Chapter III: Introduction (2)

His regiment was pursued, and a volley was fired at that moment, and Johnnie fell as though he had been killed, and lay there on the field until it was dark enough for him to slip away unnoticed. At Chickamauga he was struck with a fragment of a shell in the hip. He was taken prisoner with others while detailed to bring up a supply train from Bridgeport, Ala.

He fared hard as a prisoner. His sister, Mrs. Adams, says, “The rebels stripped him of everything--his clothes, his shoes, his little gun--an ordinary musket, I suppose, cut short--and his little cap. He said he did not care about anything but his cap; he did want to save that, and it hurt him sorely to part with it, for it had three bullet holes through it.” When exchanged he was given a furlough and sent home for a week. He was weak and emaciated from starvation, and his clothes were a bundle of rags. He had been absent about two years in the army, and was at that time in his twelfth year.

I did not meet him at Shiloh, but became acquainted with him at Chattanooga, when he was in the hospital there, and saw him frequently when he was on General Thomas’s staff.

He was a fair and beautiful child then, about twelve years old, but very small of his age. He was at that time only about thirty inches high and weighed about sixty pounds.

At Atlanta, while in the act of delivering a despatch from General Thomas to General Logan, a ball struck the head of his pony obliquely, killing him, and wounding his little rider in the right ear.

For his heroic conduct, he was made a sergeant, and his name placed on the Roll of Honor, and he was attached to Headquarters of the Army of the Cumberland.

Shortly afterwards he received from Nettie M. Chase, the daughter of Chief Justice Chase, a silver medal inscribed:--

SERGEANT JOHNNIE CLEM,
TWENTY-SECOND MICHIGAN VOLUNTEER INFANTRY,
FROM N. M. C.

which he worthily wears as a badge of honor on his left breast with other medals.

When the war was over, General Thomas advised him to study and make a man of himself. He studied at West Point, but on account of his size he could not enter as a cadet. In 1890 he weighed one hundred and five pounds and was only five feet high. His wife, Annita, the daughter of General Wm. H. French, U.S.A., is also small and delicate, weighing about seventy pounds. General Grant commissioned him as a lieutenant. He is now captain of the twenty-fourth U.S. Infantry, and is stationed at Columbus, Ohio, and holds the important office of depot quartermaster and commissary.

He has one son living, who is very like him, only he will be larger.

From recent correspondence he seems to be the same kindly, great-hearted Johnnie as when I first met him at Chattanooga, Tenn.

ARMY TRICKS.

There were many tricks played on the officers, just for the fun of the thing, during the war, especially if the troops remained long at any one camping-place.

In one of the many camps of the Union soldiers, an odd trick was played off on the surgeon and chaplain of a regiment noted for its merry-making.

The troops were camped by a small stream, over which was a narrow, rickety bridge.

Just across from the camp was a log cabin, in which lived an old woman alone.

The woman paid no attention to the soldiers, but went about her daily duties as though unconscious of their presence.

One day some of the boys passed the cabin, and hurrying over the rickety bridge, came running into the camp with the message, “The old woman in the cabin is dying!” The chaplain and surgeon were notified.

“Chaplain, hurry over quick! The old woman is dying!”

The chaplain hurried over the rickety bridge as rapidly as possible; the surgeon soon followed. As the chaplain came round to the open door he saw at a glance that it was a trick, and he passed on around the house, so as to allow the surgeon to come on and bear a full share of the joke.

The woman _was dyeing_. She _was over a kettle of butternut juice dyeing a lot of yarn_.

When the two came back over the bridge the whole camp was in a roar of laughter over the joke.

But what could be done? The men had reported a truth--the woman _was_ dyeing; so there was no redress.

GENERAL GRANT’S KINDNESS.

One morning during the war, coming down on the packet boat that plied between Cairo, Ill., and Columbus, Ky., I noticed a woman weeping as though her heart would break. Her calico dress and coarse blanket-shawl betokened abject poverty, and her face was hidden; and she sobbed out her anguish in a coarse bandanna handkerchief.

Laying my hand gently on her shoulder, I said,--

“My dear woman, what is the matter?”

“It’s my boy I’m crying about; he’s awful sick down in Tennessee, and he has writ for me to come down an’ nus him up, but the men as keeps the passes at Cairo says I can’t go.

“They say there’s plenty to take care uv my boy, and maybe there is; but I reckon that his muther what took care uv him when he was a baby could do it better nor any of them.

“My boy wus a very smart boy. You never seen a smarter boy nor a better boy than mine wuz. Well, if they won’t let me go down on the railroad I reckon I can walk. My boy’s sick an’ I’m bound to go. They tried to skeer me by tellin’ me the guards would arrest me if I tried to get through the lines. But I can dodge the guards, an’ creep under the lines. Anyway, I s’pose them guards ar’ human cre’turs, an’ if I tell ’em my boy is a solger, an’ awful sick, an’ wants his mother to come down an’ nus him, they’ll let me go through.”

“Have you his letter with you?”

“Yes, I have.”

And out of the depth of a capacious pocket she drew forth a package, and carefully unrolling it, she handed me a letter. It was short, but full of tender pathos. The boy was sick and homesick, and wanted his mother. Among other things, he said:--

“You could nus me better than the boys. I hain’t got no apertite and can’t eat nothin’; the boys hain’t much on cookin’, but you could cook something that I could eat, and maybe I’d get well.”

Satisfied that she was a true woman, and not a spy, I said:--

“General Grant, the highest officer in the army, is on this boat. He can give you a pass; he was sitting here by this table a few minutes ago; as he has left his paper and writing material there, he will no doubt return in a few minutes. Go to him and show him your boy’s letter, and ask him for a pass. He will give it to you.”

She was almost dismayed at the thought of speaking to such a great man. When the General came in and took a seat at the table, I whispered to her,--

“Now go,--don’t be afraid.”

The meeting of the two was a picture for an artist.

With sun-bonnet pushed back, and her coarse shawl drawn closely about her, she timidly approached him, holding out the letter.

General Grant looked up kindly.

“Are you Gineral Grant?” she questioned.

“Yes.”

“Well, my boy’s awful sick down in Tennessee, an’ he’s writ me this letter to cum an’ nus him up; but them men at Cairo what gives passes said I might be a spy, and they wouldn’t give me a pass.

“But, Gineral, I hain’t no spy; I’m a good Union woman as ever lived; and there’s a lady here as allowed that if I’d ask you maybe you’d give me a pass.”

In the meantime, General Grant had looked over the letter and scrutinized the woman, and handing the letter back to her, he said, “Yes, I’ll give you a pass; what is your name?”

The woman gave her name; but she was so delighted that she talked all the while he was writing the pass:--

“It’s awful unhandy for me to leave home now, cos I hain’t nobody to take care of nothing. Bill Spence’s wife, she agreed to milk the cow, but I had a beautiful pig, and I had to turn that out to root for itself, and I’m awful feared that it will get lost while I’m gone. But I told Mis’ Spence that I’d ruther risk the pig than to risk my boy, for he’s an awful good boy, Gineral.”

“This pass will take you down and bring you back,” said General Grant, handing her the precious document.

“How much do you s’pose it’ll cost me to go down?”

“It will cost you nothing, madam; the pass will take you free.”

“Don’t they charge nuthen on them roads?”

“They will not charge you. A mother who has given her son to the government, the government can afford to carry free.”

Just then I got her attention and beckoned her away.

“I’m very much obliged to you, Gineral,” she said, and made an old-fashioned courtesy.

Years afterward, while he was an occupant of the White House, and I was there on a friendly visit, I reminded him of the circumstance, which he had almost forgotten, and expressed the hope that the boy had recovered, and that she had found her pig on her return. He smiled, and said,--

“I always let the mothers pass if their boys were sick, and they seemed to be good loyal women.”

I had noticed that General Grant did not judge by appearance or dress. Often the lady in her silks was turned back, while a woman arrayed in calico would go through the lines.

ARMY LIFE AT HELENA, ARKANSAS.

Helena, Arkansas, was an important military station in 1862-63. In December, 1862, General Sherman, with his great fleet of boats and an army of twenty or thirty thousand men, moved from that point down the Mississippi River upon Vicksburg. There was nothing in the place of itself that made it a desirable camping-ground for troops, other than that it was an advance station far down into the enemy’s country, and commanded considerable important territory. The soldiers called it a “God-forsaken place.”

It was named after the daughter of the founder of the town, Helena; but the soldiers suggested that the name ought to be spelled with one syllable and two l’s.

Along the river front the land was very low and subject to overflows, but was protected by a high embankment, which effectually shut out the flood tides of the Mississippi River. Just back of the town was a great green cypress swamp, that was crossed by a corduroy road--a road made of large round logs fastened together at each end. Back of the swamp rose high bluffs of yellow clay. They were unsightly and very precipitous; in most places perpendicular. Their uneven sides were seamed and wrinkled by the floods and storms of ages, and looked like a line of forts.

It is easy to imagine the discomfort of such a camping place. During the winter and spring the streets of the town were miry and almost impassable.

In December, 1862, I reached Helena with a heavy lot of hospital supplies. I sent a message to my friend, General Cyrus Bussey, who was Assistant-Secretary of the Interior during President Harrison’s administration, but who was then in command, requesting an ambulance, that I might visit the several hospitals. He sent me a note, saying that it would be impossible to get about in an ambulance, but that if I wished he would send me an army wagon. Of course I accepted the offer. A big wagon, with four good strong mules attached, was sent me. A camp-chair was put in for my use; and Chaplain P. P. Ingalls offered to accompany me, and took a seat with the driver on a board which had been placed across the wagon bed. We started down the principal street of the town, towards the steamboat-landing; but we had not gone far till the team began to mire. The mules made a desperate struggle to get out, and the driver tried to turn them towards the sidewalk; but the more they struggled the deeper they sank into the black mire of the street. The mules were in up to their sides, and the wagon had sunk down almost to the bed.

Immediately a crowd of soldiers gathered on the board sidewalk. They had been through many a miry place, and knew just what to do. Boards from the near fence and rails were brought, and soon the space was bridged between the struggling mules and the board sidewalk. The mules were soon detached from the wagon, poles and rails were used to pry them out, and ropes were put about them, and they were pulled by main force to the sidewalk.

As the boards on which the men stood sank down in the mud, other boards were brought and laid on top of them, and many willing hands made the work of rescue possible. The last mule to be rescued was up to his sides in the mire.

It seemed almost impossible to get a rail down under him, or to get ropes about him, so as to help him; but at last, covered with black mud and almost exhausted, he stood on the board sidewalk. Chaplain Ingalls and myself were then rescued, the wagon was abandoned, and a board put up, “NO BOTTOM,” to warn others.

A TERRIBLE STORM AT CHATTANOOGA.

HOW THE MEN IN THE HOSPITAL TENTS WERE SAVED FROM FREEZING.

On the night of Dec. 31, 1863, a fearful storm swept over the Southern States, extending from the Mississippi River to the Atlantic Coast. I was at Chattanooga at the time. The tempest came down upon us like an Arctic hurricane. It beat and tore around the cliffs of Lookout Mountain and down its gorges, levelling trees, and freezing the life-currents in every unprotected living thing. Many of the guards on duty in the army that night froze to death. General Russell A. Alger, who was in front of the enemy in the Eastern Army that night, tells of his ride along the picket-line. As the position of his forces was a dangerous one, he desired to assure himself that the guards were at their posts of duty.

At one point, where the lines of the two armies came close together, and the danger was especially great, a trusty soldier had been posted. As General Alger approached that point, he was surprised at not being halted, and he felt sure that the guard was asleep.

“Why do you not challenge me, sir?” he demanded. There was no response. Taking the man by the shoulder, General Alger was shocked to find him dead. Standing against a tree, facing the enemy, that terrible night, with eyes and ears on the strain, intent on doing his duty well, he had frozen to death.

At Chattanooga there was great suffering from scarcity of food, and clothing, and lack of proper protection. The railroad had been repaired to Bridgeport only; and it was necessary to haul all the supplies of that great army from Bridgeport to Chattanooga, a distance of twenty-eight miles, and over a rough, stony mountain road. The army had marched over this road to Mission Ridge and Chickamauga, and their shoes had been cut to pieces on the sharp rocks. Many of the men were almost barefooted. They were two hundred and thirty-six miles inland from their base of supplies. Every bridge had been destroyed, and every foot of the long line of railroad had to be guarded.

Those of us who ventured to travel over that dangerous route had to take the chances, both of obstructions on the track, and volleys of musketry from ambuscades. When the storm fell upon the army at Chattanooga the troops lacked both food and clothing.

At the foot of Lookout Mountain, there was a large “field hospital,” at which were quartered the men who were most severely wounded and sick. The men were sheltered by large tents, and lay on cots. There were no floors in these tents, and no arrangements for heating them.

Mrs. Jeremiah Porter of Chicago, a dear little saint, who is now in heaven, had gone to Chattanooga with me; and we were together at the rooms of the Christian Commission when the storm burst upon the place in its terrible fury. Amid the raging of the tempest, which made every timber in the old frame building creak, and threatened to tear away the roof that covered us, our first thought was of the men in the field hospital, who were exposed to its fury. Night, as it was, it was decided that we should go to their relief. While the delegates were getting out the horses and ambulances, everything that would be likely to add to the comfort of the patients was collected from the stores on hand. It was about daybreak when we started.

The way was lined with dead mules and horses frozen to death. Half-starved and unsheltered they could not live in such a storm. The muddy roads were now frozen. The wind was in our faces, and the two miles we had to travel seemed a long journey.

When we reached the hospital our worst fears were realized. Many of the tents had been blown down upon the faces of the helpless men. Against the fierce northern blasts, which threatened to tear the tents into tatters, the attendants were striving to right them. But the force was small compared to the work which needed to be done. To leeward of the camp, three great log fires were blazing and crackling furiously.

Mother Bickerdyke, a grand old army nurse, who did heroic service in the hospitals from the beginning until the close of the war, was there, and giving directions with the clearness and force of a sea-captain in a storm. Orders were imposed on all of us before we were out of the ambulance. “Come on, Lawrence, with your men, and help get up these tents. Mrs. Wittenmyer, you and Mrs. Porter get sticks and pry out rocks, and heat them here in these fires and put them about the men to keep them from freezing.”

We all went to work at once. No one stood upon the order of his going. With such sticks as we could pick up it was hard to pry out the rocks, but we were willing and we succeeded. One delegate had brought a lot of reading-matter with him; and we utilized them as wrappers for the hot rocks, which we carried in our arms to the cots, creeping under the flapping canvas when the tents were down, and putting them around the men the best we could, and speaking at the time words of cheer which they so much needed. I thank God that because of the heroic and timely efforts which were made, not one man froze to death in the tents that day. The great log fires, we learned later, had been built from a part of a fort surrendered by the Confederates. Mother Bickerdyke, not finding suitable wood for fires which could withstand a tempest, suggested to the surgeon, that such timbers as they could get out of the two forts be used for that purpose. But as the forts were government property, the surgeon refused to touch them without an order.

Military headquarters were two miles away, and the tempest was raging. Mother Bickerdyke rose to the emergency as usual. “Come on, boys,” said she; “we’ll soon have the timbers out of the old fort. What possible use can Uncle Sam put them to?”

The surgeon warned her that it would be his duty to report the matter to the proper authorities. “That’s all right, doctor; but in the meantime we’ll have the fires going.” Of course nothing was ever done about it. We toiled all day. As the tents were raised we carried great pans and kettles full of live coals into the tents, and emptied them on the ground to temper the keen air, which seemed to pierce to the marrow. I had brought up the river, with great difficulty, a special store of supplies, transporting them in a small boat, through the special kindness of General John A. Logan, who had detailed the boat for that purpose. Among the supplies was the largest lot of good woollen home-knit socks I had ever seen together. Many sacks of them had been pitched into the ambulance that morning; and as we went through the tents we examined the feet of the men to see if they were frozen. We put socks on the feet that were bare, and kept the hot bowlders moving back and forth to aid all. Many of the men had on good socks which had been sent to them by mail; but the feet of many were bare. I shall never forget the stone-bruised feet on which we put warm woollen socks that day.

At last the work was well-nigh done. The wind had abated, the tents were up, and our supplies were nearly all distributed. We had reached the last tent, and the last two men in the tent. I turned to the last sack to draw out two pairs of stockings for the two men before us, but there was only one pair in the sack. “O Mrs. Porter, what shall I do? There are two men, and only one pair of socks!” I exclaimed in despair.

To my surprise the men began to laugh; and one of them said, “There is no great loss without some small profit, Jim.” And they laughed again heartily. At last one of them explained. “You see, miss, we’ve each of us lost a leg, and one pair will do us both.” And this was true; they had been brought into the tent for the amputation, and laid side by side. We were both deeply impressed. I had not counted the feet or the socks, but He who counts the hairs of our heads had counted both. Mrs. Porter and I divided the one pair between us, and each put a sock on the one foot. Tears of sympathy blinded our eyes as we remembered that henceforth these two heroes must walk lame through life.

It was wonderful with what heroism these men could bear their sufferings and losses. They were full of hope, and grateful for every little kindness. They literally overwhelmed me with thanks. But it was left for an Irishman to express his thanks for timely help in the most original manner. He said in the most impassioned tones, his face all aglow,--

“And sure it’s an angel ye are, and may ye be in heaven three weeks before the devil finds out ye’re dead.”

THE WONDERFUL POTATO-PATCH.

In the spring of 1862 potatoes were very scarce and dear.

The women of Muscatine, Iowa, who were earnest workers in the Soldiers’ Aid Society of that town, were anxious to secure potatoes to send to the army. They decided to canvass the town and the region round about for that purpose.

But the first grocery they entered the proprietor said, “No, I have no potatoes to spare; but I have a field about a mile out of town that you may have the use of, if you wish to raise potatoes.”

The proposition was accepted gladly; and they at once began to solicit potatoes for planting.

At the appointed day for planting, the loyal old men who had not gone to the front, and the women and children, rallied for the work. Wagons were in readiness to carry out the ploughs, harrows, hoes, and potatoes. The men ploughed and harrowed and furrowed the ground, the women and children followed, dropping and covering the potatoes, and the field in due time was planted.

When the time came to cultivate the potatoes, a “potato picnic” was announced; and when the day arrived, wagons were in readiness to take all who were willing to work to the field. A picnic dinner was served, and although the work was hard, these hours of toil were enlivened with laughter and song and wit and wisdom; and the weeds were destroyed, and the potatoes cultivated. And so it was each time when the cultivation of the field was needed.

Happily the Colorado beetle, known as the potato bug, had not been heard of as yet.

But there came a time of drought and great anxiety, for men, and women too, for women toiled in the fields in those heroic days. They watched the clouds with sinking hearts, as they sailed carelessly by, giving never a drop of rain to revive vegetation and moisten the parched earth.

Every one felt as much interest in the potato-field the women had planted as though it had been their own.

There are, perhaps, a score or more of men and women still living in that loyal town, who will remember that “Sanitary Potato-Patch;” and the remarkable fact, that one day a cloud sailed over it and drenched the field with rain, scattering only a few sprinkles over the fields adjoining.

The yield of that potato-field was immense; and the entire crop was in time shipped to me at St. Louis, and distributed in camps and hospitals.

I do not now remember how many bushels they raised on that patch of ground, but I distinctly remember that they sent me by one shipment fifteen hundred bushels of potatoes.

Never were potatoes more needed, or more acceptable to men suffering from that army scourge, “scurvy,” than were those fifteen hundred bushels, distributed to Iowa soldiers and to all in the general hospitals. To me the supply seemed inexhaustible.

One of the first stops made by the steamer sent down with them was at Island No. 10, above Memphis, Tenn., where one hundred bushels were put off, with the injunction that they must be divided equally among the men and officers of an Iowa regiment stationed there.

There were over one thousand men in all.

On my return trip the steamer stopped again at Island No. 10. My feet had scarcely touched the shore till I was surrounded by soldiers, who reported that the officers had eaten up most of the potatoes, and that they had been given only about three messes.

I was indignant, and went directly to the colonel’s headquarters with the complaint. He was greatly surprised, and sent for the quartermaster and other officials, who listened to the complaints very serenely. When they had heard all I had to say the quartermaster said,--

“You only gave us one hundred bushels of potatoes; how long did you think they would last?”

“About a month I thought.”

“We have ten companies of one hundred men each. Every company got ten bushels. That divided among one hundred men would only give them about two messes apiece.”

“That is so,” I confessed with some confusion.

“I see,” he continued, “that you are not accustomed to feeding armies.”

“If that is the way they eat, I don’t want the task of feeding them. I accept your explanation, and beg you to excuse my ignorance in these matters.”

And so we parted. I had a few minutes later, as the boys gathered about me at the landing, the privilege of explaining why they did not get more than two or three messes of potatoes,--that there were too many of them. That if there had been ten men and one hundred bushels of potatoes, instead of one thousand men and one hundred bushels of potatoes, they would have fared better.

SAVED BY LEMONADE.

The many-colored signal lights of the fleet of steamers at Milliken’s Bend, and the bright camp-fires on the land, that glowed with such unwonted splendor in the gloaming, soon all faded out of sight as our boat steamed away toward St. Louis; and soon the black curtain of night shut us in with its thick heavy folds like a funeral pall, and our fight with disease and death began in earnest.

Never before in the history of wars, so full of untold agonies, did the timbers of a steamer bear up such a burden of pain, despair, and death, as did the _City of Memphis_ as she steamed away from Sherman’s army. Wherever there was room for a sick or wounded soldier, on the cabin floor without mattress or pillow, in the staterooms, under the stateroom berths, out on the guards, on the top, or hurricane deck, on the lower deck, every space was filled with sore, weary, aching human bodies, mangled or fever-smitten. Of the seven hundred and fifty sick and wounded on board, about twenty-five were delirious; and their pitiful cries mingled with the whirr of the wheels, and the splash of the waters, as the monster boat, with its heart of fire and its breath of steam, pulled heavily against the mighty tides of the Mississippi River, were heart-breaking. No one who was on that boat can ever forget that first night out. Nor can I be charged with over-drawing the picture. No pencil can paint it black enough.

Nothing has ever haunted my waking and sleeping dreams, not even the ghastly scenes of the battle-field, as the memory of the concentrated horrors of that journey. The groans and cries of the wounded and dying still ring through my soul; and from feelings of compassion I draw the curtain over the darkest scenes, that even at this distance make me shudder, and give to my readers only the more pleasant incidents of the journey, which was in truth a funeral march.

One man lying on the floor of the ladies’ cabin on his blanket, with his fever-racked head on his knapsack, gave me such an appealing look that I went to him.

“What can I do for you?” I inquired.

“You can write to my wife if you get through alive, and tell her I died on the _City of Memphis_.”

“While there is life there is hope. You are not dead yet, and may not die.”

“Oh, yes, I will! there is no chance for me. Now take down her name,” and he gave me the name and address of his wife.

“Now I must do something to help you,” I said. “Could you drink a cup of tea?”

“No, nothing--it’s too late.”

“Could you drink a glass of lemonade?”

How his face brightened! “Where could you get it?” he asked eagerly.

“Make it. I have lemons and sugar, and there is a whole river full of water at hand.”

The poor man cried with joy; and others wept, too, as they drank the refreshing beverage, for, providentially, I had a heavy lot of lemons with me.

The patient began to mend at once, and by the time we reached Cairo was able to sit up.

Years afterwards I was on a Mississippi River steamer bound for St. Louis, when I noticed a lady and gentleman regarding me with some interest, and heard the gentleman say,--

“I am sure it is she.”

The lady came directly to me, with the question,--

“Did you come up the Mississippi River on the _City of Memphis_ with the wounded after Sherman’s defeat?”

“Yes, I did.”

“It’s she! It’s she!” the lady exclaimed joyfully, much to the amusement of some of the passengers who had not heard the question.

The gentleman joined us, and made himself known as the man who started the lemonade treat on that doleful night. “That saved my life,” he said reverently.

“I want you to know,” said his wife, with tears on her face, “that we have never for a day forgotten you, though we did not know your name. We prayed for you as the unknown lady; and the children were taught to end their evening prayer with, ‘and God bless the unknown lady that saved papa’s life.’”

It was a very happy and pleasant meeting, although purely accidental.

NOT TIME TO SEND FOR THE COLONEL.

Clinton B. Fisk was chosen colonel of a regiment made up largely of ministers and religious men. The morality of the regiment was a matter of favorable comment, not only in the camp where they were drilled before leaving the State, but also as they advanced down the Mississippi River. Some one suggested that Colonel Fisk should do the swearing of the regiment, as he was “as religious as a preacher.”

The colonel, who was not to be nonplussed by such a proposition, readily accepted the duty, the men all assenting.

“Soldiers,” he said, with great gravity, “if there is any necessary swearing to be done in this regiment, call on your colonel.”

Weeks passed, during which not an oath was heard in camp. The first hard camping-place was at Helena, Ark. The regiment pitched their tents on the bluff back of the town, on yellow clay, which after a rain became like putty. It was more than a mile to the steamboat-landing; and all the supplies had to be hauled through the miry streets of the town and over the corduroy road,--a road made of logs firmly fastened together,--and then up a long, steep hill, where the mud-like yellow putty gathered upon the wheels and upon the feet of men and beasts.

Colonel Fisk sat in his tent one day attending to official business, when he heard one of his men, a teamster, swearing like a Hessian. He recognized his voice, and determined to reprove the man at the first opportunity. He had not long to wait. “John,” he called, “come here.” John responded with a military salute, and stood before his colonel unflinchingly.

“John, did I not hear some one swearing dreadfully down the hill a little while ago?”

“Yes, Colonel, that was me.”

“You, John? I am surprised. Don’t you remember that I was to do the swearing for this regiment?”

“Yes, Colonel, I know; but, you see, I was coming up the hill with a big load, and the breeching broke. The swearing had to be done right away, and you weren’t there to do it.” And the teamster made the military salute and retired.

Many of the other privates were so full of wit that it was almost impossible for the officers to reprove them. General Fisk, years afterward, used to say laughingly, that it was little worth while to try to argue a question with John, his teamster, as he always got the best of the argument.

A VISIT TO PARSON BROWNLOW.

The Confederates had been driven back from Chattanooga and Knoxville, and the lines of railroad travel had been re-established. I had occasion at that time to go to Knoxville. The journey was a dangerous one; but the mission was important, and I took the chances. I was delighted to learn, after reaching Knoxville, that Parson Brownlow, the hero of East Tennessee, was at home. It was afterward arranged that I should meet him at his own house.

He dwelt in an unpretentious, two-story frame structure, having a little portico in front. Firmly attached to the little portico was a tall flagstaff, from which floated a large Union flag. This flag had been put up at the beginning of the war, and had never been hauled down. Parson Brownlow was tall, lithe, and sinewy in form. His hair was black and abundant. He was a quiet talker while conversing on ordinary subjects; but when the war, the causes which led to it, the plotting and scheming by which the loyal sentiment of East Tennessee was silenced, was the theme, his eyes flashed fire, his wit, sarcasm, and denunciation flowed in electric currents. His sentences were short, terse, and emphatic. One could better understand, looking into his face when he straightened himself up to his full height and poured out his torrent of accusations, why men whom he charged with treason and falsehood, and arraigned before God and men, should fall back in fear and shame.

He pointed out to me the little prison, with its iron-barred windows, in which he was for a time confined as a prisoner. The jail stood on the bank of the River Holstein, and he was put into a cell which overlooked the river and forest beyond. For a time his enemies had possession of the town, and he was placed where he could see nothing that was going on, and it was well. Many of his neighbors who had assumed to be loyal brought out Confederate flags, which they had kept concealed in flour-barrels, and flung them to the breeze. But there was one Union flag which did not come down, and that was the broad standard which floated over the little portico of Parson Brownlow’s house.

Mrs. Brownlow, a quiet, lovely little woman, added a word in explanation now and then; but when her boys were spoken of, she sighed heavily as though her heartstrings would snap asunder. And yet she had, in defence of the flag, shown uncommon courage. There were only two children at home; one a young lady, the other a girl of about ten or twelve years. We all stood out on the little portico, and Miss Brownlow described to me her heroic defence of the flag which was waving above us. She was a beautiful and stately woman; and as she stood there that day describing the scene, when with drawn pistol she challenged the men sent to take down that flag, she was the most perfect personification of the Goddess of Liberty I ever saw. As her eyes flashed fire, and her words rang out clear, full, and emphatic, we could well understand why the men retired.

The flag was watched and defended until a Union force came to their relief. The little force advanced carefully, until the head of the column reached the crest of the hill which environs the place. Looking out over the town, which was quietly sleeping in the gray of the morning, they saw among the Confederate flags the Stars and Stripes waving from one pole. It was like an inspiration. They made an impetuous charge, and captured the town. The flag over Parson Brownlow’s house never came down.

The influence of Parson Brownlow on Tennessee, and especially East Tennessee, still lives, and will live for ages. He was a man of great soul, of intense convictions, and of courage equal to his convictions. If he had been a coward, his blood would have watered the soil of Tennessee. But his courage, his wonderful mastery of the English language, and the fearful majesty of his presence, cowed his enemies; and those who had planned to take his life were glad to send him away out of their presence.

My visit to Parson Brownlow, his burning words, and the story of the flag, can never be forgotten. He was by far the ablest man Tennessee has ever produced.

A RICH REWARD FOR SERVICES.

SAVING THE LIFE OF A BROTHER.

I went out to Sedalia, which was in the heart of the State of Missouri, with supplies.

It was a crisp winter morning in January when the train reached the place. I went directly to a large hospital near the railroad station. Visitors were not received at that hour; but a pass from Mr. Stanton, Secretary of War, unbarred the door which opened from the vestibule into a large, long room filled with cots. On each cot lay a sick or wounded soldier.

Breakfast was being served by the attendants. Glancing down the room, I saw one of my own brothers, a lad of sixteen, who, fired with the war spirit, had gained consent to go. I had thought that he was a hundred miles or more away. There was a look of utter disgust on his face as he rejected the breakfast and waved the attendant away.

“If you can’t eat this you’ll have to do without; there is nothing else,” was the attendant’s discouraging response. On a dingy-looking wooden tray was a tin cup full of black, strong coffee; beside it was a leaden-looking tin platter, on which was a piece of fried fat bacon, swimming in its own grease, and a slice of bread. Could anything be more disgusting and injurious to fever-stricken and wounded patients?

And nearly every soldier in that hospital was prostrated by fever or severe wounds; yet this was the daily diet, with little variation. Typhoid fever and acute dysentery was the verdict of a conference of physicians that consulted in regard to my brother.

There was little hope of his recovery. An old, experienced physician said, “If he can have good care and nursing his recovery is possible, but not probable.” And the sad news was telegraphed to the dear old home. The surgeon removed him into a little inner room, and my fight with death began in earnest.

Oh! those dreadful days and nights of watching; no joys of earth can ever obliterate their memory.

The restless tossing of the fever-stricken ones in the adjoining room, the groans of the wounded, the drip, drip, drip, of the leaking vessels hung above the worst wounded ones to drop water on the bandages and keep them cool and moist, put every nerve on the rack, and pulsated through heart and brain till it seemed as though I should go wild. It was an inside view of the hospitals that made me hate war as I had never known how to hate it before.

The pitiful cry of helpless ones calling, “Nurse, nurse! water, water!” and the weary, sleepy nurses making no response--sitting, perhaps, fast asleep, yet willing to do their duty when I aroused them, still rings in my ears.

The surgeon in charge and all the attendants were kind and respectful, coming into our room on tiptoe lest their rude steps and ways might jostle a soul, hanging by a thread, out of life. Each day a telegram was sent to those who watched and prayed far away: “No better--sinking.”

But a new anxiety disturbed me. The acting medical director, who visited the hospital each day, coming in reeling drunk on the second day, ordered that I should only be admitted for an hour each day, in the afternoon.

No one in the hospital was ready to enforce such a brutal order.

Immediately the chief officers at Sedalia and St. Louis were advised of the state of affairs.

The next day, when the acting medical director came into the hospital, he was too drunk to talk plainly, or to walk without staggering, and yet his word was law. He was not too drunk to notice my presence when he staggered into that little room, however. He said,--

“Madam, it’s against my rules to have any ladies in my hospitals, and you must leave here.”

“The devotion of a sister is stronger than all hospital rules,” I answered calmly.

“You can’t stay in this hospital. I’m boss here.” I made no answer. One or the other of us must certainly leave that hospital. Letters and telegrams poured in upon the chief officers at St. Louis, from all the leading officers and surgeons in the army at Sedalia, and he was relieved from duty before the rising of another sun. And as he was only acting medical director, not yet having been mustered in, he was dismissed from the service, and I never saw his face again.

There was general rejoicing throughout the hospital, the camp, and the town, for the man had been a disgrace to the army. After this, there were only disease and death to fight. The powers of human endurance are wonderful. For seven days and nights I never closed my eyes to sleep, only as I leaned my head down on the side of the cot on which the one lay who was hovering between life and death.

My eldest brother, Dr. William H. Turner, who was a surgeon in the Union army, came up on a leave; but as the forces were ordered on the expedition against Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, he received a telegram to join his command the very next day. He had little hope of ever seeing his brother’s face again; but good nursing brought him, and many others in that hospital, through to health again. He not only recovered, but he returned to the army; and when his term for three years had expired, he re-enlisted and served till the close of the war.

He is still living. He has a ranch and a placer gold mine, with first water rights, near Helena, Mon., where he lives with his family.

In the corner near our little room lay a fair-faced boy of sixteen. The surgeons had given him up to die. When we looked into each other’s faces I asked the question, “Can I do anything for you?” The tears came welling up into his great brown eyes; and after a moment’s struggle, he burst into tears, sobbing like a child. I laid my face down on the pillow and cried too. No one laughed and called him babyish. Poor boy! sick and homesick, and needing so much care and love, and yet getting so little; lingering on the borderland, with no hand to help, and no voice to cheer him. No wonder he cried aloud; great stalwart men, stricken down in the midst of the fight, wounded, sick, and sore, understood it; and tears were on many a bronzed face as, taking his thin hands in my own, I cried with him.

As soon as he could command himself he said, “If only I could go home, mother could nurse me up in a little while.”

“You shall go home. I’ll get you a furlough as soon as you get well enough,” I answered hopefully.

From that hour there was a marked improvement in that patient’s symptoms, and many other overcharged hearts were relieved by this outburst of feeling. In less than two weeks this boy, closely wrapped in blankets, was helped to the train, for he was going home on a furlough. Friends were to meet him at St. Louis, and accompany him to his home and his mother in Denmark, Iowa.

And she did nurse him up; and he returned well and strong, to beat the drum for the rallying of the serried ranks of men, who, with set faces and glittering steel, marched to battle.

Never was a mother more grateful than that Iowa mother was for the little kindnesses shown to her suffering boy. I afterwards met him in the ranks; for he came down to the Sanitary boat to meet me. He was well and strong, and very grateful for the little help I had rendered him.

SAVED BY A BIRD.

The surgeon in one of the Nashville hospitals said, pointing to one of his patients, “There is a young man slowly starving to death. His fever is broken, and he might get well, but we cannot get him to eat anything. If you can tempt him to eat he may recover.”

I went over and stood beside his cot. “I am glad to see you looking so much better,” I said enthusiastically. He shook his head. “Oh, yes you are; and now what can I bring you to eat? I’ll bring you something real nice; what shall it be?”

“Nothing.” And he turned his face away in disgust.

“I’ll tell you what you can eat;” for I suddenly remembered that I had seen a lot of birds hanging in a meat-shop as I came down to that hospital; “you can eat a nice broiled bird.”

He looked up in surprise with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Maybe I could.”

“Why, of course you could; and I will go right away and get one for you.”

“It will be too much trouble.”

“No, it will not be a bit of trouble. You lie still and think what good eating a bird is till it comes.”

I hurried away lest he should change his mind, bought some birds, and took them to the Christian Commission Home, where there was an excellent cook.

“Aunt Debby,” I said, as I marched into the kitchen with the birds, “I want you to broil two of these birds the very best you can. A soldier’s life depends upon them.”

“Laws, missus! You ’most scare me to death talking dat way. I’ze weak as a rag, and ken do nuthen.”

“But you’ll do it right, and then the soldier will get well. I’ll help you.”

In a very short time two birds nicely broiled, and dressed with a little fresh butter and a pinch of salt and pepper, lay in the bottom of a hot covered dish. A card with the name of the hospital, the name of the soldier, and the number of his cot, was attached to the basket; and a half-grown colored boy in service at the house was intrusted with it, and bore it away in haste.

“Take notice, Ben, what he does and says, so you can tell us when you come back,” was my last injunction.

In due time Ben came back, laughing. “Did he eat them?” I questioned eagerly.

“O missus, you o’ter ’a’ seen ’im. I sot don the basket and tooked off de cover and held the birds up close tu ’im; an’ my, but it did smell good! He jus’ gim it one look, den he grab one an’ begun to eat. But I wus a-holden de dish dar, an’ he seed t’other bird, and he grabbed dat, an’ he dove his han’ dow under ’is piller an’ brung out an ole newspaper, and he wrapped up t’other bird and chucked it down under his piller, and den he went on eaten as fast as he could. Oh, golly, but wusent he hungry!” And Ben doubled himself up and laughed as only a colored boy can laugh.

The next day I was called away to Chattanooga, and so I left all my work in other hands. While in Chattanooga, General Hood marched northward and broke the lines of communication between Nashville and Chattanooga, and I was detained there several weeks. The very day after my return I was on the streets of Nashville, and a soldier met me with great cordiality.

“I don’t believe you know me,” he said.

“No, I don’t remember to have ever met you before,” I replied.

“I’m the man you sent the birds to.”

“I am glad to see you. How is it that you are up and out so soon?”

“Well, you see, there wasn’t anything the matter with me, but I did not know it. I thought I was going to die, but the birds did the business. I never did taste anything quite so nice as they were, and I have been eating ever since, anything I could lay my hands on. And now I am well, and am going to join my regiment.”

After a few cordial thanks and good wishes we separated, and I have never seen him since. If these lines fall under his notice, I would like to hear from him.

HOW MOTHER BICKERDYKE CUT RED TAPE.

The battle of Corinth had raged from early morning till late in the afternoon, and then General Price was checked and forced to retreat. The struggle had been a bloody one, and the ground was covered with the wounded and the dead.

The Confederates made a desperate struggle to capture Fort Robbinette. General Rogers, or “Texas Rogers” as he was usually called, led the charge against the fort. Splendidly mounted, with a flag in one hand and a pistol in the other, he rode up to the very mouth of the cannon, all the while beckoning his men onward. Reaching the ramparts, he planted the Confederate flag there, and the next moment fell dead. But his troops surged up after him, although the cannon of the fort mowed down great swaths of marching men, as with set faces and bowed heads they followed their leader.

The scenes that followed were indescribable. The human avalanche surged up into the fort, and men, hand to hand, contended for the mastery.

The Confederate flag waved only for a moment. Then it was torn away, and the men who had climbed up over the ramparts were hurled back. But still fresh relays came on. When there was not time to reload their guns, the invaders used them as clubs, and the fragments of many a shattered musket were left upon the field. Texas Rogers’s horse, which had gone back riderless, came dashing up again when the next charge was made, as though guided by human hands, and once more turned and went back. After the bloody conflict ended, it was found that forty-two men lay dead in a heap where “Texas Rogers” planted his flag and died.

Hungry and utterly exhausted as were the men, who, without food or rest, had fought all day, their first duty was to their wounded comrades. Every available building, and every church but one, was taken for hospital purposes; and long rows of tents were put up on the grounds of the Ladies’ College. But there was a lack of supplies. There were no cots or pillows--only the bare ground.