TWO FIANCÉES
We were all much interested in the case of a young lieutenant who had
lost a leg and was slowly recovering. He had written to his fiancée
that he was disabled, and would give her up if she so desired. He was
now awaiting anxiously her reply.
Quite coincidently, at the other end of the ward was Major Hemlock,
of the Forty-seventh New York Infantry, who had lost a leg and
he, too, had written his fiancée offering to release her from her
promise. As time went by without bringing a reply the lieutenant
became very despondent. One day in passing I saw an unopened letter
lying upon his breast and exclaimed: “Oh, lieutenant, your letter has
come after all; but it is not opened! Shall I open it for you?”
“No,” he answered in a despairing voice. “I know what it says.”
Unable to persuade him to read his letter, and feeling quite sure
that it must be favorable, I ran quickly to Mrs. Mayhew, of his State
agency, telling her of the letter. She went at once to him, and in
her sweet sisterly way at last induced him to consent to open the
letter. His intuitions proved only too true. “Perhaps,” the girl had
written, “it would be best; we could still be friends.”
Our indignation knew no bounds. The poor fellow sank rapidly and died
a few days later of a broken heart. He was carried by his comrades,
led by the funeral march of the shrill fife and the drum, to his
soldier’s grave in the woods, over which they fired the farewell
salute.
During this time I was greatly surprised one day on visiting this
ward to find Major Hemlock dressed and sitting up, looking happy
and like another man. After a second glance I saw the cause of this
change, for beside him sat a charming young girl who, in reply to his
letter offering her a release, had started at once and succeeded in
reaching him safely. The Major was soon able to travel and the happy
pair returned to their home in Philadelphia where they were married.
My friend Mary Blackmar, a medical student, enlisted as nurse, that
she might serve her year in the field work with its wider experience,
instead of in some regular city hospital. A year after the war she
graduated from the Woman’s Medical College, in Philadelphia, and
assisted for a year in the dispensary with those wonderful pioneer
women doctors Mary and Elizabeth Blackwell, in New York City. Miss
Blackmar married, and finally, owing to ill health, was obliged to
live in Florida, where she still practises medicine as Doctor Mary
Blackmar Bruson.
In the winter of 1909 I found a little notice in the newspaper
stating that Doctor Elizabeth Blackwell was still living near London
at ninety years of age. About the same time I met a gentleman of my
native city whose father (this name has escaped me) was the first
reputable doctor to hold consultation with these remarkable women.
This required courage, for at that time women doctors were considered
bold intruders, “unsexed”--whatever that may mean--and why? Because
they thought that it was time for women to know something about their
own bodies and diseases.
[Illustration: MARY BLACKMAR]
One morning Miss Blackmar, quite excited, her dark eyes dancing with
pleasure, ran into my tent exclaiming, “O, Colonel” (meaning me)
“such a beautiful girl is in camp, you must see her! I don’t know
how she got here; but I can’t stop a moment, I must run back to my
patients.”
Soon after, a graceful blonde was sent to us from headquarters to be
entertained. She stated that, though English, she was in Edinboro
when the news reached her that her brother was wounded at City Point,
and she lost no time in sailing on the first vessel to America,
where, perhaps owing to her good looks and persistence she succeeded
in reaching our hospital. Meanwhile the brother had returned to his
regiment, the Thirty-seventh Wisconsin, before Petersburg. I found
means, however, to communicate with him, and in a few hours he pulled
rein at our tent, having ridden many miles without a halt.
It soon developed that he was something more than a brother; though
the girl claimed that this dashing, handsome young Englishman,
Captain Robert Eden, was an adopted brother. He often got leave of
absence that he might spend an hour with his fiancée, Miss Annie
Bain, who became our friend and companion and, though taking no part
in our work, remained with us during some months.
About this time our hospitality was taxed still further. An orderly
brought a pleasant-looking woman and presented a note from Hospital
Headquarters which read--“Please entertain Miss Mason, who is on her
way South by ‘flag of truce’…. She is secesh. Watch her.”
Miss Mason remained a few days, and went South by first detachment of
paroled rebel patients without any incident of interest.