Chapter IV: Part 4

Instead of attending church this morning, I went to Stanton Hospital with delicacies for the sick. I will mention a few special cases of suffering which I witnessed in one of the wards, and which will be a fair specimen of the average of such in the other wards. There was one poor man almost distracted with pain in his head, the effects of a sun-stroke; the only relief he could find was in bathing his head in cold water. Near him was one very low with typhoid fever, uttering incoherent expressions about “battles” and “marches,” and “home” and “mother.” A little further down the ward was a poor fellow who was brought in last night--having been picked up by the road-side, in a senseless condition--and has not yet returned to consciousness. His physician says he can not survive, and, as he has no papers, or any means by which he can be identified, another will soon be added to the long list of the “unknown.” Soon after returning home, a Mrs. Smith, from New Jersey, called, and requested me to return with her to the same hospital. She had come to see her sick son; but, upon her arrival at the hospital last evening, found that he was already dead, and was requested by the surgeon, when she asked to see him, to wait until this morning, as it was then late. On going to see him this morning with the hope of following his remains to the grave, she found, to her horror and amazement, that he was already buried. The officer who had charge of the burying was deeply grieved that he had not been notified of the arrival of the mother of the young man, while the doctor could only plead forgetfulness as an excuse for not informing him. The only consolation left her--and that a poor one--was to visit his grave. An ambulance was ordered, and we drove out to the “Soldier’s Home.” It was now dark; the undertaker directed us to the spot, and there, by the aid of a lamp, that widowed mother was permitted to look upon the newly-made grave, which contained all that remained of her only son, upon whose breast a few hours before the cold earth had been heaped. While I wept with this sorrowing mother, I was filled with indignation at the outrage to which she had been compelled to submit. If that surgeon possessed the common feelings of humanity, he would have ordered the body disinterred, and thus have given the poor woman the little consolation she might have obtained from gazing once more upon the features of her darling boy; but even this sad privilege was denied her. To-morrow she returns to her lonely home, whose light has been forever extinguished.

* * * * *

Among the sick at Campbell Hospital, at this time, were two Michigan soldiers, very low with typhoid fever. The father of one of these was with him, and, after a long illness, his poor, sick boy, unexpectedly to us all, recovered. The other, poor Warren Maxfield--the patient, uncomplaining boy (all were boys in the army)--lingered long weeks on the narrow space which separates the “now from the hereafter” before he began the other life. I never think of him without recalling a little incident that occurred a few days before his death. He wanted a small package of green-tea, which of course was granted; “for,” he said, “I really believe it would do me good. Not that I care to drink so very much, but I want some to smell of, it would seem so reviving, and would remind me of home, for we always drink green-tea at home.” I relate this to show how all the influences and customs and associations of home were remembered and cherished by those poor sick and dying soldiers. It will be a consolation to his friends to know that in his last sickness he was kindly cared for. If skilful medical treatment and good nursing could have saved life, neither he nor any in that ward would have died, for, according to the testimony of his patients, Dr. True was one of the most faithful and efficient surgeons to be found in any of our hospitals. When any under his charge were dangerously ill, he would often visit them four and five times during a single night, watching every symptom and noting every change, whether for better or worse, and only relinquishing hope with the last expiring breath. Oh, how much the world needs such humane, _Christian_ physicians!

_CHAPTER IX._

MORE TROUBLE WITH DOCTORS--DISCHARGE-PAPERS DELAYED--RECORDS EXAMINED--THE REPORT--REMOVAL OF A SURGEON--DISCHARGE BY DEATH--A SURGEON QUARRELS WITH ONE OF HIS PATIENTS--HIS REMOVAL--LOW STATE OF OUR FINANCES--THOUGHTS OF DISORGANIZING--THE APPEAL FOR AID--RECEIPT OF GOODS--A SELF-SACRIFICING MOTHER--BATTLE NEAR KELLY’S FORD.

_October 19th._

I went to Alexandria this morning to learn whether the reports concerning the treatment of some of our boys in a certain hospital in that city were true. Arriving at the hospital, I asked for a list of the Michigan men who were there, obtaining which, I started to go through the wards, when an orderly came running after me, saying: “The doctor says you can’t go through the hospital.” This was something new, and I began to think there was some truth in the reports. I went directly to the doctor’s office and inquired what all this meant. He replied, “You must have a written permit from Dr. Bently, who is surgeon-in-charge of this division, before you can go through my hospital.” I still insisted on going through, without waiting to see Dr. B., whose office was nearly a mile from there. “Well, then,” he said, “I will go and see him myself, and you can wait until I return.” “But I can’t wait, doctor; I shall go through the wards while you are gone,” was my reply. He hesitated a moment, and then said: “Well, you may go through them this time. I guess it will be all right.” “I know it will be all right, doctor,” I answered. He left the hospital, while I made a tour of inspection through it, and, before leaving, I was convinced that the reports in circulation were not wholly without foundation.... Not long after this, I called to see Dr. Bently and inquired if it were necessary for me to have a pass from him, in order to be admitted to the hospitals in his division, and then related the unpleasant interview with one of his surgeons. “By no means,” he said. “And you tell the doctor for me, that you have the privilege of visiting my hospitals as often as you wish, and at such times as best suit your convenience. If you have any more trouble, let me know.” But I managed to fight my own battles thereafter, without calling upon him again, and at length gained the victory, as will be seen a few pages hence.

A few days after, I again visited the hospital, taking with me, among other things, two large bottles of blackberry-wine, designed for special cases. At the door I was informed by the guard that the doctor was not in, and that he had given him positive orders to admit no one--not even the President of the United States--during his absence. I did not wish the soldier to violate orders, but I did want to be admitted. I finally obtained the desired permission from the sergeant of the guard. I left the wine in care of one of the nurses, with instructions to give none of it to the patients until the doctor’s return; if it met his approbation, well. Seeing no cause for offence, I left the hospital before his “highness” returned. But upon my next visit I learned that the doctor, upon his return, was mad with rage, and, seizing one of the bottles, hurled it out of the window--the other was saved by being hidden under the sick man’s pillow for whom it was intended--shamefully abused the guard, threatened the sergeant (which, haply, was all he could do, there being a limit to his power), and declared that his orders should be obeyed. He for whom the wine was hidden took it without the doctor’s knowledge, and recovered; while the other--poor Mr. Kinney--died a few days after. I do not know that, in the former case, the wine hastened the sick man’s recovery, neither do I believe that it retarded it. As to the other, I do not think it would have saved life or hastened death; but there being so little hope of his recovery, and he so anxious to take it, it seemed cruel and inhuman to deny him. Let the case be as it may, with reference to those in question, there were many instances in which blackberry-wine was the means of saving life and restoring health.

Not long after this, I made application to this same high official (!)--a contract surgeon, with the rank of lieutenant--for the discharge of two soldiers, viz., Steven Benson, of the Seventh Michigan Cavalry, and Daniel Peters, of the Sixth--the former sick with consumption, the other with chronic diarrhœa. I was informed by the doctor that these two persons had already been examined for discharge, their papers made out, and forwarded to the office of the Medical Director for approval. This of course satisfied me; but I always made it convenient, whenever I went to Alexandria to call and inquire concerning them. Weeks passed, and nothing was heard from them. I again went to the doctor, and inquired “if he could account for the delay.” He replied: “I made up my mind some days ago that they were lost, and have had them made out the second time, and I have no doubt they will be returned in a few days.” I now felt doubly sure that all was as he had said.

After waiting a reasonable length of time, I went over again--for I felt exceedingly anxious about them--when, to my surprise, I learned that nothing had yet been heard from them. I returned to Washington, went to the Medical Director’s, and inquired why it was those papers were so long delayed. The records were examined, and I was informed that no such papers had ever been received there. I insisted that it must be, as they had been sent the second time. The books were again referred to, and carefully examined, but with the same result as before. I left the office, and immediately reported the facts to our secretary, who reported the same to the committee appointed by the Secretary of War, to investigate all such matters. What weight this report had with the committee I did not learn, but I was satisfied to know soon after that that surgeon was removed from the hospital. The discharge papers were then made out, but ere their return to the hospital poor Benson had received his final discharge from earth. Peters lived to go home, but whether he recovered or found an early grave I know not.

Not long after this I accompanied Mrs. Brainard to one of our hospitals in Washington. As we entered the building, we were confronted by the surgeon-in-charge, who demanded of Mrs. B. to know what she had in that basket. “Flannel shirts and drawers,” she replied. “Well, you can’t take them into my hospital,” was his quick and irritable response, at the same time seizing the basket and endeavoring to wrench it from Mrs. B’s. hands; but, nothing daunted, she gave a sudden jerk backward and cleared it from the doctor’s grasp, saying, as she found herself in full possession of her goods, “I understand my business, sir, and am going to take my things into the hospital.” Mr. “Pomposity” passed on, and we entered the office at our left, where we were greeted with a graceful salute by the officer of the day, who pleasantly inquired, “What can I do for you this morning?” Our request, being made known, is cheerfully granted, and our basket is soon made lighter and the sick boys happier. The difference there was in officers will readily be seen from this incident. A little “brass” did wonders for some; it made them arrogant, overbearing, dictatorial and tyrannical, while with others it made no difference whether they wore the corporal’s stripe or the general’s star. Garments of blue, though bordered with gold, have no power to crush the generous impulses of a noble soul. The true gentleman is discernible in any garb, and under all circumstances. The surgeon with whom we had this encounter soon after got into trouble with one of his patients. One cold morning before daylight, one of the wards of his hospital took fire. This patient, a convalescent from pneumonia, was the first on the roof, where he remained throwing bucket after bucket of water upon the burning building, until the fire was extinguished. As his clothes were dripping with water when he descended, he applied for some dry ones; but, as none could be obtained from the ward, he appealed to the surgeon, who ordered him back to his ward, telling him he could dry his clothes by the fire; he still insisted upon having some, and the doctor still refused, and again ordered him to his ward. By this time the soldier’s anger was pretty well aroused, and, confronting the doctor with clenched fist, says, “Take care, doctor, I have smelled gunpowder, and that is more than you have done,” at the same time planting a blow between his eyes that caused him to stagger and nearly fall to the floor. Rallying from this stunning blow, he called out, “Guards, guards, come and take this man away.” The order was obeyed, and he was locked up in the guard-house. The consequence was a relapse, which for a long time threatened his life. But, once released without having charges being preferred against him, and having a good understanding of military regulations, he found that he had the advantage of the doctor, and he improved it by preferring charges against him. The result was, that in a few weeks we had another surgeon in charge of the hospital--one whom the patients, as far as I ever knew, honored and respected.

I have known other surgeons who deserved as little respect as those here referred to; but, to the honor of the profession be it said, they were not in the majority. I knew many noble, skilful, self-sacrificing surgeons in the army, whose whole energies were devoted to the making of their hospitals pleasant and their patients comfortable.

Toward the close of the month of November the finances of our Association became very low. No money was received to replenish our exhausted treasury--no supplies reached us, if I mistake not, except a few boxes from Lansing. Had it not been for stores received from other States than our own, our work would almost entirely have ceased.

In addition to what Mrs. Brainard received from New York and Maryland, a nice barrel of goods was sent me from Harbor Creek, Pa., another from Portland, Me., and a firkin of pickles from an aged lady living in Hampden, Maine. The work of preparing these had all been done by herself; but her labor was a thousandfold repaid in gratitude and thanks and the good accomplished.

We occasionally drew from the Sanitary and Christian Commissions, and the various State Relief Associations, and thus managed to keep at work. For occasional drafts on the Sanitary Commission we were indebted to the personal efforts of our State Agent, Dr. Tunnecliff. In the barrel of goods which I have mentioned as coming from Maine, was a suit of clothes once worn by Captain Crosby, of the Twenty-second Maine volunteers, who was killed at the battle of Port Hudson. The clothes were sent by his patriotic mother, with the request that they be given to some needy Maine soldier, as she wished them to be worn out in the service in which her dear son had fallen. What a noble example of self-sacrificing devotion to country!

In order to lessen expenses, Mrs. Brainard--who had returned from Gettysburg a month before--and I took rooms together and boarded ourselves. A meeting of the officers of the Association was called to consider the subject of disorganizing; but they concluded to try and maintain the organization until spring, for they could not bear the thought that Michigan--the first to form a State Relief Association at the National Capital--should be the first to abandon it. An appeal was made through correspondence, by our Secretary, to Governor Blair, members of Congress, and other persons of influence in the State, setting forth the exhausted condition of our treasury and storeroom, and inquiring what course to pursue. The uniform response was: “Don’t for a moment think of discontinuing your labors as a society.” An appeal was then made to the people of our State, and not many weeks elapsed ere the call was heeded, as the supplies received proved. Battles and skirmishes were of no unfrequent occurrence. A large number of wounded were brought in from the battles near Kelly’s Ford--Michigan not losing as heavily as Maine and Wisconsin. The Sixth Maine, in one engagement, lost eighteen commissioned officers in killed and wounded.

Among those who were passing, one after another, into the unknown world, was William Doyle, of the Third Michigan volunteers, whose death was sudden--unexpected. He was convalescing from intermittent fever, and had written to his wife, stating the time she might hope to welcome him home, as he had applied for a furlough which he was daily expecting. He predicted rightly. The time of his arrival was only a little delayed. But, alas! only the clay tenement returned to rest where loving hands would bedeck its tomb with flowers, and the tears of affection water his grave.

“Underneath the sod low lying,
Dark and drear,
Sleepeth one, who left in dying
Sorrow here.

“Yes, they’re ever bending o’er him
Eyes that weep;
Forms that to the cold earth bore him,
Vigils keep.

“When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,
Friends he loved, in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

“Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit
Throned above;
Souls like thine with God inherit
Life and love!”

_CHAPTER X._

THE VETERAN RESERVE CORPS--UNWILLINGNESS TO SERVE IN IT--FORTY DAYS IN THE GUARD-HOUSE--CLIFBURN BARRACKS--EXPOSURE--AN OLD SOLDIER’S STORY--SUNDRY DUTIES--CHRISTMAS--THE SURPRISE--PROFESSOR HOLDEN--A BEREAVED MOTHER--VISIT TO THE ARMY--FIELD HOSPITALS--STEVENSBURG--MRS. MAYHEW--CHAPEL SERVICE--RETURN TO WASHINGTON.

In the autumn of 1863 the Veteran Reserve Corps was organized, and all soldiers whom examining boards pronounced unfit for field service, but able to do “light duty,” were transferred to one of the three battalions into which it was divided. Prior to being assigned to either of these battalions, they were quartered at Clifburn Barracks. In this camp there was much suffering from exposure and neglect. Nights were cold, barracks uncomfortable, bunks with no bedding, except the soldier’s blanket. Many a poor fellow lost his life in consequence of exposure during his stay at Clifburn. In the majority of cases, the transfer to this organization was made against the soldier’s wishes, who, if able to do duty, preferred to be sent to his regiment. But a soldier’s duty is to obey orders, irrespective of his wishes. I recall several instances in which soldiers were severely punished for refusing to serve in the “Invalid Corps,” as it was called. I will mention one. A soldier was kept in the guard-house forty days, court-martialed three times, and he still refused to put on the “Invalid” jacket. An appeal in his behalf was finally made to the War Department, when the Secretary ordered his release. He had always been a good soldier, never refusing to do duty in the field, and he insisted, as he could no longer serve his country there, he should receive his discharge. I knew others who would refuse to be transferred, but, after lying in the guard-house a few days, would submit. One, who had been a good soldier in the field, seemed to consider it a disgrace to serve where there was no danger, or, if not a disgrace, there was at least no honor attached to the service.

The hospital connected with this camp was never as well supplied as those in the city. Disease in almost every form found its way thither--fevers, pneumonia, rheumatism, that insidious disease--consumption, and even small-pox. Upon one of my next visits to this hospital, I found a young man of the Seventh Michigan, who was a great sufferer from inflammatory rheumatism. He was extremely anxious to go home, and requested me to see the surgeon in regard to his discharge. On inquiry I found that his papers would be ready as soon as he was able to travel. He was removed to Mr. Clark’s--formerly of Ann Arbor, at that time residing near the hospital--where, with the most tender nursing, he so far recovered as to be able to go home in a few weeks. He continued to improve for a short time after reaching home, but was suddenly taken worse and died; and another victim was added to the many occasioned by neglect and exposure while at Clifburn.

It may be asked whose business it was to care for these. I answer, the Sanitary Commission. After the Government had provided barracks and blankets, it was the place of this great organization to begin where the Government left off, and to have made those convalescents comfortable. Thousands of dollars were almost daily being poured into its coffers by patriotic, self-sacrificing friends in the North, and in three days’ time, and even less, after those barracks were occupied, they should have been supplied with plenty of good, warm bedding; and vegetables, in large quantities, should have been daily issued. Many valuable lives would thus have been saved to gladden homes now lonely and desolate. Let honor be given where honor is due. This commission did, as it ought with the means at its disposal, a world of good; but there was at times bad management somewhere, and an injudicious use of its funds, for, while its supplies were wasting and rotting in store-houses, soldiers were suffering and dying for want of them. It may be argued that this could not have been avoided, there sometimes being a scarcity of help; but that could easily have been remedied, as hundreds--yea, thousands--stood ready to “volunteer” their services--all they wanted was the privilege of working for soldiers. Or these wasting goods might have been given to other societies, which would have gladly received them, and with willing hands prepared and distributed them to those for whom they were designed.

* * * * *

As I was leaving camp, after the visit to which I have referred, I was met by a soldier who wished me to ascertain whether his discharge-papers had been forwarded to the office of the Medical Director.

I returned to the office and made inquiry concerning them, and learned that they were to be forwarded that afternoon. Notifying the soldier, I again started for home, but, before passing the limits of the camp, I was hailed by an old man with silver locks and bent form, who wished to know if I could do anything for him. “If so, for God’s sake,” he said, “render me some assistance.” I listened to his story, which was indeed a sad one. It was as follows:

When the war broke out, he was the owner of a handsome property in Missouri. He was driven from his home by rebel hordes, his buildings were burned, and all personal property either destroyed or confiscated. He came North, when himself and three sons enlisted in the Union army. His sons had all been killed--the last one, a little drummer-boy, only a few days before--and himself nothing but a wreck. He had served nearly three years in the ranks as a private soldier, and now asked to be discharged from the service. “You have made a great sacrifice,” I said. “Yes; but we did it cheerfully. The country is worth it all, and a thousand times more,” he answered. “If I could do any good by staying longer, I would not ask to go home; but, you see, I’m of no account now,” holding up his thin, emaciated hands. “The boys were fine lads; but they’re gone, and I shall soon follow.” I was moved to tears by his pitiful story, and again retraced my steps to the office, briefly related the old soldier’s statement, and requested that he might have an early examination, and obtained a promise that he should. The poor old man, on hearing this, was too grateful to express his thanks; he could only say, “God bless you! God bless you, my child!” His discharge at length came. He called to bid me “good-by,” before leaving the city; but whether he now lives to enjoy the blessings for which he fought, or has gone to meet his sons on the further shore, I cannot tell.

Once again I endeavored to make my exit from camp, but was met by two more requesting a similar favor; but, not daring to trespass upon the doctor’s good-nature any more that day, I told them they would have to wait until I came again, and so made my escape.

Not long after this I spent nearly half a day in running about trying to get transportation for a soldier of the Nineteenth Maine, who had obtained a furlough. How glad I was when I saw the poor old man on his way to the depot, and how richly paid I felt for my trouble, when he turned and said, as I parted with him, “Good-by, God bless you; I’ll tell my wife I shouldn’t have got home these two days if you hadn’t helped me.” Then, with what an elastic step he hurried on, lest the train should leave him, forgetting that he was weak and feeble. It will be seen from these few incidents that our duties did not consist altogether in preparing and distributing supplies. In fact, that was but a small part of our work--there were, at almost every visit, so many errands to do, questions to answer, and messages to deliver, that they greatly increased our labors, but these were only parts of the great whole.

The 24th inst. Mrs. B. and I spent the entire day in cooking, as we wished to surprise the boys at Clifburn by giving them a little something extra for dinner the next day; all the hospitals in the city were to have a “Christmas dinner,” and we feared this would be wholly overlooked. Our fears proved true, as far as those not in the immediate hospital department were concerned.

Christmas came, bringing chilly winds and biting frosts; but before noon we were on our way to Clifburn with well-filled baskets, accompanied by a couple of soldiers who volunteered their assistance. Arriving in camp, it was heart-sickening to see those who had left homes of plenty, crowding around us, and, like children, begging for a piece of “Christmas pie!” The remembrance would not be so sad could all have been served, but there were hundreds who received nothing; and, when all was given out, they fell back a few paces, and gave three rousing cheers for the Michigan ladies, those who received nothing cheering with the rest. Oh, could these have shared the bountiful Christmas dinners at home, how many hearts would have been gladdened and made happy! As we were ready to start upon our mission that morning, we were met at the door by Mr. Moses, who surprised us, Mrs. B. and myself, with a present of forty dollars each, in behalf of Michigan gentlemen residing in Washington. The gift was truly appreciated.

The 28th of the month, Mrs. Brainard left for Michigan, and did not return until about the 1st of April; so I was again left alone, with the work that both had been doing devolving upon me.

Supplies continued to reach us--many through the personal efforts of Mrs. Brainard. I also received a nice barrel of goods from Brighton, Mich., and another from Harbor Creek, Penn., also ten dollars in money. The last day of the month, I was happily surprised by receiving a call from Professor Holden, formerly of Kalamazoo College. He found me busy at work preparing articles for distribution. After asking many questions, and inquiring into the nature of my work, and how long I had been engaged in it, he said: “We didn’t know what we were preparing you for, when you were with us at Kalamazoo. We never dreamed that you would so soon engage in a work like this.” His heart was in full sympathy with the good cause, and, when about to leave, he placed a five-dollar bill in my hand, saying, as he did so, “I will add so much to your Christmas present.” If, as he turned away, he was five dollars poorer in purse, he was much more than that richer in blessings.

One afternoon, as I was returning from Alexandria, I met a lady on the boat, whom a few hours before I had seen in a hospital anxiously inquiring for her son. She was sitting alone in one corner of the cabin, rocking to and fro, wringing her hands and sobbing aloud, apparently oblivious to all around her. I at once divined the cause of her sorrow, which her own words confirmed--she was too late! They were just closing his coffin when she found him. It seemed as though her poor agonized heart must break. He was her only son, his term of enlistment had nearly expired, and she was joyfully anticipating his speedy return home, when the dreadful tidings reached her that he was mortally wounded--accidentally shot by a comrade. The first train that left after she received this sad message was bearing her away from her Eastern home to the coffin-side of her dead. The hope of receiving from his own lips his last words and dying blessing had buoyed her up during that sad journey; but this last hope having been taken from her, she was overwhelmed with grief. No words of mine could afford her consolation. Like Rachel of old, she refused to be comforted. “My poor boy! oh, my poor boy!” she continued to repeat amid tears and sobs, until we parted at Washington.

The 14th of January, I went to the army with supplies for our sick in field hospitals. Arriving at “Brandy Station”--some seventy miles from Washington--I was set out in the mud with my goods, no one to meet me as I expected; cold, gray clouds were hanging overhead, and a chilly wind whistling among the tents. Here, for the first time, I experienced the great difficulty there was in finding any particular regiment in the army. Each seemed like a little isolated town, so wholly absorbed with its own cares and duties that frequently the nearest encampment was neither known by name or number--recognized only in the broad sense of “Uncle Sam’s boys.” Yet there was a common interest and sympathy existing among all who wore the army blue; no matter what part of the Union they hailed from, they were all enlisted in the same cause, fighting beneath the same flag, and for the same grand result.

Having my goods removed to a little rise of ground where the mud was not quite so deep, I climbed its slippery side and took my post as guard; but, in spite of my vigilance, a firkin of butter was carried off, though I recovered it--taken through mistake of course (!!)

On inquiry, I was surprised to find that no one there even knew that there was such a regiment in the army as the Twenty-sixth Michigan--neither could they tell me anything about General Custer’s Cavalry Brigade. I next inquired for the First Division, Second Corps--to which the Twenty-sixth belonged. “About four miles from here,” was the reply. It was getting late; there was no possible chance that I could see to obtain accommodations at the station over night. The roads were almost impassable, and, as yet, I had no conveyance and no prospect of procuring one before the next day. My first thought was to store my goods and start on foot, but I was dissuaded from this course by the boys declaring that I could never get through if I started; and I afterwards learned how utterly impossible would have been the undertaking. But what was to be done? Everything looked discouraging, and I almost felt like giving up in despair. I resolved, however, to make one more effort to get some sort of a conveyance, and again inquired if there were not a Second Corps ambulance still at the station? I had asked the same gentleman several times before, and every time received a negative reply--a positive “no.” But, not knowing what else to do, I kept repeating my question, and this time a doubtful answer was given by one who really seemed to pity me in my deplorable condition; and the very doubt expressed in his reply, “I think not--however, I’ll go and see,” kindled a new hope in my heart. In a moment he disappeared behind boxes of “hard tack,” bales of hay and sacks of grain, while I remained _in statu quo_, being for once the central object of attraction. This soldier was soon the bearer of good news: the only ambulance remaining would leave in a few moments. The driver soon made his appearance, who kindly offered to take me to the Twenty-sixth, as his regiment--the Eighty-first Pennsylvania--was brigaded with the same and encamped near it. What goods I could not take with me were stored with the Provost Marshal until the next day. Those four miles through deep mud, over corduroy roads and across bridgeless streams are at length made in safety, and the driver returns to his quarters rich in the possession of a few pounds of sweet, yellow butter, while I am heartily greeted and cheerfully welcomed to the cabin homes of the Twenty-sixth. Many regrets are expressed that my letter had not been received, in consequence of which no one knew of my arrival at the station. But that tedious waiting in wind and mud is soon forgotten, for familiar faces, pleasant smiles, and cordial greetings are met on every hand.

I could hardly realize that this was the same regiment that, nine months before, we bade adieu as it left the shores of Alexandria for the seat of war. To some of their number, alas! it proved a long farewell, for they were left sleeping their last sleep on the bank of the James. After resting a little and partaking of a warm supper, which was prepared with neatness and dispatch, I paid a visit to the hospital, which reminded me of the home of the pioneer. It consisted of a low, one story log cabin, with two rude chimneys and a ruder floor. On either side of the room was a row of cots, which consisted of pine boughs and a blanket laid across poles elevated a little from the floor, with another blanket, or perhaps two, for covering--sheets and pillows they had none. These were occupied by the sick.

As I passed through the hospital, stopping a few moments at the bedside of each patient, and telling them I had come with sanitary stores which had been sent by friends at home expressly for them, their countenances brightened, while some declared, that they felt a hundred per cent. better for knowing they were thus kindly remembered.

Upon a calm, still day, with two blazing, crackling fires, the hospital, though rude, presented a pleasant, cheerful aspect; but, upon a damp, windy day, this cheerful aspect was driven away by dense volumes of smoke, which would come pouring down the chimneys, making it almost impossible to remain inside; yet all seemed to think it was the best that could be provided for them under the circumstances, and uncomplainingly submitted to their hard lot. There was considerable sickness in the regiment at this time, one great cause of which, I have no doubt, was the location of the camp--it being low and wet, and, I am sorry to say, was poorly policed. Death was not an unfrequent visitor. Some three or four, in as many days, had obeyed his stern mandate and gone--ah! whither?

“Ask not--the lonely hearthstone tells
Too plain the mournful story:
Gone, in their beauty and their pride,
To swell the ranks of glory.”

At my next visit, a few weeks later, I was able to report a great change for the better. In the absence of superior officers, Major Saviers--a man possessing rare executive ability--was in command. The campground had been drained, sidewalks of split wood built, the streets bordered with evergreens, and many other improvements made.

Leaving these poor sick men cheered with the promise that, as soon as my goods arrived, they should be made more comfortable, I was given _carte blanche_ possession of a little cabin, which I found “swept and garnished” after the most approved style of the soldier. A bright fire was blazing on the hearth, a narrow cot--similar to those in the hospital--stood in one corner of the room, a rude table in another, and a camp-chair in the third. These, with a couple of shelves on one side of the cabin, containing sundry culinary articles together with the accoutrements of war, constituted the owner’s household goods. Being quite weary I retired early, yet I cannot say that I felt much rested next morning; but I wondered all the more how those poor sick men could lie upon such beds.

As soon as my goods arrived I furnished the hospital beds with sheets and pillows, the patients with clean handkerchiefs and a few dressing-gowns, besides dried fruit, jellies, wine, and butter, also papers and magazines. I found several sick in their quarters which the hospital could not accommodate; these I visited and supplied with such things as they were mostly needing. Never was anything, I am sure, received with more gratitude than were those few supplies which it was my pleasure to distribute.

This regiment, unlike many, was blessed with a kind and faithful surgeon, and a chaplain worthy of the name. My next visit was to the Fifth and Sixth Cavalry; but there was far less sickness in these regiments than when I visited them at Fairfax, notwithstanding their increased hardships and exposures, their frequent raids, skirmishes, and battles. But many, for whom this toughening process was too severe, had fallen out by the way, and were left to sleep in unmarked yet honored graves. At the little broken, dilapidated town of Stevensburg, where fences and “hoops” were unknown, and sallow faces gave evidence of the “dip”--where chimneys were leaning from perpendicular as if contemplating a change of base, and where windows could boast of more rags than panes of glass--was our Cavalry Brigade Hospital; but it contained comparatively few sick. Good nursing and proper food, no doubt, would have saved any who were in the hospital at that time. The beds were much better than those in infantry hospitals. Each cot was furnished with a tick filled with hay, which was obtained by cutting the horses’ rations a little short; but, in other respects, they were about on a par with field hospitals generally. Here I disposed of the remainder of my goods, and, on the morning of the 17th, left the sick, with a promise to come again soon, with a larger supply of sanitary stores. Arriving at Brandy Station, I found the train had left, and, not knowing what to do, I appealed to the Provost Marshal, from whom, to my great relief, I learned that Mrs. Mayhew--an agent for the Maine Association--had her head-quarters in an old building not far away. The house was pointed out, and, in a few minutes more, I was the welcome guest of this excellent lady and her friend, Mrs. Painter, of New Jersey. It being the Lord’s day, we attended service at the C. C. chapel. That was a day long to be remembered. How solemn the service! And what a good class--or speaking-meeting--followed! What a beautiful sight to see those brawny, stalwart soldiers stand up for Jesus! Early Monday morning I assisted in feeding a train of sick who were on their way from Culpepper to Washington. These ladies held themselves in readiness to start with broth, crackers, tea and coffee, as soon as a train of the sick or wounded arrived. Who can estimate the good thus accomplished by those two earnest, Christian women?

At ten o’clock the same morning, I started for Washington, accompanied by Mrs. Mayhew. When in the vicinity of Union Mills--some twenty-five miles from the city--a collision occurred a few miles ahead of us, in consequence of which we were delayed twelve hours. The day was gloomy, cold, and rainy; our car leaked badly. We were without food, nothing to read, and, in fact, nothing to do but to sit still and wait, and hope every moment that the train would start. We were wholly unprepared for such an emergency. Those twelve hours seemed lengthened into as many days, and not until two A. M. were we safely quartered in my own room, cold, hungry, and drenching wet. Next day we both began to experience the effects of a severe cold, which for some time seriously threatened us, but we managed to keep at work.

_CHAPTER XI._

ANOTHER VISIT TO THE ARMY--INCIDENTS--PONY MOUNTAIN--PICKET LINE--THE MOVE--RETURN TO WASHINGTON--LONG BRIDGE--CAPTAIN MASON--REMARKS ABOUT HOSPITAL DUTIES--ARLINGTON--THE SOLDIERS’ HOME.

The 21st ult., through the kindness of Colonel Alger of the Fifth Cavalry, I obtained another pass to go to the army, and, on the morning of the 27th, again started with a fine lot of hospital stores. At the station I met Dr. Beach, who was returning to his regiment. The day was warm and pleasant, and instead of a long, lonely ride, the journey is too soon made. How desolate the country through which we pass! Marks of destruction, which ever follow the train of war, are everywhere visible. The earth is furrowed and ridged with long lines of rifle-pits, redoubts and redans. Breastworks and formidable abattis are seen at various places along the line of the road. Occasionally a tall chimney is seen standing like some lone sentinel, telling in language plainer than words of “glory departed.” Every few miles we are reminded of the dangers to which we are exposed by broken cars, iron rails bent and twisted and strewn along the side of the track, causing us almost to expect to leave one or more of our cars, if not our bones, with the wreck of others, before arriving at our place of destination. We pass some places of little note before the war, but by it rendered not only historical, but memorable. Such are Manassas, Catlett’s, Bristow, and Rappahannock Stations and Warrenton Junction. At or near each of these, battles have been fought, and the earth drenched with human gore. No waiting this time at the station; General Custer’s carriage--a confiscated barouche--is there before us. Nearly dark when we arrive at camp. Soldiers are never at a loss for expedients, and soon the dispensary is converted into a temporary dwelling-house, which, with a bright fire blazing on the hearth, made my little home look cozy and inviting.

Again, as at my former visit, the work of unpacking, assorting, and distributing to different hospitals and those sick in their quarters had to be gone through with. Most of the sick who were in these hospitals upon my former visit had been sent away, but they were filled with others quite as needy.

The afternoon of the 29th I rode out with Sergeant Summerville to the camp of the Twenty-fourth Michigan, to learn the condition of the sick and what they were most needing. The regiment was encamped in a beautiful place about a mile and a half from the once pleasant little village of Culpepper. The hospital I found entirely empty. A few had been sent to the division hospital at Culpepper, but none were dangerously ill. From both surgeon and chaplain I learned that the health of the regiment was never better, and that whatever stores I had designed for them had better be given to those more needy. Here for the first time I had the pleasure of meeting that excellent lady, Mrs. Chaplain Way. Who knows how far her kind care and advice and influence went toward not only restoring the sick to health, but preventing sickness? As the day was far spent, and having about nine miles to ride, we made only a short stay, and then headed our horses for “home.”

After passing through Culpepper, we struck across lots for Pony Mountain. We were not troubled with fences, but found plenty of mud and ditches to be gotten over and through as best we could. On our way to the Twenty-fourth, we rode over Pony Mountain, instead of taking a circuit around it. It was decidedly romantic climbing the steep ascent, clambering over rocks and urging our way through the thick bushes, which at times almost impeded our progress. On the top of the mountain was a signal station. Here we dismounted to rest our horses, while we took a good view of the surrounding country. The landscape before us was picturesque and grand. The vast Army of the Potomac was encamped about us; white tents clustered in every valley and covered every hill-side. At our left lay the village of Culpepper; the Blue Ridge with its snowy peaks loomed up in the distance; while a little to the southward, just across the Rapidan, was the enemy’s country, with its long lines of fortifications crowned with frowning, glistening guns. At the station, the signal officer was making various evolutions and movements with his little black and white flag, conveying, perhaps, important messages to the commanding general.

Remounting our steeds, we slowly proceed down the steep declivity on the opposite side of the mountain, and hurry on. We had gone but a short distance when we came to a large three-story brick house, where, Mr. S. told me, the rebel sharpshooters were once concealed to pick off our men as they pursued the flying foe from Culpepper. A battery was opened upon the building, and soon “Johnny reb” was glad to evacuate his stronghold and beat a hasty retreat. The family, in their frenzy, rushed into the cellar for safety; but there is little safety in the face of an open battery. A large ball, striking the wall near the ground, knocked in the bricks, hurling them in confusion across the cellar, killing an old man and a little child. The whole building--roof, wall, and windows--showed the folly of hoping for safety within.

The next morning I was invited by Dr. Beach to take a ride along our picket-line. As my pass had not yet expired, and being naturally a little fond of adventure, the temptation was too great, and, in spite of the dark, lowering clouds, the slow, drizzling rain, and the prospect of a stormy day, we mounted our steeds and galloped away. Our infantry pickets are soon passed, and, as we approach the Rapidan, we descend the bank, and ride for some distance along the flat, only a few rods from the river. At our right, across the river, are the rebel pickets; at our left, our own. These are the outposts of the two armies, each mounted, and vigilantly watching the movements of the other. About noon we called at a small wood-colored house to rest. In this small building the women and children representing three different families were living. One of the ladies was a widow. The husbands of the other two were in the rebel army. They received us cordially--they dare not do otherwise even had they felt disposed to, being at the mercy of our army, and subsisting wholly upon it. Dinner being ready we gladly accepted an invitation to share their frugal meal, which consisted of pork and beans, corn-bread, and rice. After dinner we rode over to Germania Ford and called on another secession family. Here we found a woman and two or three little children living alone. The lady’s husband had been in the rebel army, but was then a prisoner, confined in the old Capitol, at Washington. She claimed to be a relative of the rebel General Ashly. She was none of the “poor white trash” of the South, and, though then very destitute, she had seen better days. The children, ashamed of their rags, ran and hid themselves behind the house, and could not be induced to come in, though the mother urged the little girl to come and play for us on the piano. The lady played and sang several beautiful songs. She was greatly pleased that we had called. She urged me to stay until the next day, and tried to exact a promise that I would be sure and come again. “Oh!” she said, “I am so lonely! I have not seen a lady before in months.” She was hemmed in between the two picket-lines, and could make her escape in neither direction. Though still a rebel, she deemed their cause hopeless, and earnestly wished for a speedy return of peace.

The Twenty-Sixth was the last regiment visited this time. My stay there, though short, was rendered exceedingly pleasant, as Mrs. Dr. Raymond and the wife of Commissary Patterson were spending a little time in camp with their husbands. About four o’clock, the morning of the 3d (I believe) of March, an order for “three days’ rations in haversacks” was issued, and at early dawn, each company, fully armed and equipped, with “drums beating and colors flying,” slowly filed out of camp, knowing not whither they went--expecting, however, to cross the Rapidan and engage the enemy. But fortune favored them; for, while others crossed, met the enemy, fought and fell, they were all permitted to return in safety. Many a sad “good-by” was spoken that morning, and many a “God bless you!” went with those brave fellows, while, with a prayer in our hearts, we commended them to the keeping of Him who holds the destiny not only of nations but of individuals in his hands. At eight o’clock the same morning I left for Washington, in company with Lieutenant Grisson, who had obtained a fifteen-day leave of absence. On our way to Brandy Station we met the artillery-trains and long lines of infantry moving toward the scene of conflict. When within a mile of the station our ambulance broke down, which we left sunk in the mud nearly to the axles, and started on foot; but, while trying to pick our way so as to avoid the deepest mud and water, the shrill whistle of the locomotive is heard, and the train comes rushing on from Culpepper. We are admonished that there is no time to lose, and, increasing our speed to a “double-quick,” we stop for neither mud nor water until we are safely seated in the cars. Then the beautiful prospect of riding with wet feet a distance of seventy miles, incident to all the delays to be met with in travelling over a military road, presents itself--cheering, to say the least, and an excellent remedy for cold and cough (?)

Upon our arrival in Alexandria, we learned that there had been an accident that morning on the Long Bridge, damaging it so much that the trains could not pass over. The particulars of the accident were as follows:--The draw had been opened for a boat to pass, and was not yet closed when the train approached. The danger was discovered too late. With all possible speed the breaks were put on and the engine reversed; but, being a down-hill grade, the train continued to move from its own weight and the velocity which it had already acquired. On rushed the engine into the open space and plunged headlong into the river, dragging with it two or three cars freighted with human beings, mostly soldiers returning from furloughs. Many a poor fellow found a watery grave, while others died soon after of the injuries received.

No doubt the prayer was continually being offered by friends they had left at home, that God would shield them and cover their heads in the day of battle, little dreaming that the grim monster, Death, lurked by the way side.

Leaving the cars, we hurry to the landing and take boat to Washington. Sad, pale faces and stricken hearts meet us at every turn. Captain Mason, of the Eighty-first Pennsylvania, is among the passengers. He is on his way to his home in Philadelphia, to attend the funeral of his wife, having received a telegram the day before announcing her death.

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