CHAPTER V.

NEWNAN, GEORGIA.

Just here Memory lays a restraining hand upon my own. Turning to meet

her gaze, it pleads with me to linger a while in this sweet and

pleasant spot, peopled with familiar forms, and kindly faces,

well-beloved in the past, fondly greeted once again. Ah, how closely

our little band clung together, how enduring were the ties that bound

us! Ignoring the shadow, seeking always to stand in the sunshine, we

welcomed with yet unshaken faith the heavenly guest who stood in our

midst, turning upon us almost for the last time an unclouded face, and

eyes undimmed by doubt or pain,--the angel of Hope.

The ladies of Newnan were truly loyal, and in spite of the fact that

the whole town was converted into hospitals, and every eligible place

filled with sick, murmured not, but strove in every way to add to

their comfort. I wish I could place every one before my readers to

receive the meed of praise she so richly deserves; only a few, _very

few_, names now occur to me. The hospitable mansion of Judge Ray was a

complete rendezvous for convalescent soldiers; also the homes of Mrs.

McKinstry and Mrs. Morgan. The latter was one of the most beautiful

women I ever saw. Dr. Gore used to say, "She is just _plum pretty_."

She was a perfect blonde, with a small head "running over" with short,

golden curls. The Misses Ray were brunettes, very handsome and

stately. Their brothers were in the army. Judge Ray never allowed his

daughters to visit the hospitals, but atoned for that by unbounded

hospitality. Mrs. McKinstry was a constant visitor to the hospitals,

and had her house full of sick soldiers. Only one church in the town

was left vacant in which to hold services. Rev. R.A. Holland, then a

young, enthusiastic Methodist minister, and a chaplain in the army,

remained for some time in Newnan, holding meetings which were largely

attended. Dr. Holland was long after the war converted to the

Episcopal faith, and called to Trinity Church, New Orleans. The

bishops and ministers of the Protestant Episcopal Church also held

frequent services, and often Catholic priests came among the sick, who

greatly valued their holy ministration. Through the kindness of a

friend, an ownerless piano found in one of the stores was moved to my

room, and, although not a good one, contributed largely to the

pleasure of the soldiers, also serving for sacred music when needed.

Mr. Blandner's lute, my piano, and Mrs. Gamble's soprano voice, joined

to that of a Confederate tenor or bass, or my own contralto, made

delicious music. Concerts, tableaux, plays, etc., were also given for

the benefit of refugees or to raise money to send boxes to the front:

at all these I assisted, but had no time for rehearsals, etc. I could

only run over and sing my song or songs and then run back to my

patients. Some money was realized, but the entertainments were never a

great financial success, because all soldiers were invited guests.

Still, some good was always accomplished. These amusements were

greatly encouraged by physicians and others, as safety-valves to

relieve the high-pressure of excitement, uncertainty, and dread which

were characteristic of the time. I was always counted in, but seldom,

very seldom, accepted an invitation, for it seemed to me like

unfaithfulness to the memory of the gallant dead, and a mockery of the

suffering in our midst. I could not rid myself of this feeling, and

can truly say that during those fateful years, from the time when in

Richmond the "starvation parties" were organized, until the end, I

never found a suitable time to dance or a time to laugh or a time to

make merry.

My own special kitchen (an immense wareroom at the back of the store,

which was used for a distributing-room) was in Newnan well fitted up.

A cavernous fireplace, well supplied with big pots, little pots,

bake-ovens, and stew-pans, was supplemented by a cooking-stove of good

size. A large brick oven was built in the yard close by, and two

professional bakers, with their assistants, were kept busy baking for

the whole post. There happened to be a back entrance to this kitchen,

and although the convalescents were not allowed inside, many were the

interviews held at said door upon subjects of vital importance to the

poor fellows who had walked far into the country to obtain coveted

dainties which they wanted to have cooked "like my folks at home fix

it up." They were never refused, and sometimes a dozen different

"messes" were set off to await claimants,--potato-pones, cracklin

bread, apple-pies, blackberry-pies, squirrels, birds, and often

_chickens_. For a long time the amount of chickens brought in by "the

boys" puzzled me. They had little or no money, and chickens were

always high-priced. I had often noticed that the men in the wards were

busy preparing _fish-hooks_, and yet, though they often "went

fishing," they brought no fish to be cooked. One day the mystery was

fully solved. An irate old lady called upon Dr. McAllister, holding at

the end of a string a fine, large chicken, and vociferously

proclaiming her wrongs. "I _knowed_ I'd ketch 'em: I _knowed_ it. Jes'

look a-here," and she drew up the chicken, opened its mouth, and

showed the butt of a fish-hook it had swallowed. Upon further

examination, it was found that the hook had been baited with a kernel

of corn. "I've been noticin' a powerful disturbance among my fowls,

an' every onct in while one of 'em would go over the fence like

litenin' and I couldn't see what went with it. This mornin' I jes' sot

down under the fence an' watched, and the fust thing I seed was a line

flyin' over the fence right peert, an' as soon as it struck the ground

the chickens all went for it, an' this yer fool chicken up and

swallered it. Now, I'm a lone woman, an' my chickens an' my

truck-patch is my livin', and _I ain't gwine to stan' no sich!_" The

convalescents, attracted by the shrill, angry voice, gathered around.

Their innocent surprise, and the wonder with which they examined the

baited fish-hook and _sympathized with the old lady_, almost upset the

gravity of the "sturgeons," as the old body called the doctors.

There was one dry-goods store still kept open in Newnan, but few

ladies had the inclination or the means to go shopping. The cotton

lying idle all over the South was then to a certain extent utilized.

Everything the men wore was dyed and woven at home: pants were either

butternut, blue, or light purple, occasionally light yellow; shirts,

coarse, but snowy white, or what would now be called _cream_.

Everybody knitted socks. Ladies, negro women, girls, and even little

boys, learned to knit. Each tried to get ahead as to number and

quality. Ladies' stockings were also knitted of all grades from stout

and thick to gossamer or open-work, etc. Homespun dresses were proudly

worn, and it became a matter of constant experiment and great pride to

improve the quality and vary colors. Warp and woof were finely spun,

and beautiful combinations of colors ventured upon, although older

heads eschewed them, and in consequence complacently wore their clean,

smoothly-ironed gray, "pepper-and-salt," or brown homespuns long after

the gayer ones had been faded by sun or water and had to be "dipped."

Hats and bonnets of all sorts and sizes were made of straw or

palmetto, and trimmed with the same. Most of them bore cockades of

bright red and white (the "red, white, and red"), fashioned of strips

knitted to resemble ribbons. Some used emblems denoting the State or

city of the wearer, others a small Confederate battle-flag. Young

faces framed in these pretty hats, or looking out from under a

broad-brim, appeared doubly bewitching. Ladies worked early and late,

first upon the fabric, and then upon beautifully-stitched homespun

shirts, intended as gifts to favorite heroes returning to the front.

During the winter nights the light of pine-knot fires had sufficed,

but now Confederate candles were used. It did seem as if the bees were

Southern sympathizers, and more faithfully than usual "improved each

shining hour." The wax thus obtained was melted in large kettles, and

yards of rags torn into strips and sewn together, then twisted to the

size of lamp-wicks, were dipped into the liquid wax, cooled, and

dipped again and again until of the right size. These yards of waxed

rags were wound around a corncob or a bottle, then clipped, leaving

about two yards "closely wound" to each candle. One end was left loose

to light, and--here you have the recipe for Confederate candles.

When I came through the lines I was refused permission to bring any

baggage; therefore my supply of clothing was exceedingly small. I had,

however, some gold concealed about my person, and fortunately procured

with it a plain wardrobe. This I had carefully treasured, but now it

was rapidly diminishing. At least I must have one new dress. It was

bought,--a simple calico, and not of extra quality. The cost was

_three hundred dollars!_ With the exception of a plain muslin bought

the following summer for three hundred and fifty dollars, it was my

only indulgence in the extravagance of dress during the whole war. Two

pretty gray homespuns made in Alabama were my standbys.

A good-sized store had been assigned to me as a linen room and office.

The linen room, standing upon the street, was very large, and shelved

all around, a counter on one side, and otherwise furnished with splint

chairs and boxes to sit upon. My sanctum lay behind it, and here my

sick and convalescent boys came frequently, and dearly loved to come,

to rest upon the lounge or upon my rocking-chair, to read, to eat nice

little lunches, and often to write letters. The front room was the

rendezvous of the surgeons. In the morning they came to consult me

about diet-lists or to talk to each other. In the evening the

promenade of the ladies generally ended here, the surgeons always

came, and I am proud to say that a circle composed of more cultivated,

refined gentlemen and ladies could not be found than those who met in

the rough linen-room of the Buckner Hospital. Dr. McAllister often

looked in, but only for a few moments. He was devoted to his business

as surgeon in charge of a large hospital. The multifarious duties of

the position occupied him exclusively. He was a superb executive

officer: nothing escaped his keen observation. No wrong remained

unredressed, no recreant found an instant's toleration. He was ever

restless, and not at all given to the amenities of life or to social

intercourse, but fond of spending his leisure moments at his own

temporary home, which a devoted wife made to him a paradise. His

manners to strangers were very stiff; his friendship, once gained, was

earnest and unchangeable. Dr. Gamble, surgeon of the post, was an

urbane, kindly gentleman. Business claimed his entire time also, and

he was seldom seen outside of his office. The ladies of our little

circle have been already mentioned, as well as most of the surgeons.

Dr. Bemiss, of all others, was a general favorite. We did not see much

of him, as he was a very busy man; but at least once a day he would

find his way to the rendezvous, often looking in at the window as he

"halted" outside for a little chat. Invariably the whole party

brightened up at his coming. He was so genial, so witty, so

sympathetic, so entirely _en rapport_ with everybody. A casual

occurrence, a little discussion involving, perhaps, a cunning attempt

to enlist him on one side or the other, would prove the key to unlock

a fund of anecdotes, repartee, _bon-mots_, and, best of all,

word-pictures, for here Dr. Bemiss excelled every one I ever knew. My

own relations with him were very pleasant, for he was my adviser and

helper in using properly the Louisiana and Alabama funds. The

friendship between Drs. Bemiss and Gore seemed almost like that of

Damon and Pythias. I think that Dr. Bemiss was first surgeon in charge

of the "Bragg," but when a larger field was assigned to him Dr. Gore

succeeded, Dr. Bemiss still retaining in some way the position of

superior officer. Both these men were eminent surgeons and physicians,

possessing in a remarkable degree the subtle comprehension and

sympathy which is so valuable a quality in a physician. The tie that

bound these two embraced a third, apparently as incongruous as

possible,--Dr. Benjamin Wible, also of Louisville, a former partner of

Dr. Bemiss. Diogenes we used to call him, and he did his best to

deserve the name.

His countenance was forbidding, except when lighted up by a smile,

which was only upon rare occasions. He was intolerant of what he

called "stuff and nonsense," and had a way of disconcerting people by

grunting whenever anything like sentimentality or gush was uttered in

his presence.

When he first came, his stern, dictatorial manner, together with the

persistent coldness which resisted all attempts to be friendly and

sociable, hurt and offended me; but he was so different when among the

sick, so gentle, so benignant beside the bedsides of suffering men,

that I soon learned to know and appreciate the royal heart which at

other times he managed to conceal under a rough and forbidding

exterior.

Dr. Archer, of Maryland, was as complete a contrast as could be

imagined. A poet of no mean order, indulging in all the idiosyncrasies

of a poet, he was yet a man of great nerve and an excellent surgeon.

Always dressed with _careful_ negligence, his hands beautifully white,

his beard unshorn, his auburn hair floating over his uniformed

shoulders in long ringlets, soft in speech, so very deferential to

ladies as to seem almost lover-like, he was, nevertheless, very manly.

Quite a cavalier one could look up to and respect. At first I thought

him effeminate, and did not like him, but his tender ways with my sick

boys, the efficacy of his prescriptions, and his careful orders as to

diet quite won me over. Our friendship lasted until the end of my

service in the Buckner Hospital, since which I have never seen him.

Another complete contrast to Diogenes was Dr. Conway, of Virginia, our

_Chesterfield_. His perfect manners and courtly observance of the

smallest requirements of good breeding and etiquette made us feel

quite as if we were lord and ladies. Dr. Conway had a way of conveying

subtle indefinable flattery which was very elevating to one's

self-esteem. Others enjoyed it in full, but often, just as our

Chesterfield had interviewed _me_, infusing even into the homely

subject of diet-lists much that was calculated to puff up my vanity,

in would stalk Diogenes, who never failed to bring me to a realizing

sense of the hollowness of it all. Dr. Hughes was a venerable and

excellent gentleman, who constituted himself my mentor. He never

failed to drop in every day, being always ready to smooth tangled

threads for me. He was forever protesting against the habit I had

contracted in Richmond, and never afterwards relinquished, of

remaining late by the bedside of dying patients, or going to the wards

whenever summoned at night. He would say, "Daughter, it is not right,

it is not safe; not only do you risk contagion by breathing the foul

air of the wards at night, but some of these soldiers are mighty rough

and might not always justify your confidence in them." But I would not

listen. My firm belief in the honor of "my boys" and in their true and

chivalrous devotion towards myself caused me to trust them utterly at

all times and places. I can truly say that never during the whole four

years of the war was that trust disturbed by even the roughest man of

them all, although I was often placed in very trying circumstances,

many times being entirely dependent upon their protection and care,

_which never failed me_. So I used to set at naught the well-meant

counsels of my kindly old friend, to laugh at his lugubrious

countenance and the portentous shaking of his silvery head. We

remained firm friends, however, and, though my dear old mentor has

long since passed away, I still revere his memory. Dr. Yates was an

ideal Texan, brave, determined, plain, and straightforward, either a

warm, true friend or an uncompromising enemy. He wished to be at the

front, and was never satisfied with hospital duties. Mrs. Yates was a

favorite with all. Dr. Jackson, of Alabama, in charge of the officers'

quarters, performed some miracles in the way of surgical operation. He

was a great favorite with his patients, who complained bitterly

because they were so often deprived of his services for a time, when

his skilful surgery was needed at the front. Besides these were Drs.

Devine, Ruell, Estell, Baruch, Frost, Carmichael, Welford, and

Griffith, none of whom I know particularly well.

Meantime, the wounded of several battles had filled and crowded the

wards. As before, every train came in freighted with human misery. In

the Buckner Hospital alone there were nearly a thousand beds, tenanted

by every conceivable form of suffering.

An ambulance-train arrived one night, bringing an unusually large

number of sick and wounded men, whose piteous moans filled the air as

they were brought up the hill on "stretchers" or alighted at the door

of the hospital from ambulances, which, jolting over the rough,

country road, had tortured them inexpressibly.

Occasionally a scream of agony would arise, but more frequently

suppressed groans bespoke strong men's suffering manfully borne. In

the ward where those badly wounded were placed, there was so much to

be done, that morning found the work unfinished.

It was, therefore, later than usual when I found time to pay my usual

morning visits to other wards.

Upon entering Ward No. 4, my attention was attracted by a new patient,

who lay propped up on one of the bunks near a window. He was a mere

lad (perhaps twenty). His eyes, as they met mine, expressed so plainly

a sense of captivity and extreme dislike of it that I felt very sorry

for him. He had been dressed in a clean hospital shirt, but one

shoulder and arm was bare and bandaged, for he was wounded in the left

shoulder,--a slight wound, but sufficient to occasion severe pain and

fever.

At first I did not approach him, but his eyes followed me as I paused

by each bed to ascertain the needs of the sick and to bestow

particular care in many cases. At last I stood by his side, and,

placing my hand upon his head, spoke to him. He moved uneasily,

seemingly trying to repress the quivering of his lip and the tears

that, nevertheless, would come. Not wishing to notice his emotion just

then, I called the nurse, and, by way of diversion, gave a few

trifling directions, then passed on to another ward.

Returning later, bringing some cooling drink and a bottle of

Confederate bay-water (vinegar), I gave him to drink and proceeded to

sponge off his head and hands. He submitted, as it seemed at first,

unwillingly, but just as I turned to leave him he suddenly seized my

hand, kissed it, and laid his burning cheek upon it. From that moment

I was eagerly welcomed by him whenever I appeared among the sick.

When he began to mend and was allowed to talk freely, I learned his

name, Charley Percy, that he was a native of Bayou Sara, Louisiana,

and a member of the fifth company of Washington Artillery, Captain

Slocomb commanding. He had been wounded at Resaca. I grew to love him

dearly. As soon as he was permitted to leave his bed he became averse

to remaining in the ward, and most of his waking hours were spent in

the little room which was specially allotted to me. Whenever I

returned after my rounds among the sick it was a certainty that the

glad, bright presence awaited me, and that many little plans for my

rest and comfort would make the rough place homelike.

He became to me like a dear young brother, devoted and

ever-thoughtful. The matron's room at the hospital was called very

often "Soldiers' Rest," and sometimes "The Promised Land," because

many soldiers came there every day, and those newly convalescent made

it a goal which they aspired to reach as soon as permitted.

This habit gave me an opportunity to use properly what might have been

sent in boxes which arrived frequently from different quarters, filled

with a variety of goodies, but in quantities entirely insufficient to

supply all the soldiers. A sangaree or any other delicacy, taken while

resting after a walk which taxed the weakened energies to the utmost,

or a meal served outside the fevered air of the wards, did more to

build up the strength than any amount of medicine could have done. As

there never was, by any chance, a supply of these things for one

thousand men (the usual number assigned to Buckner Hospital),

delicacies (already becoming scarce) were served only to the very sick

or to convalescents.

It was beautiful to see how young Percy delighted to assist in waiting

on these visitors to "The Soldiers' Rest,"--how his sprightliness

pleased and amused them. His own great embarrassment seemed to be that

he had lost all his clothes at the time he was wounded, so was

compelled to wear the unbleached shirts with blue cottonade collars

and cuffs, which were supplied to all patients, numbered to correspond

with the bunks. These he called State's prison uniform. One day,

however, Dr. Fenner from New Orleans, Louisiana, paid a visit to

Buckner Hospital (then located at Newnan, Georgia), leaving with me

two large boxes of clothing and stores for the Louisiana soldiers.

Percy assisted to unpack these boxes, soon finding himself amply

provided with underclothing and a nice jacket and pants of gray, also

a new blanket. He was pleased, but not yet quite satisfied, for the

jacket was simply gray. He wanted it trimmed with red.

It chanced that there was in one of the boxes a piece of red flannel.

With this I trimmed the suit under his careful supervision. I can

never forget how happy he was to get into this suit, or how he danced

around me, pretending to go through the artillery drill, and to load

and fire at imaginary Yankees.

Later, his cap was retrimmed, the letters and artillery badge

furbished up, and one beautiful day was made sad and gloomy to his

friends and myself by the departure of this brave, dear boy, to rejoin

his command.

Eager, bright, full of fire and ardor, the young soldier went to meet

his doom. He reached the front (where the company to which he belonged

was always to be found) shortly before the battle of Peach-tree Creek,

and here, his bright young face turned to the foe, his eager hands

serving his gun to the last, he met a soldier's death.

Alas! poor Percy, his fate seemed hard; yet, while sincerely grieving,

I remembered with some degree of comfort the fact that so he had

wished to die,--"Upon the field of glory."

There came to the hospital at the same time with young Percy an

intimate friend and comrade of his, whose name and the circumstances

of his death were preserved in a diary kept by me, but which, with all

my papers, fell into the hands of the enemy subsequently. This poor

fellow had pneumonia, which soon developed into typhoid. He was

delirious when brought in and never regained consciousness. Vainly I

strove to soothe him, stroking back the long, straight hair, black as

a raven's wing, vainly trying to close the magnificent black eyes,

which forever stared into space, while the plaintive voice repeated

ceaselessly, "Viens à moi, oh, ma mère" and thus he moaned and moaned

until at last the white eyelids drooped beneath the gaze of Death, and

the finger of eternal silence was laid upon the fevered lips.

Of course Percy was not told how his friend died until long afterward,

when his questions could no longer be evaded. He was deeply moved,

crying out, "I don't want to die like that. If I must die during this

war, I hope I shall be instantly killed upon the battle-field." This

wish was granted.

He sleeps in a soldier's grave. In the light of eternity the sad

mystery which still shadows the hearts of those who live to mourn the

holy cause--loved and lost--exists no more for him.

Besides the "Buckner," there were the "Bragg" and two more hospitals,

the names of which I have forgotten, one presided over by two gentle

ladies,--Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. ----, of Florida,--whose devotion and

self-sacrifice, as well as their lovely Christian character and

perfect manners, made them well-beloved by everybody at the post. Mrs.

Harrison was a zealous Episcopalian. Through her influence and

correspondence frequent services were held in Newnan. We several times

enjoyed the ministrations of Bishops Quintard, Beckwith, and Wilmer.

The large number of wounded men, and the fearful character of their

wounds, made skill and devotion on the part of the surgeons of the

greatest importance. These conditions were well fulfilled, and aided

by the healthy locality "and" (during the first few months) "the

excellent possibilities open to our foragers," many a poor fellow

struggled back to comparative health. I was particularly fortunate

while in Newnan in having at my command supplies of clothing and money

from both Louisiana and Alabama. This, with the aid of my own wages,

which, although I had refused to receive them, had accumulated and

been placed to my account, and which I now drew, gave me excellent

facilities for providing comforts, not only for the sick, but for the

braves at the front, whose rations were growing "small by degrees and

beautifully less." Upon two occasions I received visits from the

venerable Dr. Fenner, of Louisiana, and his colleague, Mr. Collins.

Each time they left money and clothing, giving me large discretionary

powers, although specifying that, as the money was supplied by

Louisianians, the soldiers from that State should be first considered.

Through Mr. Peter Hamilton, of Mobile, Alabama, I also received boxes

of clothing and delicacies, and, upon two occasions, six hundred

dollars in money, with the request, "Of course, help our boys _first_,

but in _any case_ where sufferings or need exist, use your own

judgment." As there were hundreds entirely cut off from home, actually

suffering from want of clothing, sometimes needing a little good wine

or extra food, I found many occasions where it seemed to me right to

use this discretionary power, especially during visits to the front,

which I was called upon to make about this time, first to my husband

and his comrades in Kingston and Dalton, later to Macon to look up

some Louisiana and Alabama soldiers, and lastly to Atlanta, where my

husband and many other friends lay in the trenches. (Of these

experiences more hereafter.)

Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Gamble, myself, and one or two others were the

only Episcopalians among the ladies of the Post, but the services were

attended by soldiers, both officers and privates. Mrs. Gamble, of

course, led the choir. We could always find bassos and tenors. I sang

alto. The music was really good. The death of Bishop Polk was a great

grief to everybody, especially to the faithful few among us who

revered him as a minister of The Church. Even while saying to

ourselves and to each other "God knows best," we could not at once

stifle the bitterness of grief, for it seemed as if a mighty bulwark

had been swept away. I had known Bishop Polk as a faithful and loving

shepherd of souls, feeding his flock in green pastures, tenderly

leading the weary and grief-stricken ones beside the waters of

comfort. But when the peaceful fold was invaded, when threatening

howls were arising on every side,--casting aside for a time the garb

of a shepherd, he sallied forth, using valorously his trusty sword,

opposing to the advance of the foe his own faithful breast, never

faltering until slain by the horrid fangs which greedily fastened

themselves deep in his heart. As I have already mentioned, I made

during the winter and spring several visits to the front. At one time

my husband, a member of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, was with his

command in winter quarters at Kingston, whither I went to pay a visit

and to inquire after the needs of the "boys." My little son (who had

by this time joined me at Newnan) accompanied me. Kingston was at this

time a bleak, dismal-looking place. I stopped at a large, barn-like

hotel, from the gallery of which, while sitting with visitors from

camp, I witnessed an arrival of Georgia militia, whose disembarkation

from a train in front of the hotel was met by a noisy demonstration.

They were a strange-looking set of men, but had "store clothes," warm

wraps, sometimes tall hats, in all cases _good ones_. This, with the

air of superiority they affected, was enough to provoke the fun-loving

propensities of the ragged, rough-looking veterans who had collected

to watch for the arrival of the train. As the shaking, rickety cars

passed out of sight, these raw troops walked up to the hotel and there

strode up and down, assuming supreme indifference to the storm of

raillery which assailed them. Of course my sympathies were with the

veterans, and I laughed heartily at their pranks. One of the first to

set the ball in motion was a tall, athletic-looking soldier clad in

jeans pants, with a faded red stripe adorning one leg only, ragged

shoes tied up with twine strings, and a flannel shirt which

undoubtedly had been washed by the Confederate military process

(_i.e._, tied by a string to a bush on the bank of a stream, allowed

to lie in the water awhile, then stirred about with a stick or boat

upon a rock, and hung up to drip and dry upon the nearest bush or tied

to the swaying limb of a tree). "A shocking bad hat" of the slouch

order completed his costume. Approaching a tall specimen of "melish,"

who wore a new homespun suit of "butternut jeans," a gorgeous cravat,

etc., the soldier opened his arms and cried out in intense accents,

"_Let_ me kiss him for his mother!" Another was desired to "come out

of that hat." A big veteran, laying his hand on the shoulder of a

small, scared-looking, little victim, and wiping his own eyes upon his

old hat, whined out, "I _say_, buddy, you didn't bring along no

sugar-teats, did you? I'm got a powerful hankerin' atter some." An

innocent-looking soldier would stop suddenly before one of the

new-comers neatly dressed, peer closely at his shirt-front, renewing

the scrutiny again and again with increasing earnestness, then,

striking an attitude, would cry out, "_Biled_, by Jove!" One, with a

stiff, thick, new overcoat, was met with the anxious inquiry, "Have

you got plenty of _stuffing_ in that coat, about _here_" (with a hand

spread over stomach and heart), "because the Yankee bullets is mighty

penetrating." Each new joke was hailed with shouts of laughter and

ear-piercing rebel yells, but at last the "melish" was marched off and

the frolic ended.

I received two invitations for the following day, one to dine with the

officers of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, and one, which I accepted,

from the soldiers of my husband's mess. About twelve o'clock the next

morning an ambulance stood before the door of the hotel. From it

descended a spruce-looking colored driver, who remarked, as he threw

the reins over the mule's back, "Don't nobody go foolin' wid dat da

mule ontwill I comes back. I jes gwine to step ober to de store yander

'bout some biziness fur de cap'n. Dat mule he feel mity gaily dis

mornin'. Look like he jes tryin' hisseff when he fin' nuffin' behin'

him but dis amperlants (ambulance) stid ob dem hebby guns." Off he

went, leaving the mule standing without being tied, and looking an

incarnation of mischief. The road to camp was newly cleared and full

of stumps and ruts. As I stood upon the upper gallery awaiting the

return of our Jehu, our little boy, taking advantage of the extra

fondness inspired in the heart of his father by long absence, clamored

to be lifted into the ambulance. This wish was gratified, his father

intending to take the reins and mount to the driver's seat, but before

he could do so the mule started off at headlong speed, with Georgie's

scared face looking out at the back, and perhaps a dozen men and boys

in hot pursuit. The mule went on to camp, creating great alarm there.

The child in some miraculous manner rolled out at the back of the

ambulance, and was picked up unhurt. This accident delayed matters a

little, but in due time we arrived at the village of log-huts, called

"Camp," and, having paid our respects to the officers, repaired to the

hut of my husband's mess. The dinner was already cooking outside.

Inside on a rough shelf were piles of shining tin-cups and plates,

newly polished. The lower bunk had been filled with new, _pine_ straw,

and made as soft as possible by piling upon it all the blankets of the

mess. This formed the chair of state. Upon it were placed, first,

myself (the centre figure), on one side my husband, exempt from duty

for the day, on the other my little boy, who, far from appreciating

the intended honor, immediately "squirmed" down, and ran off on a tour

of investigation through the camp. The mess consisted of six men

including my husband, of whom the youngest was Lionel C. Levy, Jr., a

mere boy, but a splendid soldier, full of fun and nerve and dash. Then

there was my husband's bosom friend, J. Hollingsworth, or Uncle Jake,

as he was called by everybody. Of the industrial pursuits of the mess,

he was the leading spirit, indeed, in every way his resources were

unbounded. His patience, carefulness, and pains-taking truly achieved

wonderful results in contriving and carrying into execution plans for

the comfort of the mess. He always carried an extra haversack, which

contained everything that could be thought of to meet contingencies or

repair the neglect of other people. He was a devoted patriot and a

contented, uncomplaining soldier; never sick, always on duty, a

thorough gentleman, kindly in impulses and acts, but--well, yes, there

was one spot upon this sun,--he was a confirmed bachelor. He could

face the hottest fire upon the battle-field, but a party of

ladies--_never_ with his own consent. Upon the day in question,

however, I was not only an invited guest, but the wife of his messmate

and friend. So, overcoming his diffidence, he made himself very

agreeable, and meeting several times afterward during the war, under

circumstances which made pleasant intercourse just as imperative, we

became fast friends, and have remained so to this day. John Sharkey,

Miles Sharkey, and one more, whose name I have forgotten, comprised,

with those mentioned above, the entire mess. The dinner was excellent,

better than many a more elegant and plentiful repast of which I have

partaken since the war. All the rations of beef and pork were combined

to make a fricassee _à la camp_, the very small rations of flour being

mixed with the cornmeal to make a large, round loaf of "stuff." These

delectable dishes were both cooked in bake-ovens outside the cabin.

From cross-sticks, arranged gypsy-fashion, swung an iron pot, in which

was prepared the cornmeal coffee, which, with "long sweetening"

(molasses) and without milk, composed the meal. In this well-arranged

mess the work was so divided that each man had his day to cut all the

wood, bring all the water, cook, wash dishes, and keep the cabin in

order. So, on this occasion there was no confusion. All was

accomplished with precision. In due time a piece of board was placed

before me with my rations arranged upon it in a bright tin plate, my

coffee being served in a gorgeous mug, which, I strongly suspect, had

been borrowed for the occasion, having once been a shaving-mug. Dinner

over, Lieutenant Cluverius called to escort me through the camp, and

at the officers' quarters I met many old acquaintances. Upon inquiry,

I found the boys in camp contented and entirely unwilling to receive

any benefit from the fund placed in my hands. They had taken the

chances of a soldier's life, and were quite willing to abide by them.

The terrible bumping which I had experienced while riding to camp, in

the ambulance drawn by the "gaily mule," disinclined me for another

ride. So, just at sunset, my husband and I, with our boy and one or

two friends, walked through the piny woods to the hotel, whence I

returned next day to Newnan. This was during the winter. Later, I made

a second trip, this time to Macon, having been called upon to supply

money to the family of an old soldier (deceased) who wanted to reach

home. Wishing to investigate in person, I went to Macon. On the

morning of my return, while passing through one of the hospitals, I

met at the bedside of a Louisiana soldier a member of Fenner's

Battery, John Augustin, of New Orleans. At the depot we met again, and

the gentleman very kindly took charge of me. I was going to Newnan, he

returning to camp. Delightful conversation beguiled the way. Among

other subjects, poets and poetry were discussed. I told him of Dr.

Archer, and a beautiful "Ode to Hygeia" composed by him, parts of

which I remembered and repeated. Gradually I discovered that Mr.

Augustin had an unfinished manuscript of his own with him, entitled

"Doubt," and at last persuaded him to let me read it. Finding me

interested, he yielded to my earnest request,--that he would send me

all his poems in manuscript. In due time they came, and with them a

dedication to myself, so gracefully conceived, so beautifully

expressed, that I may be pardoned for inserting it here.

"L'ENVOI.

"TO MRS. FANNIE A. BEERS.

"To you, though known but yesterday, I trust

These winged thoughts of mine.

Be not, I pray, too critically just,

Rather be mercy thine!

"Nor think on reading my despairing rhymes

That I am prone to sigh.

Poets, like children, weep and laugh at times,

Without scarce knowing why!

"Thoughts tend to heaven, mine are weak and faint.

Please help them up for me;

The sick and wounded bless you as a saint,

In this my patron be;

"And as the sun when shining it appears

On dripping rain awhile,

Make a bright rainbow of my fancy's tears

With your condoling smile.

"KINGSTON, February 23, 1864."

At the front, desultory fighting was always going on. Our army under

General Johnston acting on the defensive, although retreating,

contesting every step of the way, and from intrenched position, doing

great damage to the enemy. As the spring fairly opened, our troops

became more actively engaged. From the skirmishes came to us many

wounded. In May, the battle of New Hope Church was fought. General

Johnston, in his "Narrative," speaks of this as "the _affair_ at New

Hope." Judging from my own knowledge of the number of wounded who were

sent to the rear, and the desperate character of their wounds, I

should say it was a _very terrible_ "affair." A great many officers

were wounded and all our wards were full. There came to me some

special friends from Fenner's Louisiana Battery, which was heavily

engaged, losing several men and nearly all the horses. Lieutenant Wat.

Tyler Cluverius, while standing on the top of the breastworks and

turning towards his men to wave his sword, was shot through both

shoulders, a very painful wound, but which the gallant young soldier

made light of, pretending to be deeply mortified because "he had been

_shot in the back_." Although an exceptional soldier, he was a most

troublesome patient, because his strong desire to return to his

command made him restless and dissatisfied, greatly retarding his

recovery. Indeed, he would not remain in bed or in his ward. A more

splendid-looking officer I never saw. Better still, under his jacket

of gray there beat a heart instinct with every virtue which belongs by

nature to a Virginia gentleman. With the ladies of the "post" he

became a prime favorite. So kind and attentive were they that I gave

myself little thought concerning him. He was off and away in a

wonderfully short time, for duty lay _at the front_ and the strongest

attractions could not outweigh its claims.

W.T. Vaudry, also of Fenner's Louisiana Battery, was by his own

request sent to me. His wound was as painful as any that can be

imagined. He had been struck full in the pit of the stomach by a spent

ball, and was completely doubled up. He had been left on the field for

dead, and for some time it was feared that fatal internal injuries had

been received. From the nature of the wound, a full examination could

not be made at first. Speedy relief was quite impossible. Even the

loss of a limb or the most severe flesh-wound would have caused less

intense agony. Courage and endurance equally distinguish the true

soldier: the one distinction was his already, the other he now nobly

won during days of exquisite torture. I little thought as I bent over

him day after day, bathing the fevered brow, meeting with sorrowful

sympathy the eyes dim with anguish, that in this suffering _boy_ I

beheld one of the future deliverers of an outraged and oppressed

people. The officers' ward was delightfully situated on the corner of

the main street. Its many windows commanded a pleasant view of a

beautiful shaded square in the midst of which stood the brick

court-house (now filled with sick, and pertaining to the Bragg

Hospital). The windows on the side street gave a view far up the

street, becoming a post of observation for the gallant young officers

within, who invariably arranged themselves here "_for inspection_," at

the usual hour for the ladies' promenade, looking as became

interesting invalids, returning with becoming languor the glances of

bright eyes in which shone the pity which we are told is "akin to

love." Later these knights being permitted to join in the promenade,

made the very most of their helplessness, enjoying hugely the

necessary ministrations so simply and kindly given. Among these

officers were two whose condition excited my most profound sympathy as

well as required special care. Both were exiles; both badly wounded.

One, indeed, bore a wound so terrible that even though I looked upon

it every day, I could never behold it without a shudder. From a little

above the knee to the toes the mechanism of the leg was entirely

exposed, except upon the heel, which always rested in a suspensory

bandage lifted above the level of the bed upon which he rested. Every

particle of the flesh had sloughed off, and the leg began to heal not

"by first intention" but by unhealthy granulations like excrescences.

These had constantly to be removed, either by the use of nitric acid

(I believe) or by the knife. As maybe imagined, it was horribly

painful, _and there was no chloroform_. Day after day I was sent for,

and stood by, while this terrible thing was going on, wiping the sweat

from the face that, though pale as death, never quivered. Save an

occasional groan, deep and suppressed, there was no "fuss."

Does it seem to you that this was exceptional, dear reader? Ah! no; in

the wards outside, where lay hundreds of _private soldiers_, without

the pride of rank to sustain them, only their simple, noble manhood, I

daily witnessed such scenes. The courage and daring of our soldiers

have won full appreciation from the whole world. Of their patient

endurance, I was for four years a constant witness, and I declare that

it was sublime beyond conception. I cannot remember the name of the

heroic officer whose wound I have described. I remember, however, that

Dr. Jackson treated it successfully, and that in the desperate days,

towards the close of the war, the wounded man was again at his post. I

know not whether he fell in battle or if he still lives bearing that

horrible scar. Captain Weller, of Louisville, Kentucky, was also an

inmate of the same ward. My remembrance of him is that he also was

badly wounded. I also recollect that he was a great favorite with his

comrades in the ward, who spoke enthusiastically of his "record." He

was never gay like the others, but self-contained and reticent, and

frequently grave and sad, as became an exile from "the old Kentucky

home." My cares were at this time of constant skirmishing, greatly

increased by anxiety for my husband.

He had at the battle of New Hope Church, while carrying ammunition

from the caisson to the gun, received a slight wound in the left foot,

but did not consider it of sufficient importance to cause him to leave

his command. Later, however, he succumbed to dysentery, and after the

battle of Jonesboro', although having served his gun to the last, he

was utterly overcome, and fell by the road-side. The last ambulance

picked him up, and he was sent to Newnan, as all supposed, to die. Had

I not been in a position to give him every advantage and excellent

nursing he must have died. Even with this, the disease was only

arrested, not cured, and for years after the war still clung about

him. Under Providence, his life was saved at that time. This one

blessing seemed to me a full recompense for all I had hitherto

encountered, and a thorough justification of my persistence in the

course I marked out for myself at the beginning of the war. Various

"_affairs_" continued to employ the soldiers at the front; in all of

these our losses were _comparatively_ small. I never saw the soldiers

in better spirits. There was little if any "shirking." As soon

as--almost before--they were recovered they cheerfully reported for

duty. The "expediency" of Johnston's retreat was freely discussed. All

seemed to feel that the enemy was being drawn away from his base of

supplies into a strange country, where he would be trapped at last,

and to feel sure that it was "all right." "Let old Joe alone, _he_

knows what he is about," and on every hand expressions of strong

affection and thorough confidence. The army was certainly far from

being "demoralized," as General Hood must have discovered, when,

immediately afterward, on the 22d of July, and later at Franklin, they

withstood so magnificently the shock of battle, and at the word of

command hurled themselves again and again against the enemy, rushing

dauntlessly onward to meet overwhelming numbers and certain death. On

the 18th of July, the news reached us that General Johnston had been

relieved from command, and that General Hood had succeeded him. I knew

nothing of the relative merits of the two commanders, and had no means

of judging but by the effect upon the soldiers by whom I was then

surrounded. The whole post seemed as if stricken by some terrible

calamity. Convalescents walked about with lagging steps and gloomy

faces. In every ward lay men who wept bitterly or groaned aloud or,

covering their faces, refused to speak or eat. From that hour the

buoyant, hopeful spirit seemed to die out. I do not think anything was

ever the same again. For, when after the awful sacrifice of human life

which followed the inauguration of the new policy, the decimated army

_still_ were forced to retreat, the shadow of doom began to creep

slowly upon the land. The anchor of _my_ soul was my unbounded

confidence in President Davis; while he was at the helm I felt secure

of ultimate success, and bore present ills and disappointments

patiently, _never doubting_. Meantime, disquieting rumors were flying

about, railroad communication was cut off here and there, and with it

mail facilities. Of course the Confederate leaders were apprised of

the movements of the Federals, but at the hospital post we were

constantly on the _qui vive_. Large numbers of convalescents were

daily returning to the front, among them Lieutenant Cluverius, Mr.

Vaudry, and Captain Weller.

Rumors of the approach of the Federal forces under McCook had for days

disquieted our minds. The little town of Newnan and immediately

surrounding country was already full of refugees. Every day brought

more. Besides, the presence of hundreds of sick and wounded, in the

hospitals which had been established there, rendered the prospect of

an advance of the enemy by no means a pleasant one. But, as far as the

hospitals were concerned, the surgeons in charge must await orders

from headquarters. As long as none were received, we felt

comparatively safe.

One night, however, a regiment of Roddy's Confederate Cavalry quietly

rode in, taking possession of the railroad depot at the foot of the

hill, and otherwise mysteriously disposing of themselves in the same

neighborhood. The following morning opened bright and lovely, bringing

to the anxious watchers of the night before that sense of security

which always comes with the light. All business was resumed as usual.

I had finished my early rounds, fed my special cases, and was just

entering the distributing-room to send breakfast to the wards, when a

volley of musketry, quickly followed by another and another, startled

the morning air. Quickly an excited crowd collected and rushed to the

top of the hill commanding a view of the depot and railroad track. I

ran with the rest. "_The Yankees! the Yankees!_" was the cry. The

firing continued for a few moments, then ceased. When the smoke

cleared away, our own troops could be seen drawn up on the railroad

and on the depot platform. The hill on the opposite side seemed to

swarm with Yankees. Evidently they had expected to surprise the town,

but, finding themselves opposed by a force whose numbers they were

unable to estimate, they hastily retreated up the hill. By that time a

crowd of impetuous boys had armed themselves and were running down the

hill on our side to join the Confederates. Few men followed (of the

citizens), for those who were able had already joined the army. Those

who remained were fully occupied in attending to the women and

children.

It was evident that the fight was only delayed. An attack might be

expected at any moment. An exodus from the town at once began.

Already refugees from all parts of the adjacent country had begun to

pour into and pass through, in endless procession and every

conceivable and inconceivable style of conveyance, drawn by horses,

mules, oxen, and even by a single steer or cow. Most of these were

women and boys, though the faces of young children appeared here and

there,--as it were, "thrown in" among the "plunder,"--looking

pitifully weary and frightened, yet not so heart-broken as the anxious

women who knew not where their journey was to end. Nor had they "where

to lay their heads," some of them having left behind only the smoking

ruins of a home, which, though "ever so lowly," was "the sweetest spot

on earth" to them. McCook, by his unparalleled cruelty, had made his

name a horror.

The citizens simply stampeded, "nor stood upon the order of their

going." There was no time for deliberation. They could not move goods

or chattels, only a few articles of clothing; no room for trunks and

boxes. Every carriage, wagon, and cart was loaded down with human

freight; every saddle-horse was in demand. All the negroes from the

hospital as well as those belonging to the citizens were removed at

once to a safe distance. These poor creatures were as much frightened

as anybody and as glad to get away. Droves of cattle and sheep were

driven out on the run, lowing and bleating their indignant

remonstrance.

While the citizens were thus occupied, the surgeons in charge of

hospitals were not less busy, though far more collected and

methodical. Dr. McAllister, of the "Buckner," and Dr. S.M. Bemiss, of

the "Bragg," were both brave, cool, executive men. Their

self-possession, their firm, steady grasp of the reins of authority

simplified matters greatly. Only those unable to bear arms were left

in the wards. Convalescents would have resented and probably disobeyed

an order to remain. Not only were they actuated by the brave spirit of

Southern soldiers, but they preferred anything to remaining to be

captured,--better far death than the horrors of a Northern prison. So

all quietly presented themselves, and, with assistant-surgeons,

druggists, and hospital attendants, were armed, officered, and marched

off to recruit the regiment before mentioned.

The ladies, wives of officers, attendants, etc., were more difficult

to manage, for dread of the "Yankees," combined with the pain of

parting with their husbands or friends, who would soon go into battle,

distracted them. Fabulous prices were offered for means of conveyance.

As fast as one was procured it was filled and crowded. At last, all

were sent off except one two-horse buggy, which Dr. McAllister had

held for his wife and myself, and which was driven by his own negro

boy, Sam. Meantime, I had visited all the wards, for some of the

patients were very near death, and all were in a state of great and

injurious excitement. I did not for a moment pretend to withstand

their entreaties that I would remain with them, having already decided

to do so. Their helplessness appealed so strongly to my sympathies

that I found it impossible to resist. Besides, I had an idea and a

hope that even in the event of the town being taken I might prevail

with the enemy to ameliorate their condition as prisoners. So I

promised, and quietly passed from ward to ward announcing my

determination, trying to speak cheerfully. Excitement, so great that

it produced outward calm, enabled me to resist the angry remonstrances

of the surgeon and the tearful entreaties of Mrs. McAllister, who was

nearly beside herself with apprehension. At last everybody was gone;

intense quiet succeeded the scene of confusion. I was _alone,--left in

charge_. A crushing sense of responsibility fell upon my heart. The

alarm had been first given about eight o'clock in the morning. By

three the same afternoon soldiers, citizens, _all_ had disappeared.

Only a few men who, by reason of wounds too recently healed or from

other causes, were unable to march or to fight had been left to act as

nurses.

I sat down upon the steps of my office to think it over and to gather

strength for all I had to do. On either side of me were two-story

stores which had been converted into wards, where the sickest patients

were generally placed, that I might have easy access to them.

Suddenly, from one of the upper wards, I heard a hoarse cry, as if

some one had essayed to give the rebel yell. Following it a confused

murmur of voices. Running hastily up-stairs, I met at the door of the

ward a ghastly figure, clad all in white (the hospital shirt and

drawers), but with a military cap on his head. It was one of my fever

patients who had been lying at death's door for days. The excitement

of the morning having brought on an access of fever with delirium, he

had arisen from his bed, put on his cap, and started, yelling, "_to

join the boys!_" Weak as I had supposed him to be, his strength almost

over-mastered my own. I could hardly prevent him from going down the

stairs. The only man in the ward able to assist me at all was minus an

arm and just recovering after amputation. I was afraid his wound might

possibly begin to bleed, besides, I knew that any _man's_ interference

would excite the patient still more. Relying upon the kindly,

chivalrous feeling which my presence always seemed to inspire in my

patients, I promised to get his gun for him if he would go back and

put on his clothes, and, placing my arm around the already tottering

and swaying figure, by soothing and coaxing got him back to the bed. A

sinking spell followed, from which he never rallied. In a lower ward

another death occurred, due also to sudden excitement.

Fearful of the effect that a knowledge of this would have upon other

patients, I resorted to deception, declaring that the dead men were

better and asleep, covering them, excluding light from windows near

them, and even pretending at intervals to administer medicines.

And now came another trial, from which I shrank fearfully, but which

must be borne.

In the "wounded wards," and in tents outside where men having gangrene

were isolated, horrible sights awaited me,--sights which I trembled to

look upon,--fearful wounds which had, so far, been attended to only by

the surgeons.

These wounds were now dry, and the men were groaning with pain. Minute

directions having been left with me, I must nerve myself to uncover

the dreadful places, wash them, and apply fresh cloths. In the cases

of gangrene, poultices of yeast and charcoal, or some other

preparation left by the surgeons.

Entering Ward No. 3, where there were many badly-wounded men, I began

my work upon a boy of perhaps nineteen years, belonging to a North

Carolina regiment, who had one-half of his face shot away.

My readers may imagine the dreadful character of the wounds in this

ward, when I relate that a day or two after a terrible battle at the

front, when dozens of wounded were brought in, so badly were they

mangled and so busy were the surgeons, that I was permitted to dress

this boy's face unaided. _Then_ it was bad enough, but neither so

unsightly nor so painful as _now_ that inflammation had supervened.

The poor boy tried not to flinch. His one bright eye looked gratefully

up at me. After I had finished, he wrote upon the paper which was

always at his hand, "You didn't hurt me like them doctors. Don't let

the Yankees get me, I want to have another chance at _them_ when I get

well." Having succeeded so well, I "took heart of grace," and felt

little trepidation afterward. But--oh! the horror of it. An Arkansas

soldier lay gasping out his life, a piece of shell having carried away

a large portion of his breast, leaving the lungs exposed to view. No

hope, save to alleviate his pain by applying cloths wet with cold

water. Another, from Tennessee, had lost a part of his thigh,--and so

on. The amputations were my greatest dread, lest I might displace

bandages and set an artery bleeding. So I dared not remove the cloths,

but used an instrument invented by one of our surgeons, as may be

imagined, of primitive construction, but which, wetting the tender

wounds gradually by a sort of spray, gave great relief. Of course,

fresh cloths were a constant necessity for suppurating wounds, but for

those nearly healed, or simply inflamed, the spray was invaluable. The

tents were the last visited, and by the time I had finished the

rounds, it was time to make some arrangements for the patients'

supper, for wounded men are always hungry.

I remember gratefully to this day the comfort and moral support I

received during this trying ordeal from a South Carolina soldier, who

even then knew that his own hours were numbered, and was looking death

in the face with a calm resignation and courage which was simply

sublime. He had been shot in the spine, and from the waist down was

completely paralyzed. After he had been wounded, some one

unintentionally having laid him down too near a fire, his feet were

burned in a shocking manner. He was one of the handsomest men I ever

saw, and, even in his present condition, of commanding presence and of

unusual intelligence. I strive in vain to recall his name, but memory

in this as in many other cases of patients to whom I was particularly

attracted will present their faces only. Calling me to his bedside he

spoke kindly and cheerfully, praising my efforts, encouraging me to go

on, drawing upon his store of general knowledge for expedients to meet

the most trying cases.

Everything that Dr. McAllister did was well and completely done. He

was kind-hearted, generous, ready to do or sacrifice anything for the

real good of his patients; but his rules once laid down became

immutable laws, not to be transgressed by any. His constant

supervision and enforcement of rules affected every department of the

hospital. In my own, I had only to report a dereliction of duty, and

the fate of the culprit was sealed. If a woman, I had orders to

discharge her; if a man, the next train bore him to his regiment or to

the office of the medical director, upon whose tender mercies no

wrong-doer could rely.

Consequently, I had only to go to my well-ordered kitchen to find

ready the food which it had been my first care to have prepared in

view of the (as I hoped) temporary absence of the cooks. The departing

men had all taken marching rations with them, but there was still

plenty of food on hand. A bakery was attached to the Buckner. We also

owned several cows. In the bakery was plenty of corn-bread and some

loaves of flour-bread, although flour was even then becoming scarce.

The cows, with full udders, stood lowing at the bars of the pen. Among

the doubts and fears that had assailed me, the idea that I might have

trouble with these cows never occurred to my mind. During my childhood

my mother had owned several. I had often seen them milked. One had

only to seize the teats firmly, pull quietly downward, and two streams

of rich milk would follow. Oh, yes! I could do that easily. But when I

arrived at the pen, a tin bucket in one hand, a milking-stool in the

other, and letting down the bars, crept inside, the cows eyed me with

evident distrust and even shook their horns in a menacing manner which

quite alarmed me. However, I marched up to the one which appeared the

mildest-looking, and sitting down by her side, seized two of the

teats, fully expecting to hear the musical sound of two white

streamlets as they fell upon the bottom of the tin bucket. _Not a drop

could I get_. My caressing words and gentle remonstrances had not the

slightest effect. If it is possible for an animal to feel and show

contempt, it was revealed in the gaze that cow cast upon me as she

turned her head to observe my manoeuvres. I had heard that some cows

have a bad habit of holding back their milk. Perhaps this was one of

them. I would try another. Removing the stool to the side of another

meek-looking animal, I essayed to milk _her_. But she switched her

tail in my face, lifting a menacing, horrid hoof. "_Soh, bossy!_"

cried I. "Pretty, _pretty_ cow that makes pleasant milk to soak my

bread." In another moment I was seated flat upon the ground, while my

pretty, pretty cow capered wildly among the rest, so agitating them

that, thinking discretion the better part of valor, I hastily climbed

over the fence at the point nearest to me and returned to the kitchen.

What should I do now? Perhaps one of the decrepit nurses left in the

ward knew how to milk. But no, they did not, except one poor, limping

rheumatic who could only use one hand. Just then a feeble-looking

patient from the Bragg Hospital came tottering along. He also knew how

to milk, and they both, volunteered to try. Much to my surprise and

delight, the cows now behaved beautifully, perhaps owing to the fact

that, obeying the injunctions of my two recruits, I provided each with

a bundle of fodder to distract their attention during the milking

process. There was more milk than I could possibly use, as nearly all

the convalescents were absent. So I set several pans of it away,

little thinking how soon it would be needed.

By the time all had been fed, I felt very weary; but it was midnight

before I found a minute's time to rest.

I had made frequent rounds through all the buildings of the hospital,

each time finding some one who had need of me. At last, wearied out by

the excitement of the day, the sick grew quiet and inclined to sleep.

Released for a time, I sat down on the steps of my office to think and

to listen: for I did not know anything of the whereabouts of the

enemy. The town might have been surrendered. At any moment the Federal

soldiers might appear. Just then, however, the streets were utterly

deserted. The stillness was oppressive.

If I could only discover a friendly light in one of these deserted

dwellings. Oh, for the sound of a kindly voice, the sight of a

familiar face!

Doubtless there may have been some who had remained to protect their

household gods, but they were women, and remained closely within

doors.

Melancholy thoughts oppressed me. Through gathering tears I gazed at

the pale moon, whose light seemed faded and wan. There came to me

memories of the long-ago, when I had strayed among the orange-groves

of my own dear home under a moonlight far more radiant, happy in loved

companionship, listening with delight to the voices of the night,

which murmured only of love and joy and hope, inhaling the perfume of

a thousand flowers. To-night, as the south wind swept by in fitful

gusts, it seemed to bear to my ears the sound of sorrow and mourning

from homes and shrines where hope lay dead amid the ruined idols cast

down and broken by that stern iconoclast--_War_.

As I sat thus, buried in thought, a distant sound broke the silence,

sending a thrill of terror to my heart. It was the tramp of many

horses rapidly approaching. "Alas! alas I the enemy had come upon us

from the rear. Our brave defenders were surrounded and their retreat

cut off."

I knew not what to expect, but anxiety for my patients banished fear.

Seizing a light-wood torch, I ran up the road, hoping to interview the

officers at the head of the column and to intercede for my sick,

perhaps to prevent intrusion into the wards. To my almost wild

delight, the torch-light revealed the dear old gray uniforms. It was a

portion of Wheeler's Cavalry sent to reinforce Roddy, whose meagre

forces, aided by the volunteers from Newman, had held the Federals in

check until now, but were anxiously expecting this reinforcement.

The men had ridden far and fast. They now came to a halt in front of

the hospital, but had not time to dismount, hungry and thirsty though

they were. The regimental servants, however, came in search of water

with dozens of canteens hung around them, rattling in such a manner as

to show that they were quite empty. For the next half-hour, I believe,

I had almost the strength of Samson. Rushing to the bakery, I loaded

baskets with bread and handed them up to the soldier-boys to be passed

along until emptied. I then poured all the milk I had into a large

bucket, added a dipper, and, threading in and out among the horses,

ladled out dipperfuls until it was all gone. I then distributed about

four buckets of water in the same way. My excitement was so great that

not a sensation of fear or of fatigue assailed me. Horses to the right

of me, horses to the left of me, horses in front of me, snorted and

pawed; but God gave strength and courage: I was not afraid.

A comparatively small number had been supplied, when a courier from

Roddy's command rode up to hasten the reinforcements. At once the

whole column was put in motion. As the last rider disappeared, and the

tramping of the horses died away in the distance, a sense of weariness

and exhaustion so overpowered me that I could have slept where I

stood. So thorough was my confidence in the brave men who were sure to

repel the invaders that all sense of danger passed away.

My own sleeping-room was in a house situated at the foot of the hill.

I could have gone there and slept securely, but dared not leave my

charges. Sinking upon the rough lounge in my office, intending only to

rest, I fell fast asleep. I was awakened by one of the nurses, who had

come to say that I was needed by a patient whom he believed to be

dying, and who lay in a ward on the other side of the square.

As we passed out into the street, another beautiful morning was

dawning. Upon entering Ward No. 9, we found most of the patients

asleep. But in one corner, between two windows which let in the

fast-increasing light, lay an elderly man, calmly breathing his life

away. The morning breeze stirred the thin gray hair upon his hollow

temples, rustling the leaves of the Bible which lay upon his pillow.

Stooping over him to feel the fluttering pulse, and to wipe the clammy

sweat from brow and hands, I saw that he was indeed dying, a victim of

that dreadful scourge that decimated the ranks of the Confederate

armies more surely than many battles,--dysentery,--which, if not cured

in the earlier stages, resulted too surely, as now, in consumption of

the bowels.

He was a Kentuckian, cut off from home and friends, and dying among

strangers. An almost imperceptible glance indicated that he wished me

to take up his Bible. The fast-stiffening lips whispered, "_Read_." I

read to him the Fourteenth Chapter of St. John, stopping frequently to

note if the faint breathing yet continued. Each time he would move the

cold fingers in a way that evidently meant "_go on_." After I had

finished the reading, he whispered, so faintly that I could just catch

the words, "_Rock of Ages_," and I softly sang the beautiful hymn.

Two years before I could not have done this so calmly. At first every

death among my patients seemed to me like a personal bereavement.

Trying to read or to sing by the bedsides of the dying, uncontrollable

tears and sobs would choke my voice. As I looked my last upon dead

faces, I would turn away shuddering and sobbing, for a time unfit for

duty. _Now_, my voice did not once fail or falter. Calmly I watched

the dying patient, and saw (as I had seen a hundred times before) the

gray shadow of death steal over the shrunken face, to be replaced at

the last by a light so beautiful that I could well believe it came

shining through "the gates ajar."

It was sunrise when I again emerged from Ward No. 9. Hastening to my

room, I quickly bathed and redressed, returning to my office in half

an hour, refreshed and ready for duty.

The necessity for breakfast sufficient to feed the hungry patients

recalled to me the improvidence of my action in giving away so much

bread the night before. It had gone a very little way toward supplying

the needs of so large a body of soldiers, and now my own needed it.

There was no quartermaster, no one to issue fresh rations. Again I had

the cows milked, gathered up all the corn-bread that was left, with

some hard-tack, and with the aid of the few decrepit nurses before

mentioned made a fire, and warmed up the soup and soup-meat which had

been prepared for the convalescent table the day before, but was not

consumed. My patients, comprehending the situation, made the best of

it. But the distribution was a tedious business, as many of the

patients had to be fed by myself.

I had hardly begun when some of the men declared they "heard guns." I

could not then detect the sound, but soon it grew louder and more

sustained, and then we _knew_ a battle was in progress. For hours the

fight went on. We awaited the result in painful suspense. At last the

ambulances came in, bringing some of the surgeons and some wounded

men, returning immediately for others. At the same time the hospital

steward with his attendants and several of our nurses arrived, also

the linen-master, the chief cook, and the baker. With them came orders

to prepare wards for a large number of wounded, both Confederate _and

Federal_. Presently a cloud of dust appeared up the road, and a detail

of Confederate cavalry rode into town, bringing eight hundred Federal

prisoners, who were consigned to a large cotton warehouse, situated

almost midway between the hospital and the railroad depot.

My terrible anxiety, suspense, and heavy responsibility was now at an

end, but days and nights of nursing lay before all who were connected

with either the Buckner or Bragg Hospitals. Additional buildings were

at once seized and converted into wards for the reception of the

wounded of both armies. The hospital attendants, though weary, hungry,

and some of them terribly dirty from the combined effect of

perspiration, dust, and gunpowder, at once resumed their duties. The

quartermaster reopened his office, requisitions were made and filled,

and the work of the different departments was once more put in regular

operation.

I was busy in one of the wards, when a messenger drove up, and a note

was handed me from Dr. McAllister,--"Some of our men too badly wounded

to be moved right away. Come out at once. Bring cordials and

brandy,--soup, if you have it,--also fill the enclosed requisition at

the drug-store. Lose no time."

The battle-field was not three miles away. I was soon tearing along

the road at breakneck speed. At an improvised field-hospital I met the

doctor, who vainly tried to prepare me for the horrid spectacle I was

about to witness.

From the hospital-tent distressing groans and screams came forth. The

surgeons, both Confederate and Federal, were busy, with coats off,

sleeves rolled up, shirt-fronts and hands bloody. But _our_ work lay

not here.

Dr. McAllister silently handed me two canteens of water, which I threw

over my shoulder, receiving also a bottle of peach brandy. We then

turned into a ploughed field, thickly strewn with men and horses, many

stone dead, some struggling in the agonies of death. The plaintive

cries and awful struggles of the horses first impressed me. They were

shot in every conceivable manner, showing shattered heads, broken and

bleeding limbs, and protruding entrails. They would not yield quietly

to death, but continually raised their heads or struggled half-way to

their feet, uttering cries of pain, while their distorted eyes seemed

to reveal their suffering and implore relief. I saw a soldier shoot

one of these poor animals, and felt truly glad to know that his agony

was at an end.

The dead lay around us on every side, singly and in groups and

_piles_; men and horses, in some cases, apparently inextricably

mingled. Some lay as if peacefully sleeping; others, with open eyes,

seemed to glare at any who bent above them. Two men lay as they had

died, the "Blue" and the "Gray," clasped in a fierce embrace. What had

passed between them could never be known; but one was shot in the

head, the throat of the other was partly torn away. It was awful to

feel the conviction that unquenched hatred had embittered the last

moments of each. They seemed mere youths, and I thought sadly of the

mothers, whose hearts would throb with equal anguish in a Northern and

a Southern home. In a corner of the field, supported by a pile of

broken fence-rails, a soldier sat apparently beckoning to us. On

approaching him we discovered that he was quite dead, although he sat

upright, with open eyes and extended arm.

Several badly wounded men had been laid under the shade of some bushes

a little farther on; our mission lay here. The portion of the field we

crossed to reach this spot was in many places slippery with blood. The

edge of my dress was red, my feet were wet with it. As we drew near

the suffering men, piteous glances met our own. "Water! water!" was

the cry.

Dr. McAllister had previously discovered in one of these the son of an

old friend, and although he was apparently wounded unto death, he

hoped, when the ambulances returned with the stretchers sent for, to

move him into town to the hospital. He now proceeded with the aid of

the instruments, bandages, lint, etc., I had brought to prepare him

for removal. Meantime, taking from my pocket a small feeding-cup,

which I always carried for use in the wards, I mixed some brandy and

water, and, kneeling by one of the poor fellows who seemed worse than

the others, tried to raise his head. But he was already dying. As soon

as he was moved the blood ran in a little stream from his mouth.

Wiping it off, I put the cup to his lips, but he could not swallow,

and reluctantly I left him to die. He wore the blue uniform and

stripes of a Federal sergeant of cavalry, and had a German face. The

next seemed anxious for water, and drank eagerly. This one, a man of

middle age, was later transferred to our wards, but died from

blood-poisoning. He was badly wounded in the side. A third could only

talk with his large, sad eyes, but made me clearly understand his

desire for water. As I passed my arm under his head the red blood

saturated my sleeve and spread in a moment over a part of my dress. So

we went on, giving water, brandy, or soup; sometimes successful in

reviving the patient, sometimes able only to whisper a few words of

comfort to the dying. There were many more left, and Dr. McAllister

never for a moment intermitted his efforts to save them. Later came

more help, surgeons, and attendants with stretchers, etc. Soon all

were moved who could bear it.

Duty now recalled me to my patients at the hospital.

My hands and dress and feet were bloody, and I felt sick with horror.

As I was recrossing the battle-field accompanied by Dr. Welford, of

Virginia, the same terrible scenes were presented to the view. The

ground was littered with the accoutrements of soldiers,--carbines,

pistols, canteens, haversacks, etc. Two cannon lay overturned, near

one of which lay a dead Federal soldier still grasping the rammer.

Beneath the still struggling horses lay human forms just as they had

fallen. Probably they had been dead ere they reached the ground, but I

felt a shuddering dread lest perhaps some lingering spark of life had

been crushed out by the rolling animals.

We had nearly reached the road when our attention was arrested by

stifled cries and groans proceeding from a little log cabin which had

been nearly demolished during the fight. Entering, we found it empty,

but still the piteous cries continued. Soon the doctor discovered a

pair of human legs, hanging down the chimney, but with all his pulling

could not dislodge the man, who was fast wedged and only cried out the

louder.

"Stop your infernal noise," said the doctor, "and try to help yourself

while I pull." By this time others had entered the cabin, and their

united effort at length succeeded in dislodging from the chimney,--not

a negro, but a white man, whose blue eyes, glassy with terror, shone

through the soot which had begrimed his face. He had climbed up the

chimney to escape the storm of shot, and had so wedged himself in that

to release himself unaided was impossible. Irrepressible laughter

greeted his appearance, and I--I am bitterly ashamed to say--fell into

a fit of most violent hysterical laughter and weeping. Dr. Welford

hurried me into the buggy, which was near at hand, and drove rapidly

to town, refusing to stop at the hospital, landing me at my room,

where some ladies who came from I know not where kindly helped me to

bed. Under the influence of a sedative I soon fell into a deep sleep,

awakening at daylight to find my own servant (who had returned with

other negroes during the night) standing at my bedside. The surgeons

had sent a little of the precious _real coffee_, of which there was

only one sack left. Upon awakening, I was to be at once served with a

cup. A warm bath followed. By six o'clock I was once more at the

hospital, ready for duty, after two days and nights, during which, it

seemed to me, I had lived for years.

Even at this early hour, Buckner hospital presented a scene of great

activity. Some of the surgeons had remained all night on duty, and

were still busy; while others, having snatched a few hours of sleep,

were now preparing for their trying work.

In almost every ward lay a few wounded Federals, but, all the spare

beds having been filled, a long, low, brick building, on the corner

opposite the drug-store, once used as a cotton-pickery, was fitted up

as comfortably as the limited hospital-supplies at our command would

allow for the Federals exclusively, and they were permitted to have

the attendance of their own surgeons, although ours always responded

readily, if needed.

These Federal surgeons appeared to me to be very indifferent to the

comfort of their patients, and to avoid all unnecessary trouble. They

were tardy in beginning their work the morning after the battle, and,

when they were ready, coolly sent in _requisitions_ for _chloroform_,

which, having been (contrary to the dictates of humanity and to the

customs of civilized nations) long since declared by their government

"contraband of war," was almost unattainable, and used by our

Confederate surgeons only in extreme cases. In all minor, and in some

severe, operations the surgeons relied upon the manly fortitude of the

patients, and, _God bless our brave boys_, they bore this cruel test

with a courage fully as worthy to be recorded as the most brilliant

action on the battle-field.

On the morning in question, as I made my early rounds, there met me

everywhere ghastly reminders of the battle,--men shot and disfigured in

every conceivable manner. Many, fresh from the hands of the surgeons,

exhausted by suffering, looked as if already Death had claimed them for

his own. Attendants were constantly bearing into different wards fresh

victims from the operating-rooms, where the bloody work would still go

on for hours. These must have immediate attention,--must be closely

watched and strongly nourished. This was _my_ blessed privilege; and,

thanks to the humane and excellent policy adopted by General Johnston,

and continued by General Hood,--both of whom looked well to the _ways

of quartermasters_ and _commissaries_,--the means to provide for the

sick and wounded were always at hand,--at least, up to the time of

which I write.

Some of my favorite patients, whom, previous to this battle, I had

nursed into convalescence, were now thrown back upon beds of pain. In

one corner I found a boy whom I had nursed and fed through days and

nights of suffering from typhoid fever. His name was Willie Hutson,

and he belonged to the ---- Mississippi Regiment. Two days ago he had

been as bright as a lark, and pleading to be sent to the front. Now he

lay, shot through the breast, so near death that he did not know me.

As I bent over him with tearful eyes, a hand placed upon my arm caused

me to turn. There stood Dr. Gore, his kind face full of sympathy, but

greatly troubled, at his side a Federal surgeon in full uniform. Dr.

Gore said, "This is one of my old chums, and--" But I cried out, "Oh,

doctor! I _cannot_,--look" (indicating with my hand first Willie, then

the entire ward)! Passing swiftly out, I fled to my office and locked

myself in, shedding hot tears of indignation. The dreadful work of the

invaders had been before my eyes all the morning. I felt as if I could

have nothing to do with them, and did not wish to see one of them

again. They had not only murdered my poor boy Willie, but dozens of

dearer friends. They were even now running riot in the home I loved.

They were invaders!

I could _not_ meet them,--could not nurse them.

It is painful thus to reveal the thoughts of my wicked, unchristian

heart; but thus I reasoned and felt just then.

After a while a note from Dr. Gore was handed me. He said (in

substance), "I know how bitterly you feel, but pray for strength to

cast out evil spirits from your heart. Forget that the suffering men,

thrown upon our kindness and forbearance, are _Yankees_. Remember only

that they are God's creatures and helpless prisoners. They need you.

Think the matter over, and do not disappoint me. Gore."

I do not believe that ever before or since have I fought so hard a

battle. God helping me, I decided to do right. The short, sharp

contest ended--I acted at once.

On my way to the Federal wards, I met more than one hospital-attendant

carrying off a bloody leg or arm to bury it. I felt then, and saw no

reason to alter my opinion afterwards, that some of their surgeons

were far rougher and less merciful than ours; and I do not believe

they ever gave the poor, shattered fellows the benefit of a doubt. It

was easier to amputate than to attend a tedious, troublesome recovery.

So, off went legs and arms by the wholesale.

I had not been five minutes in the low, brick ward, where lay the most

dangerously wounded Federals, when all animosity vanished and my

woman's heart melted within me.

These were strangers and unwelcome, but far from home and friends,

suffering, dying. The surgeon said to me, "Madam, one-half the

attention you give to your own men will save life here."

The patients were all badly, many fatally, wounded. They were silent,

repellent, and evidently expectant of insult and abuse, but after a

while received food and drink from my hands pleasantly, and I tried to

be faithful in my ministrations.

I believe that most of the soldiers in this ward were from Iowa and

Indiana.

One I remember particularly, a captain of cavalry, who was shot

through the throat and had to receive nourishment by means of a rubber

tube inserted for the purpose. A young man in a blue and yellow

uniform--an aide or orderly--remained at his side day and night until

he died. His eyes spoke to me eloquently of his gratitude, and once he

wrote on a scrap of paper, "God bless you," and handed it to me. He

lived about five days.

The mortality was very considerable in this ward. I grew to feel a

deep interest in the poor fellows, and treasured last words or little

mementoes as faithfully for their distant loved ones as I had always

done for Confederates.

Among the personal belongings taken from me by raiders at Macon,

Georgia, was a large chest, full of articles of this kind, which I

intended to return to the friends of the owners whenever the

opportunity offered.

In another ward were several renegade Kentuckians, who constantly

excited my ire by noting and ridiculing deficiencies, calling my own

dear boys "Old Jeff's ragamuffins," etc. One day Dr. Gore happened to

be visiting this ward when these men began their usual teasing.

Something caused me to eulogize Dr. Gore and all the Kentuckians who

had sacrificed so much for "The Cause." One of these fellows then

said, "Well, I'm a Kentuckian too, what have you got to say about me?"

I replied, "I think you hold about the same relation to the true sons

of Kentucky that Judas Iscariot bore to the beloved disciple who lay

upon the bosom of our Saviour." Then walked out of the ward.

It was rather a spiteful repartee, I must confess, but was provoked by

many ill-natured remarks previously made by this renegade, and had the

good effect of putting an end to them.

We were comparatively safe once more,--for how long no one knew. I now

became very anxious about the men in the trenches at Atlanta who were

lying day after day, always under fire. Suffering from insufficient

food, exposed to the scorching sun or equally pitiless rain, sometimes

actually knee-deep in water for days. The bombardment was heavy and

incessant, ceasing only for a while at sunset, when carts were hastily

loaded with musty meat and poor corn-bread, driven out to the

trenches, and the rations dumped there. Many of my friends were lying

in these trenches, among them my husband. In addition to other ills,

the defenders of Atlanta were in instant danger of death from shot or

shell. I could not bear it. The desire to see my husband once more,

and to carry some relief in the shape of provisions to himself and his

comrades could not be quelled. Many things stood in the way of its

accomplishment, for, upon giving a hint of my project to my friends at

Newnan, a storm of protest broke upon my devoted head. Not one bade me

God-speed, _everybody_ declared I was crazy. "A _woman_ to go to

Atlanta under such circumstances; how utterly absurd, how mad." So I

was obliged to resort to deception and subterfuge. My first step was

to request leave of absence, that I might forage for provisions to be

sent to the front by the first opportunity.

Dr. McAllister very kindly accorded me his permission, placing at my

disposal an ambulance and a driver, advising me, however, not to

follow the main road or the beaten track which had already been

drained by foragers, but to go deep into the piny woods. Said he,

"Only one of our foragers has ever been through that region, and his

reports were not very encouraging. The people want to keep all they

have got for home-consumption, and greatly distrust 'hospital people,'

but if success is possible, _you_ will succeed." In anticipation, this

ride into deep, odorous pine woods seemed delightful. When the

ambulance with its "captured" mule drove up before my door, I gayly

climbed into it, and, waving merry adieux to half-disapproving friends

(among them Dr. Hughes, with his distressed face, and _Diogenes_, who

looked daggers at me), set off in high glee. The ride along the

pleasant road was lovely; early birds sung sweetly; the dew, yet

undisturbed, glistened everywhere, the morning breeze blew freshly in

my face. As the sun began to assert his power, I became eager to

penetrate into the shady woods, and at last, spying a grand aisle in

"Nature's temple," bade the driver enter it. For a while the result

was most enjoyable. The spicy aroma of the pines, the brilliant vines

climbing everywhere, the multitude of woodland blossoms blooming in

such quantities and variety as I had never imagined, charmed my

senses, and elevated my spirit. Among these peaceful shades one might

almost forget the horror and carnage which desolated the land. The

driver was versed in wood-craft, and called my attention to many

beauties which would have otherwise escaped me. But soon his whole

attention was required to guide the restive mule through a labyrinth

of stumps and ruts and horrible muddy holes, which he called "hog

wallows;" my own endeavors were addressed to "holding on," and

devising means to ease the horrible joltings which racked me from head

to foot. After riding about two miles we came to a small clearing, and

were informed that the road for ten miles was "tolerbal clar" and

pretty thickly settled. So after partaking of an early country dinner,

also obtaining a small amount of eggs, chickens, etc., at exorbitant

prices, we resumed our ride. That expedition will never be forgotten

by me. At its close, I felt that my powers of diplomacy were quite

equal to any emergency. Oh, the sullen, sour-looking women that I

sweetly smiled upon, and flattered into good humor, praising their

homes, the cloth upon the loom, the truck-patch (often a mass of

weeds), the tow-headed babies (whom I caressed and admired), never

hinting at my object until the innocent victims offered of their own

accord to "show me round." At the spring-house I praised the new

country butter, which "looked so very good that I must have a pound or

two," and then skilfully leading the conversation to the subject of

chickens and eggs, carelessly displaying a few crisp Confederate

bills, I at least became the happy possessor of a few dozens of eggs

and a chicken or two, at a price which only their destination

reconciled me to.

At one house, approached by a road so tortuous and full of stumps that

we were some time before reaching it, I distinctly heard a dreadful

squawking among the fowls, but when we arrived at the gate, not one

was to be seen, and the mistress declared she hadn't a "_one_: hadn't

saw a chicken for a _coon's_ age." Pleading excessive fatigue, I

begged the privilege of resting within the cabin. An apparently

unwilling assent was given. In I walked, and, occupying one of those

splint chairs which so irresistibly invite one to commit a breach of

good manners by "tipping back," I sat in the door-way, comfortably

swaying backward and forward. Every once in a while the faces of

children, either black or white, would peer at me round the corner of

the house, then the sound of scampering bare feet would betray their

sudden flight. Suddenly I caught sight of a pair of bare, black feet

protruding from under the bed. Presently an unmistakable squawk arose,

instantly smothered, but followed by a fluttering of wings and a

chorus of squawks. So upset was the lady of the house that she

involuntarily called out, "_You Isrul!_" "Ma'am," came in a frightened

voice from under the bed, then in whining tones, "I dun try to mek 'em

hush up, but 'pears like Mass Debbel be on dey side, anyhow."

Further concealment being impossible, I said, "Come, you have the

chickens ready caught, I'll give you your own price for them." She

hesitated--and was lost, for producing from my pocket a small package

of snuff, to which temptation she at once succumbed, I obtained in

exchange six fine, fat chickens. As I was leaving she said, in an

apologetic tone, "Well, I declah, I never knowed you was going to

light, or I wouldn't have done sich a fool-trick."

Stopping at every house, meeting with varied success, we at last, just

at night, arrived at a farm-house more orderly than any we had passed,

where I was glad to discover the familiar face of an old lady who had

sometimes brought buttermilk and eggs to the sick. At once recognizing

me, she appeared delighted, and insisted upon my "lighting" and having

my team put up until morning. This I was glad to do, for it was quite

out of the question to start on my homeward journey that night.

Greatly I enjoyed the hospitality so ungrudgingly given, the

appetizing supper, the state bed in the best room, with its "sunrise"

quilt of patch-work. Here was a Confederate household. The son was a

soldier. His wife and his little children were living "with ma" at the

old homestead. The evening was spent in talking of the late battle.

Here these women were, living in the depths of the woods, consumed

with anxiety, seldom hearing any news, yet quietly performing the

monotonous round of duty with a patience which would have added lustre

to the crown of a saint.

I talked until (wonderful to relate) my tongue was tired: my audience

being the old, white-haired father, the mother, the wife, and the

eager children, who were shy at first, but by degrees nestled closer,

with bright eyes from which sleep seemed banished forever.

The next morning when, after a substantial breakfast, I was once more

ready to start, every member of the family made some addition to my

stores, notably, a few pounds of really good country butter. This was

always highly prized by the soldiers. As a general thing, when the

cows were fed upon cotton-seed the butter was white and "waxy," this

was yellow and firm. The oldest girl brought me a pair of socks she

had herself knitted; one of the little boys, six eggs laid by his own

"dominiker," which he pointed out to me as she stalked about the yard

proud of her mottled feathers and rosy comb.

Even the baby came toddling to the door saying, "Heah, heah," and

holding out a snowy little kitten. The old gentleman, mounting his

horse, offered to "ride a piece" with us. Thanks to his

representations to the neighbors, I was able in a short time to turn

my face homewards, having gathered an excellent supply of chickens,

eggs, hams, home-made cordials, peach and apple brandy, and a few

pairs of socks. The old farmer also showed us a way by which we could

avoid a repetition of the tortures of yesterday, and rode beside the

ambulance to the main road. I remember well how he looked, as he sat

upon his old white mule, waiting to see the last of us. His hat,

pushed back, showed a few locks of silvery hair; his coarse clothes

and heavy, home-made boots were worn in a manner that betrayed the

Southern gentleman. The parting smile, still lingering upon his kindly

face, could not conceal the "furrows of care," which had deepened with

every year of the war. But, alas! I cannot recall his name, although I

then thought I could never forget it.

Upon arriving at Newnan, I lost no time in preparing my boxes for the

front. Everything was cooked; even the eggs were hard-boiled. There

was sufficient to fill two large boxes. Having packed and shipped to

the depot my treasures, I prepared for the final step without

hesitation, although not without some doubt as to success in eluding

the vigilance of my friends. Announcing my determination to see the

boxes off, I--accompanied by my maid--walked down to the depot just

before train-time. There was only one rickety old passenger-car

attached to the train. This, as well as a long succession of box-and

cattle-cars, were crowded with troops,--reinforcements to Atlanta.

Taking advantage of the crowd, I, with Tempe, quietly stepped on

board, escaping discovery until just as the train was leaving, when in

rushed Dr. McAllister, who peremptorily ordered me off; but, being

compelled to jump off himself, failed to arrest my departure. I was in

high spirits. On the train were many soldiers whom I had nursed, and

who cared for my comfort in every way possible under the

circumstances. I was the only lady on the train, so they were

thoughtful enough to stow themselves in the crowded boxes behind, that

I might not be embarrassed by a large number in the passenger-car. At

last, as we approached Atlanta, I heard the continuous and terrific

noise of the bombardment. The whistle of the engine was a signal to

the enemy, who at once began to shell the depot. I did not realize the

danger yet, but just as the train "slowed up" heard a shrieking sound,

and saw the soldiers begin to dodge. Before I could think twice, an

awful explosion followed; the windows were all shivered, and the earth

seemed to me to be thrown in cart-loads into the car. Tempe screamed

loudly, and then began to pray. I was paralyzed with extreme terror,

and _could_ not scream. Before I could speak, another shell exploded

overhead, tearing off the corner of a brick store, causing again a

deafening racket. As we glided into the station, I felt safer; but

soon found out that every one around me had business to attend to, and

that I must rely upon myself.

The shells still shrieked and exploded; the more treacherous and

dangerous solid shot continually demolished objects within our sight.

For a few hours I was so utterly demoralized that my only thought was

how to escape. It seemed to me _impossible_ that any body of soldiers

could voluntarily expose themselves to such horrible danger. I thought

if _I_ had been a soldier I must have deserted from my first

battle-field. But at last I grew calmer; my courage returned, and,

urged by the necessity of finding shelter, I ventured out. Not a place

could I find. The houses were closed and deserted, in many cases

partly demolished by shot or shell, or, having taken fire, charred,

smoking, and burnt to the ground.

All day frightened women and children cowered and trembled and

hungered and thirsted in their underground places of refuge while the

earth above them shook with constant explosions. After a while I grew

quite bold, and decided to stow myself and my boxes in the lower part

of a house not far from the depot. The upper story had been torn off

by shells. I could look through large holes in the ceiling up to the

blue sky. The next move was to find means of notifying my husband and

his friends of my arrival. I crept along the streets back to the

depot, Tempe creeping by my side, holding fast to my dress. Then I

found an officer just going out to the trenches, and sent by him a

pencilled note to Lieutenant Cluverius, thinking an officer would be

likely to receive a communication, when a private might not. Soon

after sunset, my husband joined me, and soon after many friends. They

were all ragged, mud-stained, and altogether unlovely, but seemed to

me most desirable and welcome visitors.

One of my boxes being opened, I proceeded to do the honors. My guests

having eaten very heartily, filled their haversacks, and, putting "_a

sup_" in their canteens, returned to camp to send out a fresh squad.

The next that came brought in extra haversacks and canteens "for some

of the boys who couldn't get off," and these also were provided for.

With the last squad my husband was compelled to go back to camp, as

just then military rules were severe, and very strictly enforced. I

passed the night in an old, broken arm-chair, Tempe lying at my feet,

and slept so soundly that I heard not a sound of shot or shell. Very

early next morning, however, we were awakened by a terrible explosion

near us, and directly afterwards heard that within a hundred yards of

our place of refuge a shell had exploded, tearing away the upper part

of a house, killing a man and his three children, who were sleeping in

one of the rooms. This made me very uneasy, and increased Tempe's

terror to such an extent that she became almost unmanageable. During

the next day I actually became accustomed to the noise and danger, and

"with a heart for any fate" passed the day. At night my levee was

larger than before; among them I had the satisfaction of seeing and

supplying some Alabama, South Carolina, and Tennessee soldiers. That

night the bombardment was terrific. Anxiety for my husband, combined

with a shuddering terror, made sleep impossible.

The next morning, my husband having obtained a few hours' leave of

absence, joined me in my shattered retreat. The day was darkened by

the agony of parting. It seemed to me _impossible_ to leave him under

such circumstances, and really required more courage than to face the

shot and shell. But I could easily see that anxiety for me interfered

with his duty as a soldier, so--we must part. On the same evening I

returned to Newnan, where my friends were so overjoyed at my safe

return that they forbore to upbraid. Soon afterward the battle of

Jonesboro' again filled our wards with shattered wrecks. As I have

already stated, my husband then came for the first time to claim my

care. Before he was quite able to return to duty, the post was ordered

to Fort Valley, Georgia, a pleasant and very hospitable town, where

new and excellent hospital buildings had been erected. From here Mr.

Beers returned to his command. The day of his departure was marked by

hours of intense anguish which I yet shudder to recall. The train

which stopped at the hospital camp to take up men returning to the

front was crowded with soldiers,--reinforcements. I had scarcely

recovered from the fit of bitter weeping which followed the parting,

when, noticing an unusual commotion outside, I went to the door to

discover the cause. Men were running up the railroad track in the

direction taken by the train which had just left. A crowd had

collected near the surgeon's office, in the midst of which stood an

almost breathless messenger. His tidings seemed to have the effect of

sending off succeeding groups of men in the direction taken by those I

had first seen running up the road. Among them I discovered several

surgeons. Something was wrong. Wild with apprehension, I sped over to

the office, and there learned that the train of cars loaded and

crowded with soldiers had been thrown down a steep embankment, about

three miles up the road, and that many lives were lost. Waiting for

nothing, I ran bareheaded and frantic up the track, for more than a

mile never stopping, then hearing the slow approach of an engine, sunk

down by the side of the track to await its coming. Soon the engine

appeared, drawing very slowly a few platform-and baggage-cars loaded

with groaning, shrieking men, carrying, also, many silent forms which

would never again feel pain or sorrow. The surgeons upon the first car

upon descrying me crouching by the roadside, halted the train and

lifted me upon the last car, where, among the "slightly hurt," I found

my husband, terribly bruised and shaken, but in no danger. Arrived at

camp, where tents had been hastily pitched, the wounded and dying were

laid out side by side in some of the largest, while others received

the dead. The sights and sounds were awful in the extreme. At first I

could not muster courage (shaken as I had been) to go among them. But

it was necessary for purposes of identification, so I examined every

one, dying and dead, feeling that _certainty_, however dreadful, might

be better borne by loving hearts than prolonged suspense.

Among these dreadful scenes came a minister of God, whose youthful

face, pale and horror-stricken, yet all alight with heavenly pity and

love, I can never forget. Tenderly he bent above these dying men, his

trembling lips touched by divine inspiration, whispering words

precious to parting souls. Unshrinkingly he performed his mission to

those who yet lived, then, passing among the dead, lovingly composed

and prepared for decent burial the mutilated bodies. One

burial-service served for all; this was as tenderly rendered as if

each unfortunate had been dear to himself.

This young clergyman was Rev. ---- Green, of Columbia, S.C., a near

relative of the eminent divine and inspired patriot, Dr. B.M. Palmer,

now of New Orleans.

Few patients were sent to Fort Valley. Upon recovering from the

effects of the railroad accident, my husband again left for his

command. Growing dissatisfied, I applied to Dr. Stout for a position

nearer the front. Not receiving a satisfactory reply, went to Macon,

where for a few weeks I remained at one of the hospitals, but still

felt that I was losing time, and doing very little good. In November I

was offered a position in a tent-hospital near the front, which I

eagerly accepted, little dreaming (God help me!) of the hardship and

disappointment which awaited me.