LIFE IN THE HOSPITAL
That ride in the ambulance. Emory Hospital. The woman with my Mother's
name. The dreadful death rate. President Lincoln's Second Inauguration.
Booth's Ride. Doing clerical work in Philadelphia. Discharged.
July 30, 1863, my twenty-third birthday, found me in a field hospital a
little way to the rear of the 9th Army Corps, whither I had been taken the
day before after being wounded.
About daybreak we heard the report caused by the mine explosion, and then
the roar of the artillery that followed. Early in the forenoon a train of
ambulances was loaded with wounded men, I among them, and taken to City
Point to make room for the wounded they were hourly expecting to be
brought from the front. The ride from the hospital to City Point was most
trying. The ambulances went rolling and jolting along across trackless
fields the whole way. My wound bled a good deal and pained me badly, but I
bore it quietly, my companion in the ambulance being apparently so much
worse off than I. He complained and moaned dreadfully until we were near
City Point when he became quiet and remained so for the rest of the
journey.
When we reached the hospital at City Point, a man came and helped me out
of the ambulance and into the hospital. At the same time two men took out
my companion. He had to be lifted bodily out, his form was rigid and
cold--he was dead. Then I understood why at a certain time on the way his
moaning had ceased. My wound was dressed, I had a bath, a nurse brought me
a plate of soup and I felt very much refreshed.
August 1. Notice was given in the tent where I was that a boat was at the
wharf down at the river to take to Washington all wounded men who could
get down to the wharf and get aboard the boat. I told one of the nurses
that if I had a pair of crutches I thought I could get down there. She got
me the crutches and I set out. I had not gone many rods when my head began
to spin around and I began to feel very strange. I stopped and stood still
for a moment, then who should pass by right in front of me but Alf Rider,
a Company K man. I shouted, "Alf!" He looked around, saw who it was, came
back and helped me down to the boat. He then went and got a canteen of
water and brought it to me. Wounded men were coming aboard all the
afternoon. By seven o'clock the boat was crowded and we started for
Washington where we arrived the next afternoon. On the way we had no food,
but water we had. My neighbors, none of whom had any canteen, all used
mine, and between us we emptied it a number of times. But one of the boat
men, a fine fellow, did not allow it to remain empty long at a time. He
kept us supplied with water and we got along very well.
As soon as we reached Washington I was taken in an ambulance and carried
to Emory Hospital and placed in Ward 4. Doctor Ensign, a New York
physician, had charge of the ward. A Mr. Gage, a medical student from
Massachusetts, was wound dresser and took care of my wound. I had been in
the hospital only about a week when the erysipelas developed in my wound,
and August 9th I was taken to the erysipelas ward. This ward was under the
charge of a Dr. Bates, of Worcester, Mass. Dr. Bates and his assistants
had no trouble in quieting down that erysipelas, and on August 30th, I was
taken back to Ward 4 again. What horrible care my wound received! It was
dressed only once a day and then so badly. September 16, gangrene broke
out in it and I was taken to the gangrene ward.
This ward was under the charge of the same physician as the erysipelas
ward--Dr. Henry Green Bates of Worcester, Mass. Dr. Bates' wife was a
Brookfield Stone, and she, seeing my diagnosis card, discovered that my
mother's name and her maiden name were identical. Although no near
relationship could be established, it created a friendly interest, and Dr.
Bates took care of my wound himself, dressing it twice a day until the
gangrene was out, which was in just six days. But I was not then sent back
to Ward 4. I was made comfortable in a private tent and remained under his
care until February, 1865, during which time the Doctor and Mrs. Bates
kept me supplied with newspapers and books to read and delicacies to eat.
Early in February, Dr. Bates left Emory Hospital, going to Newport News to
take charge of a hospital being built to take care of the wounded expected
when the campaign should open at Petersburg, and I was sent back to Ward
4.
The critical period of three months with me, from August to December,
1864, I was cared for by Dr. Bates, and to him I owe my life. Had I been
obliged to remain in Ward 4, through those three critical months, I should
not have survived. The work of the wound dresser, I always thought, was
very inferior. The food was fairly good and we had plenty of it. We also
had plenty of stimulants--a little bottle of brandy and a bottle of
porter every day.
There must have been a large number of badly wounded men on the boat that
took me to Washington. For a while the long roll was heard so often at
that hospital carrying out the dead, it was abolished, the effect was so
depressing.
When I was taken back to Ward 4, at the time Dr. Bates left, Dr. Ensign
learned that Dr. Bates and his wife had formed something of an attachment
for me and that I had been a sort of special patient over there. I was,
consequently, ever afterward treated with a good deal of kindness by him
and so got through the rest of the time I was in the hospital very
comfortably. It was depressing to note the change that had taken place in
Ward 4 during my absence in Dr. Bates' ward. When I went into Ward 4, it
was full to crowding. On my return, less than half the beds were occupied,
more than half the patients having died.
In the ambulance that carried me from the boat to the hospital was a man
who must have been in great pain. He complained bitterly. He was wounded
in the foot. The day after we got to the hospital his foot was amputated.
In a few days a piece of his leg was cut off, and again his knee was
sacrificed, and inside of two weeks he was a dead man. The gangrene was in
his foot when we got to the hospital and as soon as an amputation was
performed it would break out in the new wound made. He was a Connecticut
man, married. His wife came on and was with him during the last days he
lived and took his body home with her.
A Michigan man used to excite my sympathy. He was wounded in the right
shoulder and the bones of that joint were knocked all to pieces. The upper
part of the humerus, a part of the clavicle and a part of the scapula had
been removed. He was a great broad-shouldered, six-foot-six man, and to
see that Hercules pacing up and down the ward--for he could not keep
still--his arm in a sling and holding it up or steadying it with his left
hand as best he could, the wounded shoulder still hanging way down--was a
most pitiable sight.
The day after I got to the hospital I noticed a bed away by itself in one
corner of the ward, with a large frame over it covered with mosquito
netting, and I soon saw things which indicated that there was a wounded
man there. On inquiry, I learned there was a man in there lying at the
point of death. The doctors did not expect him to live and they were just
trying to make his last hours as comfortable as they could. He was a
German by birth and belonged to a New York regiment. He had been hit in
the thorax, the ball passing through from side to side piercing the bones
on both sides and going through a portion containing vital parts. When I
was taken to the erysipelas ward he was still alive, and when I came back,
the wound dresser thought he had begun to mend. When I returned to the
ward in February, he was able to get around on crutches, and when I left
the hospital in May he could walk without his crutches. He was not very
elastic on his feet to be sure, and it was pretty funny walking. He walked
on the end of his feet and toes, his heels being up in the air--but he
could balance himself and get around quite a little. This was regarded in
the hospital as a remarkable cure and it was attributed to the remarkable
vitality of the man.
During the first weeks I was in the hospital, when the ward was full of
wounded men, many of them seriously wounded, it would be expected there
would be considerable noise. To the contrary there was almost no noise at
all. One almost never heard a moan and the attendants wore slippers with
felt bottoms, so they moved about making hardly the slightest noise.
Dr. Ensign, the doctor who had charge of Ward 4, was a New York doctor. In
addition to his having the care of Ward 4, he was operating surgeon of the
whole hospital. He and Dr. Bates, I think, were the two principal
physicians there. Dr. Bates, as already stated, had charge of the two
worst wards--the gangrene ward and the erysipelas ward. Dr. Moseley, the
head doctor, was, I think, just a figure head. He never did anything and
was seldom seen about the hospital.
By the first of March I was on crutches and able to get around pretty
well. So desiring to hear the President deliver his inaugural address on
the 4th of March, I, early in the forenoon, went down to the Capitol, got
into a good position on the east side to see and hear Mr. Lincoln. I
stayed there, heard the address, saw the sun burst out on Mr. Lincoln. The
throng came, the famous Second Inaugural Address was given, the throng
melted away, and I returned to the hospital again. When evening came I
went over to the White House to a public reception, fell into line, and
passed around and shook hands with Mr. Lincoln. He seemed to be in the
best of spirits.
April 10. The daily papers announced the welcome news of the surrender of
General Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia. The surrender had taken
place the afternoon before at Appomattox Court House, Virginia. It was the
signal for the display of the greatest enthusiasm. In a short time salutes
began to be fired, and every fortification and every battery in the
vicinity of Washington fired a national salute. We boys in the hospital
climbed up on to the top of the wards; from there we could see the smoke
shoot out from the top of every hill in sight, and the roar of the
artillery was like a great battle.
After Lee's surrender, the period of national rejoicing was destined to be
short, and terminated in a most abrupt and tragical manner--the
assassination of President Lincoln.
My own personal experience on that eventful night of April 14th and 15th
had in it an element of interest. The road from the quarter of the city
where Ford's Theatre stood, to the Navy Yard bridge across the Anacostia
River near the Navy Yard, passed quite near one corner of Emery Hospital,
which was laid out in the form of a square. I was quartered at that time
in a tent that stood at the corner near the road, and heard a man ride
past at great speed going in the direction of the Navy Yard bridge. It was
an uncommon thing for any one to pass along that road at night and it
attracted my attention. A few moments elapsed and a squad of cavalry rode
past like the wind. That aroused me again and I called the attention of
the night watchman to it. "Oh, you've been dreaming," said he, "go to
sleep." But I could not go to sleep, I was sure something out of the
ordinary had happened. A little after midnight the news was brought to
the hospital that the President had been assassinated. I was then
confident that it was Booth I had heard ride past the hospital, and later
reports proved my conclusion to be true.
Early in May I was transferred to the veteran Reserve Corps and assigned
to a company in Philadelphia and then was detailed to the
adjutant-general's office of the state of Pennsylvania to do clerical
work, and stayed there until I was discharged in July. The work amounted
to very little; an occasional hour's work was all I had to do.
The captain of the company of the Veteran Reserve Corps to which I
belonged, Buckley by name, was a specimen. He was a typical Irish
politician with all the bluster and swagger of that class. He was
associated with the sutler and was, all in all, one of the most unsavory
specimens to be found anywhere.
In July, I received a notice from the adjutant-general of Massachusetts
that my regiment had been mustered out of the service of the United
States, and on the 22d, I was paid off, mustered out of service and
returned home. Thus ended my four years and six days' service during the
Civil War, and thus end these recollections which have assumed proportions
quite surprising, considering what was contemplated at the outset.
In studying the history of the Revolutionary War, I have often wished I
could read the diary of a private soldier of that time, that I might form
an impression of the life of the soldier in the ranks during that war.
If, some day, a student should come along who is interested in the history
of the Civil War, and who would like to know something more about it than
just the main facts, which is all the histories usually give, it is hoped
that these recollections will be of assistance to him in that respect.
Few soldiers, too, had so varied an experience as fell to the lot of the
writer. Again, it has been a source of genuine pleasure to think over the
old campaigns, with their diversity of experiences, and put what I have
been able to call to mind into readable form.
JAMES MADISON STONE.
Boston, January, 1918.
My task is done, my song hath ceased, my theme
Has died into an echo it is fit
The spell should break, of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp and what is writ is writ.
Would it were worthier but I am not now
That which I have been, and my visions flit
Less palpably before me and the glow
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering faint and low.
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.