RINGGOLD.
The hospitals established at Ringgold, Georgia, early in the fall of
1862, received the wounded and the not less serious cases of typhoid
fever, typhoid pneumonia, dysentery, and scurvy resulting from almost
unparalleled fatigue, exposure, and every kind of hardship incident to
Bragg's retreat from Kentucky. These sick men were no shirkers, but
soldiers brave and true, who, knowing their duty, had performed it
faithfully, until little remained to them but the patriot hearts
beating almost too feebly to keep soul and body together. The
court-house, one church, warehouses, stores, and hotels were converted
into hospitals. Row after row of beds filled every ward. Upon them lay
wrecks of humanity, pale as the dead, with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks
and temples, long, claw-like hands. Oh, those poor, weak, nerveless
hands used to seem to me more pitiful than all; and when I remembered
all they had achieved and how they had lost their firm, sinewy
proportions, their strong grasp, my heart swelled with pity and with
passionate devotion. Often I felt as if I could have held these cold
hands to my heart for warmth, and given of my own warm blood to fill
those flaccid veins.
Every train brought in squads of just such poor fellows as I have
tried to describe. How well I remember them toiling painfully from the
depot to report at the surgeon's office, then, after being relieved of
their accoutrements, tottering with trembling limbs to the beds from
which, perhaps, they would never more arise. This hospital-post, as
nearly as I remember, comprised only two hospitals, the Bragg and the
Buckner. Of the Bragg, Dr. S.M. Bemiss was surgeon in charge;
assistant surgeons, Gore, of Kentucky; Hewes, of Louisville, Kentucky;
Welford, of Virginia; Redwood, of Mobile, Alabama, and some others
whose names I cannot now recall. Dr. W.T. McAllister was surgeon in
charge of the Buckner. Of the assistant surgeons I can only remember
Dr. W.S. Lee, then of Florida, now a successful practitioner and an
honored citizen of Dallas, Texas; Dr. R.D. Jackson, of Selma, Alabama,
who since the war has lived a well-beloved physician and druggist in
Summerfield, Alabama; Dr. Reese, also of Alabama, and Dr. Yates, of
Texas, now dead. For a few months Dr. Francis Thornton, of Kentucky,
was surgeon of the post. He was a fiery, impetuous, _manly man_, a
rigid disciplinarian, but always compelled to fight against the
dictates of his large, warm heart when duty compelled him to execute
severe justice.
Mrs. Thornton was one of the most lovable women I ever knew; impulsive
and earnest in her friendship, of a sunny, cheerful temperament seldom
clouded. Her pride in her husband and her happiness in being with him
was pleasant to see. While she remained in Ringgold we were warm
friends. To her thoughtful kindness I owed many an indulgence in
dainties not supplied by the Confederate Government. My room was in
the same house where the surgeons and their wives were boarding. Often
returning late from the hospital, weary and dispirited, her sweet
voice would "_halt_" me at the foot of the stairs, a kindly arm
impelling me to her cheerful room, where a cup of tea and a nice
little supper was in readiness, made far more enjoyable by her loving
service and pleasant talk so full of cheer. The other ladies were just
as kind-hearted, but none had the sweet, winning grace that
characterized Mrs. Thornton, except, perhaps, Mrs. Lee, wife of the
surgeon above mentioned. She was also one of the dearest and kindest
of friends. My enthusiasm in regard to Mrs. Lee was almost like that
of a lover. She was a beautiful woman, tall, majestic, graceful,
towards the world at large dignified and, perhaps, a little reticent;
to those whom she honored with her love or friendship, irresistibly
fascinating. Her eyes were--not magnificent, but just "the sweetest
ever seen," and combined with a perfect mouth to make her smile a
caress. In addition, rare intelligence and fine conversational powers
rendered her a delightful companion. Dr. Lee was by birth a South
Carolinian, a polished gentleman, and, though in general
self-contained and of quiet manners, proved a warm friend and a most
pleasant host. Mrs. Lee used to search for me through the wards, and,
having found me, would flourish a "prescription," made out in due
form, for "an hour of leisure, to be repeated twice every week before
retiring." These hours spent at the pleasant quarters of Dr. and Mrs.
Lee were, indeed, "a feast of reason and a flow of soul," often
diversified by funny experiments in disguising the remains of the
day's rations by cooking recipes familiar in ante-bellum days, but
which generally failed because substitutes would never produce the
same results as the real ingredients.
Dr. Lee was some months afterwards transferred to Cherokee Springs as
surgeon in charge of one of the convalescent hospitals, of which Mrs.
Lee volunteered to act as matron. We parted with real regret, but
truly her patients gained by our loss. For she was most competent,
faithful, and well-beloved by those to whom she ministered.
The autumn passed quickly, some pretty severe days giving us a
foretaste of the rigor of a winter in North Georgia. By November 1 it
was not only bitterly cold, but snow covered the ground to the depth
of six inches, and the roads were furrowed and frozen. Terrible
accounts reached us from Bragg's army, who were without shoes,
blankets, or clothes, and suffering fearfully. Officers and men were
alike destitute. General Patton Anderson determined to make an effort
to supply his division, and for this purpose selected Lieutenant J.A.
Chalaron, Fifth Company, Washington Artillery, as one in every way
qualified to carry out such an undertaking, who was therefore ordered
to Savannah and other places to secure the needed supplies.
He cheerfully accepted the charge, although it involved deprivation of
the rest so greatly needed, and the continuance of hardship already
extended almost beyond human endurance. But the young officer was
every inch a soldier, and one of a company which had already won a
name for itself not less for invincible courage than for soldierly
bearing and devotion to duty. That so young a soldier was selected to
conduct such an undertaking proved how surely he had deserved and won
the confidence of his superior officers. In those days railroad
travelling was far from pleasant. The train upon which Lieutenant
Chalaron embarked at Knoxville was a motley affair,--perhaps a single
passenger-car, rough and dilapidated (crowded with those who, though
ill, made shift to sit up or recline upon the seats), box-cars and
_cattle-cars_ filled with suffering men helplessly sick. In order that
these might not be crowded, Lieutenant Chalaron, with one or two
others, rode on the top of a box-car for twelve hours, from Knoxville
to Chattanooga, exposed to the inclement weather which he was ill
prepared to meet, having shared the inexpressible hardships of the
Kentucky campaign, including destitution of suitable clothing. I take
pleasure in recording this noble act, because Lieutenant Chalaron was
from New Orleans (also my own beloved home). The impulse of
self-sacrifice, and of chivalrous devotion towards the helpless and
suffering, sprung from a heart pulsating with the knightly blood of
the Creole of Louisiana. Ah, that impetuous blood which stirred at the
first call to arms, which was poured out in continual libations to
Southern liberty, from the time it gushed from the breast of the first
martyr of the war (our Charlie Dreux), until almost in the "last
ditch," piled high with masses of Confederate dead, lay the gory body
of _Edgar Dreux_, the very topmost man, proving how invincible was the
courage that quailed not at the sight of that ghastly altar of
sacrifice!
The large brick court-house in the centre of the town of Ringgold was
especially devoted to my use. The court-room occupying the entire
upper floor was fitted up for fifty patients. This was facetiously
called "the nursery," and its occupants "Mrs. Beers's babies." In this
ward were placed, as far as its capacity permitted, patients who
needed to be visited very often, and for whose proper nourishment and
the prompt administration of medicine I was responsible. For instance,
if one of the fever-patients was taking veratrum, I must see it
dropped and given, and note the pulse. If one was just struggling
through dysentery, I must attend to his nourishment, and generally fed
him myself. Down-stairs was one large room, and three of good size,
but smaller. The large one was also a ward. My business-room opposite
was also the linen-room of the hospital. Shelves ran from floor to
ceiling, a counter in front of them. In one corner stood my desk, and
beside it a large country rocking-chair; in another a rough lounge for
the convenience of visiting patients. In front of the immense
fireplace (where there was always a cheerful fire) stood a table and
chairs for the surgeons, who came in after each round through the
wards, to leave special directions and diet-lists. Through the day
this room was a cheerful place. I seldom entered it without finding
one or more visitors, especially in the morning, when the surgeons
always met there, and their wives generally joined them. On the other
side of the hall was the distributing-room in one corner, in the other
a store-room, where, also, under my own lock and key, I kept the
effects of dead soldiers, labelled and ready for identification by
their friends. I was assisted in this work, in keeping the linen-room
in order, and in various other ways, by a young German who had been
detailed for that purpose. He was a well-educated young man and a fine
musician,--in fact, had been a professor of music before the war, had
entered the service intelligently, desiring to remain in active
service, but some disability caused his detail. His position was no
sinecure: he was expected to keep a full account of all stores in my
department, all bedding, hospital clothing, all clothing of the
patients, and a great many other things, having full charge of the
laundry and the laundresses, with whom he was always in "hot water."
For this reason he was dubbed by the surgeons _General Blandner_, and
his employees were called _Blandner's Brigade_. He was methodical in
all things. His books were exquisitely kept. I had been a good
musician, and now used often to sing to Blandner's lute, which he
played in a masterly manner. His improvisations were a great delight
to me, and, finding me so appreciative, he composed a lovely set of
waltzes, "_The Hospital Waltzes_," which were dedicated to me, but
never published, only exquisitely written out on pieces of wall-paper
by the composer. After the war, Mr. Blandner obtained through Dr.
McAllister the position of professor of music at the female college at
Marion, Alabama, but removed later to Philadelphia, whore he now
resides, still as a professor and teacher of music.
The cold increased, and the number of patients grew larger. Snow and
ice rendered it difficult for me to get to the wards, as they lay
quite far apart. The boarding-house at first occupied by the surgeons'
families was now vacated and fitted up for officers' wards, a room
being found for me in a log house, owned by an old lady, Mrs. Evans,
whose sons, except the youngest, a mere lad, were in the Confederate
army.
It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the courthouse. The road
thither, lying through a piece of piney woods, was almost always
blocked by drifted snow or what the Georgians called "slush" (a
mixture of mud and snow). I must confess that the freezing mornings
chilled my patriotism a little, but just because it _was_ so cold the
sick needed closer attention. One comfort never failed me: it was the
watchful devotion of a soldier whom I had nursed in Gainesville,
Alabama, and who, by his own request, was now permanently attached to
my special corps of "helpers." No matter how cold the morning or how
stormy, I never opened my door but there was "Old Peter" waiting to
attend me. When the blinding storms of winter made the roads almost
impassable by night, Peter would await my departure from the hospital
with his lantern, and generally on very stormy nights with an old
horse which he borrowed for the occasion, savagely cutting short my
remonstrances with a cross "Faith, is it now or in the mornin' ye'll
be lavin'?" He would limp beside me quite to the door of my room, and
with a rough "Be aisy, now," in reply to my thanks, would scramble
upon the horse and ride back.
"I know not is he far or near, or that he lives, or is he dead," _only
this_, that my dreams of the past are often haunted by the presence of
this brave soldier and humble, loyal friend. I seem to see again the
lined and rugged face ("harsh," others thought, wearing always for me
a smile which reminded me of the sunlight brightening an old gray
ruin,) and the toil-hardened hands which yet served _me_ so tenderly.
I seem to hear once more the rich Irish brogue which gave character
and emphasis to all he said, a _naughty_ character and a most
_unpleasant_ emphasis sometimes, I must admit, fully appreciated by
any who chanced to displease him, but to me always as sweet and
pleasant as the zephyrs blowing from "the groves of Blarney." Peter
was an Alabama soldier. On the first day of my installation as matron
of Buckner Hospital, located then at Gainesville, Alabama, after the
battle of Shiloh, I found him lying in one of the wards badly wounded,
and suffering, as were many others, from scurvy. He had been morose
and fierce to all who approached him. At first I fared no better.
"Sure, what wad a lady be wantin' in a place like this?" said he,
crossly. "Why, comrade," I replied, "I thought you would like to have
a lady to nurse you ?" "Divil a wan," growled he, and, drawing the
coverlid over his face, refused to speak again. I felt disheartened
for the moment, but after a consultation with Dr. McAllister, surgeon
in charge,--than whom a better disciplinarian or a kinder-hearted man
never lived,--it was decided that Peter should be induced or compelled
to receive my ministrations. For several days, however, he remained
sullen and most unwilling to be nursed, but this mood softened, and
long before he was well enough to leave the ward the warm Irish heart
had melted, and I had secured a friend whose unalterable devotion
attended me through all the vicissitudes of the war.
Being permanently disabled, by reason of his wound, from service in
the field, Peter was detailed for hospital service, and by his own
request attached to my special corps of assistants. He could and did
in a hundred ways help me and contribute to my comfort. No matter how
many times I met him during the day, he never passed without giving me
a military salute. If I was detained by the bedside of one very ill or
dying, hoping to save life, or at least to receive and treasure "for
the loved ones at home" some word or message, I was sure to hear
Peter's limping step and his loud whisper, "Sure it's dying he is;
can't ye lave him in the hands av God, an' go to your bed?" He
constituted himself, in many cases, my mentor, and deeply resented any
seeming disrespect towards me.
I recall a case in point which highly amused the whole "post." While
located at Ringgold, Georgia, it was considered desirable to remove
some of the convalescents to a camp hospital at Cherokee Springs, some
three miles out of town. It became my duty to see these patients every
evening, and I rode out on horseback attended by Peter. Riding into
camp one evening, I dismounted near a tent in front of which a group
of officers were standing, in conversation with Dr. ----, of Kentucky.
We exchanged a few words of greeting as I passed on to attend to my
patients. Returning, to mount my horse, I noticed that Peter rather
rudely pushed before Lieutenant ----, who came forward to assist me. I
also noticed that his face wore the old sullen look, and that his
manner was decidedly unpleasant. Before we had gone far, he broke out
with, "'Dade, ma'am, ye'll go there no more, if ye plaze." Amazed, I
questioned why? "Sure, thim fellers was makin' game av ye an' callin'
ye out av yer name." "Why, Peter," cried I, "you are crazy: _who_
called me names, and what did they call me?" "Thim offshurs, ma'am.
Sure, I couldn't make out their furrin worruds, but I belave 'tis a
_sinner_ they called ye. Faith, an' if _ye're_ a sinner, where wad the
saints be?" Of course, woman-like, I became furious, and, on our
arrival at headquarters, indignantly reported the "offshurs" to the
surgeon in charge, who promised to investigate.
The sequel is most amusing. It turned out that Peter had overheard a
conversation between the officers above mentioned and Dr. ----. They
having made some kindly remark as to my hospital service, Dr. ---- as
kindly replied, "Yes, she is a _sine qua non_." My amusement was
mingled with chagrin at my hasty anger, but Peter remained unconvinced
and never forgave the offenders. Upon another occasion I was compelled
to interfere to protect an innocent victim of Peter's wrath. One of my
"boys" about returning to his command came to take leave of me and to
offer a little keepsake. This was, or appeared to be, a crochet-needle
prettily carved and having _one end fringed out_. I took it with
thanks, saying, "I hope I may use this needle to crochet a pair of
mittens for you." Cried the donor, "That ain't no crochet-needle."
"No? Well, what is it?" "It is a dipping-stick; don't you chaw snuff?"
Upon my indignant denial, the crestfallen man exclaimed, "Well, Lor',
lady, I made sure you did, you're so yaller complected" (I had shortly
before recovered from an attack of jaundice). Now, it chanced that
Peter, knowing my fondness for a pine-knot fire, had collected a
quantity of knots, which he just then brought in, and, hearing the
uncomplimentary remark of my soldier-friend, turned upon him with the
utmost fury, and such a tirade of abuse as followed baffles alike my
power to recall the words or to describe the rage which prompted them.
I was compelled to interfere and order Peter out of the room.
"When, in the course of human events," those who for four years had
shared the fortunes of war separated to seek their several homes, I
lost sight of my devoted friend.
He was "_Old_ Peter" then, and, in all probability, no longer lives,
save in my memory. If he be dead, "peace to his ashes." If living, may
God bless and sustain him in the days that are "full of trouble."
In the midst of this terrible winter, on one of the most bitter days,
there came about noon an order from "the front" to prepare for two
hundred sick, who would be down late the same night. There was not a
bed to spare in either of the hospitals. Negotiations were at once
opened for the only church in Ringgold not already occupied by the
sick. The people declined to give it up. But, "necessity knows no
law;" it was seized by Dr. Thornton, the pews being taken out and
piled up in the yard. Fires were then kindled in both stoves to
thoroughly warm the church. There was, however, not a single bunk,--no
time to make any; all the empty ticks when filled with straw and
placed upon the floor fell far short of the number required. For the
rest straw was littered down as if for horses, and when the pillows
gave out, head-rests were made by tearing off the backs of the pews
and nailing them slantwise from the base-board to the floor, so that
knapsacks, coats, etc., could be used for pillows.
The order had reached Ringgold about noon; it was ten at night before
the rough preparations were completed. Meantime, such nourishment as
hot soup, coffee, and tea, milk, egg-nog, and milk-punch (prepared
with home-made peach or apple brandy), were kept in readiness. Near
midnight I stood in the church awaiting the arrival of the train.
Candles were scarce, but light-wood-fires outside gave sufficient
light. The candles were not to be used until needed by the surgeons,
who were now at the depot waiting to receive the sick. At last the
train arrived,--departed; shortly thereafter there poured through the
doors of that little church a train of human misery such as I never
saw before or afterward during the war, and pray God I may never see
again. Until that night the tale of the retreat from Moscow had seemed
to me overdrawn; ever since I can well believe "the half has not been
told." They came, each revealing some form of acute disease, some
tottering, but still on their feet, others borne on stretchers.
Exhausted by forced marches over interminable miles of frozen ground
or jagged rocks, destitute of rations, discouraged by failure, these
poor fellows had cast away one burden after another until they had not
clothes sufficient to shield them from the chilling blasts of winter.
Not one in twenty had saved even a haversack, many having discarded
coats and jackets. One man had gained possession of an india-rubber
overcoat, which, excepting his underclothing, was his only garment.
Barefooted,--their feet were swollen frightfully, and seamed with
fissures so large that one might lay a finger in them. These were
dreadfully inflamed, and bled at the slightest touch; others were
suppurating. The feet of some presented a shining, inflamed surface
which seemed ready to burst at any moment. Their hands were just as
bad, covered with chilblains and sores. Many were tortured with wounds
which had at first seemed slight, but by neglect and exposure had
become sources of exquisite torture. The gleaming eyes, matted hair
and beard hanging about their cadaverous faces, gave to these men a
wild, ghastly look utterly indescribable. As they came in, many sunk
exhausted upon the pallets, some falling at once into a deep sleep,
from which it was impossible to arouse them, others able only to
assume a sitting posture on account of the racking, rattling cough
which, when reclining, threatened to suffocate them. Few would stop to
be undressed: food and rest were all they craved. Those who crowded to
the stoves soon began to suffer from their frozen feet and hands, and
even ran out into the snow to ease their pain. The surgeons worked
faithfully, and the whole force was in requisition. But, alas! alas!
death also was busy among these unfortunates. The very first man I
essayed to feed died in my arms, two others during the night. The poor
wounded feet I tried to handle so tenderly bled at every touch. The
warmth of the room, while it sent some into a sound sleep which seemed
death's counterpart, caused terrible agony to others, who groaned and
screamed. It seemed to me just as if those men, having previously kept
up with heroic fortitude under trials almost too great for human
endurance, had, as soon as the terrible tension was loosened, utterly
succumbed, forgetting all but the horrible pain that racked them.
Fever running riot in the veins of some found expression in delirious
shouts and cries, which added to the horror. My courage almost failed
me. About half-past two, Dr. Thornton, yielding to my earnest
entreaties, went home and brought Mrs. Thornton to share my vigil,
although, as a general thing, he was opposed to her going into the
hospital wards. Together we labored through that long night. Soon
after daylight next morning, passing into the church porch, we stood
for a few moments silently, hand in hand, for, although both hearts
were too full for speech, our labor of love had drawn us very near
together.
Everywhere the snow lay white and glittering. In the church-yard, upon
some of the pews arranged for the purpose, had been placed the
lifeless bodies of the three men who had died during the night. There
they lay, stark and stiff. Upon these cold, dead faces no mourners'
tears would fall; no friends would bear with reverend tread these
honored forms to their last resting-place. Rough pine boxes would soon
cover the faces once the light of some far-away home, careless hands
would place them in their shallow graves, without a prayer, without a
tear. Only the loving hand of nature to plant flowers above them.
For months after entering the service I insisted upon attending every
dead soldier to the grave and reading over him a part of the
burial-service. But it had now become impossible. The dead were past
help; the living _always_ needed succor. But no soldier ever died in
my presence without a whispered prayer to comfort his parting soul. Ah
me! The "prayers for the sick, and those near unto death," are to this
day more familiar to me than any other portion of the Prayer-Book, and
at no time can I hear unmoved the sacred old hymns so often sung
beside dying beds. Passing to my office along the path traversed last
night by the incoming soldiers, I found the snow along the whole
distance stained by their bare, bleeding feet, and the sight made my
heart ache sorely. I think I never in all my life felt so keen a sense
of utter dependence upon a higher Power, or understood so thoroughly
how "vain is the help of man," than when, in the seclusion of my own
room, the events of the night passed in review before me. With a heart
aching with supreme pity, ready to make any sacrifice for the noble
martyrs who, for my sake as well as for that of all Southern women,
had passed unshrinking through inexpressible suffering, never
faltering until laid low by the hand of disease,--I could yet do
nothing. I could not save them one moment of agony, I could not stay
the fleeting breath, nor might I intermit the unceasing care
imperatively demanded by those whom timely ministrations might save,
to give due honor to the dead.
Only an hour or two of rest (broken like the sleep of those of a
household who retire from the side of beloved sufferers, leaving them
to the care of others while they snatch a few moments of the repose
which is needed to prepare them for fresh exertions) and I was once
more on my way to the wards. At the gate of the boarding-house stood
one of the nurses. Again, as often before, I was summoned to a bed of
death. A soldier who had come in only two days before almost in the
last stages of pneumonia was now dying. I had left him at eight
o'clock the night before very ill, but sleeping under the influence of
an opiate. His agony was _now_ too terrible for any alleviation; but
he had sent for me; so I stood beside him, answering by every possible
expression of sympathy his imploring glances and the frantic clasp of
his burning hand. Finding that my presence was a comfort, I sent for
Dr. McAllister, and, requesting him to assign my duties to some one
else for a while, remained at my post, yielding to the restraining
grasp which to the very last arrested every movement away from the
side of the sufferer. A companion of the sick man lay near. From him I
learned the excellent record of this young soldier, who, during the
frightful "retreat," had contracted the cold which culminated in
pneumonia, but would not consent to leave his regiment until too late.
I had feared an awful struggle at the last, but the death angel was
pitiful, bringing surcease of suffering; and so, peacefully sped the
soul of John Grant, of the ---- Mississippi Regiment, happily
unconscious of the end, and murmuring with his last breath, of home
and mother.
I remember with great distinctness his face,--suffering while he yet
struggled with death,--happy and tranquil, when he stood upon the
threshold of life eternal. Almost the very saddest and most trying
portion of my Confederate service was just here. Only that my record
must be faithful, I would fain bid memory pass with flying feet and
veiled eyes over the scenes of that terrible winter at Ringgold, when
my very soul was steeped in pity so painful that every night I was
fain to cry out, "It is too hard! I cannot bear it!" and every morning
my heart, yearning over "my boys," gave itself with renewed ardor to
"the Cause" and its defenders.
Returning to my patients in the church about noon, I found a change
for the better in many cases; in others it was but too evident that
days, even hours, were numbered. Two soldiers in particular attracted
my attention. One was an Irishman, of an Alabama regiment, the other
from Arkansas. The Irishman was fast passing away, and earnestly
desired to see a priest. There was none nearer than twelve miles. One
of our foragers, himself a Roman Catholic, volunteered to go for him
and by permission of Dr. McAllister rode off through the snow,
returning after nightfall to report that Father ---- had been called
in another direction, and would not return home until the next day.
Finding the poor fellow, though almost too far gone to articulate,
constantly murmuring words of prayer, I took his prayer-book and read
aloud the "Recommendation of a soul departing," also some of the
preceding prayers of the "Litany for the dying." He faintly responded,
and seemed to die comforted and satisfied. Afterwards I never
hesitated to use the same service in like cases.
The Arkansian was a devoted soldier and a pronounced "rebel." He had
preserved through all vicissitudes a small Confederate flag, made for
him by his little daughter "Annie," now alas torn and shattered. When
he came into the church on that terrible night, although almost
destitute of clothing, he bore the flag safely pinned inside of his
ragged flannel shirt. A few days afterwards I found the poor,
emaciated frame propped up in bed, with a crumpled sheet of paper
spread upon a piece of pine board before him, while, with unaccustomed
hand and unaccustomed brain, he toiled over some verses of poetry
addressed to "Annie." After a week or two, when he lay dying, I
received from his hand the flag and the verses pinned together, and
addressed to "Miss Annie ----," in some part of Arkansas; but as I
hoped to retain, and finally to deliver safely, the articles so
addressed, I did not tax my memory with it, and when afterwards, in
Macon, all my belongings were taken by the raiders, I had nothing left
to recall the name, and only remember one of the verses, which ran
thus:
"Your father fought under this flag,
This bonny flag so true,
And many a time, amidst the fray,
The bullets whistled through--
_So, Annie, keep the flag_."
The verses were headed, "Annie, Keep the Flag," and each one ended
with the same words.
The sad days of winter passed slowly away; with the spring came
changes. Dr. Thornton was ordered to another post (I had forgotten
just where), and of course Mrs. Thornton accompanied him. Everybody
connected with the post regretted their departure, especially the loss
of Mrs. Thornton, who was a general favorite. We had not ceased to
miss her when tidings came of Dr. Thornton's death, and of the wild
grief of the stricken wife, which resisted all control. A messenger
had been despatched to call me to her side. I found her clinging to
the body of her murdered husband, stained with his blood, yet
resisting all attempts to remove her. Dr. Thornton having severely
punished a case of insubordination, the culprit swore vengeance, and
had fulfilled his oath in a most complete though cowardly manner. Just
after dark, as the doctor was sitting at supper with his wife, a voice
at the gate called his name. He answered the summons at once, followed
closely by Mrs. Thornton, who, standing upon the doorsteps, saw and
heard the murderous blow which laid him dead at her feet, stabbed to
the heart. For many hours horror and grief dethroned the reason of the
wife. After I had persuaded her to go to her room, she continually
insisted upon washing her hands, which she shudderingly declared were
red with _his blood_. Subsequently she struggled successfully for
composure, pitifully saying, "He liked me to be brave; I _will try_,"
and with remarkable fortitude she bore up through the trying ordeal
which followed. In my ministration to Mrs. Thornton I was assisted by
a lady whose name is well known and well beloved by the soldiers of
the Army of Tennessee,--Mrs. Frank Newsome. Of remarkable beauty,
sweet and gentle manners, deeply religious, and carrying the true
spirit of religion into her work, hers was indeed an angelic ministry.
We had never met before, but in the days of my early girlhood I had
known her husband, Frank Newsome, of Arkansas, who, with Randal
Gibson, of Louisiana, Tom Brahan, of Alabama, and my own husband (then
my lover), studied together under a tutor in preparation for the
junior class of Yale College; they were room-mates at a house in the
same village where my mother resided, and I had known them very well.
Dr. Newsome had died some time before, but his having once been my
friend proved a bond of sympathy between his widow and myself.
Although our pleasant intercourse was never again renewed, I continued
through the years of the war to hear accounts of Mrs. Newsome's
devotion to the Confederate soldiers. Duty requiring my presence at
the hospital, I was compelled to leave Mrs. Thornton, who soon after
returned to Kentucky. I never met her again, but remember her with
unchanged affection.
Dr. Gamble, of Tallahassee, Florida, succeeded Dr. Thornton as surgeon
of the post at Ringgold. He was one of the most thorough gentlemen I
ever knew, as courteous to the humblest soldier as to General Bragg,
who was then and during the summer a frequent visitor. His wife lay
for some months very ill at some point near Ringgold. Mrs. Gamble,
who, with her lovely children, was domiciled at Cherokee Springs,
three miles distant, was also a delightful addition to our little
circle. She was thoroughly accomplished, of charming manners, although
perfectly frank and outspoken. Her musical talent was exceptional, and
her lovely voice, coined into Confederate money, was freely given in
aid of all charitable objects. She was a frequent visitor at my
office, walking into town in the evening to ride out with her husband.
During the summer, Mrs. Bragg passed many days of convalescence at the
lovely cottage-home of Dr. and Mrs. Gamble, at Cherokee Springs, but
she was quite too feeble to come into town very often. Religious
services were frequently held in the beautiful grove at the Springs;
these I attended as often as I could be spared, Mrs. Gamble always
sending for me and sending me back in the ambulance. Later a
convalescent camp was established there, and then I rode out on
horseback every evening to look after my "boys," until the transfer of
Dr. Lee as surgeon in charge and Mrs. Lee as matron rendered my
services no longer necessary. Very pleasant memories cluster about the
room in the court-house at Ringgold assigned to my special use. I
often seem to hear once more the sweet music of "General Blandner's
lute," sometimes accompanied by the clear soprano of Mrs. Gamble,
sometimes by our blended voices. I remember as distinctly as if it
were only yesterday the kindly faces and cheerful voices that smiled
upon and greeted me as I ran in from the wards to take a few moments'
rest. I had collected and kept on the shelves in my office a great
many books for the use of convalescents, who were my most constant
visitors. The mantelpiece was decorated with articles of curious
workmanship and miracles of beautiful carving (the gifts of my
patients), variously inscribed. There were cups and saucers, with
vines running over and around them, boxes which simulated books,
paper-cutters, also rings made of gutta-percha buttons, with silver
hearts let in like mosaic. I was as proud of them as a queen of her
crown-jewels, and always kept them on exhibition with the precious
notes of presentation attached. Had I retained possession of these
treasures, I would have proudly bequeathed them to my children; but,
alas! these, like everything else, fell into the hands of raiders.
Many officers of distinction visited my little sanctum,--not only
surgeons from other posts, but men of military distinction, clergymen,
and others. General Bragg came frequently for a time, also Bishop
Beckwith, and many others whose faces come to me while their names
elude the grasp of memory. I welcomed them all alike, for I have never
felt a prouder heart-throb in the presence of an officer, no matter
how exalted his rank, than while viewing the shadowy forms of my
convalescents or answering their earnest greetings as they passed in
and out of my office, or rested awhile in my one easy-chair, or, still
better, came with buoyant step and bright eyes to bid me farewell when
ready to report for duty, never failing to leave with me the "God
bless you!" so precious to my soul.
Some of the poor fellows who were wounded at the battle of
Murfreesboro' now began to suffer from gangrene. Tents were pitched
outside the hospital for such cases, and it was often my fate to stand
beside these sufferers while the surgeon removed unhealthy granulation
with instruments or eating acids, or in other ways tortured the poor
fellows to save life.
The establishment of an officers' ward added to my cares. As in most
cases they were waited upon by their own servants, I could do a great
deal by proxy. If any were very ill, however, as often was the case, I
attended them myself. Among those whom I nursed in Ringgold was
Captain E. John Ellis, of Louisiana. If I am not mistaken, he had been
slightly wounded at the battle of Murfreesboro'. At any rate, he was
for a time very ill of pneumonia, and received all his nourishment
from my hand. Often since the war, as I have seen him standing with
majestic mien and face aglow with grand and lofty thoughts, or have
listened spellbound to the thrilling utterances of "the silver-tongued
orator," memory, bidding me follow, has led me back to a lowly room
where, bending over a couch of pain, I saw the same lips, fevered and
wan, open feebly to receive a few spoonfuls of nourishment. "Aye! and
that tongue of his which now bids nation mark him and write his
speeches in their books" cried faintly, "Give me some drink."
Captain Ellis recovered rapidly, but insisted on rejoining his command
while yet pale and weak.
The incident I shall here relate is intended to illustrate and
emphasize the thoroughly gentlemanly qualities of our Southern
soldiers, their unvarying respect and courtesy toward women, and their
entire appreciation and perfect understanding of my own position among
them. I presume all will comprehend my meaning when I assure them that
the occasion referred to was the only one during four years of service
when even an unpleasantness occurred. In the same ward with Captain
Ellis were three officers,--one, Colonel ----, of Alabama (very ill),
another just able to sit up, and one, Lieutenant Cox, of Mississippi,
only suffering from a bad cold which had threatened pneumonia. My
constant habit was to carry into the wards a little basket containing
pieces of fresh linen, sponges, and a bottle of Confederate bay-water
(vinegar). Invariably I bathed the faces and hands of the
fever-patients with vinegar and water, but as soon as they were well
enough to dispense with it gave it up. One day, upon entering the ward
above mentioned, I found Captain Ellis up and standing before the
fire, his back towards it. It struck me at once that he looked
worried, and at the same time appeared to be struggling between
vexation and a desire to laugh. Lieutenant Cox was covered up in bed,
rolling and holding his head, seemingly in dreadful agony.
Approaching, I asked a question or two regarding his sudden seizure,
but he only cried, "Oh, my head! my head!" at the same time shaking as
if with a violent chill. Turning down the sheet, I placed my hand upon
his head, which was quite cool. As soon as I caught a glimpse of his
face, I saw that he was laughing, and, glancing at the others,
realized that all were full of some joke. Drawing myself up haughtily,
I said, "I see I have made a mistake; I came here to nurse
_gentlemen_; I shall not again lend myself to your amusement," and out
I swept, nor ever while in Ringgold entered the officers' quarters
again, except to nurse very sick or dying men. It seems that
Lieutenant Cox had received a box from home containing, among other
dainties, a bottle of home-made wine. One day he said to the other
occupants of the ward, "Mrs. Beers never bathes _my head_. I believe
I'll get up a spell of fever, and see if I can't get nursed like you
other fellows." The others declared that he could not deceive me, and
he offered to bet the bottle of wine that he would have me bathe his
head at my next visit. The result has been described. I had hardly
reached my office, when a special patient and friend of mine, Charlie
Gazzan, of Mobile, Alabama, arrived with an apology from Lieutenant
Cox, a few words of explanation from Captain Ellis, signed by all the
officers in the ward, and the bottle of wine, sent for my acceptance.
I would not accept the wine or read the note, and in this course I was
upheld by Dr. McAllister, who severely reprimanded Lieutenant Cox, and
excused me from future attendance upon that ward.
I have said that Charlie Gazzan was a special patient and friend;
perhaps the expression needs explanation. A few weeks before, he had
been brought to me one night from the ambulance-train, a living
skeleton, and seemingly at the point of death from dysentery. His
family and that of my husband were residents of Mobile, Alabama, and
intimate friends. He seemed almost in the agony of death, but had
asked to be brought to me. There was not, after the battle of
Murfreesboro', a single vacant bed. He begged hard not to be put in a
crowded ward, so, until I could do better, he was placed upon the
lounge in my office. One small room in the officers' ward being
vacant, I asked and obtained next day the privilege of placing him
there. He recovered very slowly, but surely, and during his
convalescence made himself useful in a hundred ways. My sick boys owed
many a comfort to his wonderful powers of invention; even the surgeons
availed themselves of his skill. He often relieved me of a task I had
sometimes found very wearisome, because so constantly recurring,--that
of writing letters for the sick. He made his own pens and his own ink,
of a deep green color, and seemingly indelible. A more gentle, kindly,
generous nature never existed, and yet his soldierly instincts were
strong, and almost before he could walk about well he "reported for
duty," but was soon relegated to his room and to special diet.
Spring proved hardly less disagreeable in Upper Georgia than winter
had been. The mud was horrible, and I could not avoid it, as the wards
were detached, occupying all together a very wide space. The pony was
no longer available, because he splashed mud all over me. Old Peter
brought me one day an immense pair of boots large enough for me to
jump into when going from one place to another, and to jump out of and
leave at the entrance of the sick wards. With these, an army blanket
thrown over my shoulders and pinned with a thorn, and my dress kilted
up like a washerwoman's, I defied alike the liquid streets and the
piercing wind. My "nursery" was at this time filled to overflowing. My
mind's eye takes in every nook and corner of that large room. It is
very strange, but true, that I remember the position of each bed and
the faces of those who lay there at different times. As I said before,
they were principally the youngest patients, or those requiring
constant supervision. I seem to see them now, lying pale and worn,
their hollow eyes looking up at me as I fed them or following with
wistful gaze my movements about the ward. Some bear ghastly wounds,
others sit upon the side of the bed, trembling with weakness, yet
smiling proudly because they can do so much, and promising soon to pay
me a visit downstairs, "if I can _make_ it; but I'm _powerful weak_
right _now_." I remember two brave Texas boys, brothers, both wounded
at Murfreesboro', who lay side by side in this ward. One of them was
only fifteen years old. When he was brought in, it was found that a
minie-ball had penetrated near the eye, and remained in the wound,
forcing the eye entirely from the socket, causing the greatest agony.
At first it was found difficult to extract it, and it proved a most
painful operation. I stood by, and his brother had his cot brought
close so that he could hold his other hand. Not a groan did the brave
boy utter, but when it was over, and the eye replaced and bandaged, he
said, "Doctor, _how soon can I go back to my regiment_?" Poor boy! he
_did_ go back in time to participate in the battle of Chickamauga,
where he met his death. Twenty years after, I met his brother at a
reunion of Confederate soldiers, in Dallas, Texas, and he could hardly
tell me for weeping that Eddie had been shot down at his side while
gallantly charging with the ---- Texas Cavalry. Another youth, ----
Roundtree, of Alabama, lingered in that ward for many weeks, suffering
from dysentery, and, I believe, was finally discharged.
Dr. Gore, of Kentucky, took the deepest interest in my nursery, and
sometimes asked permission to place young friends of his own there, a
compliment which I highly appreciated. Dr. Gore was one of Nature's
noblemen. In his large, warm heart there seemed to be room for
everybody. His interest in his patients was very keen, and his skill
greatly enhanced by extreme tenderness and unfailing attention. He was
an earnest Christian (a Methodist, I believe), but upon one occasion I
saw him so excited and distressed that he "fell from grace," and gave
vent to a fearful imprecation. He had brought to me a boy of seventeen
very ill of dysentery. For days it seemed that he must die. Dr. Gore
and I watched him and nursed him as if he had been very near and dear.
A slight improvement showed itself at last, and of course his craving
for food was insatiate. As this was a special ward, the nurses had
been forbidden to admit visitors without a permit, and no stranger was
ever allowed to feed the patients except when some particularly
nourishing and suitable food was brought, when I used to take a great
delight in the mutual pleasure of patient and visitor, hardly knowing
which was more happy, the giver or receiver. Our sick boy continually
craved and talked about some "apple _turnovers_," such as his mother
used to make, but of course was denied. One day, during my absence, an
old lady gained access to the ward, and when she heard the boy's
desire for "turn-overs" promised him some. The next day she found an
opportunity to keep her promise. At midnight, Dr. Gore and I having
been hastily summoned, met at the bedside of the poor fellow, who was
in a state of collapse, and died before morning. Dr. Gore was so
overcome that he actually wept. The boy had been a patient of his from
his infancy, and in a piteous letter, which I afterwards read, his
mother had implored the doctor to watch over him in case of sickness.
When, under the dead boy's pillow, was found a portion of the
apple-pie, revealing the cause of his death, the doctor's anger knew
no bounds, and he gave vent to the imprecation above mentioned.
As the summer waned, our commissary stores began to fail. Rations,
always plain, became scant. Our foragers met with little success. But
for the patriotic devotion of the families whose farms and plantations
lay for miles around Ringgold (soon, alas! to fall into the ruthless
hands of the enemy), even our sickest men would have been deprived of
suitable food. As it was, the supply was by no means sufficient. One
day I asked permission to try _my_ fortune at foraging, and, having
received it, left Ringgold at daylight next morning, returning by
moonlight. Stopping at every house and home, I told everywhere my tale
of woe. There was scarcely one where hearths were not lonely, hearts
aching for dear ones long since gone forth to battle. They had heard
mischievous and false tales of the surgeons and attendants of
hospitals, and really believed that the sick were starved and
neglected, while the hospital staff feasted upon dainty food.
Occasionally, perhaps, they had listened to the complaint of some
"hospital rat," who, at the first rumor of an approaching battle, had
experienced "a powerful misery" in the place where a brave heart
should have been, and, flying to the rear, doubled up with rheumatism
and out-groaning all the victims of _real_ sickness or horrible
wounds, had remained huddled up in bed until danger was over. After
having been deceived a few times by these cowards, I became expert at
recognizing them, and paid them no attention whatever. I really
believe that in some cases it was a physical impossibility for men to
face the guns on a battle-field, and I have known instances of
soldiers who deliberately shot off their own fingers to escape a
fight. These men were conscious of their own defects, and often,
smarting under a knowledge that the blistering, purging, and
nauseating process pursued in such cases by the surgeons was intended
as a punishment, grew ugly and mischievous, seeking revenge by
maligning those in authority. I do not know what abuses may have
existed in other hospitals of the Confederacy; I can, however, say
with entire truth that I never saw or heard of a more self-sacrificing
set of men than the surgeons I met and served under during the war.
With only two exceptions, they were devoted to their patients, and as
attentive as in private practice or as the immense number of sick
allowed them to be. These exceptions were both men who were unwilling
to get up at night, and if called were fearfully cross. At one time I
had a fierce contest with a surgeon of this kind, and fought it out,
coming off victorious. I was called up one night to see a patient who
had required and received the closest attention, but who was, we
hoped, improving. Finding him apparently dying, I sent at once for
Doctor ----, meanwhile trying, with the help of the nurse, every means
to bring back warmth to his body, administering stimulants, rubbing
the extremities with mustard, and applying mustard-plasters. The poor
fellow was conscious, and evidently very much frightened; he had
insisted upon sending for me and seemed to be satisfied that I would
do everything in my power. Doctor ---- came in, looking black as a
thunder-cloud. "What the devil is all this fuss about? what are you
going to do with that mustard-plaster? Better apply it to that pine
table; it would do as much good;" then to the nurse, "Don't bother
that fellow any more; let him die in peace." My temper was up, and I
rushed at once into battle. "Sir," said I, "if you have given the
patient up, _I have not_ and _will not_. No true physician would show
such brutality." He was nearly bursting with rage. "I shall report
you, madam." "And I, sir, will take care that the whole post shall
know of this." He went out and I remained with the soldier until he
was better (he eventually recovered). The next morning, bright and
early, I made _my_ report to Dr. McAllister, who had already received
an account of the affair from the nurses and other patients of the
ward. He reprimanded the surgeon instead of gratifying his desire to
humble me.
But to return to my expedition: Fortunately, I was able to disprove
the false tales which had prejudiced the country people. Their
sympathy being thoroughly aroused, they resolved to make up for lost
time; and after this ladies rode in town every day, arranging among
themselves for different days, and bringing for the convalescents the
fresh vegetables which were so valuable as a palliative, and
preventive of scurvy; for the sick, chickens, eggs, fresh butter,
buttermilk, and sweet milk. Country wagons also brought in small
supplies for sale, but never in proportion to the demand. Many of the
ladies, after one visit to a ward or two, were utterly overcome by the
ghastly sight, and wept even at the _thought_ of looking upon the
misery they could not relieve. Others seemed to feel only deepest pity
and a desire to "do _something_ for the poor soldiers." As there were
so many, it was difficult to distribute impartially: some must be left
out. The ladies, finding so many craving buttermilk, sweet milk,
home-made bread, etc., did not well know how to manage; but the
soldiers themselves soon settled that. "I ain't so _very_ bad off,"
one would say, "but that little fellow over yonder needs it _bad_;
he's _powerful weak_, and he's been studying about buttermilk ever
since he came in."
All the time his own emaciated frame was trembling from exhaustion,
and, spite of his courage, his eyes greedily devoured the dainties
which he denied himself. This was but one of a thousand instances of
self-abnegation which go to make up a record as honorable, as brave,
as true as that of the glorious deeds which such men never failed to
perform whenever opportunity offered.
During this foraging trip, and once afterwards during a spell of fever
which lasted a week, I was cordially received and elegantly
entertained at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Russell, who lived about ten
miles from Ringgold. This aged couple were eminently and most
intelligently patriotic.
Their sons were in the Confederate service. Their time and their
substance were literally at the disposal of all who served the cause.
The silver-haired mother knitted and spun incessantly for the
soldiers. The father superintended the raising of vegetables, and sent
wagon-loads to the hospitals.
Miss Phemie, a lovely young girl, was a frequent visitor to the
hospitals, and often herself dispensed the golden butter and rich
buttermilk prepared under her own direction; she would even dispense
with the carriage and ride in town on the wagon, that she might bring
_plenty_ of vegetables, fruit, etc. Convalescents were entertained
royally at the old homestead; those who could not go so far were often
treated to pleasant and invigorating rides.
To me Miss Phemie's friendship and kindness brought many comforts, and
I remember gratefully the whole family.
Through the summer frequent skirmishes and fights were heard of, and
sick and wounded men came in every day, and every few days squads of
men who had "reported for duty" took their places at the front. At
last, about the first of September, 1863, appeared the never-failing
forerunner of a real battle near at hand,--a small brigade of "hospital
rats," distorted, drawn up, with useless crippled fingers, bent legs,
crooked arms, necks drawn awry, let us say by--_rheumatism_. A day or
two later was fought the sanguinary and fiercely-contested battle of
Chickamauga. I could not if I would describe this or any other battle,
nor is it necessary, for historians have well accomplished this duty.
The terrible results to the brave men engaged only appeared to me, and
these guided me to an opinion that among the horrible, bloody,
hard-fought battles of the war none could exceed that of Chickamauga,
and afterwards Franklin. From the lips of my boys, however, I often
gained knowledge of deeds of magnificent bravery which cannot be
surpassed by any which adorn the pages of history. These jewels have
lain undiscovered among the debris of the war. Would I could reclaim
them all. Seen in the aggregate, they would even outshine the glory
already known and visible. Finding memory a treacherous guide while
searching for these hidden treasures, I have called upon my comrades
to aid me in clearing away the dust and cobwebs,--the accumulation of
years,--but only in a few instances have they responded. I shall here
relate one incident of the battle of Chickamauga never before
published, but which is true in every particular.
Austin's Battalion of Sharpshooters, composed of two companies, the
Continental Guards and Cannon Guards, both from New Orleans, was as
well known to the Army of Tennessee as any organization in it, and
commanded the respect and admiration of all the army. The following
lines from the pen of a gallant soldier in Fenner's Louisiana Battery
truly portray the sentiments of their army comrades towards the famous
battalion:
"In the Army of Tennessee, Austin's Battalion always occupied the post
of honor in the brigade (Adams's and Gibson's Louisiana) to which it
belonged. In the advance, that battalion was in the front; in the
retreat, it hung upon the rear, a safeguard to the Confederates, and a
cloud threatening at every step to burst in destructive fury upon the
advancing enemy.
"Who is on the front?" "Austin's Battalion." "Then, boys, we can lie
down and sleep." Such were the words heard a hundred times among the
troops of the Army of Tennessee, to which was attached Austin's
Battalion of Sharpshooters. Whose tongue could so graphically picture
to the mind's eye a soldier and a hero as do these brief questions and
answers interchanged between battle-scarred veterans in the gathering
gloom of the night, when they knew not, until they were assured
Austin's Battalion was in the front, if they could snatch a few hours
of repose from the toil and danger of battle? Austin's Battalion,
famous throughout the armies of the Confederacy for its discipline and
fighting qualities, was formed out of the remnants of the Eleventh
Louisiana Regiment, which distinguished itself at Belmont, and which
was literally shot to pieces at Shiloh. The battalion is well known to
all the survivors of the Army of Tennessee as a fighting organization.
During the active campaign of the army, it was almost continually
under fire, and Ned Austin, on his little black pony, was always in
the advance, "fooling the enemy, or in the retreat fighting and
holding him in check."
As the title of the battalion indicates, it was always in the front,
on the advanced skirmish-line, pending a battle. It will be remembered
by all the heroes of the Army of Tennessee that nearly every regiment
in that army at the time of the battle of Chickamauga had on its
battle-flag "cross-cannon," which signified the regiment's
participation in the capture of a battery, or part thereof, at some
time and place. Austin's Battalion had not won that honor when it
commenced its destructive fire upon the enemy early Saturday morning,
September 19, 1863. Sunday, the 20th, the battalion, on the extreme
right of the army, moved forward upon the skirmish-lines of the
Federals about eight o'clock in the morning, driving them rapidly back
towards their main lines, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground,
and many prisoners in the hands of the enthusiastic advancing
Confederates. It was published in general orders after the battle that
Austin's Sharpshooters captured three times as many prisoners as they
had men in their whole battalion. The Continentals, on the right of
the battalion, commanded by Captain W.Q. Loud, suddenly found
themselves in range of and close quarters to artillery, as shells were
singing through the woods directly over their heads. Still advancing
as skirmishers, they saw on the road two pieces of artillery,
supported by perhaps a small company of infantry, about one hundred
yards from their advanced position in the woods. The command, "Rally,"
was given by Lieutenant William Pierce, commanding first platoon, and
as the word was passed along by the sergeants all within hearing
jumped to the command, and as "Forward, charge!" was given, in a
minute the gallant Confederates had forced back the Federals and had
possession of the guns, Lieutenant Pierce striking one of them with
his sword, proclaiming the right of the battalion to have cross-cannon
at last on its beloved flag. Although the battalion, as was just and
correct, participated in and enjoyed the proud honors of the capture,
it will cause no feeling of envy among the members of Company B living
to-day to give the exclusive credit of the capture of those guns to
the first platoon of the Continental Guards. The Federals, seeing how
few were the numbers of the foe who had driven them from their guns,
rallied, advanced, and fired a volley into the victorious
Confederates, who were still surrounding the pieces. Three men were
wounded by the volley, among them Lieutenant William Pierce, whose leg
was so badly shattered that amputation was necessary. The boys in gray
retired to the first line of trees, leaving their lieutenant under the
guns, surrounded by the boys in blue. It was for a short moment only:
a volley which killed three and wounded more of the Federals, a yell
and a charge, and the lieutenant's comrades again had possession of
the guns, and soon were carrying him and dragging the guns to the
rear, making the captured Federals assist in both duties. The
advancing brigade was more than a quarter of a mile from where the
guns were captured. It is very doubtful whether the history of the war
will record a similar capture of artillery supported by infantry,
disclosed suddenly by an advance-line of skirmishers who
unhesitatingly charged, took possession of, and carried to the rear
the guns. One would have supposed that Lieutenant Pierce, having
suffered amputation of a leg, might have rested upon laurels won so
gloriously. Ah, no! his gallant soul was yet undismayed. At the
earliest possible moment he returned to his command, there receiving a
rich recompense for past suffering. Imagine his great pride and
satisfaction when, following his comrades to the quarters of the
gallant Major Ned Austin, he was shown the battalion flag with its
"honored and honorable" cross-cannon liberally displayed.
The survivors of the Continental Guards, returning to New Orleans
after the war, have clung together like true brothers, retaining their
military organization and the name they bore so gallantly. Of the
veterans, not many remain; these are known and revered by all. Captain
Pierce is fondly beloved and highly respected by his former command,
as well as by the younger members of the company, who, having "fallen
in" to fill up the ranks which time and death have decimated, are
striving nobly to uphold the name and fame of the Continentals. Under
the command of a gallant gentleman and excellent executive officer,
the new Continentals have guarded and kept ever fresh the laurels won
by their predecessors, adding an exceptional record of their own, both
military and civic. Upon all patriotic occasions the _veterans_ appear
and march with the company. Our veteran companies are the pride and
glory of New Orleans. Citizens never tire of viewing the beautiful
uniform and the martial step of the Continental Guards. And who can
look upon Captain Pierce, bearing his trusty sword, keeping step
equally well, whether he wears a finely-formed cork leg or stumps
along on his favorite wooden one,--his bearing as proud as the
proudest, his heroic soul looking gloriously forth from its undimmed
windows,--and fail to remember proudly the young lieutenant who fell
under the enemy's gun at Chickamauga? Or who can listen unmoved to the
music of the cannon which so often woke the morning echoes upon the
bloodiest battle-field of the war? A parade of the Washington
Artillery is, indeed, a glorious and inspiriting sight. Here they
come, gayly caparisoned, perfect in every detail of military
equipment, led by elegant officers who may well ride proudly, for each
is a true soldier and a hero. Scarcely less distinguished, save for
the plainer uniform, are the rank and file that follow. Can these be
the same men whom history delights to honor,--the heroes of a hundred
battlefields,--both in the army of Virginia and Tennessee, who,
stripped to the waist, blackened with powder and smoke, bloody with
streaming wounds, still stood to their guns, and, in answer to the
enemy, thundered forth their defiant motto, "_Come and take us!_" And
now--who more peaceful, who more public-spirited, who more kind in
word and deed? Of the Virginia detachment I knew little except their
splendid record. From the fifth company I frequently received patients
during my service with the Army of Tennessee, for, like their comrades
of Virginia, they seemed to be in every battle, and in the thick of
it. In fact, New Orleans and the whole State of Louisiana, like every
city and State in the South, are peopled with veterans and heroes. In
comparatively few cases have military organizations been kept up.
Other duties engross the late Confederates, of whom it may be truly
said their record of citizenship is as excellent as their war record.
If to any reader it occurs that I seem to be doing particular justice
to New Orleans troops, I will say, let the feeling which arises in
your own breast regarding your "very own" plead for me. Remember that
my husband was one of the famous Dreux Battalion, and afterwards of
Gibson's Brigade, also that Louisianians were exiles, and that love of
our home, with sorrow and indignation on account of her humiliation
and chains, drew us very close together. But aside from this natural
feeling there was no shadow of difference in my ministration or in the
affection I bore towards all "my boys."
There was not a single Southern State unrepresented among the bleeding
victims of Chickamauga. From that hardly-contested field, as from many
others, a rich harvest of glory has been reaped and garnered until the
treasure-houses of history are full to overflowing. Glowing accounts
of the splendid deeds of this or that division, brigade, regiment,
company, have immortalized the names of--_their officers_. And what of
the unfaltering _followers_, whose valor supported their brave leaders
and helped to _create_ many a splendid record? Here lay the shattered
remnants, each ghastly wound telling its own story of personal
bravery. The fiery sons of South Carolina, unsubdued by the perils
they had passed, unmindful of their gaping wounds, as ready then to do
and dare as when they threw down the gauntlet of defiance and stood
ready to defend the sovereignty of their State. The men who followed
where the gallant Forrest led, "looking the warrior in love with his
work." The devoted patriots who charged with Breckenridge. The tall,
soldierly Tennesseeans, of whom their commander said, when asked if he
could take and hold a position of transcendent danger, "Give me my
Tennesseeans, and _I'll take and hold anything_;" the determined,
ever-ready Texans, who, under the immortal Terry, so distinguished
themselves, and under other leaders in every battle of the war won
undying laurels; North Carolinians, of whose courage in battle I
needed no better proof than the pluck they invariably showed under the
torture of fevered wounds or of the surgeon's knife; exiled
Kentuckians, Arkansians, Georgians, Louisianians, Missourians,
Marylanders, sternly resentful, and impatient of the wounds that kept
them from the battle-field, because ever hoping to strike some blow
that should sever a link in the chains which bound the homes they so
loved; Alabamians, the number of whose regiments, as well as _their
frequent consolidation_, spoke volumes for their splendid service;
Georgians, who, having fought with desperate valor, now lay suffering
and dying within the confines of their own State, yet unable to reach
the loved ones who, unknowing what their fate might be, awaited with
trembling hearts accounts of the battle, so slow in reaching them;
Mississippians, of whom I have often heard it said, "their fighting
and _staying qualities_ were _magnificent_," I then knew hundreds of
instances of individual valor, of which my remembrance is now so dim
that I dare not give names or dates. I am proud, however, to record
the names of four soldiers belonging to the Seventeenth Mississippi
Regiment: J. Wm. Flynn,[1] then a mere lad, but whose record will
compare with the brightest; Samuel Frank, quartermaster; Maurice
Bernhiem, quartermaster-sergeant, and Auerbach, the drummer of the
regiment. I was proudly told by a member of Company G, Seventeenth
Mississippi, that Sam Prank, although excelling in every duty of his
position, was exceeding brave, often earnestly asking permission to
lead the skirmishers, and would shoulder a musket sooner than stay out
of the fight. Maurice Bernhiem, quartermaster-sergeant, was also brave
as the bravest. Whenever it was possible he also would join the ranks
and fight as desperately as any soldier. Both men were exempt from
field-service. Auerbach, the drummer of the Seventeenth, was also a
model soldier, always at his post. On the longest marches, in the
fiercest battles, whatever signal the commanding officer wished to
have transmitted by means of the drum, night or day, amid the smoke of
battle or the dust of the march, Auerbach was always on hand. The
members of the Seventeenth declared that they could never forget the
figure of the small Jewish drummer, his little cap shining out here
and there amid the thick smoke and under a rattling fire. Before
taking leave of this splendid regiment, I will give an incident of the
battle of Knoxville, also related to me by one of its members.
[1] Mr. Flynn is now pastor in charge of a Presbyterian Church
in New Orleans, and is as faithful a soldier of the cross as
once of the lost cause.
By some mismanagement, Longstreet's corps had no scaling-ladders, and
had to cut their way up the wall of the entrenchment by bayonets,
digging out step after step under a shower of hot water, stones, shot,
axes, etc. Some of the men actually got to the top, and, reaching
over, dragged the enemy over the walls. General Humphrey's brigade had
practically taken the fort. Their flag was flying from the walls,
about a hundred men having reached the top, where the color-bearer bad
planted his flag, when the staff was shot off about an inch above his
hand. The men were so mad at losing the flag, that they seized the
shells with fuses burning and hurled them back upon the enemy. Some of
the members of this gallant regiment were among the hundreds equally
brave who, after the battle of Chickamauga, became my patients.
Scattered all through the wards were dozens of Irishmen, whose awful
wounds scarcely sufficed to keep them in bed, so impatient were they
of restraint, and especially of inactivity,--so eager to be at the
front. Ever since the war I have kept in my heart a place sacred to
these generous exiles, who, in the very earliest days of the
Confederacy, flocked by thousands to her standard, _wearing the gray
as if it had been the green_, giving in defence of the land of their
adoption the might of stalwart arms, unfaltering courage, and the
earnest devotion of hearts glad thus to give expression to the love of
liberty and hatred of oppression which filled them. As Confederate
soldiers they made records unsurpassed by any, but they never forgot
that they were Irishmen, and bound to keep up the name and fame of Old
Ireland. So, company after company, composing many regiments, appeared
on fields of glory bearing names dear to every Irish heart,--names
which they meant to immortalize, _and did_.
That I should be permitted to serve all these heroes, to live among
them, to minister to them, seemed to me a blessing beyond estimation.
Strange to say, although my toil increased and the horror deepened, my
health did not suffer. After days and nights of immeasurable fatigue,
a few hours of sleep would quite restore me, and I dared to believe
that the supporting rod and staff was given of God.
It now became very difficult to obtain food either suitable or
sufficient. The beef was horrible. Upon two occasions rations of mule
meat were issued, and eaten with the only sauce which could have
rendered it possible to swallow the rank, coarse-grained meat,--i.e.,
the ravenous hunger of wounded and convalescent men. Meal was musty,
flour impossible to be procured. All the more delicate food began to
fail utterly. A few weeks after the battle, Dr. S.M. Bemiss was
ordered to Newnan, Georgia, to arrange for the removal of the hospital
"post." We were, therefore, expecting a change of location, but quite
unprepared for the suddenness of the order, or the haste and confusion
that ensued. The _upsetness_ was so complete that it almost seemed to
me an actual fulfilment of a mysterious prophecy or warning often
uttered by old negroes to terrorize children into good behavior:
"Better mind out dar: fust thing _you_ knows you ain't gwine ter know
nuffin'." Everything seemed to be going on at once. The
ambulance-train, with a few baggage-cars attached, was even then at
the depot. A hoarse, stifled whistle apprised us of the fact, and
seemed to hurry our preparation. Dr. McAllister was _everywhere_,
superintending the removal with the energy natural to him. In the
court-house all was confusion. Boxes were hastily filled with bedding,
clothing, etc., thrown in helter-skelter, hastily nailed up, and as
hastily carted down to the train. Sick and awfully wounded men were
hurriedly placed upon stretchers, and their bearers formed an endless
procession to the rough cars (some of them lately used to transport
cattle, and dreadfully filthy). Here they were placed upon straw
mattresses, or plain straw, as it happened. No provisions were to be
had except sides of rusty bacon and cold corn-bread. These were
shovelled into carts and transferred to the floor of the cars in the
same manner. There was no time to cook anything, and the chances were
whether we would get off at all or not. Procuring a large caldron, I
dumped into it remnants of the day's dinner,--a little soup, a few
vegetables, and some mule meat. The stoves had all been taken down,
but there was a little cold cornmeal coffee, some tea, and a small
quantity of milk. This I put into buckets; then, importuning the
surgeon in charge until he was glad to get rid of me by assigning me a
cart, I mounted into it with my provisions and jolted off to the cars,
where hundreds of tortured, groaning men wore lying. There I met Dr.
Gore (for both hospitals were to be moved on the same train), who
helped me to hide my treasures and to administer some weak milk punch
to the sufferers. Meanwhile, the pine-wood fires kindled in the
streets all around the hospitals made the town look as though it was
on fire, and threw its weird light upon masses of soldiery,--cavalry,
infantry, artillery,--moving in endless numbers through the town,
shaking the very earth with the tramp of men and horses and the heavy
rumble of wheels. The men were silent, and looked jaded and ghastly in
the lurid light. Some had bloody rags tied about head and hands, their
breasts were bare, the panting breath could be heard plainly, their
eyes shone fiercely through the grime of powder and smoke. They had
been fighting, and were now retreating; still they marched in solid
column, nor broke ranks, nor lost step. The faces of the officers were
grave and troubled; none seemed to observe our frantic haste, but all
to look forward with unseeing eyes. I did so long to have them rest
and refresh themselves. During the whole of that eventful night my
cheeks were wet, my heart aching sadly. Before daylight we were off.
Railroads at that time were very defective and very rough. Ah, how
terrible was the suffering of those wounded men as they were jolted
and shaken from side to side! for haste was necessary to escape the
enemy. About noon the train came to a full stop, nor moved again for
many, many hours,--hours fraught with intense suffering to the sick
and wounded, as well as to all who shared the hardships of that
journey. It was reported that the enemy were passing either to the
right or left, I do not remember which. Not a wheel must move, not a
column of smoke arise; so, with the engine fires extinguished, the
train stood motionless in the midst of a barren pine forest. The small
supply of cooked food was soon exhausted, the ladies on the train
assisting to feed the wounded soldiers. All were parched with thirst.
The only water to be procured lay in ruts and ditches by the roadside,
and was filthy and fetid. So the day passed. All through the night
every one was on the alert, listening intently for sounds that might
mean danger. No lights, no roadside fires could be allowed; but the
moon shone brightly, and by its light the surgeons moved about among
the suffering men, whose groans, united with the plaintive sigh of the
chill wind through the pine forest, served to make night dismal
indeed. In the intervals of attending upon the sick we slept as we
could, leaning up against boxes, tilted back in chairs against the
side of the car, or lying down, with anything we could get for
pillows. Some of the surgeons and attendants bivouacked under the
trees in spite of the cold. In the morning we were hungry enough to
eat the stale corn-bread, and tried to like it, but even of that there
was very little, for the wounded men were ravenous. Drs. Gore and
Yates set themselves to whittle some "army-forks," or forked sticks,
and, cutting the bacon in thin slices, made little fires which they
carefully covered with large pans to keep the smoke from arising. By
these they toasted slices of bacon. Ah, how delicious was the odor,
how excellent the taste! Several hands were set at this work, but it
was necessarily very slow. I remained among my own patients, while my
servant climbed in and out of the car, bringing as much meat as she
could get, which I distributed while she returned for more. The
wounded men were clamorous for it, crying out, "Give it to us raw; we
can't wait." This we were soon compelled to do, as it was feared the
smoke might escape and betray us. I cannot now recollect by what means
we received the welcome order to move on, but it came at last, and on
the morning of the third day we reached Newnan, Georgia, where, after
a few days' bustle and confusion, we were pleasantly settled and had
fallen into the old routine, Dr. Bemiss having arranged not only for
excellent quarters but for fresh supplies of rations and hospital
stores.