_The Scene at the Surgeon's Quarters--Our Little Dutch Doctor--Incidents
of his Practice.--His Messmate the Chaplain--The Western Virginia
Captain's account of a Western Virginia Chaplain--His Solitary oath--How
he Preached, how he Prayed, and how he Bush-whacked--His revenge of
Snowden's death--How the little Dutch doctor applied the Captain's
Story._
Taps had already been sounded before the detail arrived at the Surgeon's
tent. The only Surgeon present had retired to his blankets. Aroused by
the blustering, he soon lit a candle, and sticking the camp candlestick
into the ground, invited them in.
And here we must introduce the Assistant-Surgeon, or rather the little
Dutch Doctor as he was familiarly called by the men. Considering his
character and early connexion with the regiment, we are at fault in not
giving him an earlier place in these pages.
The Doctor was about five feet two in height, hardly less in
circumference about the waist, of an active habit of body and turn of
mind, eyes that winked rapidly when he was excited, and a movable scalp
which threw his forehead into multiform wrinkles as cogitations beneath
it might demand. A Tyrolese by birth, he was fond of his Father-land,
its mountain songs, and the customs of its people. Topics kindred to
these were an unfailing fund of conversation with him. Thoroughly
educated, his conversation in badly-broken English, for he made little
progress in acquiring the language, at once amused and instructed. Among
his fellow surgeons and officers of his acquaintance, he ranked high as
a skilful surgeon on account of superior attainments, acquired partly
through the German Universities and partly in the Austrian service,
during the campaign of Magenta, Solferino, and the siege of Mantua. With
a German's fondness for music, he beguiled the tedium of many a long
winter evening. With his German education he had imbibed radicalism to
its full extent. Thoroughly conversant with the Sacred Scriptures he was
a doubter, if not a positive unbeliever, from the Pentateuch to
Revelation. In addition to this, his flings at the Chaplain, his
messmate, made him unpopular with the religiously inclined of the
regiment. He had besides, the stolidity of the German, and their cool
calculating practicalism. This did not always please the men. They
thought him unfeeling.
"What for you shrug your shoulders?' said he on one occasion to a man
from whose shoulders he was removing a large fly blister.
"It hurts."
"Bah, wait till I cuts your leg off--and you know what hurts."
"Here, you sick man, here goot place," said he, addressing a man just
taken to the hospital with fever, in charge of an orderly sergeant, at
surgeon's call, "goot place, nice, warm, dead man shust left." Remarks
such as these did not, of course, tend to increase the comfort of the
men; they soon circulated among the regiment, were discussed in
quarters, and as may be supposed greatly exaggerated, and all at the
Doctor's cost. But the Doctor pursued the even tenor of his way,
entirely unmindful of them.
About the time of which we write, a clever, honest man died of a disease
always sudden in its termination, rheumatic attack upon the heart. The
Doctor had informed him fully of his disease, and that but little could
be done for it. The poor man, however, was punctual in attendance at
Surgeon's Call, and insisted upon some kind of medicine. Bread pills
were furnished. One morning, after great complaint of pain about the
heart, and a few spasms, he died. His comrades, shocked, thought his
death the effect of improper medicine. The Doctor's pride was touched.
He insisted upon calling in other surgeons; the pills found in his
pocket were analyzed, and discovered to be only bread. The corpse was
opened, and the cause of death fully revealed. As the Doctor walked away
in stately triumph, some of the men who had been boisterous against him,
approached by way of excusing their conduct, and said that now they were
perfectly satisfied. "What you know!" was his gruff reply, "you not know
a man's heart from a pig's."
Many like incidents might be told--but we must not leave these Captains
standing too long at the door of the tent; with the production of the
light in they came, with the remark that they had brought hospital
supplies. In the meantime several officers, field and company, attracted
by the noise and whiskey; came in from regimental head-quarters.
"Must see if goot," and the Doctor applied the bottle to his lips; it
was not a favorite drink of his, and tasted badly in lieu of Rhine wine
or lager.
"May be goot whiskey."
"Let practical whiskey drinkers have a chance," said two or three at
once, and the bottle went its round.
The test was not considered satisfactory until another and another had
been emptied.
The increasing confusion aroused the Chaplain, who hitherto had been
snugly ensconced beneath his blankets in the corner opposite the Doctor.
"Here, Chaplain, your opinion, and don't let us hear anything about
putting the bottle to your neighbor's lips," said a rough voice in the
crowd. The Chaplain politely declined, with the remark that they
appeared too anxious to put the bottle to their own lips to require any
assistance from their neighbors.
"Chaplain not spiritually minded," muttered the Doctor, "so far but
three preaches, and every preach cost government much as sixty tollar."
The calculation at the Chaplain's expense, amused the crowd, and annoyed
the Chaplain, who resumed his blankets.
"When I was in Western Virginny, under Rosecrans,"--
"The old start and good for a yarn," said an officer.
"Good for facts," replied the Chief of the Detail.
"Never mind, Captain, we'll take it as fact," said the Adjutant.
"We had a chaplain that was a chaplain in every sense of the word."
"Did he drink and swear?" inquired a member of the Detail.
"On long marches and in fights he had a canteen filled with what he
called chaplain's cordial, about one part whiskey and three water. I
tasted it, but with little comfort. One day, a member of Rosy's staff
seeing him pulling at it, asked for it, and after a strong pull, told
the chaplain that he was weak in spiritual things. 'Blessed are the poor
in spirit,' was the quick answer of the chaplain. As to swearing, he was
never known to swear but once.
"I heard an officer tell the Adjutant a day or two ago, that what was
considered the prettiest sentence in the English language, had been
written by a smutty preacher. I don't recollect the words as he repeated
it, but it was about an old officer, who nursed a young one, and some
one told him the young one would die. The old officer excited, said, 'By
G--d, he sha'nt die.' It goes on to say then that an Angel flew up to
heaven, to enter it in the great Book of Accounts, and that the Angel
who made the charge cried over it and blotted it out. That is the
substance anyhow. Well, sir, if the Third Virginny's Chaplain's oath was
ever recorded it is in the same fix."
"Well, tell us about it, how it happened," exclaimed several.
"Why you see, Rosy sent over one day for a Major who had lately come
into the Division, and told him that 300 rebels were about six miles to
our left, in the bushes along a creek, and that he should take 300 men,
and kill, capture, or drive them off. The Major was about to make a
statement. 'That's all, Major,' with a wave of his hand for him to
leave, 'I expect a good account.'
"That was Rosy's style: he told an officer what he wanted, and he
supposed the officer had gumption enough to do it, without bothering
him, as some of our red-tape or pigeon-hole Generals, as the boys call
them, do with long written statements that a memory like a tarred stick
couldn't remember--telling where these ten men must be posted, those
twenty-five, and another thirty, etc. I wonder what such office Generals
think--that the Rebels will be fools enough to attack us when we want
them to, or take ground that we would like to have them make a stand
on."
"Captain, we talk enough ourselves about that; on with the story."
"Well, four companies, seventy-five strong each, were detailed to go
with him, and mine among the number, from our regiment. The chaplain got
wind of it, and go he would. By the time the detail was ready, he had
his bullets run, his powder-horn and fixin's on, and long Tom, as he
called his Kentucky rifle, slung across his shoulder."
"His canteen?" inquired an officer disposed to be a little troublesome.
"Don't recollect about that," said the Captain, somewhat curtly.
"On the march he mixed with the men, talked with them about all kinds of
useful matters, and gave them a world of information.
"We had got about a mile from where we supposed the Rebels were; my
company, in advance as skirmishers, had just cleared a wood, and were
ten yards in the open, when the Butternuts opened fire from a wood ahead
at long rifle range. One man was slightly wounded. We placed him against
a tree with his back to the Rebels, and under cover of the woods were
deciding upon a plan of attack, when up gallops our fat Major with just
breath enough to say, 'My God, what's to be done?'
"I'll never forget the chaplain's look at that. He had unslung long Tom;
holding it up in his right hand, he fairly yelled out, 'Fight, by G--d!
Boys, follow me.' And we did follow him. Skirting around through
underbrush to our left, concealed from the Rebs, we came to an open
again of about thirty yards. The Rebs had retired about eighty yards in
the wood to where it was thicker.
"Out sprang the Chaplain, making a worm fence, Indian fashion, for a big
chestnut. We followed in same style. My orderly was behind another
chestnut about ten feet to the Chaplain's left, and slightly to his
rear. There was for a spell considerable random firing, but no one hurt,
and the Rebs again retired a little. We soon saw what the Chaplain was
after. About eighty-five yards in his front was another big chestnut,
and behind it a Rebel officer. They blazed away at each other in fine
style--both good shots, as you could tell by the bark being chipped, now
just where the Chaplain's head was, and now just where the officer's
was. The officer was left-handed. The Chaplain could fire right or left
equally well. By a kind of instinct for fair play and no gouging that
even the Rebs feel at times, the rest on both sides looked at that
fight, and wouldn't mix. My orderly had several chances to bring the
Rebel. Their rifles cracked in quick succession for quite a spell. The
Chaplain, at last, not wanting an all-day affair of it, carefully again
drew a bead on a level with the chip marks on the left of the Rebel
tree. He had barely time to turn his head without deranging the aim,
when a ball passed through the rim of his hat. As he turned his head, he
gave a wink to the orderly, who was quick as lightning in taking a hint.
A pause for nearly a minute. By and by the Rebel pokes his head out to
see what was the matter. Seeing the gun only, and thinking the Chaplain
would give him a chance when he'd take aim, he did not pull it in as
quick as usual. My orderly winked,--a sharp crack, and the Rebel officer
threw up his hands, dropped his rifle, and fell backward, with well nigh
an ounce ball right over his left eye, through and through his head. Our
men cheered for the Chaplain. The Rebs fired in reply, and rushed to
secure the body. That cost them three more men, but they got their
bodies, and fast as legs could carry them, cut to their fort about
three miles to their rear. We of course couldn't attack the fort, and
returned to camp. The boys were loud in praise of the Chaplain. Their
chin music, as they called camp rumors, had it that the officer killed
was a Rebel chaplain. Old Rosy, when he heard of it, laughed, and swore
like a trooper. I hear he has got over swearing now--but it couldn't
have been until after he left Western Virginny. I heard our Chaplain say
that he heard a brother chaplain say, and he believed him to be a
Christian,--that he believed that the Apostle Paul himself would learn
to swear inside of six months, if he entered the service in Western
Virginny. Washington prayed at Trenton, and swore at Monmouth, and I
don't believe that the War Department requires Chaplains to be better
Christians than Washington. Our old Chaplain used to say that there were
many things worse than swearing, and that he didn't believe that men
often swore away their chances of heaven."
"Comforting gospel for you, captain," said that troublesome officer.
"He was a bully chaplain," continued the captain, becoming more
animated, probably because the regimental chaplain, turtle-like, had
again protruded his head from between the blankets. "He had no long
tailed words or doctrines that nobody understood, that tire soldiers,
because they don't understand them, and make them think that the
chaplain is talking only to a few officers. That's what so often keeps
men away from religious services. Our chaplain used to say that you
could tell who Paul was talking to by his style of talk. I can't say how
that is from my own reading; but I always heard that Paul was a sensible
man, and if so he certainly would suit himself to the understanding of
his crowd."
"Our old chaplain talked right at you. No mistake he meant
you--downright, plain, practical, and earnest. He'd tell his crowd of
backwoodsmen, flatboatmen and deck hands--the hardest customers that the
gospel was ever preached to,--'That the war carried on by the Government
was the most righteous of wars; they were doing God's service by
fighting in it. On the part of the rebels it was the most unnatural and
wicked of wars. They called it a second Revolutionary War, the
scoundrels! When my father and your father, Tom Hulzman,' said he,
addressing one of his hearers, 'fought in the Revolution, they fought
against a tyrannical monarchy that was founded upon a landed
aristocracy--that is, rich big feeling people, that owned very big
farms. The Government stands in this war, if any thing, better than our
fathers stood. We fight against what is far worse than a landed
aristocracy, meaner in the sight of God and more hated by honest men,
this accursed slave aristocracy, that will, if they whip us--(Can't do
that, yell the crowd.) No, they can't. If they should, we would be no
better than the poor whites that are permitted to live a dog's life on
some worn-out corner of a nigger-owner's plantation. Would you have your
children, Joe Dixon, insulted, made do the bidding of some long-haired
lank mulatto nabob? (Never, says Joe.) Then, boys, look to your arms,
fire low, and don't hang on the aim. We must fight this good fight out,
and thank God we can do it. If we die, blessed will be our memory in the
hearts of our children. If we live and go to our firesides
battle-scarred, our boys can say, 'See how dad fought, and every scar in
front,' and we'll be honored by a grateful people.' And he'd tell of the
sufferings of their parents, wives, and children, if we didn't succeed,
till the water courses on the dirty faces of his crowd would be as plain
as his preaching.
"And pray! he'd pray with hands and eyes both open, in such a way that
every one believed it would have immediate attention; that God would
damn the Rebellion; and may be next day he'd have Long Tom doing its
full share in hurrying the rebels themselves to damnation.
"And kind hearted! why old Tim Larkins, who had a wound on the shin that
wouldn't heal, told me with tears in his eyes that he had been mother,
wife, and child to him. He went about doing good.
"And now I recollect," and the Captain's eye glistened as he spoke, "how
he acted when young Snowden was wounded. Snowden was a slender,
pale-faced stripling of sixteen, beloved by every body that knew him,
and if ever a perfect Christian walked this earth, he was one, even if
he was in service in Western Virginny. The chaplain was fond of company,
and, as was his duty, mixed with the men. Snowden was reserved, much by
himself, and had little or no chance to learn bad habits; that is the
only way I can account for his goodness. I often heard the chaplain tell
the boys to imitate Snowden, and not himself; 'you'll find a pure mouth
there, boys, because the heart is pure; you'll see no letters of
introduction to the devil,' as the chaplain called cards, 'in his
knapsack.' By the way, he was so hard on cards, that even the boatmen,
who knew them better than their A B C's, were ashamed to play them. He
would say, 'Snowden is brave as man can be; he has a right to be, he is
prepared for every fate. A christian, boys, makes all the better soldier
for his being a Christian,' and he would tell us of Washington, Col.
Gardner, that preacher that suffered, fought and died near Elizabeth, in
the Jerseys, and others.
"In bravery, none excelled Snowden. We were lying down once, but about
sixty yards from a wood chuck full of rebels, when word was sent that
our troops on the left must be signalled, to charge in a certain way.
Several understood the signs, but Snowden first rose, mounted a stump,
and did not get off although receiving flesh wounds in half-a-dozen
different places, and his clothing cut to ribands, until he saw the
troops moving as directed. How we gritted our teeth as we heard the
bullets whiz by that brave boy. I have the feeling yet. We thought his
goodness saved him. His was goodness! Not that kind that will stare a
preacher full in the face from a cushioned pew on Sunday, and gouge you
over the counter on Monday, but the genuine article. His time was yet to
come.
"One day we had driven the rebels through a rough country some miles,
skirmishing with their rear-guard; the Chaplain and Snowden with my
company foremost. We neared a small but deep creek the rebels had
crossed, and trying to get across, we were scattered along the bank. I
heard a shot, and as I turned I saw poor Snowden fall, first on his knee
and then on his elbow. I called the Chaplain. They were messmates--he
loved Snowden as his own child, and always called him 'my boy.' He
rushed to him, 'My boy, who fired that shot?' The lad turned to a clump
of bushes about 80 yards distant on the other side of the creek. Long
Tom was in hand, but the rebel was first, and a ball cut the Chaplain's
coat collar. The flash revealed him; in an instant long Tom was in
range, and another instant saw a Butternut belly face the sun. Dropping
his piece, falling upon his knee, he raised Snowden gently up with his
left hand. 'I am dying,' whispered the boy, 'tell my mother I'll meet
her in heaven.' The Chaplain raised his right hand, his eyes swimming
in tears, and in tones that I'll never forget, and that make me a better
man every time I think of them, he said, 'O God, the pure in heart is
before thee, redeem thy promise, and reveal thyself.' A slight gurgle,
and with a pleasant smile playing upon his countenance, the soul of John
Snowden, if there be justice in heaven, went straight up to the God who
gave it." Tears had come to the Captain's eyes, and were glistening in
the eyes of most of the crowd.
The Dutch doctor alone was unmoved. Stoically he remarked, "Very goot
story, Captain, goot story, do our Chaplain much goot."
The crowd left quietly--all but the Captain, who, never forgetting
business in the hurry of the moment, drew a receipt for the transfer of
thirteen bottles of whiskey to the hospital department, which the doctor
signed without reading.