Battle of Gettysburg.—The Wounded.—Incidents in Hospital.—Sanitary
Commission Work.—The Flag on “Round Top.”
We remained at home only long enough for Mr. H. to recuperate
sufficiently to bear the fatigues of travel. While he was still unfit
for the journey, the great battle of Gettysburg, July 1st, 2d, and
3d, 1863, was fought; within one week after it, we were on our way
thither; reaching the town late in the evening, spent the night upon
the parlor floor of one of the hotels; with a satchel for pillow,
slept soundly. In the morning went to the Field Hospital, where we
were most warmly welcomed by our old friends of the second corps.
The wounded, at that time, lay just where they had been placed when
carried from the battle—friend and foe resting together.
“Beside a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.
Still, in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain,
And gusty sighs, and tearful rain.”
We soon found where and how to resume work, which we had so lately
left off: a tent was promptly prepared for our use; it was not many
hours until the “diet kitchen” was in full operation; with the large
and valuable supplies taken on with us, the “institution” moved on in
a wonderfully smooth, efficient manner.
To aid in relieving the suffering among these wounded men was the
“Germantown Field Hospital Association” formed; I mention it here
because this was the first point where it came prominently into
notice. They sent as their representative the well-known rector of
one of their churches, Rev. B. W. Morris; his services as chaplain
are gratefully remembered by many in these eventful times.
An incalculable amount of good resulted from this new “Association:”
to me was given the great pleasure of distributing the articles which
they contributed; and, until the close of the war, appeals for money
or hospital comforts ever met with a ready, cheerful response, and an
abundant supply of all that was needed. They afterward became one of
the most valuable aids to the “United States Sanitary Commission” to
be found in Pennsylvania.
The scenes around Gettysburg were horrible in the extreme: the
green sod everywhere stained with the life-blood of dying men; the
course of the fearful struggle marked by the “ridges” which furrowed
the ground until one _great_ hillock would be pointed out where
_hundreds_, perhaps, had sternly fought and bravely fallen. To
persons unfamiliar with such things, as sad a sight as any are the
heaps of bloodstained clothing, the shattered muskets, the discarded
knapsacks, disabled cannon and caissons, and the innumerable heaps of
slain horses which literally cover the hard-fought field.
For a few weeks, the events daily occurring in the hospitals were
most painful; they might be summed up, briefly, to be: fearfully
wounded men; nurses watching for the hour when suffering would cease,
and the soldier be at _rest_; parents and friends crowding to the
hospital, hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst; strong men
praying that they might live _just long enough_ to see, but _once_
more, wife, or child, or mother.
After this battle, relief came promptly; it was upon _our own soil_,
and the “great heart of the people” was stirred to its very depths,
when they knew that among us thousands of our countrymen lay with
ghastly wounds,—men who had stood as a “living wall” between us and
the foe, to save our homes from rebel rule.
All of home luxuries that _could_ be carried, were lavished with an
unsparing hand by a now deeply grateful people.
The government, fully equipped for the contest, had medical and
hospital stores abundantly supplied. With the perfectly organized
system and immense resources of the “United States Sanitary
Commission,” ever ready and anxious to fill up all demands which the
government _could not_,—aided by the Christian Commission and large
volunteer assistance,—there was no long-continued suffering, as in
the earlier battles of the war.
These days have left their impress upon all who were actors in them.
Now, on this calm morning upon which I write, there comes thronging
before me a vast array of forms and faces that I had thought
forgotten. “Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!”—and so the
swiftly changing scenes appear.
Prominent in them, I recall a burial where three were at one time
taken to the little spot we called a cemetery. One sultry afternoon
in July the stretcher-bearers came tramping wearily, bearing three
bodies of those who had given their lives for _freedom_; as the last
reached the place, the men dropped with a rough, jolting motion the
army couch whereon he rested. The impatient effort to be rid of
their burden was probably the means of saving a precious life; for
the man—_dead_, as they supposed—raising his head, called in a clear
voice: “Boys, what are you doing?” The response as prompt: “We came
to bury you, Whitey.” His calm reply was: “I don’t see it, boys;
give me a drink of water, and carry me back.” And then glancing
into the open grave: “I won’t be buried by this raw recruit!” The
raw recruit was a lieutenant of his own regiment. Not many stand so
near the “dark valley” that they look into their own graves, and
_live_. The “boys” did carry him back; and with the greatest care,
his life _was_ saved; months afterward he was sent to “Chestnut Hill
Hospital,” Philadelphia; from there he wrote to me to say that his
surgeon thought he would recover. His name was Luther White, Co. K,
20th Massachusetts, from Boston; he was wounded by a piece of shell,
which tore off part of his ear, and shattering his jaw, laid bare
one side of the throat. After the battle, he remained for three days
unconscious, then rallied; and again sank away until he died,—as it
was thought, and carried to the grave.
While the hospitals remained in the _woods_, the number of deaths
daily was very large; as soon as the removal to the clover-field was
accomplished, where all were in the sun, the change for the better
was very decided; the night after, only two deaths occurred. During
the few weeks the wounded remained there, my notes were too hurried
and unsatisfactory for reference; they merely repeat that one and
another has passed “to the land of rest.”
Large numbers of rebel wounded, numbering thousands, were left in
our corps hospital; and though attended by their own surgeons, they
neglected them so shamefully that it was an act of common humanity to
provide better treatment for men helpless and suffering,—prisoners
as they were. One of our surgeons volunteered to undertake the duty
of attending them, and others were detailed for that purpose. Their
condition when captured was so filthy that the task of waiting upon
them was a revolting one.
All of our wounded that could bear transportation were forwarded,
as rapidly as it could be done, to hospitals in Pennsylvania and
Maryland. By the 7th of August there still remained _three thousand_,
who were moved into tents at the United States General Hospital on
the York Turnpike; when our corps hospital was merged into this, we
removed there; I remained as its matron until the close.
While the wounded were being brought in from different directions,
a _rebel_ was placed in a tent of _Union_ men; one of the number
protested against having him among them. As they seemed to pay no
heed to his objections, ended by saying that “he enlisted to kill
rebels, and certainly as they left him there, his crutches would
be the death of him—he could use _them_, if not the musket.” The
attendants, finding the soldier was in earnest and the rebel in
mortal fear of him, good humoredly took him among his own countrymen.
In opposite extremes of the camp this same scene occurred: two men
protesting that they “enlisted to kill rebels,” and would not have
them under the same shelter.
Captain J. C. H., of the 145th Pennsylvania Vols., from Erie, had
much the same idea; he was suffering from a thigh amputation—the
only one of nineteen similar cases, performed at the same time, that
lived; a rebel officer was placed in the back part of the captain’s
tent, when he instantly ordered the nurses to carry him, upon his
bed, under a tree which stood near—and there he remained nearly all
day, until the surgeon in charge settled the difficulty by removing
the rebel.
About one-third of the camp were rebels; this proportion was almost
uniformly kept up; rebel ladies from Baltimore and other places were
permitted to come and wait upon their own wounded; as matron, it was
part of my duties to attend to the distribution of delicacies, etc.;
I have waited upon them hour after hour, as kindly as I ever did upon
our own loyal men. All this was before I had been among those who
were starved in Southern prisons; after having seen them, the task
might have been a difficult one. The orders were imperative in the
hospital: no difference was permitted in the treatment of the two.
We found, in the rebel wards, the son of a former Secretary of
State of New Hampshire, a conscript from Georgia; his life had
been repeatedly threatened by them, if he dared to leave, or if he
admitted that he was a Union man; so that no one ever suspected
the fact, until the rebel officers had all been sent to “Johnson’s
Island” or Baltimore; the same evening he came to the Sanitary tent,
and told his story; from there taken to headquarters, where it was
repeated,—insisting that he would take his own life, rather than
leave the hospital a rebel prisoner. To assure him that he was among
friends, the provost marshal was sent for, and the oath of allegiance
taken. He remained as clerk for some time; when his wound permitted,
was sent home.
A nephew of President Johnson, named Burchett, was also a Union man
among rebels; with a number of others, they were attempting to come
into our lines when captured. The rebels told them they would be
put in the front ranks, and when they came to Gettysburg, carrying
out their threat, they were made breast-works of. None of the sixty
escaped unhurt; many were killed. Burchett lost a leg, and one arm
permanently disabled. He was a free-spoken Union man among them, and
seemed to be no favorite with the rebs on that account. He remained
a prisoner, hoping in the exchange to be sent to Richmond, that
he might save some property belonging to his father, who had lost
everything in Kentucky.
In the “Union tent,” as it was called, standing alone in a rebel row,
I found a boy of seventeen, wounded and “sick unto death,” whose wan,
emaciated face, and cheerful endurance of suffering, at once enlisted
my sympathy. He was the son of a clergyman in Maine; and in answer to
inquiries about his wound, told me, with a feeling of evident pride,
that “early in the day his right leg was shattered and left upon
Seminary Hill, and he carried to the rear; that the stump was doing
badly; he had enlisted simply because it was his _duty_ to do so; now
he had no regret or fear, let the result be as it might.” I wrote
immediately to his home, to tell them he was sinking rapidly; my next
briefly stated how very near his end was; there were but a few days
more of gentle endurance, and the presentiment of the child we had
so tenderly cared for proved true—when, with murmured words of “home
and heaven,” his young life ebbed away—another added to the many
thousands given for the life of the nation. One week after his burial
his father came; with a heart saddened with his great loss, said that
his eldest had fallen at “Malvern Hill,” the second was with the army
at Fernandina, and Albert, his youngest born, slept with the heroes
who had made a worldwide fame at Gettysburg. They were his treasures,
but he gave them freely for his country.
Another, the only child of a widowed mother, from Montgomery County,
Penna., lay from July until October, calmly bearing untold agony from
a wound which he certainly knew must result in death; yet his one
anxious thought, constantly expressed, was: “Mother, do not grieve;
it is best, and right; bury me with my comrades on the field.” So,
at sunrise one bright autumn morning, his soul went up to God,—the
casket which had held it, we laid to rest among the nation’s honored
dead in Gettysburg Cemetery.
This bereaved mother, who gave her _all_ for her country,—her eldest
upon Antietam’s hard-fought field, Willie at Gettysburg,—with the
thousands of others who have made the same precious offering, are
names to be gratefully remembered and cherished while the record of
this war endures.
It is very rarely that our brave _Union_ soldiers complain, or bear
impatiently their wounds; on the contrary, they endure suffering with
a heroism which exceeds even the bravery of the battle-field.
George W. Warner, of the 20th Connecticut, was a case in point: while
in the act of firing his musket, a shell exploded which took off
_both arms_ near the shoulders, inflicting also serious wounds in his
head and leg. He was uniformly cheerful with it all; sometimes would
despond for a moment when speaking of his wife and children, but the
cloud was of short duration; the pleasant thought of how his little
children would wait upon him, seemed to reassure him. As soon as he
was able to walk, every one seemed ready to watch over, assist, and
feed him.
In the officers’ row lay, for some weeks, a young lieutenant, from
Schuylkill County, Penn., with both thighs shattered, suffering
fearfully. A few hours before his death, at his request the Holy
Communion was administered to him; after joining in the solemn
services, he remained perfectly still,—unconsciously “passing away,”
as those present thought,—until a glee club, from Gettysburg, going
through the hospital, singing as they walked, paused at his tent and
sung—without knowing anything of what was passing within—“Rally round
the Flag.” The words and the music seemed to call back the spirit to
earth, and forgetting his crushed limbs and intense suffering, sprang
up, exclaiming: “Yes, boys, we _did_ ‘rally round the flag;’ and you
will rally oft again!” then sank back exhausted, and soon was at rest.
The clergyman who was present said it was a scene never to be
forgotten; the Christian soldier’s devotion to his country, even when
within the “dark valley,” to be called back to life again by thoughts
of the flag in whose defense his young life was given.
In another portion of the hospital was a man from Western
Pennsylvania, whom his friends mourned as dead; whose funeral sermon
had been preached, and his name on the rolls marked “killed in
battle.” His captain and comrades saw him fall in the midst of a
desperate charge, and almost without a struggle life was gone,—as
they thought, and so reported. But it was not so; the bullet, in its
course, went crashing through both eyes, though sparing life. A few
hours later, when the wounded were gathered up, they found him—
“Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day,
And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen.”
Then taken with others to the hospital, he lay for weeks unconscious,
his brain affected from the inflammation which ensued. He could
give no history of himself; but when hungry, would make it known
by calling “_mother_;” and talk to her constantly,—first about his
food, then of home concerns. I have heard him in these sad wanderings
when he would ask: “What do the girls say about me, now I have gone
to the war? does Jenny miss me?” and so on. At length his parents
heard of him, and from the description thought it might be the son
they mourned as dead. I was in his tent when his father came, and
recognized in the blind, deranged man his handsome, brave boy.
Eventually his mind would be restored, but his sight never. In this
state he took him home to the mother he talked of so much.
In September, while the hospital was still crowded with patients, a
festival was given for their amusement. The surgeon in charge, with
the other officers, entered heartily into the plan. The Christian
Commission took an active part in completing the arrangements,
soliciting and obtaining abundant supplies of fruits and delicacies
from friends in Philadelphia; to this were added contributions from
the town and adjoining counties, making a grand feast of good things.
The day selected, proving bright and balmy, tempted many, who had
not yet ventured outside their tents, into the open air, hoping
they might be able to participate in the promised enjoyments. The
streets and tents of the hospital had been decorated with evergreens,
and everything on this gala day had a corresponding cheerful look.
Hospital life, with its strict military rule, is so wearisome
and monotonous, that what would be the most trivial pleasure at
other times and places, is _here_ magnified into a matter of great
importance.
When the hour came for the good dinner, which was known would be
provided, hundreds moved upon crutches with feeble, tottering steps
to the table, looking with unmistakable delight upon the display of
luxuries. Bands of music enlivened the scene. All the variety of army
amusements were permitted and encouraged, followed in the evening
by an entertainment of _negro_ minstrels,—the performers being all
_white_ soldiers in the hospital. This last, the soldiers thought
the crowning pleasure of the day. At an early hour the large crowds
who had enjoyed it all, with the patients, quietly dispersed.
Our long residence in the hospital gave us the opportunity of
understanding fully all the prominent points of interest in the
battle-field, which was constantly before us: if we but raised our
eyes, they rested upon “Culp’s Hill,” “Cemetery” or “Seminary Hill,”
and in the distance “Round Top,” made forever memorable by the heroic
conduct of the brave men of the fifth corps, who, by order of Gen.
Meade to Gen. Sykes, directed it “to be held at all hazards.”
Among the few valued friends who regularly met in our tent, when the
fatiguing duties of the day were over, was frequently discussed the
propriety of placing upon some part of the field a flag, to manifest
our sympathy and esteem for those who “here fought and won this great
battle for our liberties.” Some intimation of the plan proposed
reached our friends at home, and directly we heard that a flag would
be sent by persons residing in our immediate vicinity. To two of
the ladies most active in procuring it, was given the pleasure of
conveying it to Gettysburg. Many of the wounded knew when it arrived,
and the arrangements being made to receive it; at their request, the
flag (twenty-five feet in length) was carried through the streets
of the hospital, then taken to “Round Top.” All who could leave
the hospital—officers, ladies, and soldiers—joined the procession.
A large concourse of persons manifested, by their presence, the
pleasure they felt in the event. Appropriate and eloquent addresses
were delivered by David Wills, Esq., of Gettysburg; J. T. Seymour, of
New York; and Surgeon H. C. May, of the 145th New York Vols.
Dr. May gave a graphic account of the battle as he saw it, describing
in glowing words the many historic localities now before us;
and, explaining the purpose which had brought there so large an
assemblage, continued: “The occasion of our meeting together on this
rock-bound, rock-capped hill, to day, needs no explanation from me.
The most rapturous bursts of eloquence, from the most gifted orator
of the land, could not intensify your interest in the spot on which
now we tread. When the golden rays of the rising sun lit up this
elevation on the morning of July 1st, 1863, ‘Round Top’ was scarcely
known beyond the few honest husbandmen who dwell beneath its shadow.
When that same sun was setting behind the western horizon on the
evening of July 4th, and again illumined the foliage now immediately
over our heads, the name of ‘Round Top’ was on the tongues of
millions all over the land. It has been in contemplation, for some
weeks, by a few friends at the General Hospital, to erect a national
flag on the summit of ‘Round Top,’ constituting, as it does, one
of the flanks of the Federal position, and its elevation being so
singularly located that the flag could be seen for miles in every
direction. The desire was simply expressed, a short time since, to a
circle of patriotic ladies of a township of Montgomery County,—the
immediate vicinity of ‘Valley Forge,’ of precious Revolutionary
memory,—that they would contribute a flag for this purpose. Soon the
word came back that the work was in progress; later still, that it
was successfully accomplished. Willing hands from the hospital have
prepared and erected this staff: and it is our delight and pride,
to-day, to behold the beautiful folds of our ‘Starry Banner’ floating
in the breeze from this hallowed spot, mid the booming of artillery
and the sweet strains of music—a slight token of affection to the
memory of our gallant comrades who ‘sleep the sleep that knows no
waking,’ on every side of us.”
The ceremonies ended, we came back to the sad routine of hospital
life and suffering; brightened, however, with the pleasant
remembrance of the events in which we had been participating.
The work of reducing the number of patients was now commenced in
earnest. Sixty were at one time sent in the cars, who had each but
one arm a piece; the next train took the same number with one leg a
piece, and one little cavalry boy who had lost both at the knee.
These sights have always been to me the saddest, most painful of any.
Amid scenes like these we were constantly occupied until the breaking
up of the hospital, and the dedication of the National Cemetery. That
had to _us_ a deeper interest than to many of the lookers-on: many
of the quiet sleepers, by whom we were surrounded, we had known, and
waited upon until care was no longer needed.
During the ceremonies of that day, we were so fortunate as to have
a place directly in front and within a few feet of our now martyred
President, and there heard distinctly every word he uttered of that
memorable speech, which will last while the Republic endures.
There was now, November, 1863, nothing more to be done at Gettysburg,
and we gladly turned our faces homeward. Remained there but a few
days, until—at the urgent request of the Sanitary Commission—I
consented to call together the various “Soldiers’ Aid Societies”
throughout the State, and in those meetings to tell the ladies what
I knew personally of the wants of the hospitals,—the best way of
preparing delicacies for their use, the clothing most required, and
so on.
It was _impossible_ to be an idler while this gigantic struggle
was in progress. The current of swiftly passing events had, all
unconsciously, drifted me to this point; I yielded to its force,
and commenced this additional labor as part of the work which came
unsought. There was not the least recognition of _self_ in any part
of it; had there been, it would have been impossible to have gone on
with it. While talking, the disagreeableness of the situation was all
forgotten, and thinking only of far-off hospital scenes,—the lonely,
dreary couch of the wounded or sick man, uncheered by loving care
of wife or child,—the weary tramp of the sentinel, or the wretched
life of men in trenches, I could do nothing _less_ than tell to
other women the story that I knew so well,—of want, of suffering
unparalleled, of bravery and endurance unequaled,—and then remind
them how much was in their power to soothe and comfort those on
battle-field, or hospital, by the preparation of articles for their
use.
Of our army in health, I knew comparatively nothing. Men sick,
wounded, and dying were not likely to manifest any but the _good_
traits in their character; and from this knowledge the estimate was
made. I have been for weeks the only lady in a camp of seven hundred
men, and have never been treated with more deference, respect, and
kindness than when thus situated.
The first group of ladies that I met numbered about fifty. Their
eagerness to learn the little I could tell them amazed me, and made
it seem a lighter task when I next talked to others. These meetings
have frequently numbered from one to three hundred; often two or
three such talks of an hour and a half each in one day, continued,
without any opportunity for rest, week after week. This was our plan
for aiding the soldiers, while not actually _in_ the hospital. With
my husband, we traveled through Pennsylvania, taking in our route
those places which were deemed of most importance; and were thus
engaged until the spring campaign commenced in Virginia.
The schools, both public and private, were also allotted as part of
my field of labor. In Philadelphia and vicinity, the scholars often
numbered from three to nine hundred. It has always been a matter
of surprise, how intensely interested the children invariably were
in the simple stories of hospital life I gave them, and the plans
by which their work and offerings could be most effective. Their
tear-dimmed eyes and eager manner always charmed me, and made this
part of the work a source of pleasure. In numerous places through
the State “Aid Societies” were organized by this means that worked
vigorously until the close of the war.
We found, among the ladies in Carlisle, several very flourishing
societies. Living upon the border, they realized, as others more
remote could not, the necessity for this kind of exertion. There was
also a society of children, called “The Little Helpers.” Through the
energy of the few ladies who directed them, they had accomplished
wonders. Their origin was beautiful as their title was expressive. A
lady lost her little boy, a child of six summers, whose mind was full
of what he and his little play-fellows could do for the _soldiers_.
Suddenly taken from earth to the angels above, his mother, in her
grief, anxious to carry out his plans, called the children together
at her house. Every week found the little hands busy,—and in their
simple, childlike way contriving what else they could do for the sick
and wounded. A fair was the result of this first successful effort.
The name, so suggestive to children of what they were, and so readily
comprehended by them, was mentioned, and adopted in many places as
that by which their circle should be known.
In different portions of Pennsylvania, were incidents relating to the
numerous Aid Societies of deep interest to us who knew them; but not
properly belonging to the work we had undertaken, are omitted here.