DOROTHEA DIX
About this time I met Dorothea Dix, that masterful woman by whose
persevering energies insane women were provided with suitable
hospitals, instead of being confined with criminals, as was usual
in the old days. She devoted her time, thought and influence to
compelling the opening of decent asylums for these often refined,
unfortunate women patients. Her good work, begun in this country,
reached England and other countries, and was the beginning of that
civilizing influence that no longer considered these unfortunates as
subjects of divine punishment.
Miss Dix, a dignified lady, was then organizing a trained nurse
corps. There were no trained nurses, or “Red Cross” at that time, but
later we followed the Swiss movement. Miss Dix asked me to join her
corps, but I declined, preferring to do independent work. I was glad,
however, to turn over to her nurse corps, my three assistant nurses,
knowing that with her they would receive pay for their services,
which the Masonic Mission had falsely promised to us. Several young
girls had been sent, with directions not to take money or clothing,
as everything would be furnished. I had insisted on taking both.
Some girls were stranded at Fortress Monroe, two or three of whom
I succeeded in sending home safely. Three others, stranded and
penniless, fell under the protection (?) of young officers. I then
resigned my secretaryship of the Masonic Mission, with a threat
to expose and have them arrested for false pretenses, but they
disappeared in a night, and were never more heard of.
On the return of Miss Hancock to the second corps’ kitchen, some
red tape became tangled up, and, as I was invited to assist in the
New Jersey and Pennsylvania Agency with Doctor Hettie K. Painter, I
gladly accepted, and worked for the men of those states, though, each
of the Agencies desiring my help, we all worked in the same spirit
for all the “Boys.”
A most interesting Pennsylvania case was that of a young captain
who had received a thigh fracture while at the front at Petersburg.
The leg had to be amputated so high that the artery could not be
taken up, and it was impossible to close it in the usual manner.
Consequently men were detailed to hold or press their thumbs
ceaselessly upon the open artery, each man serving four hours at a
time, although another was always ready to take his place in case the
strain of holding so long in a cramped position should cause him to
relax or faint. This was continued for weeks till the artery actually
healed. I believe only one other such case occurred during the Civil
war. While hastily passing through his ward one day, Lieutenant
Stanwood called my attention to this officer.
Contrary to my intention of caring only for young boys, I felt it my
duty to do what I could for this sufferer, whom I found in a very
critical state, needing the utmost care to bring him through. Being
a blonde, he was transparently white from loss of blood, and so weak
that he scarcely tried to live. He had no interest in anything and no
appetite. There was no time to be lost here, so I said--“Captain, you
do not eat, I hear, and I want to make you something that you would
like.”
“I have no appetite,” he replied feebly.
“Can you think of something you could relish?”
After a pause he said, “I think it’s hardly worth your time. I shall
not recover, but perhaps I could eat some barley broth if it is
possible to get it.”
Always strong on the optimistic side, I answered, “I think we can
find some, Captain.”
But where? Perhaps not nearer than Washington and forty or more hours
away. Here was possibly a life to save. Beginning at the Sanitary
Commission, at the head of the agency row, I went to each State
agency in a faint hope of at least securing some substitute, but
nothing could I find. Barley was such a simple thing; and now might
save a life! I racked my brain to find some palatable substitute.
As a last hope I went to the Christian Commission with my anxious
inquiry, “Can’t you remember if on your list of supplies some
thoughtful man or woman has sent this now invaluable donation?”
Mr. Houghten said, “I seem to remember that about six months ago
there was sent a little package marked barley, but how can we find it
in this great store of supplies?”
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “put on all your men to hunt for it; it may save a
life worth saving.”
To my delight, after a long search, a package of about four by three
inches was discovered. Losing no time, I ran to my tent and started
a few spoonfuls boiling. The surgeon had said not even salt could be
allowed the patient, lest it should increase circulation and thus
break open the artery scarcely healed.
At last with my special attractive little array of silver cup, dainty
doiley, etc., I went to the poor captain. His refined face at once
showed his appreciation of the neat service.
“Here’s your barley, Captain,” I said cheeringly; “let me feed you
a few spoonfuls now, and I’ll come back and give you a little more
bye and bye. And, Captain, I shall leave it all here on this little
table; don’t let any one carry it off.”
The poor, feeble cripple, who had not been allowed to change his
position for many days, said--“They’d better not touch it!” and
he fixed his great blue eyes on the tray with an air of defiance,
pathetic to see. So his mind had something to guard, and this
somewhat diverted his attention from the dying and suffering men
about him. Next day the surgeon allowed a little salt, then a
little butter, and at last a little meat. By this time his digestion
would allow stronger food, and this was fortunate, for, though I had
guarded every grain of the precious little package, it was almost
exhausted.
I have often pictured to myself a kindly, country old lady in white
cap and kerchief, whose prescience in sending this precious barley
probably saved a life, and I wished that she could know it.
The captain lived, and went to Washington quite recovered, where
he received a government leg (gratis) which fitted so well that he
could jump off a moving car. He then went home quite well, having
sacrificed a leg to his country. His temperate clean manner of living
served him in an emergency and carried him over the crisis.
The mistaken idea of so many men, especially military men of that
time, that liquor gives strength and courage, cost many an otherwise
pure character his life in such an exigency.
By contrast with the above I will cite the case of Colonel Murphy,
Sixty-ninth New York Infantry, second corps, a brave officer,
worshipped by his men. He was a man of fine physique and robust
appearance when I saw him, despite his fatal wound, a fracture of
the thigh, similar to that of the Pennsylvania captain. To perform
the amputation and carry him over successfully it was necessary
to stimulate him and this was impossible, his body being already
over-stimulated by the drinking habit to the last degree. I never
before begrudged anything to a wounded man, but I knew that my choice
brandy could not help him. He died without even a chance of being
saved, mourned and regretted by his whole corps.