CLARA BARTON TO THE FRONT
When the author of this volume was a schoolboy, the advanced readers in
the public schools partook largely of a patriotic character, and the
rhetorical exercises of Friday afternoons contained recitations and
declamations inspired by the great Civil War. The author remembers a
Friday when he came upon the platform with his left arm withdrawn from
his coat-sleeve and concealed inside the coat, while he recited a poem
of which he still remembers certain lines:
My arm? I lost it at Cedar Mountain;
Ah, little one, that was a dreadful fight;
For brave blood flowed like a summer fountain,
And the cannon roared till the fall of night.
Nay, nay! Your question has done me no harm, dear,
Though it woke for the moment a thrill of pain;
For whenever I look at my stump of an arm here,
I seem to be living that day again.
The poem went on to relate the scenes of the battle, the desperate
charge, the wound, the amputation, and now the necessity of earning
a livelihood by the peddling of needles, pins, and other inexpensive
household necessities. It was a poem with rather large dramatic
possibilities, and the author utilized them according to the best of
his then ability. Since that Friday afternoon in his early boyhood
he has always thought of Cedar Mountain as a battle in which he had
something of a share. If he had really been there and had lost an arm
in the manner which the poem described, one of the things he would have
been almost certain to remember would have been the presence there of
Clara Barton. She afterward told of it in this simple fashion:
When our armies fought on Cedar Mountain, I broke the shackles and
went to the field. Five days and nights with three hours’ sleep--a
narrow escape from capture--and some days of getting the wounded into
hospitals at Washington brought Saturday, August 30. And if you chance
to feel that the positions I occupied were rough and unseemly for a
_woman_--I can only reply that they were rough and unseemly for
_men_. But under all, lay the life of the Nation. I had inherited
the rich blessing of health and strength of constitution--such as are
seldom given to woman--and I felt that some return was due from me and
that I ought to be there.
The battle of Cedar Mountain, also called Cedar Run and Culpeper, was
fought on Saturday, August 9, 1862. Stonewall Jackson, as directed by
General Lee, moved to attack Pope before McClellan could reënforce
him. The corps attack was under command of General Banks, and the
Confederates were successful. The Federal losses were 314 killed, 1465
wounded, and 622 missing. News of the battle reached Washington on
Monday. Clara Barton’s entry for that day contains no suggestion of
the heroic; no appearance of consciousness that she was beginning for
herself and her country, and the civilized world, a new epoch in the
history of woman’s ministration to men wounded on the battle-field:
_Monday, August 11, 1862._ Battle at Culpeper reached us. Went to
Sanitary Commission. Concluded to go to Culpeper. Packed goods.
The next day she went to General Pope’s headquarters and got her pass,
General Rucker accompanying her. The remainder of the day she spent in
completing her arrangements and in conference with Gardiner Tufts, of
Massachusetts, an agent sent by the State to look after Massachusetts
wounded. That night she went to Alexandria, which was as far as she
could get, and the next morning she resumed her journey and arrived at
Culpeper at half-past three in the afternoon.
The next days were busy days. It is interesting to find in her diary
that she ministered not only to the Union, but also to the Confederate
wounded. For several days she had little rest. When she returned to
Washington later in the month, she was not permitted to remain. She
learned that her cousin, Corporal Poor, had been brought to a hospital
in the city, but she was unable to visit him, being called to minister
to the wounded who were being brought to Alexandria as the result of
the fighting that followed Cedar Mountain. Her hastily written note is
not dated, but the time is in the latter part of August, 1862:
MY OWN DARLING COUSIN:
I was almost (_all-but_) ready to come to you, and then came this
bloody fight at Culpeper and the State agent for Massachusetts comes
and claims me to go to Alexandria where 600 wounded are to be brought
in to-day, and I may have to go on further. I hope to be back yet in
time to come to you _this_ week; if not I will write you.
I am distressed that I cannot come to you to-morrow as I had intended.
I hope you are as well as when I last heard. I should have written,
but I thought to come so soon.
I must leave now. My wagon waits for me.
God bless you, my poor dear Cousin, and I will see you if the rebels
don’t catch me.
Good-bye,
Your affec. cousin
CLARA
Whether she was able to visit her cousin or not on her return from
Alexandria, we do not know. Her diary for the latter part of the year
1862 ceases to be consecutive. It contains not the record of her own
comings and goings, but names of wounded soldiers, memoranda of letters
to write for men who had died, and other data of this character. Her
entry for Saturday, August 30, 1862, is significant. It reads:
Visited Armory Hospital. Took comb to Sergeant Field, of Massachusetts
21st. On my way saw everybody going to wharf. I went.
That was her last record for more than a week. We know what was taking
the people to the wharf. We know what sad sights awaited those who made
their way to the Potomac. We know the sad procession that came over the
long bridge; the second battle of Bull Run had been fought. After the
first battle of Bull Run there was nothing she could do but stay in
Washington and write her father such distracting news that she had to
stop. The situation was different now; Clara Barton knew where she was
needed, and she had authority to go. No time was wasted now in special
passes. She had proved the value of her worth at Cedar Mountain.
That very night she was in a box car on her way to the battle-field.
Shortly after the second battle of Bull Run, Clara Barton wrote the
following account to a friend, and later revised it as a part of one of
her war lectures. It is, in some respects, the most vivid of all her
recitals of experiences on battle-fields:
Our coaches were not elegant or commodious; they had no windows, no
seats, no platforms, no steps, a slide door on the side was the only
entrance, and this higher than my head. For my manner of attaining my
elevated position, I must beg of you to draw on your own imaginations
and spare me the labor of reproducing the boxes, barrels, boards, and
rails, which, in those days, seemed to help me up and on in the world.
We did not criticize the unsightly helpers and were only too thankful
that the stiff springs did not quite jostle us out. This description
need not be limited to this particular trip or train, but will suffice
for all that I have known in army life. This is the kind of conveyance
by which your tons of generous gifts have reached the field with the
precious freights. These trains, through day and night, sunshine and
rain, heat and cold, have thundered over heights, across plains,
through ravines, and over hastily built army bridges ninety feet
across the rocky stream beneath.
At ten o’clock Sunday (August 31) our train drew up at Fairfax
Station. The ground, for acres, was a thinly wooded slope--and among
the trees, on the leaves and grass, were laid the wounded who were
pouring in by scores of wagonloads, as picked up on the field under
the flag of truce. All day they came, and the whole hillside was
covered. Bales of hay were broken open and scattered over the ground
like littering for cattle, and the sore, famishing men were laid upon
it.
And when the night shut in, in the mist and darkness about us, we
knew that, standing apart from the world of anxious hearts, throbbing
over the whole country, we were a little band of almost empty-handed
workers literally by ourselves in the wild woods of Virginia, with
three thousand suffering men crowded upon the few acres within our
reach.
After gathering up every available implement or convenience for our
work, our domestic inventory stood, two water buckets, five tin cups,
one camp kettle, one stewpan, two lanterns, four bread knives, three
plates, and a two-quart tin dish, and three thousand guests to serve.
You will perceive, by this, that I had not yet learned to equip
myself, for I was no Pallas, ready armed, but grew into my work
by hard thinking and sad experience. It may serve to relieve your
apprehension for the future of my labors if I assure you that I was
never caught so again.
You have read of adverse winds. To realize this in its full sense you
have only to build a camp-fire and attempt to cook something on it.
There is not a soldier within the sound of my voice but will sustain
me in the assertion that, go whichsoever side of it you will, wind
will blow the smoke and flame directly in your face. Notwithstanding
these difficulties, within fifteen minutes from the time of our
arrival we were preparing food and dressing wounds. You wonder what,
and how prepared, and how administered without dishes.
You generous thoughtful mothers and wives have not forgotten the tons
of preserves and fruits with which you filled our hands. Huge boxes of
these stood beside that railway track. Every can, jar, bucket, bowl,
cup or tumbler, when emptied, that instant became a vehicle of mercy
to convey some preparation of mingled bread and wine or soup or coffee
to some helpless, famishing sufferer, who partook of it with the tears
rolling down his bronzed cheeks and divided his blessings between the
hands that fed him and his God. I never realized until that day how
little a human being could be grateful for, and that day’s experience
also taught me the utter worthlessness of that which could not be
made to contribute directly to our necessities. The bit of bread which
would rest on the surface of a gold eagle was worth more than the coin
itself.
But the most fearful scene was reserved for the night. I have said
that the ground was littered with dry hay and that we had only two
lanterns, but there were plenty of candles. The wounded were laid so
close that it was impossible to move about in the dark. The slightest
misstep brought a torrent of groans from some poor mangled fellow in
your path.
Consequently here were seen persons of all grades, from the careful
man of God who walked with a prayer upon his lips to the careless
driver hunting for his lost whip--each wandering about among this hay
with an open flaming candle in his hand.
The slightest accident, the mere dropping of a light could have
enveloped in flames this whole mass of helpless men.
How we watched and pleaded and cautioned as we worked and wept that
night! How we put socks and slippers upon their cold damp feet,
wrapped your blankets and quilts about them, and when we had no longer
these to give, how we covered them in the hay and left them to their
rest!
On Monday (September 1) the enemy’s cavalry appeared in the wood
opposite and a raid was hourly expected. In the afternoon all the
wounded men were sent off and the danger became so imminent that Mrs.
Fales thought best to leave, although she only went for stores. I
begged to be excused from accompanying her, as the ambulances were
up to the fields for more, and I knew I should never leave a wounded
man there if I were taken prisoner forty times. At six o’clock it
commenced to thunder and lighten and all at once the artillery began
to play, joined by the musketry about two miles distant. We sat down
in our tent and waited to see them break in, but Reno’s forces held
them back. The old 21st Massachusetts lay between us and the enemy
and they could not pass. God only knows who was lost, I do not, for
the next day all fell back. Poor Kearny, Stephen, and Webster were
brought in, and in the afternoon Kearny’s and Heintzelman’s divisions
fell back through our camp on their way to Alexandria. We knew this
was the last. We put the thousand wounded men we then had into the
train. I took one carload of them and Mrs. M. another. The men took to
the horses. We steamed off, and two hours later there was no Fairfax
Station. We reached Alexandria at ten o’clock at night, and, oh, the
repast which met those poor men at the train. The people of the island
are the most noble I ever saw or heard of. I stood in my car and fed
the men till they could eat no more. Then the people would take us
home and feed us, and after that we came home. I had slept one and one
half hours since Saturday night and I am well and strong and wait to
go again if I have need.
Immediately after the second Bull Run, or Manassas, followed the
battle of Chantilly. It was a woeful battle for the Federal cause.
The Confederates were completely successful. Pope’s army retreated to
Washington in almost as great a state of panic as had characterized the
army of McDowell in the previous year. Nothing saved Washington from
capture but the fact that the Confederate forces had been so reduced by
continuous fighting that they were unable to take advantage of their
success. But they had captured the Federal wagon trains; had inflicted
far greater losses than they had themselves endured, and were in so
confident a frame of mind that Lee immediately prepared to cross the
Potomac, invade the North, and bring the war, as he hoped, to a speedy
end. It was under these conditions that Clara Barton continued her
education at the battle-front.
Among many other experiences on the field of Chantilly, Miss Barton
recalled these incidents:
The slight, naked chest of a fair-haired lad caught my eye, and
dropping down beside him, I bent low to draw the remnant of his torn
blouse about him, when with a quick cry he threw his left arm across
my neck and, burying his face in the folds of my dress, wept like a
child at his mother’s knee. I took his head in my hands and held it
until his great burst of grief passed away. “And do you know me?” he
asked at length; “I am Charley Hamilton who used to carry your satchel
home from school!” My faithful pupil, poor Charley. That mangled right
arm would never carry a satchel again.
About three o’clock in the morning I observed a surgeon with his
little flickering candle in hand approaching me with cautious step far
up in the wood. “Lady,” he said as he drew near, “will you go with
me? Out on the hills is a poor distressed lad, mortally wounded and
dying. His piteous cries for his sister have touched all our hearts
and none of us can relieve him, but rather seem to distress him by our
presence.”
By this time I was following him back over the bloody track, with
great beseeching eyes of anguish on every side looking up into our
faces saying so plainly, “Don’t step on us.”
“He can’t last half an hour longer,” said the surgeon as we toiled
on. “He is already quite cold, shot through the abdomen, a terrible
wound.” By this time the cries became plainly audible to me.
“Mary, Mary, sister Mary, come,--oh, come, I am wounded, Mary! I am
shot. I am dying--oh, come to me--I have called you so long and my
strength is almost gone--Don’t let me die here alone. Oh, Mary, Mary,
come!”
Of all the tones of entreaty to which I have listened--and certainly I
have had some experience of sorrow--I think these, sounding through
that dismal night, the most heart-rending. As we drew near, some
twenty persons, attracted by his cries, had gathered around and stood
with moistened eyes and helpless hands waiting the change which would
relieve them all. And in the midst, stretched upon the ground, lay,
scarcely full grown, a young man with a graceful head of hair, tangled
and matted, thrown back from a forehead and a face of livid whiteness.
His throat was bare. His hands, bloody, clasped his breast, his large,
bewildered eyes turning anxiously in every direction. And ever from
between his ashen lips pealed that piteous cry of “Mary! Mary! Come.”
I approached him unobserved, and, motioning the lights away, I knelt
by him alone in the darkness. Shall I confess that I intended if
possible to cheat him out of his terrible death agony? But my lips
were truer than my heart, and would not speak the word “Brother,” I
had willed them to do. So I placed my hands upon his neck, kissed his
cold forehead, and laid my cheek against his.
The illusion was complete; the act had done the falsehood my lips
refused to speak. I can never forget that cry of joy. “Oh, Mary! Mary!
You have come? I knew you would come if I called you and I have called
you so long. I could not die without you, Mary. Don’t cry, Darling,
I am not afraid to die now that you have come to me. Oh, bless you.
Bless you, Mary.” And he ran his cold, blood-wet hands about my neck,
passed them over my face, and twined them in my hair, which by this
time had freed itself from fastenings and was hanging damp and heavy
upon my shoulders. He gathered the loose locks in his stiffened
fingers and holding them to his lips continued to whisper through
them, “Bless you, bless you, Mary!” And I felt the hot tears of joy
trickling from the eyes I had thought stony in death. This encouraged
me, and, wrapping his feet closely in blankets and giving him such
stimulants as he could take, I seated myself on the ground and lifted
him on my lap, and drawing the shawl on my own shoulders also about
his I bade him rest.
I listened till his blessings grew fainter, and in ten minutes with
them on his lips he fell asleep. So the gray morning found us; my
precious charge had grown warm, and was comfortable.
Of course the morning light would reveal his mistake. But he had grown
calm and was refreshed and able to endure it, and when finally he
woke, he seemed puzzled for a moment, but then he smiled and said: “I
knew before I opened my eyes that this could n’t be Mary. I know now
that she could n’t get here, but it is almost as good. You’ve made me
so happy. Who is it?”
I said it was simply a lady who, hearing that he was wounded, had come
to care for him. He wanted the name, and with childlike simplicity he
spelled it letter by letter to know if he were right. “In my pocket,”
he said, “you will find mother’s last letter; please get it and write
your name upon it, for I want both names by me when I die.”
“Will they take away the wounded?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “the
first train for Washington is nearly ready now.” “I must go,” he said
quickly. “Are you able?” I asked. “I must go if I die on the way. I’ll
tell you why; I am poor mother’s only son, and when she consented
that I go to the war, I promised her faithfully that if I were not
killed outright, but wounded, I would try every means in my power to
be taken home to her dead or alive. If I die on the train, they will
not throw me off, and if I were buried in Washington, she can get me.
But out here in the Virginia woods in the hands of the enemy, never. I
_must_ go!”
I sent for the surgeon in charge of the train and requested that my
boy be taken.
“Oh, impossible, madam, he is mortally wounded and will never reach
the hospital! We must take those who have a hope of life.” “But you
must take him.” “I cannot”--“Can you, Doctor, guarantee the lives of
all you have on that train?” “I wish I could,” said he sadly. “They
are the worst cases; nearly fifty per cent must die eventually of
their wounds and hardships.”
“Then give this lad a chance with them. He can only die, and he has
given good and sufficient reasons why he must go--and a woman’s word
for it, Doctor. You take him. Send your men for him.” Whether yielding
to argument or entreaty, I neither knew nor cared so long as he did
yield nobly and kindly. And they gathered up the fragments of the
poor, torn boy and laid him carefully on a blanket on the crowded
train and with stimulants and food and a kind-hearted attendant,
pledged to take him alive or dead to Armory Square Hospital and tell
them he was Hugh Johnson, of New York, and to mark his grave.
Although three hours of my time had been devoted to one sufferer among
thousands, it must not be inferred that our general work had been
suspended or that my assistants had been equally inefficient. They had
seen how I was engaged and nobly redoubled their exertions to make
amends for my deficiencies.
Probably not a man was laid upon those cars who did not receive some
personal attention at their hands, some little kindness, if it were
only to help lift him more tenderly.
This finds us shortly after daylight Monday morning. Train after
train of cars was rushing on for the wounded, and hundreds of wagons
were bringing them in from the field still held by the enemy, where
some poor sufferers had lain three days with no visible means of
sustenance. If immediately placed upon the trains and not detained,
at least twenty-four hours must elapse before they could be in the
hospital and properly nourished. They were already famishing, weak
and sinking from loss of blood, and they could ill afford a further
fast of twenty-four hours. I felt confident that, unless nourished at
once, all the weaker portion must be past recovery before reaching the
hospitals of Washington. If once taken from the wagons and laid with
those already cared for, they would be overlooked and perish on the
way. Something must be done to meet this fearful emergency. I sought
the various officers on the grounds, explained the case to them, and
asked permission to feed all the men as they arrived before they
should be taken from the wagons. It was well for the poor sufferers of
that field that it was controlled by noble-hearted, generous officers,
quick to feel and prompt to act.
They at once saw the propriety of my request and gave orders that all
wagons should be stayed at a certain point and only moved on when
every one had been seen and fed. This point secured, I commenced my
day’s work of climbing from the wheel to the brake of every wagon
and speaking to and feeding with my own hands each soldier until he
expressed himself satisfied.
Still there were bright spots along the darkened lines. Early in the
morning the Provost Marshal came to ask me if I could use fifty men.
He had that number, who for some slight breach of military discipline
were under guard and useless, unless I could use them. I only
regretted there were not five hundred. They came,--strong, willing
men,--and these, added to our original force and what we had gained
incidentally, made our number something over eighty, and, believe me,
eighty men and three women, acting with well-directed purpose, will
accomplish a good deal in a day. Our fifty prisoners dug graves and
gathered and buried the dead, bore mangled men over the rough ground
in their arms, loaded cars, built fires, made soup, and administered
it. And I failed to discern that their services were less valuable
than those of the other men. I had long suspected, and have been
since convinced, that a private soldier may be placed under guard,
court-martialed, and even be imprisoned without forfeiting his honor
or manliness; that the real dishonor is often upon the gold lace
rather than the army blue.
At three o’clock the last train of wounded left. All day we had known
that the enemy hung upon the hills and were waiting to break in upon
us....
At four o’clock the clouds gathered black and murky, and the low growl
of distant thunders was heard while lightning continually illuminated
the horizon. The still air grew thick and stifled, and the very
branches appeared to droop and bow as if in grief at the memory of
the terrible scenes so lately enacted and the gallant lives so nobly
yielded up beneath their shelter.
This was the afternoon of Monday. Since Saturday noon I had not
thought of tasting food, and we had just drawn around a box for that
purpose, when, of a sudden, air and earth and all about us shook with
one mingled crash of God’s and man’s artillery. The lightning played
and the thunder rolled incessantly and the cannon roared louder and
nearer each minute. Chantilly with all its darkness and horrors had
opened in the rear.
The description of this battle I leave to those who saw and moved
in it, as it is my purpose to speak only of events in which I was a
witness or actor. Although two miles distant, we knew the battle was
intended for us, and watched the firing as it neared and receded and
waited minute by minute for the rest.
With what desperation our men fought hour after hour in the rain and
darkness! How they were overborne and rallied, how they suffered from
mistaken orders, and blundered, and lost themselves in the strange
mysterious wood. And how, after all, with giant strength and veteran
bravery, they checked the foe and held him at bay, is an all-proud
record of history.
And the courage of the soldier who braved death in the darkness of
Chantilly let no man question.
The rain continued to pour in torrents, and the darkness became
impenetrable save from the lightning leaping above our heads and the
fitful flash of the guns, as volley after volley rang through the
stifled air and lighted up the gnarled trunks and dripping branches
among which we ever waited and listened.
In the midst of this, and how guided no man knows, came still another
train of wounded men, and a waiting train of cars upon the track
received them. This time nearly alone, for my worn-out assistants
could work no longer, I continued to administer such food as I had
left.
Do you begin to wonder what it could be? Army crackers put into
knapsacks and haversacks and beaten to crumbs between stones, and
stirred into a mixture of wine, whiskey, and water, and sweetened with
coarse brown sugar.
Not very inviting you will think, but I assure you it was always
acceptable. But whether it should have been classed as food, or,
like the Widow Bedott’s cabbage, as a delightful beverage, it would
puzzle an epicure to determine. No matter, so it imparted strength and
comfort.
The departure of this train cleared the grounds of wounded for the
night, and as the line of fire from its plunging engines died out in
the darkness, a strange sensation of weakness and weariness fell upon
me, almost defying my utmost exertion to move one foot before the
other.
A little Sibley tent had been hastily pitched for me in a slight
hollow upon the hillside. Your imaginations will not fail to picture
its condition. Rivulets of water had rushed through it during the last
three hours. Still I attempted to reach it, as its white surface, in
the darkness, was a protection from the wheels of wagons and trampling
of beasts.
Perhaps I shall never forget the painful effort which the making of
those few rods and the gaining of the tent cost me. How many times I
fell, from sheer exhaustion, in the darkness and mud of that slippery
hillside, I have no knowledge, but at last I grasped the welcome
canvas, and a well-established brook, which washed in on the upper
side at the opening that served as door, met me on my entrance. My
entire floor was covered with water, not an inch of dry, solid ground.
One of my lady assistants had previously taken train for Washington
and the other, worn out by faithful labors, was crouched upon the top
of some boxes in one corner fast asleep. No such convenience remained
for me, and I had no strength to arrange one. I sought the highest
side of my tent which I remembered was grass-grown, and, ascertaining
that the water was not very deep, I sank down. It was no laughing
matter then. But the recollection of my position has since afforded me
amusement.
I remember myself sitting on the ground, upheld by my left arm, my
head resting on my hand, impelled by an almost uncontrollable desire
to lie completely down, and prevented by the certain conviction that
if I did, water would flow into my ears.
How long I balanced between my desires and cautions, I have no
positive knowledge, but it is very certain that the former carried the
point by the position from which I was aroused at twelve o’clock by
the rumbling of more wagons of wounded men. I slept two hours, and oh,
what strength I had gained! I may never know two other hours of equal
worth. I sprang to my feet dripping wet, covered with ridges of dead
grass and leaves, wrung the water from my hair and skirts, and went
forth again to my work.
When I stood again under the sky, the rain had ceased, the clouds were
sullenly retiring, and the lightning, as if deserted by its boisterous
companions, had withdrawn to a distant corner and was playing quietly
by itself. For the great volleying thunders of heaven and earth had
settled down on the fields. Silent? I said so. And it was, save the
ceaseless rumbling of the never-ending train of army wagons which
brought alike the wounded, the dying, and the dead.
And thus the morning of the third day broke upon us, drenched, weary,
hungry, sore-footed, sad-hearted, discouraged, and under orders to
retreat.
A little later, the plaintive wail of a single fife, the slow beat
of a muffled drum, the steady tramp, tramp, tramp of heavy feet, the
gleam of ten thousand bayonets on the hills, and with bowed heads and
speechless lips, poor Kearny’s leaderless men came marching through
This was the signal for retreat. All day they came, tired, hungry,
ragged, defeated, retreating, they knew not whither--they cared not
whither.
The enemy’s cavalry, skirting the hills, admonished us each moment
that we must soon decide to go from them or with them. But our work
must be accomplished, and no wounded men once given into our hands
must be left. And with the spirit of desperation, we struggled on.
At three o’clock an officer galloped up to me, with “Miss Barton, can
you ride?” “Yes, sir,” I replied.
“But you have no lady’s saddle--could you ride mine?”
“Yes, sir, or without it, if you have blanket and surcingle.”
“Then you can risk another hour,” he exclaimed, and galloped off.
At four he returned at a break-neck speed, and, leaping from his
horse, said, “Now is your time. The enemy is already breaking over the
hills; try the train. It will go through, unless they have flanked,
and cut the bridge a mile above us. In that case I’ve a reserve horse
for you, and you must take your chances to escape across the country.”
In two minutes I was on the train. The last wounded man at the station
was also on. The conductor stood with a torch which he applied to
a pile of combustible material beside the track. And we rounded the
curve which took us from view and we saw the station ablaze, and a
troop of cavalry dashing down the hill. The bridge was uncut and
midnight found us at Washington.
You have the full record of my sleep--from Friday night till Wednesday
morning--two hours. You will not wonder that I slept during the next
twenty-four.
On Friday (the following), I repaired to Armory Square Hospital to
learn who, of all the hundreds sent, had reached that point.
I traced the chaplain’s record, and there upon the last page freshly
written stood the name of Hugh Johnson
Turning to Chaplain Jackson, I asked--“Did that man live until to-day?”
“He died during the latter part of last night,” he replied. “His
friends reached him some two days ago, and they are now taking his
body from the ward to be conveyed to the depot.”
I looked in the direction his hand indicated, and there, beside a
coffin, about to be lifted into a wagon, stood a gentleman, the
mother, and Sister Mary!
“Had he his reason?” I asked.
“Oh, perfectly.”
“And his mother and sister were with him two days.”
“Yes.”
There was no need of me. He had given his own messages; I could add
nothing to their knowledge of him, and would fain be spared the scene
of thanks. Poor Hugh, thy piteous prayers reached and were answered,
and with eyes and heart full, I turned away, and never saw Sister Mary.
These were days of darkness--a darkness that might be felt.
The shattered bands of Pope and Banks! Burnside’s weary legions!
Reënforcements from West Virginia--and all that now remained of the
once glorious Army of the Peninsula had gathered for shelter beneath
the redoubts and guns that girdled Washington.
How the soldiers remembered these ministrations is shown in letters
such as this:
CHARLES E. SIMMONS, Secretary, 21st Regt. Mass. Vol.
CHARLES E. FRYE, President
7 JAQUES AVENUE,
WORCESTER, MASS.
September 13th, 1911
TO CLARA BARTON
The survivors of the Veteran 21st Massachusetts Regiment, assembled
in “Odd Fellows Temple in the City of Worcester,” wish to put on
record the day of your coming to us at Bull Run and Chantilly, when
we were in our deepest bereavement and loss; how your presence and
deeds brought assurance and comfort; and how you assisted us up the
hot and rugged sides of South Mountain by your ministry forty-nine
years ago to-day, at and over the “Burnside Bridge” at Antietam, then
through Pleasant Valley, to Falmouth, and in course of time were
across the Rappahannock and storming the heights of Fredericksburg;
were with us, indeed, when we recrossed the river and found shelter in
our tents--broken, bruised, and sheared. With us evermore in body and
spirit, lo, these fifty years. The prayer of the 21st Regiment is, God
bless our old and tried friend. It was also voted that we present to
Clara Barton a bouquet of flowers.
CHARLES E. SIMMONS, Secretary