The Campaign of 1864.—Port Royal.—White House.—City Point.
The 9th of May, 1864, Mr. H. left Philadelphia, with a number of
other gentlemen, agents of the Sanitary Commission, for the purpose
of proceeding directly to the front, to wait upon the wounded—which
it was known must be expected in large numbers after the army crossed
the Rapidan. The spring was rainy, and the roads horrible, even for
Virginia; with so many discomforts surrounding them, and the exposure
of lying upon the damp earth, it was thought most prudent for me
to remain in Pennsylvania, and continue my labors there, until the
weather became settled.
Battles were now daily occurring, and our soldiers falling by
thousands. The inaction and feeling of doing nothing for the wounded
was unbearable, and a constant source of anxiety and trouble. On the
18th of May, with my friend Miss Lizzie B...., we left home for the
hospitals; arrived at Belle Plain the evening of the 23d; the wharf
was then crowded with wounded, waiting transportation to Washington;
in twenty-four hours all were removed; and we left on a Sanitary
Commission steamboat, in company with other vessels,—all convoyed by
a United States gun-boat. The shores of the bay and rivers were at
that time infested by guerrillas, and as the rebels had a wholesome
dread of these _boats_, in their armed defense was our only safety.
At 7 P.M., May 26th, anchored at Port Royal; during the night, a
barge loaded with government hay was fired by the rebels—it was
supposed with the intention of its drifting out among the vessels,
and thus destroying much valuable property; fortunately the others
could be kept away from it, and no further damage was done. Very
early in the morning went on shore, and here had the pleasure of
finding Mr. H., who had preceded us by a few hours, with others, was
already busily at work.
The Sanitary Commission, with its admirably arranged system of
“relief,” was here _before_ any wounded were brought in; and when
the long trains began to arrive, hot coffee, farina, crackers, etc.
were in readiness to hand to the exhausted, famished sufferers before
they were lifted from the ambulances. _Two thousand_ were now here
awaiting transportation; the first food and care _all_ had upon their
arrival was due to them. Night and day—taking turns to sleep—the
work of preparing and distributing food among them was continued.
Within a few moments after we landed, a long train of ambulances came
in sight; and finding they were moving toward a little Methodist
church, we wended our way thither, taking as much as we could carry
for their present relief. By the time the first man was lifted out,
the little building was in readiness to receive them; benches and
stove removed, it was soon crowded to its utmost capacity. Very
grateful were they for the trifling relief we gave them; no straw,
few blankets, and no pillows used in this hasty transfer arrangement,
yet no murmuring word escaped them.
A fine-looking Massachusetts man, with a bone crushed from the knee
down,—where mortification was just commencing,—asked in a whisper,
as they were placing him within the little chancel: “Could I give
him some kind of stimulant to keep from fainting? the pain was
agonizing.” The little tin-cup was soon filled, and as quickly
drained; with the momentary strength it gave, he could better endure
the rearranging of splints and bandages. The surgeon shook his head
as he looked at the discolored limb, and to the soldier’s urgent
entreaties that “it might be taken off without a moment’s delay,”
replied “it could be done better on the boat;” but added, when beyond
his hearing, “the morning would find him out of the reach of pain.”
A young officer lay near him, bathing from his canteen his badly
wounded foot, and when offered assistance to dress it, replied: “He
had the use of both hands, while many had not, and could do without
help until they were waited upon.”
All were craving fresh vegetables, onions particularly; and to their
inquiries, we determined to get them if the town could furnish them.
We tried to purchase from a number of persons, but were always
denied; at length a place—evidently the abode of wealth—with a large,
well-planted garden, was seen; the same story was repeated: “Would
they sell a few onions for the wounded?” “_No_,” was the chilling
response. “But they are begging for them, and you have plenty; name
your own price in ‘greenbacks,’ but we _must_ have them.” Still the
same “_No_, we don’t want greenbacks.” A gentleman of the party
then offered gold in exchange. “No, gold was of no use to them.”
Finding we were going to appeal to an officer who just then made his
appearance, the lady changed her manner, and courteously remarked:
“If we would give her farina and lemons, we might have the onions.”
From the Sanitary Commission rooms, we soon furnished the articles
she wished. Fifty men lay upon the floor of the church, for whom we
were pleading: that number of onions was unwillingly counted down;
and then the lady, appealing to the officer, asked: “Might she take
a pan of clabber to the wounded Confederates next door?” His reply
was: “We might, if we chose; she could have no communication with
them.” Of course, we could not object; and a little colored boy
accompanied us, carrying what Mrs. W. evidently thought a great
delicacy. The filthy, ragged-looking rebels crowded round us and the
pan, until we were glad to deliver her message quickly and beat a
hasty retreat—leaving to the boy the pleasure of disposing of it.
We saw strawberries, cherries, and many early vegetables in her
garden, which we could not obtain upon any terms. Knowing how
valuable they were to our wounded, as we went back carrying our
coveted onions, we told many soldiers where they came from, and
advised them, if they knew any of their wounded comrades who needed
them, to find more; further instructing them that there was a guard
pacing up and down the pavement, to designate an officer’s quarters,
and another in the rear to protect his horses. If they were good
soldiers, they required no other orders; the hint, it is presumed,
was sufficient.
In a small house, crowded with the wounded, was an old gray-headed
man leaning against the wall; a ball had taken off part of his
tongue; the remaining portion hung, swollen and discolored, from his
parched and wounded lips. Unwilling to attempt to swallow the simple
food we offered, he made known by signs that it was _fresh milk_ he
craved. After diligent search, a cow was at length found, picking hay
among the wagons; a half pint was soon obtained and given him; his
expressive gestures of thanks showed how fully he appreciated the
kindness. Later in the day another cow was found, and thus he was fed
until taken to the boat.
Noticing a neat-looking church that was not a hospital, with a
guard in front, we entered and found it to be the Episcopal church.
Upon opening the prayer-book on the desk at the “Prayer for all
in Authority,” found that the words “the President of the United
States” were _cut out_. By it laid a manuscript copy of prayers for
the rebel government. Telling the guard he might look or not, as
he chose, that I intended to take that manuscript, and send to the
Sanitary Fair, then open in Philadelphia,—first reading it aloud for
the _benefit_ of those present, and putting in its place a leaf upon
which were the prayers, set forth by our beloved Bishop Potter, for
the army. That they might not be mistaken what it was, wrote upon the
margin—“Prayers for the Union Armies of the United States, by Bishop
Potter, of Pennsylvania.” The exchange was a fair one,—the rebels, it
is hoped, profiting by the sound doctrine which was given—for their
erring prayers.
At this place we saw the first _great_ flocking to our lines of the
colored population. On our way here, they were observed all along
the river banks, rushing down from every plantation and village,
with cheers, waving of hats, and other demonstrations of pleasure,
manifesting their joy at sight of the old flag, which _now_ meant
_freedom_ to them. A motley crowd of men, women, and children were
constantly arriving, begging to be protected and sent North. An old
gentleman—one of the wealthiest in the town—told us, as we sat upon
his piazza watching this strangely exciting scene, that _sixty_ of
his servants had gone that day, and were in the crowd before us; his
great grief was that he was powerless to prevent their leaving, and
that he had no one to till his corn crop for him. We afterward heard
that the cavalry foraged upon the fields, so he was spared further
trouble on that score.
In the town, Mr. H. met an old woman of _eighty_ carrying, as he
supposed, a child in her arms; but upon coming to her and questioning
her as to her burden, said she “had her old mother, who was over _one
hundred_; that they were going to the ‘land of freedom,’ and could
not leave _her_ a slave in Virginia!”
The burial of the wounded who died at this transfer-post was
intrusted to the Sanitary Commission. Every soldier was carefully
interred, the burial-service used for all, the grave marked and
numbered, and all money, valuables, and other articles found upon
his person forwarded to Washington, to await the orders of relatives
and friends. A plan of the ground was left with an old colored man
living near, and the care of the graves given to him—for the purpose
of aiding friends who came for their remains, and knew nothing of
any other direction they might have. The same plan, with the numbered
graves, was retained by the Sanitary Commission—so that, in case
the marks were removed, they could _positively_ and certainly be
identified.
Last March, Mr. H. went to Port Royal, for the purpose of pointing
out the resting-place of a Rhode Island soldier, and found that
three days after our troops left the town, rebel cavalry entered
it,—trampling down every head-board, destroying the graves as much
as possible, and threatening to hang old George, if he put them in
order. With the numbered plan in Mr. H.’s possession, all marks
having been removed, by counting and measurement, the spot was
readily found; the skeleton remaining as it had been placed, with his
knapsack at his feet.
On the 29th of May, left Port Royal with a fleet of seventy-five
vessels bound for White House, on the Pamunkey, where the wounded
were now to be sent. Vessels loaded with troops for the front were
continually meeting us, far outnumbering those we had sent home
weighed down with the wounded “soldiers of the Republic.” As they
pass, all were cheering heartily; no note of despondency, as they
came within sound of the conflict.
The evening of the 30th, landed at White House; found Gen. Butler’s
command here, on their way to the front; within twelve hours, some
of his wounded were brought back; and from that date, much more
rapidly than tents could be erected to shelter them, they were
sent on. Day and night the interminable trains continued, bringing
thousands of wounded men, with the dust and smoke of battle yet upon
them. _Acres_ of ground were soon covered with bleeding, mangled men,
who had so lately stood unflinching mid the storm of rebel shot and
shell; now as bravely they endured suffering, while needing every
comfort—thousands not even shielded from the burning sun.
The work of waiting upon them continued uninterruptedly, all resting
in turn; _sleep_ was almost impossible, as every spot of ground was
covered, close up to the canvas, with soldiers who had crept there
for shelter. Our duties were many and various: the preparation
of food and drinks, directing and overseeing our diet kitchen,
occasionally busy for hours among the wounded.
One morning as I came out of our tent very early, before the bustle
of the day had commenced, a soldier came walking feebly, leaning
upon a comrade’s shoulder, and inquired: “Would I dress his arm?
it was untouched since first bandaged upon the field, and he knew
was in offensive, bad condition, filled with creeping life!” The
man said truly, it looked _bad_; and I shrank from the task, but
persevered until it was nicely cleansed and dressed. Then with
a clean “Sanitary shirt,” the sufferer was delighted and happy,
and overwhelming in his thanks. The sincere, heartfelt gratitude
of those for whom such trifling services were rendered was ample
recompense. Their earnest words of thanks were often more than
could be borne—destroying, for the moment, the composure which was
all-important. As the work of attending to that soldier went on,
hundreds of others, reclining upon the ground, were intently watching
the process.
Eager for _their_ turn, one after another came slowly up, with
the same query from all: “Would the lady dress their wound?” A
rough-looking Irishman among the number, having a fearful-looking
wound in his head, said “he could bear any pain _I_ gave him, if the
doctors did not dress it;”—while in the midst of it, one of our best
and most experienced surgeons made his appearance; observing what
was going on, came to my relief, and, to the utter dismay of the
poor fellow, took the sponge out of my hand to show me how much too
tenderly and carefully the work was done; at every movement of the
sponge in his hand, the soldier’s head bent and shrank beneath the
touch, but not one word of complaint escaped him; as the doctor moved
away, his thanks were _not_ for the kindness shown him, but that he
was _gone_, and that my unskillful hands would now finish. At this
hour the regular dressers commenced their work, and the one who had
usurped their office gladly disappeared among the heaps of edibles
which filled the shelter nearest us.
Our “diet kitchen” was almost entirely supplied from the Sanitary
Commission: it seems almost incredible the amount consumed in
one day: on the 3d of June, _two thousand_ were fed from that
establishment. The working force consisted of eight soldiers; each
had his allotted place, and knew the duties required of him. Caldrons
of soup were quickly made: using essence of beef as the foundation,
adding to it canned meats and vegetables, hard tack, or corn starch.
The capacity of the caldrons varied from thirty to sixty gallons,
and during these exciting times they were pushed to their utmost.
There were men to act as “hewers of wood and drawers of water;”
others whose work was to open the cans, which, as fast as emptied,
were thrown into a barrel—and picked up directly by the soldiers to
be used as tin-cups for their soup, coffee, etc. Tubs and buckets
of milk-punch and lemonade were always in readiness. Apart from
the eatables, one corner was appropriated to crutches, arm-slings,
bandages, etc.; these were given, and fitted as required. They
were clothed, bathed, fed; all hurried, continued work, making it
impossible to give an exact account of even one day’s labor. This
day’s notes end with: “Gave my only straw pillow to a wounded zouave,
Sergeant Beecher, from Connecticut; his thanks were enough to make
my sleep sweet without it.”
The 5th of June, Mr. Schall came, bringing the body of his brother,
Col. Edwin Schall, to be embalmed. He fell at Cold Harbour on the 3d
of June, shot through the neck. Connected with this gallant officer’s
death is an incident so singular that it is worthy of record: Sunday,
the 7th of June, in the Officers’ Hospital in Georgetown, my niece
was sitting by her husband’s bedside, watching the passing away
of a life now near its close. As the things of earth receded, and
another world dawned upon his gaze, the lamp of life flickered and
flashed in this its closing scene. Suddenly rousing up, his voice,
which had previously been faint and feeble, rang out in a clear, loud
tone: “Lieutenant, lieutenant!” A wounded lieutenant lying near him
answered: “What is it, captain?” He replied: “I’m not calling you,
it is Lieut.-Col. Schall; I saw him fall, and thought the way he was
lying perhaps he was dead.” His wife soothed him, telling him “the
colonel was all right;” and he sank exhausted on his pillow. But in
a few moments called in the same tone: “Lieutenant, lieutenant!”
repeating again the same words, that “he had seen him fall,” etc.
Again he was soothed to quietness. Fully conscious that death was
near, the brave soldier, in a few earnest, never-to-be-forgotten
words, sent home the message, that he “gave his life freely for his
country.” Then commending his soul to God, and committing wife and
children to the same loving care, in two hours peacefully passed to
that land “where there is no more sorrow, or sickness, or pain.” In
Captain Bisbing’s death, _two_ homes were made desolate; he was an
_only child_; to the home circle of wife and children an irreparable
loss, whose sorrows we do not presume to dwell upon. When Mrs. B.
returned with her husband’s body to their home, she then first
learned that the colonel had fallen—as the captain described—two days
previously. _His_ body also was brought home for burial, and interred
the day preceding the captain’s funeral.
June the 7th, wounded still pouring in; frequently orders would
be sent to us to prepare to feed a train of wounded five miles in
length. I do not know how accurate that estimate may have been, but
it seemed to us as though they _never_ would end. Upon each arrival
of the wagons, would be found some who had gone to their final rest
during the roughness of the way,—suffering alone in the midst of so
much misery, without any of the kind words and tender ministrations
which we, at home, love to lavish upon those who we know are entering
into the “dark valley.”
One of our party, while distributing food and drink at night, noticed
a corporal’s arm over the side of the ambulance, and offered to him a
cup of punch; finding _another_ hand stretched out for it, called,
“_that_ is for the corporal;” the reply was, “he has been dead for
hours.”
Many, of necessity, were buried by the roadside, or wherever they
chanced to be; but when practicable, the bodies were brought on and
interred in our little cemetery—making this desolate land truly
“sacred soil.” The site selected was just without the intrenchments,
near the burial-ground of the Peninsular campaign: in it the graves
remain as they were left two years previous; some few inscriptions
still legible. Major D. H. Von Valkenburg, 1st New York Artillery,
killed May 31st, 1862, was the only officer’s grave to be seen. The
inscription on a head-board, at the grave of a sergeant, was re-cut
by a comrade on the second anniversary of his death.
The Sanitary Commission continued superintending the burial of the
dead, their chaplains performing the service at the grave; the record
kept in the same order as before mentioned.
Among a large number which arrived at this time was a man who had
lain between the breast-works of the two armies for _five_ days
without care, and no food except the very small quantity he had with
him when wounded; one leg was amputated, the other dressed, before he
was brought to the hospital; he will soon be sent to Washington, and
his surgeon thinks _may_ recover.
Transports leave daily, crowded with the wounded. Among the thousand
that were to-day fed from our diet kitchen were numbers of officers,
worn out and weary, who had been sent from the front with various
orders. The unusual activity indicates that our stay here will be
short.
Eight hundred captured rebels brought in, guarded by a negro
regiment—the most humiliating thing to _them_ that could have
occurred; the sight was so novel that we all left our tents to
look at them; one of our men, recognizing his former owner, ran up
with a pleased look to speak to Massa Charles, but he refused to
recognize him, and moved on with the crowd; among them is a rebel
woman, sergeant of artillery—she was the _last_ to leave the gun when
captured.
The 13th of June, we packed all that could be spared on the Sanitary
Commission barge; we remain for the purpose of waiting upon any
wounded that may yet be sent; after the removal had fairly commenced,
and all in confusion, several hundred arrived; all of whom were fed
and provided for at our diet kitchen.
Nearly all the wounded hurried off to-day; all that can in any way
limp to the wharf do so; preparing rations for the trip. Guerrillas
reported near us; two of our soldiers, who went beyond the picket
lines to forage, were caught, stripped of their clothing, and sent
back to camp. It taught the boys a useful lesson—that they must be
satisfied with their position _as it is_.
White House, from very early times, has been a place of historic
interest; here General Washington met his wife, and from here they
went to the little church four miles distant to be married. At the
commencement of the war, it belonged to the Lee family; during Gen.
McClellan’s administration was carefully guarded, so much so that,
when our soldiers were lying upon the wet ground, heaps of unused
boards were near the buildings. The house was afterward destroyed by
fire, trees cut down, fences and out-buildings removed; at the time
we were there, two tall chimneys alone remained to mark the spot.
Some distance from the ruins of the house, a few dilapidated negro
cabins were standing, occupied by very old people, who had been
slaves on the plantation all their lives. Before leaving, we supplied
them with food, clothing, and medicines sufficient to last them six
months; it was all secreted, before we left, to secure it from the
rebels.
June 15th, 1864. This day last year, moving with the “Army of the
Potomac” northward; now preparing to move, with the same army,
south. Three times this morning the order was given to proceed to
the boat, but each time recalled; tents are all gone, and we wander
listlessly about in the hot sun, or sit upon the boxes containing all
our present “worldly goods.” The soldiers who comprise our “kitchen
department” take it all very philosophically; _they_ while away the
hours lounging upon the ground, singing “When this cruel war is
over,” and other favorite songs. At 12 M. the final order came to
start, and the odd-looking party slowly trudged along, each laden
with what they considered indispensable for the trip; a hot, dusty
walk, without umbrellas, to the wharf—a mile distant; at the last
moment procure an additional supply of “hard tack” and pork, in case
of emergency, and have with us five days’ rations for our party.
The “Montauk,” a government vessel, is crowded with our corps
officers, surgeons, nurses, and attendants; on our vessel, and the
canal-boats which are lashed to its sides, there are six hundred
persons. We were hardly out of sight, not yet of _sound_, when the
rebels attacked the small force which had been left to guard the
trains, and drove them within the intrenchments; fortunately, a
portion of Sheridan’s cavalry came up soon after it commenced and
routed them thoroughly.
We steamed slowly down the Pamunkey; came to West Point and York
River about six; anchored at dark: at daybreak, moved on down the
York River. This evening, full rations could not be issued to the
men, a mistake having been made about the supplies being placed on
the wrong boat—a load of _iron bedsteads_ sent in their place.
The morning of the 17th, the men still short of rations, and trouble
threatening, the Sanitary Commission gave them the pork and “hard
tack,” with coffee, which had been provided in case of need. This
restored peace and order again. Soon after we came up with the rest
of the fleet; anchored below Fort Powhatan; an order was sent to the
supply-boat for rations, and no further difficulty occurred. Here
we were detained while Gen. Grant was crossing with his army to the
south side of the James River. The pontoon bridges upon which they
passed were the objects upon which all eyes were fastened. The roads
leading to the river could be traced by the clouds of dust which hung
heavily over them. This was the _second_ time we had seen that grand
army moving in “battle array.” In the evening signal lights were
seen flashing upon the hill-tops and from their camping grounds; the
shipping was beautifully illuminated with various-colored lanterns;
and though in the midst of war, the river, with its numerous lights,
had a gay, holiday look.
On the 18th of June the pontoons were removed, and we pass on up the
James; at 1 P.M. landed at City Point; the town filled with wounded.
In the evening, walked through the dust two miles to the site
selected for the hospital, which is a wheat-field on the Appomattox.
The continued heavy firing near Petersburg plainly heard. A few tents
were arranged for the surgeons, nurses, etc., and in refreshing sleep
all else was soon forgotten.
In the morning, _our_ rations were very scanty—we had but the remains
of what we brought with us from White House. Before a stove could be
had, or caldrons in readiness, those who were slightly wounded came
straggling in; soon the number increased; and then trains came in
sight, and were unloaded upon the ground. Battle-smoked and scarred,
dusty, weary, and hungry, the poor fellows came—looking longingly at
anything to eat; from early morning until late at night, the scene
was the same as White House—thronged with wounded; the worst cases
sheltered in tents, the others lying upon the now trodden wheat. It
was impossible, with the few conveniences at hand, to prepare food
for all that number. The night was far advanced before we were ready
for the rest we so much needed, and then retire, with wounded and
dying men lying upon the ground close to our tent. How heartless it
sounds, at _home_, to sleep under _such_ circumstances!
The next day, commenced 5 A.M. Nothing before us all the day but
wounded; wounded men at every step you take. Three times that day
we fed _six hundred_ men (when the number is given we know it to be
accurate, as it is taken from the morning-report at headquarters),
not counting the stragglers who received a cup of soup, farina, or
crackers, as the need might be.
The first boat-load sent off to-day; June 20th; but others directly
fill their places. All that makes endurable this voluntary life of
toil, and saddening scenes, is the simple fact that we know some
lives are brightened by the care we strangers give to sick or wounded
men. Every train brings with it cases of especial interest: one man,
as he was lifted from the ambulance, almost with his parting breath,
gave his name, company, and regiment; and then _slept_, to wake no
more to pain and agony. Upon the ground lay a little French boy, so
low he could scarcely speak; as I quietly sponged, with cool water,
his face and hands, his lips quivered, and from his firmly-closed
eyes _tears_ were slowly trickling; perhaps it may have reminded him
of a mother or sister’s care, in the far-off land of his birth.
The weather is now intensely warm, June 24th. Clouds of dust fill the
air; and though the hospital is some distance from the traveled road
to the front, yet by four o’clock the rows of tents which stand but
a few yards from us are obscured, and the river, about one square
distant, is invisible.
The Sanitary Commission, with the consent and approval of the
“authorities,” again select the spot for the cemetery, and continue
to superintend its arrangements and the burial of the dead. During
the past week, two hundred have come to this “silent city;” two
hundred were sent North to-day, all “walking cases,” as the surgeons
say; but such walkers are not often seen outside of a _field_
hospital. I happened to be passing as the sad procession came in
sight; of course stopped to give them a kind word, and say good-by.
As the motley-looking crowd, in their hospital uniform of shirt and
drawers,—a few wearing caps and shoes, many without either,—came
near, the first sentences I heard were from the “advance guard,” the
best walkers of the party, who shouted: “Here we come, reinforcements
for Grant.” Another calls: “Keep step; left, left.” “_We_ are the
cripple brigade,” said his comrade with the crutch. “This is war,”
in a sadder tone, from a faint-looking corporal, as he feebly passed
by. Some too ill even to raise their eyes, move slowly, painfully
on, step by step, through the burning sand to the boat. Many who are
really unfit, start to walk, as they say, imagining they will get
home sooner. The stretcher-bearers bring up the rear, to pick up
those who fall exhausted by the way.
The next day, two hundred _bad cases_ were sent: two of the number
were soon carried up again from the boat, wrapped in their blankets,
signifying that they had “fought their last battle,” and were now
ready to be laid beside their fellow-soldiers in the cemetery. They
died upon the wharf, while waiting to be carried on the boat.
The contrabands have been coming to the hospital in large numbers,
for protection, for some days past; in their hasty flight, they
pick up the very articles we would think they did not need—probably
leaving what would be useful. A group of fifty just passed, well
loaded: one with a bed upon his shoulders; another, a box as large
as he was; many of the women carrying cooking utensils; a little
fellow, of six or eight, wearing a gentleman’s coat, the skirts
sweeping the ground, a stove-pipe hat upon his head,—the style of
twenty years ago,—and, above all, a huge cotton umbrella! Many of the
young girls wore flounced silk dresses, evidently “confiscated” from
_missus’s_ wardrobe. Their arrival quite enlivened the hospital; they
were in every direction greeted with continued shouts, which mark of
attention seemed gratifying to them. Rations are furnished them by
government, and tents supplied for their use; all who wish to remain
are employed in some way, the rest are sent to Washington.
July 4th, all the North expecting some great battle or success,
while _here_ it is so quiet that it seems almost like a real Sunday.
Salutes are heard from every quarter in honor of the day; and at
the front, the “Petersburg Express” sent its compliments into the
town, at intervals of fifteen minutes, to remind them of the day we
celebrate. This morning Dr. C...., of Massachusetts, told me of a
young soldier in his ward that he knew must die; while attending to
him, dressing his wound, the man inquired in a cool, calm manner:
“Doctor, what is to be the result, life or death?” The doctor
hesitated a moment, and said: “There is _one_ chance in _ten_ that
you may live.” He was quiet for a little while, then, with a bright,
beaming smile, replied: “Better than that, doctor; God is good!”
“Well, my boy,” answered the surgeon, “that chance _is_ the best.” He
has all the care that can be given him; but with a wounded, fractured
thigh, the doctor says the “chance” is even _less_ than he stated.
A steam fire-engine has been furnished to force water from the river
to the hospital, for sprinkling the streets and to cool the heated
tents. Gen. Grant was walking through the hospital a few days since,
and observing how much they suffered from dust, said “his wounded men
must be better cared for; the streets must be watered, if it took a
regiment of men each day to do it.” As his word is _law_, the engine
came: a large force of negroes have it in charge, and already the
good results are seen. Water-tanks were afterward built, more engines
and hose obtained, and all day long the street-sprinklers are at
work. The dust continues fearfully deep; it is the only thing that
moves about _freely_.
The third division of the sixth corps marched by today, to embark
on transports; going North, it is said, to look after Ewell’s
corps—that, we hear, is destined for another raid upon Pennsylvania.
Numbers of “volunteer aids” have been obliged to give up their work
here; many ill with fever; Mr. H. obliged to go home for a few days’
rest, thoroughly worn out with the arduous labors which have occupied
him since early in the spring. Each corps hospital has its share of
the colored population: _our_ settlement for them is on the river
bank; from there we hear their voices as they join in their evening
worship; going into their meeting, we found them kneeling upon
the earth, praying earnestly that “God would bless good President
Lincoln,” and “all do great Union armies;” that “He would take care
of de breddern and sisters, now they be in a foreign land;” then,
interrupting the prayers, a voice commenced—
“O, praise an’ tanks! Do Lord he come
To set de people free!”
Prayers and their simple music were strangely blended, but all in the
most devout manner.
On the 14th of July, a floor was put in our tent; previous to this,
the deep dust was the only carpet we had; an arbor of evergreen
branches was also placed at the two entrances; now sheltered from the
scorching sun, we are very comfortable—quite luxurious living, and
certainly we should never complain while sick and wounded lie upon
the ground. But, in contrast with _this_ dwelling, sometimes _will_
come before us thoughts of a country home in Pennsylvania, with cool,
airy rooms, and pleasant surroundings of shade- and fruit-trees,
abundantly-planted gardens, etc., until the longing to be there seems
irresistible. The absorbing duty in which we are engaged, is all that
can make us forget it.
July 30th. Rebel fort blown up at seven this morning; the cannonading
and firing during the night which preceded the explosion were
fearfully distinct, so much so as to prevent sleeping. Large numbers
of wounded were brought in to-day, principally to the ninth corps and
the colored hospital. Among the colored troops, _four_ out of every
five of their officers were either killed or wounded; yet the men
behaved bravely.
A young lieutenant from the ninth corps called to tell us he had been
wounded in the late engagement, and that he had been promoted; with
his twin brother, he entered the service at the very commencement
of the war; the other, a lieutenant, fell at South Mountain; but
—— passed unhurt through numberless battles, until this time; and
was determined to remain with his regiment after being wounded,
until told by the surgeon that if he did so he would lose his foot,
probably his life; very reluctantly he came to the hospital. When his
commission was received, his comrades asked him if he was aware that
“in their regiment promotion meant _death_?” and then going over the
list of names, such and such a one had been promoted, and soon after
fallen, his reply was: “_Yes_, he knew all that; but should accept
it just the same, if he was conscious that death came with it—was
perfectly willing to take _his_ chance with the ‘boys!’” With him was
a frail-looking lad, wounded in the head; the lieutenant found him,
after the fight, near the intrenchments, _sobbing_; as he came near,
the boy called that he was wounded, and quickly said: “_Will_ you
write to my father, and tell him I did my duty as a good soldier?”
“Yes,” was the response; “but first bear your wound _as_ a soldier.”
The sobs were instantly stilled, and he went with the lieutenant to
the hospital; his elder brothers were in the army, and he had long
been anxious to join them; but he was—
“Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go.”
His parting command had been to “do his duty; that he would rather
know his son had fallen in battle, than hear he was a coward.”
Painfully wounded in the head, he yet remembered the injunction; his
great anxiety was, that his father might know he had obeyed him.
The streets of this city of tents are gradually assuming a much more
cheerful appearance: arbors are erected at the front and rear of the
tents, thus forming a continuous shelter and pleasant walk for the
patients.
August 4th was the national fast-day; the camp unexpectedly short
of rations, so many fasted who would not otherwise have obeyed the
President’s proclamation; a sermon at headquarters, in the evening,
by the first division chaplain. A party composed of the ladies in
the hospital were invited, with the surgeons, to take a trip up the
James in the Sanitary Commission boat; through the dilatoriness of
_one_ of the ladies, _all_ were detained; when we at length reached
the wharf, it was only in time to see the boat slowly steaming on
its way with not more than eight or ten of the invited party on
board. Disappointed and sadly vexed, we retraced our steps; but when,
a few hours after, they returned with the mournful tidings that,
near Turkey Bend, they were fired upon by guerrillas,—the engineer
instantly killed, two Sanitary agents wounded, one mortally,—we saw
how providential was our detention; had all gone, the conspicuous
dress of the officers would have made them a fair mark for the
rebels; with a larger company, the loss of life would probably have
been greater. The boat was obliged to put on more steam, and proceed
on her way until they came to the gun-boat which brought them in
safety beyond the reach of rebel bullets. The large Sanitary flags
were floating from the mast, conclusive evidence to the guerrillas
that the vessel belonged to that noble organization whose field of
labor embraced all the wounded within our lines; Union and rebel
alike kindly cared for.
August 9th, a terrible explosion occurred on board the ordnance
barge at City Point; at the moment, I was occupied in the arbor in
front of our tent, and so had an unobstructed view; with the first
shock stooped to the earth, as though struck upon the head; the tent
quivered as though it _must_ fall; it seemed so _very_ near that the
first thought was, the rebels are shelling the hospital; finding
that not correct, the next surmise was, Gen. Grant’s headquarters
have been blown up. There now rose to a great height a dense
column of smoke, spreading out at the top in form of an umbrella,
and from it fell a shower of death-dealing missiles; it literally
_rained_ muskets; shells flew in all directions; some passing over
us, exploded beyond the hospital. The scene upon the bluff near
the landing was sickening: dismembered bodies were strewn about
the ground, the dead and dying side by side; the wounded were soon
gathered up and brought to the hospital.
The _cause_ of the accident could not be accounted for, until upon
the trial of the villain Werz, a rebel witness related how he had
done it: making some excuse to see the captain, was told he was not
on board, insisting the package that he had for him could be given
to no one else, asked permission to place it upon his table; as he
did so, arranged the fuse, and withdrew to a place of safety. The
explosion soon occurred, as he anticipated, destroying many lives,
principally among the colored laborers; the others having gone to
dinner. A large amount of government property was destroyed, and many
buildings.
August 12th, a few of the ladies in the hospital, with some Sanitary
Commission officers, went at 2 P.M. on board the little tug-boat
“Gov. Curtin” to Point of Rocks, Bermuda Hundred, and City Point,—the
first rest away from the wounded since this campaign commenced, in
May; took tea on board the supply-boat of the Commission, which is
anchored at City Point wharf. The short trip did us all good, and we
returned refreshed, ready for our daily duties. When we reached our
hospital, found the tents and every place of shelter filled; hundreds
of men lying upon the ground; occupied until late in the evening
waiting upon them. Cannonading again heard up the James River. The
second corps is moving somewhere, and the hospitals crowded in
consequence. During all that week there seemed to be no cessation
of the firing; wounded were constantly sent in; and old scenes were
again and again repeated.
A young lawyer, sergeant in a New York regiment, is so deeply
grateful for the little done for him—imagining, as many others do,
that he would have died without it. An elder brother had fallen in
one of the early battles of the war, and then he thought he must take
his place. When _he_ enlisted, it almost broke his mother’s heart;
and now he often asked, would she ever see him again? We feared
_not_, and as soon as possible hurried him off to a more favorable
climate and better care. Near him lies a Vermont sergeant, who tells
me he has been a wanderer in many lands; but that away up in Vermont
his mother is always working for the hospitals; he never could see
the use of it, but now will write and tell her it is returning in
blessings upon her son.
The fight at Deep Bottom sent to us many wounded, the most serious
cases taken without delay to Washington. The day before this battle,
as the men marched wearily by the hospital, covered with dust,
ignorant of their destination, all were exulting in the prospect of
going to Pennsylvania; still further to confirm them in the belief,
they were embarked at City Point and the transports started down the
river; proceeding on their way until darkness concealed them from
view, they silently turned about, and moved _up_ again, to be taken
into the battle. While it was raging, a company of the 57th New York
was commanded by a sergeant; unwilling to occupy the position, as his
comrades told me, he was lagging behind; a corporal near him could
bear it no longer, and stepped out to lead the men as though he had
always been accustomed to command. Gen. Barlow sat upon his horse,
quietly observing the whole manœuvre; and when the fight was over,
sent for the corporal, telling him at such an hour to report to Gen.
Hancock’s headquarters. The man left, wondering what had been done;
and when he returned according to orders, the two generals consulted
together for a few moments, the corporal was called in—and when he
left the tent, it was with the rank of _captain_, as a reward for his
gallant conduct. He again entered the battle, filling the position
he so well merited; but within an hour _fell dead_, shot through the
heart.
Similar cases were reported to us where bravery was encouraged
by promotion upon the field, to show that deeds of valor were
appreciated by their leader. Gen. Hancock possessed, in a remarkable
degree, the power of exciting enthusiasm among the mighty hosts he
so often led to victory. We, who have been with this corps long
enough to become “veterans” in the service, may well be pardoned for
the interest we feel in the enduring fame they and their intrepid
commander have achieved.
The hospital again crowded with the wounded and sick, which are
sent North as rapidly as the transports can take them. “Hancock’s
cavalry”—as the rebels style the second corps, from a way they have
of appearing in most unexpected places—again “on the move,” which
accounts for the late unexpected addition to our numbers.
September 9th. The first time during the summer, rode as far as Gen.
Meade’s headquarters, which is within sight of our fortifications,
and within shelling distance of the rebels—if so inclined. Passed,
both going and returning, through most fearfully desolate-looking
country. Part of it has been beautiful, as the remains of fine
orchards and the ruins of large houses testify. Where the families
remained in their homes, they were not molested; if the house was
vacant, it was certain to be destroyed by the army. Met hundreds
of men returning from Northern hospitals to duty; they look well,
while those we send to the front are miserable in comparison. Graves
scattered by the roadside, and gathered in clusters where hospitals
or camps have been located, marking the course of the army. Near a
deserted house, the large garden was made a burying-ground: many
of its quiet sleepers are, doubtless, mourned for in Northern
homes—_some_ whose resting place will never be known.
“From Western plain to ocean tide,
Are stretched the graves of those who died
For _you_ and _me_.”
My husband’s health, which had not been good during the summer,
was now so much affected by the climate, that a change for him was
all-important, and he again went North. We remained a few weeks
longer, continuing the same routine of duties—varied only by the sad
scenes around us.
While in the midst of so much excitement, in the times which form
_history_, we were unconscious of it all: it was our daily life. Now,
in these peaceful days, we begin to realize where we have been, and
in _what_ we have taken part.
Early in November, we left, expecting to return, after a few weeks’
rest, and resume our position in the corps hospital; but Mr. H.’s
health was so much impaired that it was not thought prudent for us to
do so until cold weather. With a glimpse of home and its comforts,
in three days we again commenced visiting the “Aid Societies” and
schools, and continued uninterruptedly until January; during that
time, met several thousands.