bridle; another piece of the same shelter kept the saddle (a

blanket) in its place: thus mounted, he would be delighted; and day

by day added to the number of _this_ escort. There were constantly

exciting incidents: sometimes we were in a dangerous position, from

our driver losing his place in the line; then the crossing of the

infantry through the train, the frequent breaking down of bridges,

and the delay caused by disabled wagons constantly impeded our

progress.

Near “Union Mills,” our troops camped for the night in “line of

battle;” our little tent was pitched upon the banks of the stream, in

rear of _our_ army, almost within bugle-call of the rebel lines. Here

the order was given to reduce officers’ baggage to twenty pounds,

forward the surplus to Washington—or destroy it. Many officers

and men came with the request that we would take charge of money

and valuables for them. It was a touching sight—upon the eve of a

battle, as it was thought—to see keepsakes, from loved ones at home,

intrusted to comparative strangers, hoping thus to save them in case

of attack, which here, near the old “Bull Run” battle-ground, seemed

imminent. I wore under my coat a belt, and carried the costly sword

belonging to it under my dress. A civilian, as my husband was, could

not do so without danger of arrest, while _I_ would pass unnoticed.

The large amount of money and valuables in our possession were

brought safely to Philadelphia, the former soon restored to its

rightful owners; the sword with some other articles were unclaimed

till near the close of the war.

As a battle was anticipated, and we were now accessible to railroad,

near Sangster’s Station, it was thought advisable to proceed

without delay to Alexandria and Washington, from whence we could

readily return if our services were needed. After remaining some

days in Washington, Mr. H. was threatened with an attack of malaria

fever—warning us to proceed homeward without delay. We came to it,

worn out and wearied as we were, as to a haven of _rest_.