THE SEVEN DAYS' BATTLES
The intense heat of June 26th has been noted in many of the diaries and
records of the day. I remember it because I had feared its unfavorable
effect upon my husband, not yet discharged by his physicians, and now
lying weak and listless upon his bed at the Spotswood Hotel in Richmond.
I was reading aloud to him the news in the morning papers, fanning him
the while, when a peremptory knock at the door sent me to my feet. An
ominous-looking note was handed in to "Brigadier-General Pryor." Upon
reading it, my husband slipped to the side of the bed, and reached out
for his cavalry boots. The note ran: "Dear General, put yourself _at
once_ at the head of your brigade. In thirty-six hours it will all be
over. LONGSTREET." Before I realized the tremendous import of the order,
he was gone.
McClellan was almost at the gates of the city. The famous "seven days'
fight" was about to begin.
Several of the officers of our brigade were in the hotel, and I ran out
to find their wives and learn more news from them. On the stair I met
Colonel Scott, and as he passed me, he exclaimed, "No time until I come
back, Madam!" Turning, he paused, raised his hand, and said solemnly,
"If I ever come back." The wife of Captain Poindexter came up at the
moment. She was weeping, and wringing her hands. "Do you think," she
said, "that we could drive out to camp and see them once more before
they march?"
We hurried into the street, found a carriage, and, urging our driver to
his utmost speed, were soon in sight of the camp.
All was hurry and confusion there. Ambulances were hitching up, troops
forming in line, servants running hither and thither, horses standing
to be saddled, light army wagons loading with various camp utensils.
Captain Whitner of the General's staff met me, and said, as he conducted
me to my husband's tent: "The General will be so glad to see you, Madam!
He is lying down to rest a few minutes before we move."
He opened his arms to me as I went in, but there were no sad words. We
spoke cheerily to each other, but, unable to control myself, I soon ran
out to find John and see that he had provided brandy and cold tea, the
latter a necessity lest good water should be unprocurable. Never have
I seen such a number of flies! They blackened the land, corrupted the
food, and tormented the nervous horses. When I returned, Mrs. Poindexter
was standing outside the tent waiting for me. "I can see my husband
only at the head of his company," she said. "Look! they are forming the
line."
We stood aside as the brigade formed in marching order. The stern
command, "Fall in! Fall in!" reached us from company after company
stretching far down the road. My husband mounted his horse, and, drawing
his sword, gave the order to advance.
"Head of column to the right!" and with steady tramp they filed past
us—past the only two women, of the many who loved them, who had known
of their going and had come out to cheer and bless them.
We could not bear to remain a moment after they left. Finding our
carriage, we were about to enter, when the driver pointed back with his
whip. There, sure enough, rose the puffs of blue smoke from McClellan's
guns—so near, so near!
We set our faces homeward, two stunned, tearless women, neither yet able
to comfort the other. Presently the carriage stopped, and the driver,
dismounting, came to the door.
"Lady," said he, "there's a man lying on the roadside. We just passed
him. Maybe he's drunk, but he 'pears to me to look mighty sick."
Fanny Poindexter and I were out of the carriage in less than a minute,
eagerly embracing an opportunity for action—the relief for tense
feelings.
The man wore the uniform of a Confederate soldier. His eyes were closed.
Was he asleep? We feared the worst when we perceived a thin thread of
blood trickling slowly from a wound in his throat, and staining his
shirt.
We knelt beside him, and Fanny gently pressed her handkerchief upon the
wound, whereupon he opened his eyes, but was unable to speak. "What in
the world are we to do?" said my friend. "We can't possibly leave him
here!"
"I can tote him to the carriage," said the kind-hearted driver. "He ain'
no heavy-weight, an' we can car' 'im to dat hospital jus' at de aidge
of town. Come now, sir! Don't you be feared. I'll tote you like a baby."
We were terrified lest he should die before we reached the hospital. To
avoid jolting, we crawled at a snail's pace, and great was our relief
when we drew up at the open door of the hospital and summoned a surgeon.
He ordered out a stretcher and took our patient in, and we waited
in a little reception room until we could learn the verdict after an
examination of his injuries.
"It is well for him, poor fellow," said the surgeon upon returning
to report to us, "that you found him when you did. His wound is not
serious, but he was slowly bleeding to death! Which of you pressed that
handkerchief to it?" I had to acknowledge that my friend had rendered
this service. She was one of those nervous, teary little women who could
rise to an occasion.
"He had probably been sent to the rear after he was wounded, and had
tried to find General Pryor's camp," said the doctor. "He missed his
way, and went farther than necessary. It has all turned out right. He
is able now to write his name—'Ernstorff'—so you see he is doing well.
When you pass this way, you must call and see him."
We never went that way again. Two years afterward I was accosted at
a railway station by a handsome young officer who said he "had never
forgotten, never would forget" me. He was Lieutenant Ernstorff!
All the afternoon the dreadful guns shook the earth and thrilled our
souls with horror. I shut myself in my darkened room. At twilight I had
a note from Governor Letcher, telling me a fierce battle was raging, and
inviting me to come to the Governor's mansion. From the roof one might
see the flash of musket and artillery.
No! I did not wish to see the infernal fires. I preferred to watch and
wait alone in my room.
The city was strangely quiet. Everybody had gone out to the hills
to witness the aurora of death to which we were later to become so
accustomed. As it grew dark a servant entered to light my candles, but I
forbade her. Did I not mean to go to supper? I would have coffee brought
to me. God only knew what news I might hear before morning. I must keep
up my strength.
The night was hot and close. I sat at an open window, watching for
couriers on the street. The firing ceased about nine o'clock. Surely
now somebody would remember us and come to us.
As I leaned on the window-sill with my head on my arms, I saw two young
men walking slowly down the deserted street. They paused at a closed
door opposite me and sat down upon the low step. Presently they chanted
a mournful strain in a minor key—like one of the occasional interludes
of Chopin which reveal so much of dignity in sorrow. I was powerfully
affected—as I always am by such music—and found myself weeping, not for
my own changed life, not for my own sorrows, but for the dear city; the
dear, doomed city, so loved, so loved!
A full moon was rising behind the trees in the Capitol Square. Soon the
city would be flooded with light, and then!—would the invading host come
in to desecrate and destroy? How dear the city had been to me always!
I could remember when I was a very little child one just such night
as this. The splendor, the immensity of the city had so oppressed me,
coming, as I had come, from the quiet country, that I could not sleep.
Hot and fevered and afraid, I had risen from my little bed beside my
sleeping mother, and had stolen to the window to look out. Like to-night
there was a solemn moon in the sky, like to-night an awful stillness
in the city. Just below me a watchman had called out, "_All's well!_"
Presently the cry was repeated at a distance—"All's well!" Fainter
and fainter grew the echo until it became a whisper, far away in the
distant streets. The watchmen were telling me, I thought, telling all
the helpless little babies and children, all the sick people and old
people, that God was taking care of them; that "All's well, All's well."
Ah! forever gone was the watchman, forever silent the cry. Never, never
again could all be well with us in old Virginia. Never could we stifle
the memories of this bitter hour. The watchman on the nation's tower
might, some day, mark the triumphant return of this invading host, and
declare, "All's well,"—_our_ hearts would never hear. Too much blood,
too much death, too much anguish! Our tears would never be able to wash
away the memory of it all.
And so the night wore on and I waited and watched. Before dawn a hurried
footstep brought a message from the battle-field to my door.
"The General, Madam, is safe and well. Colonel Scott has been killed.
The General has placed a guard around his body, and he will be sent here
early to-morrow. The General bids me say he will not return. The fight
will be renewed, and will continue until the enemy is driven away."
My resolution was taken. My children were safe with their grandmother.
I would write. I would ask that every particle of my household linen,
except a change, should be rolled into bandages, all my fine linen be
sent to me for compresses, and all forwarded as soon as possible.
I would enter the new hospital which had been improvised in Kent &
Paine's warehouse, and would remain there as a nurse as long as the
armies were fighting around Richmond.
But the courier was passing on his rounds with news for others.
Presently Fanny Poindexter, in tears, knocked at my door.
"She is bearing it like a brave, Christian woman."
"_She!_ Who? Tell me quick."
"Mrs. Scott. I had to tell her. She simply said, 'I shall see him once
more.' The General wrote to her from the battle-field and told her how
nobly her husband died,—leading his men in the thick of the fight,—and
how he had helped to save the city."
Alas, that the city should have needed saving! What had Mrs. Scott and
her children done? Why should they suffer? Who was to blame for it all?
Kent & Paine's warehouse was a large, airy building, which had, I
understood, been offered by the proprietors for a hospital immediately
after the battle of Seven Pines. McClellan's advance upon Richmond had
heavily taxed the capacity of the hospitals already established.
When I reached the warehouse, early on the morning after the fight at
Mechanicsville, I found cots on the lower floor already occupied, and
other cots in process of preparation. An aisle between the rows of
narrow beds stretched to the rear of the building. Broad stairs led to
a story above, where other cots were being laid.
The volunteer matron was a beautiful Baltimore woman, Mrs. Wilson. When
I was presented to her as a candidate for admission, her serene eyes
rested doubtfully upon me for a moment. She hesitated. Finally she said:
"The work is very exacting. There are so few of us that our nurses must
do anything and everything—make beds, wait upon anybody, and often a
half a dozen at a time."
"I will engage to do all that," I declared, and she permitted me to go
to a desk at the farther end of the room and enter my name.
As I passed by the rows of occupied cots, I saw a nurse kneeling beside
one of them, holding a pan for a surgeon. The red stump of an amputated
arm was held over it. The next thing I knew I was myself lying on a
cot, and a spray of cold water was falling over my face. I had fainted.
Opening my eyes, I found the matron standing beside me.
"You see it is as I thought. You are unfit for this work. One of the
nurses will conduct you home."
The nurse's assistance was declined, however. I had given trouble
enough for one day, and had only interrupted those who were really worth
something.
A night's vigil had been poor preparation for hospital work. I resolved
I would conquer my culpable weakness. It was all very well,—these
heroics in which I indulged, these paroxysms of patriotism, this
adoration of the defenders of my fireside. The defender in the field
had naught to hope from me in case he should be wounded in my defence.
I took myself well in hand. Why had I fainted? I thought it was because
of the sickening, dead odor in the hospital, mingled with that of acids
and disinfectants. Of course this would always be there—and worse, as
wounded men filled the rooms. I provided myself with sal volatile and
spirits of camphor,—we wore pockets in our gowns in those days,—and thus
armed I presented myself again to Mrs. Wilson.
She was as kind as she was refined and intelligent. "I will give you a
place near the door," she said, "and you must run out into the air at
the first hint of faintness. You will get over it, see if you don't."
Ambulances began to come in and unload at the door. I soon had
occupation enough, and a few drops of camphor on my handkerchief tided
me over the worst. The wounded men crowded in and sat patiently waiting
their turn. One fine little fellow of fifteen unrolled a handkerchief
from his wrist to show me his wound. "There's a bullet in there," he
said proudly. "I'm going to have it cut out, and then go right back to
the fight. Isn't it lucky it's my left hand?"
As the day wore on I became more and more absorbed in my work. I
had, too, the stimulus of a reproof from Miss Deborah Couch, a brisk,
efficient middle-aged lady, who asked no quarter and gave none. She
was standing beside me a moment, with a bright tin pan filled with pure
water, into which I foolishly dipped a finger to see if it were warm;
to learn if I would be expected to provide warm water when I should be
called upon to assist the surgeon.
"This water, Madam, was prepared for a raw wound," said Miss Deborah,
sternly. "I must now make the surgeon wait until I get more."
Miss Deborah, in advance of her time, was a germ theorist. _My_ touch
evidently was contaminating.
As she charged down the aisle with a pan of water in her hand, everybody
made way. She had known of my "fine-lady faintness," as she termed it,
and I could see she despised me for it. She had volunteered, as all the
nurses had, and she meant business. She had no patience with nonsense,
and truly she was worth more than all the rest of us.
"Where can I get a little ice?" I one day ventured of Miss Deborah.
"Find it," she rejoined, as she rapidly passed on; but find it I never
did. Ice was an unknown luxury until brought to us later from private
houses.
But I found myself thoroughly reinstated—with surgeons, matron, and Miss
Deborah—when I appeared a few days later, accompanied by a man bearing
a basket of clean, well-rolled bandages, with promise of more to come.
The Petersburg women had gone to work with a will upon my table-cloths,
sheets, and dimity counterpanes—and even the chintz furniture covers.
My springlike green and white chintz bandages appeared on many a manly
arm and leg. My fine linen underwear and napkins were cut, by the sewing
circle at the Spotswood, according to the surgeon's directions, into
lengths two inches wide, then folded two inches, doubling back and
forth in a smaller fold each time, until they formed pointed wedges for
compresses.
Such was the sudden and overwhelming demand for such things, that but
for my own and similar donations of household linen, the wounded men
would have suffered. The war had come upon us suddenly. Many of our
ports were already closed, and we had no stores laid up for such an
emergency.
The bloody battle of Gaines's Mill soon followed—then Frazier's Farm,
within the week, and at once the hospital was filled to overflowing.
Every night a courier brought me tidings of my husband. When I saw him
at the door my heart would die within me! One morning John came in for
certain supplies. After being reassured as to his master's safety, I
asked, "Did he have a comfortable night, John?"
"He sholy did! Marse Roger cert'nly was comfortable las' night. He slep'
on de field 'twixt two daid horses!"
The women who worked in Kent & Paine's hospital never seemed to weary.
After a while the wise matron assigned us hours, and we went on duty
with the regularity of trained nurses. My hours were from seven to seven
during the day, with the promise of night service should I be needed.
Efficient, kindly colored women assisted us. Their motherly manner
soothed the prostrate soldier, whom they always addressed as "son."
Many fine young fellows lost their lives for want of prompt attention.
They never murmured. They would give way to those who seemed to be more
seriously wounded than themselves, and the latter would recover, while
from the slighter wounds gangrene would supervene from delay. Very few
men ever walked away from that hospital. They died, or friends found
quarters for them in the homes in Richmond. None complained! Unless a
poor man grew delirious, he never groaned. There was an atmosphere of
gentle kindness, a suppression of emotion for the sake of others.
Every morning the Richmond ladies brought for our patients such luxuries
as could be procured in that scarce time. The city was in peril, and
distant farmers feared to bring in their fruits and vegetables. One day
a patient-looking middle-aged man said to me, "What would I not give
for a bowl of chicken broth like that my mother used to give me when I
was a sick boy!" I perceived one of the angelic matrons of Richmond at
a distance, stooping over the cots, and found my way to her and said:
"Dear Mrs. Maben, have you a chicken? And could you send some broth
to No. 39?" She promised, and I returned with her promise to the poor
wounded fellow. He shook his head. "To-morrow will be too late," he
said.
I had forgotten the circumstance next day, but at noon I happened
to look toward cot No. 39, and there was Mrs. Maben herself. She had
brought the chicken broth in a pretty china bowl, with napkin and silver
spoon, and was feeding my doubting Thomas, to his great satisfaction.
It was at this hospital, I have reason to believe, that the little
story originated, which was deemed good enough to be claimed by other
hospitals, of the young girl who approached a sick man with a pan of
water in her hand and a towel over her arm.
"Mayn't I wash your face?" said the girl, timidly.
"Well, lady, you may if you want to," said the man, wearily. "It has
been washed fourteen times this morning! It can stand another time, I
reckon."
I discovered that I had not succeeded, despite many efforts, in winning
Miss Deborah. I learned that she was affronted because I had not shared
my offerings of jelly and fruit with her, for her special patients.
Whenever I ventured to ask a loan from her, of a pan or a glass for
water or the little things of which we never had enough, she would
reply, "I must keep them for the nurses who understand reciprocity.
Reciprocity is a rule _some_ persons never seem to comprehend." When
this was hammered into my slow perception, I rose to the occasion.
I turned over the entire contents of a basket the landlord of the
Spotswood had given me to Miss Deborah, and she made my path straight
before me ever afterward.
At the end of a week the matron had promoted me! Instead of carving the
fat bacon, to be dispensed with corn bread, for the hospital dinner,
or standing between two rough men to keep away the flies, or fetching
water, or spreading sheets on cots, I was assigned to regular duty with
one patient.
The first of these proved to be young Colonel Coppens, of my husband's
brigade. I could comfort him very little, for he was wounded past
recovery. I spoke little French, and could only try to keep him, as far
as possible, from annoyance. To my great relief, place was found for
him in a private family. There he soon died—the gallant fellow I had
admired on his horse a few months before.
Then I was placed beside the cot of Mr. (or Captain) Boyd of
Mecklenburg, and was admonished by the matron not to leave him alone.
He was the most patient sufferer in the world, gentle, courteous, always
considerate, never complaining. I observed he often closed his eyes and
sighed. "Are you in pain, Captain?" "No, no," he would say gently. One
day, when I returned from my "rest," I found the matron sitting beside
him. Tears were running down her cheeks. She motioned me to take her
place, and then added, "No, no, I will not leave him."
The Captain's eyes were closed, and he sighed wearily at intervals.
Presently he whispered slowly:—
"There everlasting spring abides,"
then sighed, and seemed to sleep for a moment.
The matron felt his pulse and raised a warning hand. The sick man's
whisper went on:—
"Bright fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand—dressed—in living green."
The surgeon stood at the foot of the cot and shook his head. The nurses
gathered around with tearful eyes. Presently in clear tones:—
"Not Jordan's stream—nor death's cold flood
Shall fright us—from—the shore,"
and in a moment more the Christian soldier had crossed the river and
lain down to rest under the trees.
Each of the battles of those seven days brought a harvest of wounded
to our hospital. I used to veil myself closely as I walked to and from
my hotel, that I might shut out the dreadful sights in the street,—the
squads of prisoners, and, worst of all, the open wagons in which the
dead were piled. Once I _did_ see one of these dreadful wagons! In it
a stiff arm was raised, and shook as it was driven down the street, as
though the dead owner appealed to Heaven for vengeance; a horrible sight
never to be forgotten.
After one of the bloody battles—I know not if it was Gaines's Mill
or Frazier's Farm or Malvern Hill—a splendid young officer, Colonel
Brokenborough, was taken to our hospital, shot almost to pieces. He was
borne up the stairs and placed in a cot—his broken limbs in supports
swinging from the ceiling. The wife of General Mahone and I were
permitted to assist in nursing him. A young soldier from the camp was
detailed to help us, and a clergyman was in constant attendance, coming
at night that we might rest. Our patient held a court in his corner of
the hospital. Such a dear, gallant, cheery fellow, handsome, and with
a grand air even as he lay prostrate! Nobody ever heard him complain.
He would welcome us in the morning with the brightest smile. His aide
said, "He watches the head of the stairs and calls up that look for
your benefit." "Oh," he said one day, "you can't guess what's going
to happen! Some ladies have been here and left all these roses, and
cologne, and such; and somebody has sent—champagne! We are going to have
a party!"
Ah, but we knew he was very ill! We were bidden to watch him every
minute and not be deceived by his own spirits. Mrs. Mahone spent her
life hunting for ice. My constant care was to keep his canteen—to which
he clung with affection—filled with fresh water from a spring not far
away, and I learned to give it to him so well that I allowed no one to
lift his head for his drink during my hours.
One day, when we were alone, I was fanning him, and thought he was
asleep. He said gravely, "Mrs. Pryor, beyond that curtain they hung
up yesterday poor young Mitchell is lying! They think I don't know!
But I heard when they brought him in,—as I lie here, I listen to his
breathing. I haven't heard it now for some time. Would you mind seeing
if he is all right?"
I passed behind the curtain. The young soldier was dead. His wide-open
eyes seemed to meet mine in mute appeal. I had never seen or touched a
dead man, but I laid my hands upon his eyelids and closed them. I was
standing thus when his nurse, a young volunteer like myself, came to me.
"I couldn't do that," she said; "I went for the doctor. I'm so glad you
could do it."
When I returned Colonel Brokenborough asked no questions and I knew that
his keen senses had already instructed him.
To be cheerful and uncomplaining was the unwritten law of our hospital.
No bad news was ever mentioned, no foreboding or anxiety. Mrs. Mahone
was one day standing beside Colonel Brokenborough when a messenger
from the front suddenly announced that General Mahone had received
a flesh-wound. Commanding herself instantly, she exclaimed merrily:
"_Flesh_-wound! Now you all know that is _just impossible_." The General
had no flesh! He was as thin and attenuated as he was brave.
[Illustration: MALVERN HILL.]
As Colonel Brokenborough grew weaker I felt self-reproach that no one
had offered to write letters for him. His friend the clergyman had said
to me: "That poor boy is engaged to a lovely young girl. I wonder what
is best? Would it grieve him to speak of her? You ladies have so much
tact; you might bear it in mind. An opportunity might offer for you to
discover how he feels about it." The next time I was alone with him I
ventured: "Now, Colonel, one mustn't forget absent friends, you know,
even if fair ladies do bring perfumes and roses and what not. I have
some ink and paper here. Shall I write a letter for you? Tell me what
to say."
He turned his head and with a half-amused smile of perfect intelligence
looked at me for a long time. Then an upward look of infinite
tenderness; but the message was never sent—never needed from a true
heart like his.
One night I was awakened from my first sleep by a knock at my door,
and a summons to "come to Colonel Brokenborough." When I reached his
bedside I found the surgeon, the clergyman, and the Colonel's aide. The
patient was unconscious; the end was near. We sat in silence. Once, when
he stirred, I slipped my hand under his head, and put his canteen once
more to his lips. After a long time his breathing simply ceased, with no
evidence of pain. We waited awhile, and then the young soldier who had
been detailed to nurse him rose, crossed the room, and, stooping over,
kissed me on my forehead, and went out to his duty in the ranks.
Two weeks later I was in my room, resting after a hard day, when a
haggard officer, covered with mud and dust, entered. It was my husband.
"My men are all dead," he said, with anguish, and, falling across the
bed, he gave vent to the passionate grief of his heart.
Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed, thousands wounded.
Richmond was saved!
General McClellan and General Lee both realized that their men needed
rest. My husband was allowed a few days' respite from duty. Almost
without pause he had fought the battles of Williamsburg, Seven Pines,
Mechanicsville, Gaines's Mill, and Frazier's Farm. He had won his
promotion early, but he had lost the loved commander who appreciated
him, had seen old schoolmates and friends fall by his side,—the
dear fellow, George Loyal Gordon, who had been his best man at our
wedding,—old college comrades, valued old neighbors.
Opposed to him in battle, then and after, were men who in after years
avowed themselves his warm friends,—General Hancock, General Slocum,
General Butterfield, General Sickles, General Fitz-John Porter, General
McClellan, and General Grant. They had fought loyally under opposing
banners, and from time to time, as the war went on, one and another
had been defeated; but over all, and through all, their allegiance had
been given to a banner that has never surrendered,—the standard of the
universal brotherhood of all true men.