EXPERIENCES AT POINT OF ROCKS
On Miss Barton’s return I found myself very much “de trop,” though
she treated me kindly. I saw very little of her work, but her extreme
deliberation, when one day I had run to her quite breathless from the
operating tent for bandages, etc., for the surgeons who were waiting,
was very irritating. She asked about my health, urged me to take a
seat, and very slowly rummaged about for the necessary supplies. The
only time I saw her actively engaged was on a day when there had
been a skirmish at the front, and she started for the field with the
ambulance and an orderly, and a small box of bandages, condensed
milk, etc.
One bright moonlight night, I was startled by strange sounds of
melodious singing in the distance, and, with an orderly, I went to
ascertain its meaning. We soon came upon a large fire surrounded
by a circle of perhaps forty negroes, men and women, crooning and
singing. They were often led by a high falsetto, then sinking to a
low monotone, when suddenly another voice would rise changing to a
new refrain, while not one lost the time or pitch or made discords.
They danced hand in hand in a slow rythmic circle, while one, more
excited than the rest, would spring up to a remarkable height
shouting, “Glory! bress de Lawd!” “I’s a-comin’ Lawd!” etc. All
“eyes in a fine frenzy rolling,” shone like great black beads in
the firelight, while their white teeth gleamed brightly. All were in
solemn seriousness as they sang simple couplets like the following:
“If I’d a died when I was young,
I wouldn’t a had dis risk to run.”
“Some folks is bery good on de sing,
But dey don’t know nuffin ’bout de hebbenly King.”
“Some folks is bery good on de talk,
But dey don’t know nuffin ’bout de hebbenly walk.”
They continued on in childish simplicity till their ecstasy broke
into shouts of “Cum down Lawd!”--“I’s a comin’ Lawd! Look out for
me!”--“I’s a-waitin’ Lawd!”--while the circle whirled in dizzy speed
until they sometimes fell exhausted to the ground. All feared the
“Voodou-Cunger” woman, and were anxious to propitiate her with a
rabbit’s foot and various incantations.
Eloquence, rhythm, oratory and harmony seem inborn among this strange
people, who have given to the whole South the soft voice and accent
so many of us like to hear.
Under existing conditions it was a relief when Mrs. E---- came from
the Masonic Mission in New York and claimed that a mistake had been
made in sending me to Point of Rocks, and informed me that I would
find work to my liking at City Point.
The following day Mrs. E----, with an ambulance, took me for a day’s
rough travel over corduroy roads and ditches and through woods to
General Burnside’s 9th Corps headquarters in a clump of trees before
Petersburg. The General came out of an inner tent, putting on his
coat and apologizing, saying he had been sleeping.
“Why, General, how can you sleep with the shells screaming and
exploding so near?”
“Oh,” he replied, laughingly, “this is when I can sleep comfortably.
It’s only when I hear musketry that I fear there is mischief brewing.”
A very courteous, handsome, soldierly gentleman was General Burnside.
We then drove a short distance to General O. B. Wilcox’s
headquarters, so near Petersburg that, with the General’s glasses, I
could distinctly see the people in their houses at their daily work,
though the cannons on both sides were replying with a formality as
if war was a matter of etiquette. There seemed to be only women in
the town, going about their home duties, quite unconscious of shells
falling into their doomed city. The General was quite elated at
having that day moved his lines forward three-quarters of a mile.
Seeing a number of barrels piled before his tent, I asked why they
were there. He smiled and said, “I was sitting here awhile ago
when a bullet passed over my shoulder, and the boys were afraid a
sharpshooter might pick me off, so they piled these barrels up for
protection.”
General Burnside commanded the 9th Army Corps and General Wilcox the
second division of that Corps. Both were gentlemen of refinement
and great kindness to the men, who were very proud and fond of their
commanders. I observed that both Generals treated me with more
courtesy than they showed to Mrs. E----, although she was a much
older woman.
[Illustration: GENERAL BURNSIDE]
The next day on leaving the hospital at Point of Rocks, after
thanking Surgeon Porter for his friendliness and attention that had
made my stay possible and pleasant, and bidding Miss Barton good-bye,
I went with Mrs. E---- on board the “Gazelle,” (then well known in
New York Bay),--and returned to City Point.
We went directly to the tent of a Miss Nye, on the Agency Row, whom
I recognized as having seen in the office of the Masonic Mission in
New York City. Miss Nye at once took me aside saying, “You had better
take off that badge,”--the badge of the Masonic Mission, which I had
worn for protection,--“it is not respected here, and you may stay
with me as long as you wish, but that woman cannot stay another night
in my tent.”
About midnight a terrific storm arose and threatened to sweep Miss
Nye’s tent into the ravine quite nearby. She called for help from the
next tent, where slept some Christian Commission agents. While Miss
Nye held on to one side of the tent, I threw myself across my cot
and, with all my strength, held on to the other side. Mrs. E---- in
a short gown and petticoat of the olden time, held the tent flaps as
the wind rushed through, nearly carrying us all away with the tents.
However, the men soon hammered down the tent pins securely, and all
was quiet again. Altogether we made a comical picture and would have
been a fine group for the present day kodak.
Mrs. E---- left City Point the next day, and so passed out of my life.
While I was yet with Miss Nye, another night of alarm ended rather
amusingly. We were sleeping soundly on opposite sides of the tent
when Miss Nye screamed out that some one had reached under the tent
and touched her hand. We got up and, after talking loudly for a
while, thought the intruder was scared off. Then we fell asleep.
He came back again, however, evidently trying to reach a pocket
book under Miss Nye’s pillow. This time, not wishing to disturb the
sleepers in the near tents, we concluded to “arm ourselves for the
fray.” Miss Nye found a hatchet which she would have used bravely.
I could find no defensive weapon but a big long-necked bottle. We
knew that the thief could hear our threatening talk as he was hiding
in the ravine close by, so we lay down again, Miss Nye clasping the
hatchet on her breast, and I embracing in like manner my big bottle.
We soon slept soundly again, when suddenly a terrific crash caused us
to spring up in alarm. What could it be? Then I realized that I had
relaxed my hold on the big bottle, which had rolled across the rough
floor and crashed against the tent pole. After indulging in a good
laugh over our fright, we slept soundly once more until morning.
Still another incident regarding Miss Nye comes to mind. Years after
the war I succeeded in finding her, then a graduate of homœopathy
in New York City,--Doctor Frances M. Nye. She had met a Confederate
soldier, also a graduate of this school of medicine, and also bearing
the name of Francis M. Nye. The identity of names, perhaps, induced
a lasting friendship, and when they married Miss Nye changed only
one letter in her name. They continued to practise together for many
years and seemed very happy.