Chapter VI: Part 6

Our daily duties were so similar, that an account of one day’s work would be a fair specimen of every day’s. We knew no rest until the wounded were all removed. Night ever found us weary and foot-sore. There was a large number of faithful laborers at Fredericksburg. The different commissions and State associations were there, each with a noble corps of earnest workers. Among these untiring ones was Mrs. General Barlow, whose husband commanded the First Division, Second Corps. Many of the improvements made in our hospitals--especially of the Second Corps--were the result of her personal efforts. She worked on through sunshine and storm, until her overtaxed system yielded to the ravages of disease, and she fell a martyr to the cause she had so faithfully served. But the laurels she won “are unfading, and will be verdant in heaven.” Among the many faithful workers in Fredericksburg, I knew of none who accomplished more than Mrs. Samson, of Maine, and Miss Hancock, of Pennsylvania. They were not only earnest and faithful, but efficient--going where many would not think of venturing, overcoming obstacles to others insurmountable, yielding to discouragements never. Heat or cold, storm or sunshine, distance or danger, were never allowed to interfere with duty. There were many others whose noble deeds are recorded on high.

We were aided in our work by a number of volunteer laborers, who, one after another, remained a few days or weeks, as they had opportunity. Among these were Colonel Barnes, Messrs. Bayley and Wallace, of Detroit; also, Messrs. Thompson, Moses, Pierce, Horton, Willcox, and Green. Each day’s work was full of incident, sad yet interesting. One morning, accompanied by Mr. Horton, I went with supplies to one of the hospitals, which I found in a most destitute and neglected condition. It was filled with wounded, brought in the night before. As yet they had eaten nothing, neither had they been visited by a surgeon, consequently their wounds remained undressed. The hospital was filthy beyond all comparison. After dishing out our soup and crackers to those poor half-starved men, Mr. H. began the work of dressing wounds, while I started in search of a surgeon, or some one, to assist him. At the Cavalry Corps Hospital--more than a mile distant--I secured the services of Steward Smith; and, as we were hurrying back to that abode of wretchedness, we were overtaken by Steward Dennis, of the Sixth Cavalry, who volunteered to assist us; and very soon both were at work in good earnest, while I hastened “home” to replenish our supply of rags, bandages, shirts, drawers, pillows, and handkerchiefs; and then, assisted by the nurse, began the work of cleaning the hospital. Before leaving, all had been fed, wounds dressed, clean clothing provided, the worst of the filth and dirt removed, and a large quantity of lemonade made for the “boys.” One poor fellow died during the day, and three more before morning. In a few days, those who survived were removed, and the hospital again filled with others. Thus they continued to come and go, until the last wounded were brought from the field.

The next day I made another visit to the hospitals on the “Heights.” Mr. Marvin, A. C. C. delegate, accompanied me. The heat was oppressive. The perspiration dropped profusely from our faces while climbing that long hill with our loaded baskets. We found a large number of new arrivals. In the open air, near one of the hospitals, amputations were being performed, and, from the pile of dissevered limbs near by, it was evident that the number was fearfully large. A young man in one of the wards, who had just been brought from the amputating-table, and had sufficiently recovered from the effects of chloroform to realize his loss, was most bitterly deploring it. To him his loss was irreparable. All efforts to pacify him were made in vain; he gave himself up to weeping, lamenting his great misfortune.

But his was an exceptional case. The language of the wounded was oftener in accordance with the spirit of the following touching poem:

“The knife was still; the surgeon bore
The shattered arm away;
Upon his bed, in painless sleep,
The noble hero lay.
He woke, but saw the vacant place
Where arm of his had lain,
Then faintly spoke: ‘Oh! let me see
My strong right arm again.’

“‘Good-by, old arm!’ the soldier said,
As he clasped the fingers cold;
And down his pale but manly cheek
The tear-drops gently rolled.
‘My strong right-arm, no deed of yours
Now gives me cause to sigh;
But ’tis hard to part such trusty friends--
Good-by, old arm! Good-by!

“‘You’ve served me well these many years.
In sunlight and in shade;
But, comrade, we have done with war--
Let dreams of glory fade.
You’ll never more my sabre swing
In battle fierce and hot;
You’ll never bear another flag,
Or fire another shot.

“‘I do not mourn to lose you now
For home and native land;
Oh! proud am I to give my mite
For freedom, pure and grand.
Thank God, no selfish thought is mine,
While here I bleeding lie;
But bear it tenderly away.
Good-by, old arm! Good-by!’”

I often wondered at the cheerfulness and fortitude with which they bore not only their great losses, but so much pain. If they were heroes amid the fierce conflict of battle, they were equally so when suffering in hospitals. On our return from this sad visit we were joined by Captain Williams, of the Seventh Michigan Infantry, who pointed out to us the battlefield of December 13th, 1862, and the very places where Michigan regiments were stationed; also the line of works charged on and carried. As I gazed upon those long lines of fortifications, “rising one above the other, tier upon tier,” upon which rebel batteries were planted that mowed our men down so fearfully as they advanced in solid phalanx, facing those unyielding guns which continually belched forth their missiles of death, I did not wonder that they were compelled to fall back. It seems like madness to have attempted to carry such works by direct attack. It was done at a fearful loss of life. The blood poured forth on that eventful day quenched the light in many a home. The battle work of thousands was that day completed, and they left sleeping upon the “green couch of our final rest.” By how many, ere the heart grew still, might not the confession and the earnest appeal expressed in the following have been made?

“I’m no saint!
But, boys, say a prayer--there is one that begins
‘Our Father,’ and then says, ‘Forgive us our sins;’
Don’t forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I’ll try to repeat it, and you’ll say ‘Amen!’
Ah! I’m no saint!”

Not far from the 20th of the month, tent hospitals were erected about a mile and a half from the city along the south bank of the Rappahannock, to which many of the more seriously wounded were removed, as the atmosphere, being so much purer than in the city, would greatly favor their recovery. To one of these tents Mr. Waters--whom I had previously mentioned--was taken. The evening before his removal, when I took him his supper--consisting of tea and custard, which he had requested--I found him in great distress of mind. He had heard it rumored that he was to be removed, but knew not whither, and anxiously inquired, “What does it all mean?” He was well aware that frequently, when soldiers were given up to die, they were taken into what was called the “death ward,” and the poor man thought that was where he was to go; but when he learned where he was going, and the reason therefor, the tears started from his eyes, and, with quivering lips, he exclaimed, “Oh! I thought my death-warrant was sealed.” “Well, what if it were; are you afraid to die?” I asked. “Oh, no,” he replied, “for my trust is in Jesus. I feel that all would be well with me were I to die; but I have a large family who need me so much; for their sakes I hope my life will be saved.” When about to leave him he extended his hand, saying, “Now be sure and find me at the other hospital, won’t you?” The promise was made and kept, but I found him fast sinking into the grave. He expressed little hope of recovery, but a good hope in Jesus. He was soon after removed to Washington and taken to Armory Square Hospital, where he lingered until the 26th of June, when he exchanged his suit of blue for a robe of white, and laid him down to rest. After I had taken my leave of Mr. W.--the evening in question--and as I was hastily leaving the hospital, my attention was attracted to a soldier who was weeping and sobbing as though his heart would break. On going to him I recognized one to whose wants I had frequently ministered. On inquiring the cause of his trouble, “Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, “the doctor isn’t going to let you bring anything more into the hospital; but, if you don’t, I shall starve to death.” I could scarcely convince him that it was only a rumor, and that I should continue my visits as before, but he would not relinquish his hold on my hand until he had exacted a positive promise that I would surely come again; and not until my next visit was he fully reassured that all was right. In a few days my poor one-armed boy was sent off, and I saw him no more. The same evening I again visited “Planter’s Hotel.” Edward Fisher, whom I found in the afternoon peaceful and happy, was now raving with delirium. Approaching his bed and calling him by name, I asked if he knew me; for a moment he appeared rational, looked up and smiled, but the next he was wild and delirious again. He had already given an arm for his country, and now he was about to offer his young life a sacrifice upon the same altar. Ere the morning’s dawn he was enrolled in the army of the “Boys in White.”

Upon one of my visits to the Paper Mill Hospital I found seventy men who had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Although late in the afternoon, I promised the “boys” that they should have something to eat before I slept that night; so hurrying home I made farina and corn-starch puddings for these seventy hungry men. But, before returning to the hospital, rations had been issued, which, together with the puddings, they declared just made a good meal. At that late day I knew of no excuse for being short of government rations, and there must have been great neglect on the part of some one; though when we first occupied Fredericksburg it was almost impossible to procure transportation sufficient to convey supplies from Belle Plain, a distance of twelve miles from the city, and twenty-five or thirty from the army. Much suffering and many deaths were the unavoidable result.

Presently it began to be rumored that the city was about to be evacuated. It was thought by many that either Bowling Green or Port Royal would be the new base of operations--though all was conjecture. But soon the order to evacuate was received; consequently our supplies, not yet disposed of, were packed, transportation procured, passes obtained, and everything put in readiness for a move. Wednesday, the 25th of May, all the Michigan delegation, except myself, went on board transports bound for Washington. As I had a promise of transportation to the “new base,” I greatly preferred going there to returning to Washington. Our tent hospitals were not broken up until the 27th, though the last of the wounded (in the city) were removed the 25th. That morning I visited the Amputation Hospital--so called from the fact that nearly all the wounded there had been subjected to the amputating knife. This, I believe, was the last hospital in the city broken up. Most of the patients in it at this time were from Michigan. Among the number was a brave Indian chief, who had received a mortal wound, and died soon after arriving at Washington. The others, as far as I know, recovered. The afternoon of the same day I made another visit to our tent hospitals, taking sundry articles for distribution, among which was a bottle of sherry brandy, for Mr. Waters, who, I knew, would greatly need stimulants during his tedious journey to Washington. That day I took my farewell leave of him. In one of the wards was a man in the agonies of death, alone and unconscious. Taking a fan, I stood by his cot and brushed away the flies, which were buzzing and swarming around him like bees. But the struggle was soon over; he died without returning to consciousness. I deeply regretted afterwards that I did not obtain the address of some member of his family, and write the anxiously awaiting friends, whose dreadful suspense, perhaps, was not relieved until the official announcement of his death reached them.

The Slaughter estate, on which these tents were pitched, was a lovely place. The site of the mansion was delightful. A beautiful flower-garden, in which various kinds of roses blossomed abundantly, making the very atmosphere heavy with their fragrance, gradually sloped toward the river. But the old house was deserted; it bore fearful testimony to the destructive effect of balls, of both friend and foe. I never saw a building more completely riddled with shot and shell.

The afternoon of the 26th, in company with four other ladies, who were also waiting transportation, I paid a visit to the tomb of Mrs. Mary Washington. The monument had evidently been struck by a cannon-ball, as the top was broken off, and lay in fragments on the ground. We gathered up a few pieces as sacred mementoes of the spot where repose the ashes of that noble woman--the mother of the “Father of his Country.” As we stood in silence, gazing with solemn awe upon her grave, we could not help thinking of her son--that little boy, who once, perhaps, played in childish glee upon the very ground where we were standing, and who with his little hatchet cut the favorite cherry-tree, growing, as some affirm, upon the spot where that monument now stands. Then the beautiful lesson taught by his truthful simplicity, and the deep impression it made upon our minds in early life, were recalled; also the purity of his after life, his noble record, his philanthropic deeds, his peaceful death. With reflections like these we leave this venerated tomb, and slowly wend our way to the soldiers’ burying-ground, and pay our last tribute of respect to the hundreds of brave men who were there resting from their labors, and “whose slumbers will not be broken until the reveille of the resurrection morn shall awake them.”

“Soldiers’ graves are thickly scattered
O’er the valley and the lea;
They are sleeping on the mountains,
They are sleeping by the sea.”

The morning of the 27th, a detachment of cavalry was sent out to the “wilderness” to recapture some of our wounded who had been for several days in the hands of the rebels. Before night they returned with forty of those poor half-starved men, whom I assisted in feeding after they were taken on board the steamer “George Weems.” About nine o’clock that evening I went aboard the same boat. It was filled to its utmost capacity with the wounded, nurses, agents, officers and refugees. Next morning--as we had not left Fredericksburg--while waiting for the tide to come in, I went ashore and returned to our old quarters, nearly a mile and a half distant. Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Samson of Maine accompanied me. Having found the forgotten articles, which I was in search of, we retraced our steps; but, supposing we had plenty of time, we strolled leisurely along, gathering flowers, and stopping a moment to gaze upon the lonely, deserted hospitals that we passed, in which so many distressing sights had been witnessed, and so much suffering experienced.

On our way, several “Secesh” women greeted us with, “Good-by, Yanks; glad you’re going--reckon you won’t get back here again.” We most heartily responded to their expressions of joy. If they were rejoiced to have us go, we were no less so to leave. When within a few rods of the landing, the whistle blew, the plank was taken in, the water-wheel began to revolve, and the boat to shove out from the shore. If we never before knew the meaning of the phrase “double quick,” I think we then learned it; while the thought of being left in rebeldom every moment accelerated our speed. Hands extended to aid us were eagerly grasped, and with a desperate leap, as for life, we jumped on board. Had we been left, no alternative would have remained to us, except that of marching the overland route with the troops, the last of whom were then slowly filing out of town; for this was the last boat of any description that left Fredericksburg, and all communication with the place that day ceased. At ten o’clock we bade farewell to the “bloody city” with its hundreds of sleeping braves. But we could not forget the sad experiences of the previous two weeks.

The weariness, the fatigue, the oppressive heat, the care and anxiety, the sick, the wounded, the dying, the dead; the long trains of ambulances freighted with human suffering, the bloody scenes, the torn and mangled bodies, the newly-made graves, were all fresh in mind, and, being securely locked in the halls of memory, can never be forgotten.

_CHAPTER XV._

PORT ROYAL--FROM PORT ROYAL TO WHITE HOUSE--ARRIVAL OF AGENTS WITH SUPPLIES--BATTLE OF COAL HARBOR--SICK AND WOUNDED SOLDIERS--MAJOR LEWIS--A MASSACHUSETTS SOLDIER--EVACUATION OF WHITE HOUSE--A SAD ACCIDENT--THE DELAY--LAND AT CITY POINT--ARRIVAL OF MR. HOWARD WITH SUPPLIES--A CALL FROM GENERAL GRANT.

After considerable delay, and entertaining many fears lest we should be attacked by guerrillas who were occasionally seen along the shore--until we were joined by a gunboat, under the protection of which we felt secure--we arrived at Port Royal Sunday morning at eight o’clock. Here we left the “George Weems,” which was _en route_ for Washington, and went on board the exchange. While lying at anchor, services were held by the chaplain of the Sixth Wisconsin volunteers. His sermon--from the words, “The Lord is my shepherd”--was full of comfort. Those present upon that occasion will, I am sure, ever love to refer to it as one of the bright spots in their army life. Before arriving at Port Royal a touching incident occurred. A rebel soldier was dying, and, in great distress of mind, he asked to be prayed for. We gathered around his bed--a few professing Christians--and tried to point him to the “Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.” Precious words of promise were read from the New Testament and prayer offered in his behalf, after which he seemed more composed, but he sank rapidly--as a wound in his neck had broken out afresh and was bleeding profusely--and died, as we hope, trusting in Jesus. Late in the afternoon, learning from Dr. St. Clair, master of transportation, that another boat would leave the next day having better accommodations, I went ashore and put up for the night with a rebel family, which at that time consisted of an elderly lady and a little girl. I learned from the old lady that her husband was dead, and that her two sons were in the rebel army. Her servants had all deserted her. She appeared lonely and disconsolate, not having even the hope of victory to cheer her.

Her house was an old-fashioned vine-clad cottage; the kitchen, with its huge fire-place and massive iron kettles, where the servants had formerly done the work, being separated from the main building, as is customary in the South. A large garden near by was filled with vegetables and flowers and interspersed with shade-trees and shrubbery, the whole being surrounded with a fine boxwood hedge. In one part of the house were the head-quarters of Dr. Snow, of the Ninth Corps. Being detained here, contrary to expectation, until Monday evening, I endeavored to make myself useful by assisting about the cooking for the doctor and “mess.” We got up quite a sumptuous dinner, consisting not only of pork, “hard tack” and coffee, as usual, but, in addition, “flour gravy,” stewed goose, berries, and “hoe-cake.” Our Port Royal dinner will certainly not soon be forgotten by those who partook, for it was a right royal one.

Shortly after sundown we took leave of our kind hostess and went on board the steamer “Ocean Wave,” bound for White House Landing, which place had been decided upon as the “new base.” We anchor and await the tide next morning, when we find ourselves sailing down the Rappahannock. It is afternoon when we enter the Chesapeake bay, ninety miles from Port Royal. The day was extremely warm, but a fine breeze blowing from the bay renders the heat quite endurable. The scenery, portions of the way, was fine. I enjoyed the passage very much, especially as it afforded a good opportunity for rest and preparation for another hard campaign.

About seven in the evening we ran upon a sand-bar and anchored for the night. The next morning we entered the York river, and at five P. M. the Pamunkey.

The waters of this river, unlike those of the York, are dark and muddy, its banks low and marshy; besides, the river is very crooked and the channel narrow; consequently, it was not at all surprising that we ran aground again soon after dark, where we were obliged to remain until the tide came in the next morning. Point Lookout, where we had an extensive hospital, had been passed, also Yorktown--a place of great historical interest, rendered so, not only during our late war, but the Revolutionary also. Here Lord Cornwallis surrendered his sword to General George Washington. Here also, nearly a century later, McClellan’s mighty army encamped for weeks, besieging the fortifications of the rebels, which they finally evacuated in safety, while his own brave men died by hundreds and thousands, of disease contracted in the pestilential swamps of the Chickahominy.

Tuesday, the 2d of June, we land at White House, our new field of labor. No wounded had yet arrived, though a long train of ambulances could be seen, on the opposite side of the Appomattox, waiting for the river to be bridged in order to cross over. At the same time could be heard the booming of guns, warning us to be in readiness to bind up the wounds they were making.

A delegation from the Sanitary and Christian Commissions went over by boat, with supplies for those having already arrived. Our hospitals were not yet established, though, before night, a large number of tents were in readiness to shelter the wounded as soon as they should arrive. Soon after landing I learned of the timely arrival of Messrs. Kellogg, Cater, and Lapand, from Washington, with supplies; but, a cold, drenching rain coming on, which lasted all night, and having no shelter for our goods, they were not taken from the barge until next day, when Dr. St. Clair kindly loaned us a large tent, and a team with which to bring up our goods. In a short time all were hard at work. Mrs. Nowell, of Philadelphia, volunteered to assist us, and remained with us several days. We cooked over a range outside of our tent until a stove was procured--which was already promised me by Dr. Burmaster, Surgeon in charge of the Second Corps hospitals. At night we made two tents of one, by putting in a canvas partition; and for beds, spread our blankets upon the ground, which, if not the best substitute for feathers or mattress, answered very well. My _first_ night at this place I was provided for by Dr. Snow, who gave me possession of one of his unoccupied hospital-tents, sent me a stretcher and blankets for a bed, also a warm supper and breakfast--a kindness fully appreciated and gratefully remembered.

The 3d inst., the wounded were arriving nearly all day from the battle of Coal Harbor, among whom I found a cousin--Lieutenant Tracy, of the Seventh Michigan Infantry--whose brother was wounded at the battle of the Wilderness. “Frank” will not, I am sure, soon forget the many times he drew rations from the “Michigan Relief,” at Fredericksburg.

The afternoon of the same day the rest of the Michigan agents and three Pennsylvania delegates, viz.: Mr. Ritz, Mrs. Price, and Miss Sayles, arrived with a large supply of hospital-stores and two additional tents. At this place the Michigan and Pennsylvania Associations worked together. We had our goods in common, and endeavored, to the extent of our efforts, to relieve suffering.

We remained at White House until the 14th--at least I did. The wounded were almost constantly arriving, as battles were daily being fought. Work was the order of the day, and I trust I shall not be considered egotistical when I say we _did_ work early and late. Rest belonged only to the past, or was looked forward to in the future; it had no connection with the present.

Going to the numerous hospitals with supplies of all kinds; cooking soups, puddings, custards; making tea, coffee, lemonade, milk-punch; preparing “special diet” for individual cases, dressing wounds, bathing burning brows, receiving dying messages, writing to friends of the disabled and deceased, were among our daily duties. Sad and distressing scenes met us at every turn. Death was a daily visitor. Graves almost hourly increased in numbers; and even then the demand was not fully met, for it was no uncommon sight to see, in going from tent to tent, from one to half-a-dozen lifeless forms wrapped in their blankets, mutely pleading for burial.

Not unfrequently the sick and wounded were obliged to lie a long time upon the ground in the burning sun, before shelter could be provided. The 6th of the month, a large number belonging to the Ninth Corps were thus unsheltered and unprotected from the heat of day and the chilling dews of night. Among these there was one whose emaciated form and imploring look particularly attracted my attention, and seemed to demand special aid and sympathy. This was James E. Rouse, a member of the Michigan Second. Placing my umbrella over him, I finished distributing my lemonade and crackers, and then tried to find a vacant place in some tent to which I could remove him; but without success. The best I could do was to make a bed on the shady side of one of the tents, underneath the ropes, which I covered with a shelter-tent. To this he was taken, bathed, and provided with clean clothes. The few days he remained there, I took him his meals regularly. A cup of tea and a few mouthfuls of toast were about all he would take at a time. At length he was removed into a hospital. He still continued to fail, and in a few days he was gone. But instead of being sent to Washington, as I was told, he had been removed into another tent, where I found him the evening before leaving the place, dying. As I approached his bed--if bed it could be called--he recognized me, and tried to speak, but was too far gone to say much. A few words about home, in which I caught the words, “wife--my children,” were all I could understand. Soon he became unconscious, and apparently near his end. Remaining as long as I could be of any service, I returned to my quarters, and called again early next morning to see him, but he was gone. I learned from the nurse that he died during the night, and was already buried.

Sunday, the 5th, among the many who were brought from the field, was the body of Major Lewis, of the Eighth Michigan volunteers, who fell mortally wounded at the battle of Coal Harbor. Dr. Fox, of the same regiment, came in with the body, and was the first to break the heart-rending news to the widowed wife.

The coat in which he fell was left in my care, and forwarded to her the first opportunity. Oh! sad reminder of bloody scenes and a hero’s death! His last words were about wife and country. He would have her know that, even in death, she was not forgotten. “But,” said he, “I would live that I might _serve my country longer_.”

“Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the bloody grave;
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.”

There was one I cannot fail to mention. A noble Massachusetts soldier was mortally wounded, yet unconscious of his fate, until informed of it by a Christian surgeon, who advised him, if he had any accounts with eternity to settle, to attend to them at once. “What,” he quickly replied, “am I going to die?” He appeared greatly distressed, for the thought of death had not before entered his mind. Taking from under his pillow photographs of a beautiful-looking woman and sweet little girl--his wife and child--he looked at them a few moments with tear-dimmed eyes, and then exclaimed: “My God! Can I leave them? Shall I never see them again?” Oh, it was hard for him to die and leave them, but he never saw them more, for in a few days he was numbered with the “Boys in White.”

The 10th inst., having received a call from Surgeon Bonine--who was in charge of the third division Ninth Corps hospital, situated at the extreme front--for supplies, I sent an ambulance load of stores, consisting of canned fruits and meats, condensed milk, loaf-sugar, pickles, lemons, wine, brandy, etc., which I drew from the Sanitary and Christian Commissions, and to his care they were entrusted for distribution, as the appeal was for himself as well as those in his charge. Hear his words: “For God’s sake, Julia, send me something I can eat, or I shall die.”

Perhaps there are those who might think I did wrong in trusting to care of a “doctor” sanitary stores. Now while I would not, for a moment, excuse the course pursued by many army surgeons during the war, in appropriating for their own use articles designed only for the sick, yet there were times and places--especially during an active campaign--when a faithful surgeon, working night and day among scenes the most revolting, needed, and was justly entitled to, something more than “hard tack.” When far from the base of supplies, and not even a sutler in the army, money was of little account. Let one such as Dr. Bonine have fainted at his post of duty, and many lives would have been sacrificed in consequence. All honor to surgeons, as well as to other officers who are faithful in the discharge of duty.

The 11th, it was rumored that the place was soon to be evacuated, and the next morning an order to that effect was received; accordingly our goods were packed, and Sunday afternoon were put into a barge ready to be sent to the new “base.” The wounded were being removed as fast as transportation could be procured, though at this time there were nearly two thousand not yet sent off; besides, the afternoon of the same day, Dr. Smith, of the Twenty-seventh Michigan volunteers, came in with sixty more, forty of whom were Michigan men, and, therefore, especially entitled to our supplies. The doctor immediately appealed to us for aid; but, our goods having all been removed, he applied to the Sanitary Commission.

It having been suggested that a part of the Michigan delegation should remain with a portion of our supplies, until all the hospitals were broken up, Mrs. Johnson and myself volunteered to stay; but it being neither convenient nor thought best to have any of our stores brought back, we applied to the Christian Commission, and obtained permission to draw on them; but our stores and cooking-utensils being gone, we could accomplish but little, and, by the request of one of the Sanitary agents, went and assisted in their low diet kitchen. Mrs. J. finally concluded to go with the rest of our agents, who left Monday evening, the 13th inst., and the next day, at 5 P. M., I went on board the steamer “New Jersey,” and was soon sailing down the Pamunkey on our way to City Point, leaving, forever it may be, “White House,” with not only its hundreds and thousands of its newly-made graves, but also the many grass-covered mounds of McClellan’s braves.

“Bend in love, O azure sky!
Shine, O stars! at evening time.
Watch where heroes calmly lie,
In their faith and hope sublime.”

The ground occupied by our hospitals at this place consists of a large estate containing five thousand acres, formerly owned by the widow Custus, afterwards the wife of George Washington. The mansion, I am sorry to say, was burned during the war, and, at the time I was there, nothing remained to mark the spot where it stood except the tall chimneys. A few days after arriving at this our field of labor, Mrs. Plumb, one of our agents, returned to Washington with a brother, whom she found severely wounded. We regretted to lose her services, for we had no more efficient worker than Mrs. P. Though meeting her there for the first time, I soon learned to highly esteem and love her, as every one must who knows her, for she is a noble Christian woman, just such an one as was needed in the army. Another excellent lady who came to assist us in our work was Mrs. Gridley, from Hillsdale, in whom we found an earnest and efficient laborer--a lady in every sense of the word. Her two sons were serving their country--one in the army, the other in the navy.

Mrs. Mahan, also of Hillsdale, having volunteered her services, was at this time employed in Washington. She remained about six months, and returned home, leaving a record bright with noble deeds. Among the many from my own State who were engaged in the work of caring for our soldiers, I know of none whose zeal for and devotion to the cause surpassed that of Mrs. Tunnecliffe and Mrs. Millard, wives of our State agents in Washington. Early and late, they might be found either in a crowded office, endeavoring to render assistance to the numerous applicants who appealed to them for aid, or out on some errand of mercy, looking after the neglected and those who seemed to have no helper. One of our number--Mr. Ritz, of Pennsylvania--who was devoted, soul and body, to the cause he was serving, has long since ceased from his labors and received his reward. Others are scattered far and wide, no more, perhaps, to meet, until the final “muster-roll” is called.

It was my pleasure, while at White House, frequently to meet that good man, Professor Estabrook, whose efforts in behalf of the suffering have caused his name to be cherished in thousands of homes beyond the limits of our own State. He is one of those of whom it was said: “Ye are the light of the world.”

We arrived at City Point, the 18th. Had a pleasant passage from White House, though a little tedious, as we were delayed at Fort Powhattan, on the James, from Thursday evening until Saturday morning, by the army crossing the river on pontoons a few miles below us. On our way we passed the famous Rip Raps, where many of our soldiers and others were sentenced, for various crimes, to hard labor during the war. The place where that brilliant engagement between the little Monitor and the iron-clad Merrimac occurred, March 9th, 1862, was pointed out to us. The accommodations on the “New Jersey” were good. All the ladies were provided with comfortable state-rooms; but we came to short rations before arriving at our place of destination, as we divided with some sick soldiers who were with us, and were delayed thirty-six hours.

A sad accident occurred about two o’clock the morning after leaving White House, while anchored in the Pamunkey waiting for the tide. All was still as midnight, when suddenly there was heard a plunge, struggling, splashing, and cries for help from below. At the same instant several voices were heard exclaiming, “A man overboard!” A life-preserver was immediately thrown him, but, there being a heavy mist on the surface of the water, it floated past him unnoticed. The incoming tide was rapidly bearing him away. I endeavored, but in vain, to throw him my life-preserver, by crowding it through the small window of my state-room as he floated by. A life-boat was lowered and two men went in pursuit; soon another boat followed. The poor fellow’s cries for help could still be heard. I watched him out of sight, and even then I could hear him call out, “This way, this way, gentlemen, hurry up; I can’t keep up much longer;” and then the reply, “We’re coming, we’re almost there, keep up good courage.” At length the splashing of the oars dies away, and the voices become fainter and fainter; yet we can still hear the boatmen call, “Where are you?” and the reply, very faintly, “Here, here, this way!” but soon it ceases, and we all wait in almost breathless silence for the return of the life-boats. Soon we catch the sound of the splashing oars, and eager voices are heard asking, “Did you save him?” Our hearts almost cease to beat and the blood nearly freezes in our veins as we hear the reply, “No, he went down when we were almost in reach of him.” Oh, how much harder for the dear friends at home to part with him thus than if he had fallen in battle; _that_ they might have expected, but _this_ they were wholly unprepared for. Landing at City Point, I reported to Dr. Dalton, medical director, but was disappointed in finding that the rest of our agents had not yet arrived, though they left White House twenty-four hours in advance. The cause of the delay, however, we learned from Mrs. Johnson, who arrived toward evening the same day. There had been an order issued that none of the State Relief Associations should be permitted to go to the new “base” without permission from the Secretary of War. Hence they had no alternative but to remain at Fortress Monroe until they could despatch some one to Washington for the requisite passes, which delayed them until the 22d.

The goods belonging to the Christian Commission, which were loaded in the same barge with ours, were removed to another boat, and Mrs. Johnson came on as one of their delegates. While in doubt as to what course to pursue, being without supplies, we were here, as at White House, providentially provided for by the arrival of Mr. Howard from Washington with hospital stores. Before morning the wounded began to arrive, and with their arrival began our work. Our hospitals were not yet established, though the location was decided upon. It was situated about a mile from the Point, along the bank of the Appomattox; and the next day scores of tents went up, which were soon filled with the wounded. Soon after landing at City Point I was joyfully surprised in meeting an old friend--Mr. Fox, of Kalamazoo--a volunteer laborer in the cause of humanity. But the great event of the day was the honor of a call from General Grant, the great American hero, who came into our tent, sat perhaps twenty minutes, conversed freely about the war, and seemed to take a great interest in the work in which we were engaged. To the inquiry whether he would be in Richmond by the 4th of July, he shook his head and replied, “No, not by the fourth; I have not laid my plans to that effect. I shall go there; I’m just as sure of it as can be, but we have more hard fighting to do first.” He then added: “I am nearly worn out, for I have scarcely had a day’s rest since the war began.” Before leaving he gave each of us his autograph, shook hands and bade us “good-by.” We assured him he should still have our prayers, as he already had our confidence. He thanked us, and was gone.

_CHAPTER XVI._

MAJOR BARNES--HOSPITALS ESTABLISHED--MRS. JOHNSON RETURNS TO WASHINGTON--ARRIVAL OF MRS. GIBBS--HER RETURN WITH A WOUNDED SON--CAVALRY HOSPITAL--AM TAKEN SICK WITH TYPHOID FEVER--REV. MR. JOSS--HOT WEATHER--A SEVERE STORM--LEAVING CITY POINT--REBEL OFFICERS--THE RELAPSE--RETURN TO MICHIGAN--A DARK PERIOD--MY SISTER’S BEREAVED FAMILY--THE CALL OF DUTY.

As I have before stated, the rest of our agents, with the balance of our goods, arrived the 22d. Mrs. Brainard, however, remained only one night, having received orders to return to Washington, where her services were greatly needed. Our work here was so similar to that at White House, that it is not necessary to enter into details. I will only mention an instance or two, and then pass to a more general account of our work. The day after arriving at City Point, the wounded began to come in in large numbers. Quite early in the morning a long train of ambulances filled with mangled bodies arrived, and halted a short time, until a hospital boat was in readiness to receive them. While busy at work, a soldier came to me in great haste, and begged me to go and see his major, saying: “He is dreadfully wounded.” Leaving my work, I accompanied him. We hastily passed ambulance after ambulance, until it seemed as though we never would reach the last one. At length he stopped, and, pointing to one of them, said, “He is in that one.” Carefully springing upon the step at the rear of the ambulance, and looking in, I saw Major Barnes, of the Twentieth Michigan, lying by the side of a brother officer, who was also badly wounded. On inquiring what I could do for them, “Oh,” said Major B., “if you could only get me out of this ambulance, for it does seem as though I shall die if I stay here much longer.” I promised to see what could be done, but found that the train would so soon move to the landing, that it was thought best not to make any change until it reaches its destination. I can never forget the look almost of despair depicted on his countenance as I reported this, for all hope of recovery seemed to have left him. Still anxious to do something for him, I hurried back to my tent, and soon returned with a cup of tea and a pillow. “Oh,” he exclaimed, as he drank the tea, “that tastes so good.” Placing the pillow under his head, I bade him be of good cheer, and, with a heavy heart, stepped down from the ambulance. The train moved on, and I saw him no more. A few days after, I learned that he died before reaching Washington. Oh! those sad sights! those tedious, toilsome days! How glad we sometimes were to have the darkness of night hide from view the revolting scenes witnessed by day, when the cooling breeze would fan fevered brows and wounds inflamed, and gently lull to sleep. But even then the moans of some poor sufferer would often reach our ears, causing us to wish for immortal bodies, which would neither wear out nor become weary. But

“The hopes, the fears, the blood, the tears
That marked the bitter strife,
Are now all crowned by victory
That saved the nation’s life.”

Our hospitals at this place were very extensive. The Second, Fifth, Sixth and Ninth Corps were largely represented in this department. Tents continued to go up until our little canvas village assumed the proportions of a city. The Cavalry Corps also had a large hospital about two miles from here. Day after day the wounded came pouring in from the battles and skirmishes so frequently occurring. Cannonading was daily heard, frequently rapid and heavy; and occasionally the rattle of musketry and the screeching of shells saluted our ears, while the smoke of battle could plainly be seen, and sometimes even the manœuvering of the troops--thus mingling with our arduous duties great excitement, and occasionally alarm.

In less than two weeks after landing at City Point, Mrs. Johnson left me and returned to Washington for a few days’ rest. Mrs. Gibbs, a lady who was devoting her time and strength to the cause her husband and son were serving, arrived the day she left; yet I greatly missed her, for we had worked together nearly six weeks. Her services, especially as a “dresser,” were invaluable. Mrs. G., finding one of her sons among the wounded, remained only a week, and then returned with him to Washington, and I was again left alone, as far as ladies’ help in our own department was concerned; and yet I was not alone, for nearly every loyal State was there represented by a corps of faithful laborers, all earnestly engaged in the same noble work. Mr. Howard[5] remained in charge of the tents containing our supplies, and worked with a zeal that knew no respite until our Association, having completed its work at the front, was recalled from the field. While here I frequently met “Bridget,” of the First Michigan Cavalry, and occasionally “Anna,” of the Third Infantry, whose services, according to the testimony of the surgeons of those regiments, were invaluable. They remained with their respective regiments until the close of the war--sharing the ever-varying and shifting fortunes of the same.

[5] He has also ceased from his labors, having died of typhoid fever two years ago.

I made but one visit to the Cavalry Hospital while at City Point, on account of its long distance from the other hospitals. It was situated in a most delightful place. A beautiful lawn with its green carpeting gradually sloped toward the river, which rolled peacefully along at the foot of the hill, its banks skirted with a variety of trees, beneath whose grateful shade convalescents reclined, some with books in hand, others playing at cards, or some other “innocent” amusement, to while away the tedious hours of the long, hot day. The tents were the most comfortable of any I ever saw in the field. Each patient was provided with a good bed, not the narrow hospital cot, but what are called single beds, and furnished with mattress, sheets, pillows, and a “patched” quilt, in lieu of the coarse army blanket. The wards were decorated with evergreens, and everything looked neat and clean. Instead of clouds of dust, the air was bright and clear. Compared with our Infantry hospitals, surrounded with sand and dust, it seemed like an earthly paradise. But, amid all these natural beauties, many a brave heart ceased to beat; for Death sought out this lovely retreat, and bore hence his victims. Though far more comfortable, the sick were no better supplied with delicacies than those in other hospitals. Hence we divided our stores with them, sending, from time to time, such things as they most needed.

While there was so much to be done, duties daily increasing, my work for the summer was rapidly drawing to a close. The fever which had so long threatened me finally obtained the mastery. The 6th of July, I did my last day’s work at that place. From that time until I left City Point--four weeks later--I was almost entirely confined to my bed. During that illness I learned from sad experience how to sympathize with the sick around me; but, when comparing my condition with theirs, I found I was so much better off than they, that I had no heart to complain. While I had a bunk--narrow and hard though it was--many of them had none. My tent could boast a floor, theirs could not. Besides, I was daily supplied with ice and numerous other articles which many a poor soldier did not get. For these things, I was indebted to the Rev. Mr. Joss, of the Sanitary Commission, but for which, especially the ice, I do not think I should now be here to express to him, through these pages, my gratitude. Though having good medical treatment, I feel that, under the blessing of God, I owe my life to this reverend gentleman.

I have ever looked upon my acquaintance with him as strikingly providential. While at Fredericksburg, I was led by the providence of God to care for a brother of his, who was supposed to be mortally wounded, but who finally recovered, and, hearing of my illness, directed this brother to find me and return the favors shown him. They were returned an hundredfold. Oh! that hot, dusty July; those long, weary days and sleepless nights; the scorching sun, beating down upon my tent; the swarms of flies; that little rusty tin pail, out of which, for the want of something better, I drank my gruel; the heated, suffocating atmosphere; the anxiety to be at work; how fresh in memory!

As the season advanced, the heat became more intense and the dust more intolerable. The long trains of army wagons that were constantly moving to and fro, only a few rods from us, were scarcely visible, being so completely enveloped in clouds of dust.

On the night of the 24th, there was a sudden and most grateful change in the weather. A heavy rain-storm came up, accompanied with high wind and severe thunder and lightning. It was a gloomy night, yet full of grandeur. My tent swayed to and fro in the wind; bright flashes of lightning and almost Egyptian darkness rapidly succeeded each other, while the crashing of thunder was far more grand than any discharge of artillery of human invention. Many tents were blown down, whose occupants were left to the tender mercies of the storm. When the morning dawned we seemed to be in a new world. The air was clear and pure, our clean white tents glistened in the sunlight, the slow-moving trains were in full view, the trees and bushes were relieved of their dusty coats, and all nature, animate and inanimate, seemed to rejoice.

The 2d of August, I left City Point, in company with Mrs. Johnson (who had been with me some ten days), and was taken to Washington. On the steamer--the “Vanderbilt”--on which we took passage, were twenty-one rebel officers, prisoners of war. As they frequently passed my window, I entered into conversation with them. The war, as a matter of course, was the subject discussed; but they all, with one accord, acknowledged the hopelessness of their cause, and confessed that it would have been better had they not appealed to the sword. They said they had no desire to divide the Union; but they thought their “rights” had been infringed upon, and for these they were fighting. I inquired what “rights” they had lost, or had been “infringed upon.” All were silent a moment, then one replied: “Our rights in regard to slavery.” The interference of the North with this institution they believed to be the cause of the war; and yet they confessed that, if it were even so, it was no just cause for declaring war. I never conversed with a rebel who could give an intelligent answer to the questions concerning the loss of his “rights,” but they would invariably fall back, as a last resort; upon the interference of the North with slavery.

Arriving in Washington, I was taken to the house of a lady widely known for her labors of love for the soldiers--a loyal Washingtonian, the only one of her family who remained true to the cause of freedom and right during the dark days of the rebellion. The fatigue of the journey brought on a relapse, so that I was not able to leave the city for five weeks. I then returned to Michigan, and remained through the winter, recruiting my health and collecting money for the benefit of the soldiers.