A HOUSE MOVING
General Collis, then in command of the colored brigade at the Point,
on abandoning his adjutant’s little frame house or office about
fifteen feet by ten, kindly gave it to me. A large army wagon on
which it was raised, for removal, supported by a squad of soldiers on
either side, and hauled by six mules, made quite an impression coming
up Agency Row, especially as it carried away the telegraph wires over
the road. One of our large tents was moved to give it space, and the
real door and little glass window in it made us quite the envy of the
Row. It was divided into two rooms, having a tent roof. The front
room was for business purposes. The smaller, which had a window about
a foot square, was large enough only for a bunk with a straw bed, a
packing box for a dresser, a hand glass and a barrel chair, and so
New York was added to Pennsylvania and New Jersey Agencies.
This recalls a night incident somewhat later, when Mrs. Painter and I
were sleeping in the bunk. I was startled by Mrs. Painter springing
up on to the dresser and screaming loudly, “Murder! Thieves! Help!”
almost in the face of a scamp at the window, who was evidently trying
to reach the wines hidden under the dresser. Mrs. Painter was a very
small woman of the old time Quaker stamp, and she wore a little white
night cap, and the proverbial short gown and petticoat. As the poor
fellow took to his heels and the neighbouring tents were aroused,
I could only lie still and laugh at the ludicrous scene. He lost a
great army shoe which rested conspicuously on a rise of ground, quite
distant.
Another amusing incident comes to my mind in connection with my
little house. One night there came a thundering knock on the door,
on which remained the word “Adjutant.” On opening I found a soldier
standing at attention and more than “half-seas-over,” so that he
could not distinguish a woman from an officer. He had been on
furlough, and insisted on my taking his pass, but at last I succeeded
in starting him for the proper office.
An incident occurs to me of a New York newspaper reporter who was
invited to the mess of General Grant and staff. While drinking was
more common than now, no one so far forgot himself as to become
intoxicated in the presence of the General, whose self-control and
rigid discipline all respected. But this man so demeaned himself
as to “get under the table,” and the officers present were excited
to the utmost contempt and indignation at this breach of etiquette
in the presence of the commander of the United States Armies. If
intoxication had been common at Headquarters, camp gossip would
certainly have travelled the half mile to the state agencies and
brought us news of it. General Grant, however, was unhappily
addicted to the excessive use of tobacco, which eventually caused
him much suffering, and, later, his life.
MISS JONES, OF PHILADELPHIA
How few, even of the army veterans, remember the sacrifices of the
“Women of the War” in hospitals, homes and elsewhere! In the many
G. A. R. annual Memorial services held since the war, when they are
received in churches to hear their heroic deeds extolled, never have
I heard a chaplain or minister give a thought of the women workers,
by whose faithful care many of these brave soldiers were nursed back
to life, and restored to their anxious families and to the country.
Miss Jones, of Philadelphia, was one of these rare, forgotten
workers. Accomplished, refined, though delicate, she left her
luxurious home with its order and comforts, to give her time,
strength and means to the principles of national liberty, inbred
into the life of every citizen of Philadelphia by the frequent sight
of the old cradle of the American flag, the little home of Betsey
Ross, where, under the direction of General Washington, Lafayette and
others--she sewed into the bunting the thirteen stars and stripes of
our national emblem. A million subscribers, at ten cents each, have
enabled the Association to make it a national or State reservation
in the densest business section of the city, where it has become a
national Mecca to thousands yearly visiting the City of Brotherly
Love.
Miss Jones, on arriving at City Point Hospital, at once took up the
rough camp life in an army tent with earth floor,--often damp and
wet,--a little cot, an apology for a table, barrel chairs, the usual
chimney built roughly of logs and mud with barrel top, the plain and
sometimes distasteful food, and the atmosphere of the sick wards.
Here, however, she worked for many weeks in that enthusiastic ardor
which inspired her kindly heart, feeling that she was giving help,
comfort, and perhaps life, to the sick who came under her care.
Thoughtless of self, and with failing strength, she continued to work
ceaselessly, till, contracting typhoid fever, she collapsed quite
suddenly, but still hoped that rest in the bare lonely tent might
restore her to her hospital work.
I had been too much occupied with my sick Boys even to see Miss
Jones, though much interested in her, having lived near her in
Philadelphia some years before the war; and the sad news came with a
shock that this frail, devoted soul had sacrificed her life to her
country and died in the field, like many a true soldier and patriot,
far from friends and the home where every tender luxury was awaiting
her.
Doctor Painter and I volunteered to sit beside her slight form
during the night, which was intensely cold, while a full moon shed
its silvery rays over the phantom of midnight silence in camp, and
glittered like rare crystals on the pure white snow that seemed
to reach the distant horizon, whence the brilliant stars looked
down in love and pity. Mrs. Painter and I sat on rough chairs with
our feet on logs, while the fire logs in the crude chimney burned
brightly. Mrs. Painter, who had been among the first women to reach
the front, meanwhile told me many a tale of her strange experiences
when system had not reached the improvised temporary hospital tents,
where many suffered for help and nourishment then unattainable. So
the night passed, while the moaning wind sang “Rest, sweet soul,”
often slightly swaying the white sheet that covered the pallid body.
More than once we started quickly to the seeming motion of life,
hoping it might be real, but the pure spirit had passed on, while the
frail body rested with a pleasant smile, calmly, as if tended by the
friends of home and the formalities of a last funeral service for the
dead.
Her brother, Horatio, came for the body, and at last it was laid away
among her ancestors in the family lot near Philadelphia.
Recognition of her services has been given in Philadelphia by the
naming of one of the G. A. R. Posts “the Hetty Jones Post.”
The only other post that I have ever heard of named after a woman is
the Betsey Ross Post, also of Philadelphia.
From Harper’s Weekly
Saturday April 30th, 1864
(By Private Miles O’Reilly)
Gen. Chas. Halpin.
Three years ago to-day
We raised our hands to heaven,
And on the rolls of muster
Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took the oath of service
With our right hands raised to heaven.
Oh, ’twas a gallant day,
In memory still adored,
That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword!
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Twinkled a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven.
Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
And other hundreds, less happy, drag
Their shattered limbs around,
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep
Of the battle-field’s holy ground.
For the swords--one night, a week ago,
The remnant, just eleven,
Gathered around a banqueting board
With seats for thirty-seven;
There were two limped in on crutches,
And two had each but a hand
To pour the wine and raise the cup
As we toasted “Our flag and land!”
And the room seemed filled with whispers
As we looked at the vacant seats,
And, with choking throats, we pushed aside
The rich but untasted meats;
Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,
As we rose up--just eleven,
And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead
Who had made us thirty-seven!