Chapter I: Have the Comforter

In 1862, just after the terrible battle at Corinth, Miss., I visited the hospitals in that place. The havoc had been fearful on both sides, and the wounded of the two armies crowded every ward.

Going into a hospital known as the College Building one day, and passing from cot to cot, I came to a young man who looked very pale and weak. I asked,--

“Are you sick or wounded?”

He answered, “I am severely wounded;” and seeing the look of sympathy on my face, he went on to tell me all about it.

It was a long, sad story that I need not repeat here.

He had fallen in the front of the battle-line, had been taken prisoner, and had lain out all the night long among the dead; but he said cheerfully, “When ‘our boys’ found me, they took me up tenderly and brought me here, and now I am doing well.”

But I felt that he was not doing well, that he was on the verge of the grave, and that I must speak to him of the future. He went on to tell me of his home,--of a mother and sister and two little brothers in Benton County, Iowa, and added,--

“When I get well enough, I hope they will give me a furlough and let me go home.”

I said tenderly, “I hope you will get well; but how will it be if you should not? Are you ready to die?”

I never shall forget his answer; it has been ringing through my soul all these years. It was as though he was transfigured before me; there came into his face such light and joy, as, laying his hand on his heart, he said, “I have the Comforter!” What volumes in that sentence! I did not need to ask him to what denomination he belonged, or when or where he had found the pearl of great price. It was enough for me to know that he had the Blessed Comforter which Jesus promised to his disciples.

But he went on talking sweetly of Christ and heaven, and the power of Christ to keep. “Religion,” he said, “has kept me through all the temptations of camp-life, and now I am ready to _live_ or to _die_. If the Master sees that it is best that I should go now, it will be as near heaven from Corinth as it would be from Iowa.”

It was evening time, and I went my way. The next morning I was early at that hospital, and first of all went to look after him, but I found his place vacant.

I said to the ward-master, “Where is the young man who was lying here by this post?”

He answered, “He is dead.”

Oh, how his words went to my heart!

“Where have you laid him?” I asked.

He led the way out into the back yard, and there, side by side, stood the seven cot bedsteads that held the seven dead men that had been carried out the night before. He pointed out his cot, and left me alone with the dead. The bed-spreads were drawn up over their faces, and that was all that was between the dead faces and the sky.

I drew down the bedspread to look upon his face. I never can express the emotions of that moment. My heart was thrilled; for there upon the dead soldier’s face was the very same look of joy and peace that was on his face when he said, “I have the Comforter,” and I knew that the Comforter had been with him till the last. I wrote to his mother, telling her the sad story of his sufferings, and the sweet, sweet story of his Christian triumph.

After a while an answer came back to me. She did not know that he was wounded or dead until she received my letter.

His death was a heavy blow; but she rose in Christian triumph above her great sorrow, and in closing her letter said,--

“My son may not come back to me, but I shall go to him, and it is just as near heaven from Iowa as it was from Corinth; and _the same Comforter that comforted my son when wounded and dying among strangers comforts me now_.”

What a glorious Christianity we have! A religion that can keep under the sorest trials, that can comfort in the deepest agonies, and that can give joy and peace in the presence of death, and _leave its divine stamp upon the dead clay_.

BLOWING UP OF FORT HILL.

Along the lines of Vicksburg during the siege, there was no stronger point than Fort Hill. The land stood high, and the approach was almost perpendicular at some points. In the assignment of troops to positions, General John A. Logan’s division was placed in front of Fort Hill. General Logan was a man of energy, and a great fighter. With the consent of his superiors in command, he planned to mine Fort Hill. The work was begun at a distance in the rear, behind a bluff, so as to hide the operation from the Confederates. General Logan’s engineers, with scientific precision, directed the tunnel toward Fort Hill. There were weary days and nights of digging before they reached the foundation of the fort. But there came to the ears of the Confederates at last, even amid the thunder of the cannon and the screaming of shells, the sounds of the mining. Night after night they listened with their ears to the ground to the sound of the Union picks. The Confederates soon began to countermine, and it was not long before the toilers in the Union tunnel heard the thud of the Confederate picks nearly over their heads. They were too high to strike the Union tunnel, but it was evident that no time must be lost in blowing up the fort. Tons of powder were carried in, and one bright afternoon about two o’clock the slow fuse was lighted and the tunnel was cleared. The regular firing of the battle was going on. There was nothing in the movements of the army to indicate that anything unusual was about to occur.

As I was driving around the lines that day, I met General McPherson and his staff, riding at full speed. Halting, he said,--

“You are going in the wrong direction. Fort Hill will be blown up in a few minutes. Better drive to General Logan’s headquarters.”

“Oh, no,” I answered; “I’ll be near enough to see the terrible tragedy. It will be heart-breaking.”

They galloped on; but I lingered along the roadway in sight of Fort Hill.

Suddenly a terrific explosion shook the foundations of the earth, and the heavy timbers of the fort and tons of earth were lifted skyward. The next moment the dust and smoke hid everything from view. General Logan and his men pushed into the breach, hoping to effect an entrance before the Confederates had recovered from the shock; but a glittering wall of bayonets met them, and they were pushed back inch by inch. All that afternoon and evening hand-grenades were tossed back and forth as in a game of baseball; but an entrance could not be made.

A strange incident occurred at the blowing up of Fort Hill, which is perhaps without a parallel. There was at the time of the explosion a slave boy about eighteen years old working with others in the Confederate tunnel. This boy was lifted up with timbers and tons of earth, and thrown into the Union lines. He fell among the men of Williams’s Battery of Ohio. When the men ran to pick him up, he exclaimed with terror, “Is you Yanks goin’ to kill me?”

“Oh, no; we don’t kill colored folks,” was the prompt reply.

“Oh, golly, I went up free miles.”

“Could you see anything?” was asked.

“When I’se goin’ up,” he said, “’most eberything was comin’ down, and when I’se comin’ down ’most eberything was goin’ up.”

“Who commanded Fort Hill?” inquired one of the gunners.

“My massa,” replied the boy.

“Where is your massa now?”

“’Fore God, genl’men, I can’t tell you; he was goin’ up when I’se comin’ down.”

Pictures of the boy were preserved by Williams’s Battery, taken soon after the explosion, showing the boy in the patched tow garments he wore in his wild flight for liberty. General Logan kept him at his headquarters for some time.

I saw him there many times. After the war he went to Washington with them I think, and remained some years.

GETTING 2,000 SICK AND WOUNDED OUT OF HELENA, ARK.

On the 10th of August, 1863, accompanied by my secretary, Miss Mary Shelton, now Mrs. Judge Houston of Burlington, Iowa, I started on my return trip to Vicksburg, with a heavy shipment of hospital supplies.

The _Van Phul_, the steamer on which we took passage at St. Louis, reached Helena, Ark., on the 16th of August.

When the boat landed at that post, we found, on inquiry, that there were over two thousand sick and wounded there, and so stopped over with a part of our supplies, the rest going on to Vicksburg, where I had a covered barge that had done duty on the Yazoo River during the siege, but which was then lying at the wharf of Vicksburg.

We found the hospitals at Helena, if they may be called hospitals, in a dreadful condition. The Methodist and Baptist churches were crowded with very sick and severely wounded men.

There were very few cots in these two churches; most of the men were lying in the narrow pews, with the scant, uneven cushions for their beds. The weather was extremely hot, and flies swarmed over everybody and everything. The faces of some of the men, who were too helpless to keep up a continual fight with them, were black with swarms of hungry, buzzing flies. A few pieces of mosquito-bars were spread over the faces of some of the weakest patients; but, lying loose over their faces, they were of little advantage. Barrels in which had been shipped pickled pork now served as water-tanks, and were placed near the pulpit. They were filled every morning with the tepid water of the Mississippi River.

There was a barge of ice lying at the landing, brought down on purpose for the sick; but I could find no one who had authority to issue it, and so it was slowly melting away under the blaze of an August sun.

The men in charge were, however, willing to sell, and I had money to buy; and soon great crystal cakes of Northern ice were floating in every barrel of water in every hospital in Helena.

Acres of tents had been pitched by the roadside; and the mud, that in the winter had made the streets and roadways almost impassable, had now turned to dust, and every breeze sent it in clouds into the faces of the sick and wounded men.

There was another camp, called the Convalescent Camp, on the sandy beach of the river, the water being very low at the time. We found no convalescence there. The sun beat down on the white tents and the glistening sand till the heat was like a furnace.

Just back of these hospital tents and churches, there was a wide cypress swamp, stagnant and green and deadly.

The men were discouraged. “We have been left here to die;” “No man could recover in such a place as this,” was the verdict of all who had the strength and courage to express their feelings. The air was heavy with the deadly malaria, that ladened every breeze with poison.

It was good service to provide them with light hospital garments to take the place of their heavy soiled clothing, and with delicate food to take the place of coarse army rations; but, as one man said, “It’s no use, ladies; we are all doomed men. It is only a question of time--your efforts will only prolong our suffering; we are all the same as dead men.”

For two long days, through sun and dust, we went from hospital to hospital, till we, too, became hopeless.

Every wrong that they had suffered, every peril that had threatened them, was burned into our hearts and brains, till they became our own.

There were no high officials that we could appeal to. General Steele was pushing the Confederate forces toward Little Rock. There was no one having authority nearer than Memphis, Tenn.; and I determined to go to Memphis, and invoke the help of the authorities there.

I waited for an up-bound steamer all night. I could not sleep; my heart and brain and blood seemed to be on fire. Thousands of despairing, suffering men were all around me; it seemed as if sleep had forever left my eyes and slumber my eyelids. All night long I waited for an upward-bound steamer, and while I waited I wrote letters to the wives and mothers of the men who had asked me to write for them. About daylight a boat came up from Vicksburg, bound for St. Louis; and I boarded her for Memphis, leaving Miss Shelton at the house where we had taken board, to complete the task of letter-writing. When I reached Memphis, I drove directly to the office of the medical director. An orderly was the sole occupant of the office. He informed me that the medical director had gone out hunting, and would not be back till evening. I was greatly disappointed, as I had hoped much from him, but I was not discouraged. I decided to appeal to the commanding general.

The adjutant-general was the only person in the office.

“I wish to see the general,” I said, addressing the adjutant.

“The general is sick to-day, and cannot see any one. Perhaps he can see you to-morrow.”

“My business is important and urgent; I cannot wait till to-morrow. Will you take a message to the general for me?”

“I cannot do that, madam; the general is very sick, and I cannot disturb him, but perhaps I can attend to the business.”

Thus encouraged, I began in a very energetic manner a statement of the condition of the sick and wounded at Helena. In the midst of it the door opened, and the general stood before me. I took in the situation in an instant, realizing that, sick or well, or whatever his condition, he was the man who had the authority, and I immediately turned to him with the case. I pleaded for those men as one would plead for his own life, and I concluded with a definite request: “I want you, General, to send down four steamers immediately, fitted out with cots and supplies, to bring all these suffering men away from that death-trap.” He said that it should be done. “But, General,” I continued, “I want the order issued before I leave this office. I want to go back and tell the men that the boats are coming--it may save some lives.”

“I assume, madam, that the order has been given,” said the adjutant, “and I will promulgate it immediately.”

“May I depend on you to send the boats down there by to-morrow noon?”

“The boats will be there without fail.”

“Remember,” I said, “I have no other appeal but the newspapers and the great, generous people of the North who sustain them, if you fail.”

“I hope, dear madam, that you will make no mention of this in the papers--the boats will be there.” These last words were uttered as he closed the door of my carriage. I hurried away, as a steamer was coming in, and I desired, if possible, to get back to Helena that night.

I felt a little more certain of the boats coming because of my threat to appeal to the North through the newspapers, of which officials stood in some fear. There were, however, other reasons why I was justified in putting the case in that way of which it is not best to speak now. I reached Helena at half-past eleven o’clock that night, full of hope, and ready to rest and sleep.

The next morning early we were out in the hospitals, not for the purpose of distributing supplies, but as the messengers of glad tidings. And never did women go with gladder hearts to bear good news, since Mary left the tomb of her risen Lord, than we did that morning, as we went from hospital to hospital telling the men the boats were coming. We went to the two churches first; and in each I took a position in the pulpit, and called out at the top of my voice,--

“Attention, soldiers! Four hospital steamers will be here to-day to take you to Northern hospitals.” The effect was magical. Men who were lying seemingly half-dead in their hopeless despair lifted their heads, and questioned anxiously,--

“What did you say?” and the glad message was repeated again and again, with the assurance that the boats would surely come.

“Then I’ll get well.” “Where are my shoes?” “Where is my hat?” and so we left them getting ready for the journey, and went from hospital to hospital with the glad message.

In one tent by the roadside, a beautiful brown-eyed boy about sixteen years old, after I had made the glad proclamation, questioned, “Is that so, lady?”

“Yes, it is so; we are looking for the boats every minute.” He slipped out of his cot; and, kneeling beside it, he lifted his eyes heavenward, and the tears running down his face, he repeated over and over,--

“Thank God, deliverance has come at last.”

In one ward a man looked at us very earnestly, and then questioned,--

“Is it the truth ye are telling us, now?”

“Yes, it is the truth.”

“Now, surely, ye wouldn’t be after decavin’ a poor sick man that’s most dead with the heat, and the flies, and the cypress swamp, would ye, now?”

“No, sir, I would not.”

My anxiety was intense. What if the boats should not come? I stepped out of the tent and looked up the river, and there in full view the little fleet of four boats were coming around the bend of the river.

We both cried out in our joy, “The boats! the boats are coming!” but tears of thankfulness almost choked our voices. The excitement was intense. No one stood on the order of his going. The surgeons were willing all should go, and desired to go with them, and they did. Every man who could, rushed for the boats. Some who were not able to walk managed some way to get from their cots and crawl out toward the boats.

Oh! it was pitiful to see the helpless ones, the wounded ones, who could not move, waiting with anxiety for their turn to be carried to the boats, and pleading, “Please, ladies, don’t let me be left behind.”

“No, no! Don’t be alarmed, you shall go,” was repeated over and over. At last all were crowded into the four steamers, and the boats steamed away with their precious freight up the Mississippi River. We stood at the landing as the boats moved away. The poor fellows out on the guards tried to give three cheers, but the effort was a failure. We waved our handkerchiefs, and they waved their hats, or their hands, as long as the boats were in sight.

What a load of anxiety and responsibility was lifted from our hearts!

Gathering up the supplies still left over, we took the first steamer bound for Vicksburg.

When we reached the conquered city we found thousands of sick and wounded still crowded into the hospitals there, and we remained for some time ministering to them as best we could.

THE CLOCK AT VICKSBURG.

Vicksburg was situated on a high bluff. In the centre of the town stood the Court House.

On the Court House tower, there was a large white-faced clock, that turned its four white faces to the four points of the compass. Very early in the struggle, while yet the army was on the west side of the river, the artillerymen of the Union army attempted to destroy that clock, and by stopping the time confuse the enemy. There was quite a rivalry as to who should with shot or shell dash that clock to pieces.

But somehow they could not hit the clock. The rivalry continued; and when the army environed Vicksburg, there were eighteen miles of batteries pointing towards the town and often turned towards the clock. Shot and shell flew thick and fast, riddling the flag that waved above the clock, tearing away part of the stairway below, and chipping the casement that enclosed it. But steadily the hours and days went by, till weeks lengthened into months, and yet the clock untouched and unhalting measured off time.

After the surrender I climbed the broken stairs, and saw the damage the shot and shell had done. The framework was chipped all around. But I found out why the shot and shell could not hit the clock.

Aunt Dinah, the cook, had said to me,--

“You o’ter see our preacher--he’s the powerfulest preacher in dis town, he is.”

I expressed a willingness to see him, of which I suppose he was duly informed by Aunt Dinah, as he called the next day.

He was a middle-aged man of strong muscular frame; and his face, which was black, was surmounted by a wealth of white hair. I found him very intelligent, and he gave me a great deal of information about the life in Vicksburg during the siege. At last I asked him how it happened that the colored people’s church, a large brick structure, was in ruins.

“Was it destroyed by shot and shell?” I inquired.

“No, missus; no shot nor shell ever cum near dat church; but you see we colored people ust to go dare to pray, an’ we prayed mighty powerful for de Yanks an’ for freedom. Den de white people da cumed, an’ den we had secret prayer. Somebody would say, ‘We’ll have secret prayer,’ den we knode jus’ what to pray fur. But de white folks dey ’spicioned wat we wus praying fur, and dey tore dow’ de church.”

“And that stopped your praying?”

“Oh, no, missus; dat couldn’t stop our praying. We jus’ ’greed to pray when de town clock struck twelve night or day.”

“Why, our men tried to stop that clock; hundreds of guns were turned upon it during the siege, but somehow they did not happen to hit it.”

The old man’s face was radiant. The joy of his heart was shining through the black skin, as he swayed and clapped his hands. “Oh, honey, dar’s no happen about dat. De good Lor’ he jus’ put his han’ over it, and kep’ it goin’ an’ goin’ for us poor color folks to pray by.”

What perfect trust! It is easier to accept the theory of the old colored preacher than to explain why it was that the army, with a cordon of guns pointing toward that clock, did not reach the clock, or stop the regular swing of its pendulum, or the merry chimes of its bell.

Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster and myself met at the house of a mutual friend on the banks of the Hudson River one beautiful cloudless day, and I told her this story of the clock at Vicksburg, and she immediately wrote the following poem:--

THE CLOCK AT VICKSBURG.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Month by month the shot and shell
’Round the ’leaguered city fell.

Through its fiery tropic air
Throbbed the anguish of despair.

Stubbornly the fated gray
Struggled through each pallid day.

Stubbornly the loyal blue
Fought the weary conflict through.

High above the central square
Towered the old clock, white and fair.

Steadily its iron tongue
Over strife and silence rung.

Till the sullen foemen swore
“They shall keep that clock no more.”

All day long with bated breath
Life looked steadily at death.

Little ones forgot to play,
Christians ne’er forgot to pray.

Fair through all the siege it stood,
That old clock in sober mood,

As though now and then ’twould frown
On the sadness of the town.

Whistling balls around it flew,
Black against the sky’s deep blue.

All untouched, it told the time
With a regnant cheery chime,

Till the hour when victory
Broke the spell--the place set free.

* * * * *

In the city’s open square
Swarthy faces sobbed in prayer,

“Bless the Lord! the work is done;
Bless the Lord! our freedom’s won.

By that clock in yonder street,
True as steel our sad hearts beat.

In our homes or by the way,
When it struck, we paused to pray.

_At its noon-hour day by day
Every bondsman stopped to pray._”

Was it strange that old clock stood
Safe amid the storm of blood?

Why, of course it could not fall,
Guarded by the Lord of all,

Who through choiring songs of heaven
Hears the cry of earth’s forgiven.

And till now its honest face
Is a witness of His grace.

SHARING POOR QUARTERS WITH DOROTHY L. DIX.

In the winter of 1864-1865, the Union forces were concentrated in front of Petersburg and Richmond. There was more or less skirmishing and fighting all the while between the two great armies facing each other for the last desperate struggle.

The hospitals were overcrowded at City Point and Point of Rocks. Every cot was occupied, every tent was crowded, and the thousands of troops coming down quartered wherever they could find a vacant place.

I had not been in the cabin of a steamer bound for City Point very long till Miss Dorothy L. Dix came in. After the usual greetings, she informed me that she, too, was going to City Point.

Miss Dix was the stateliest woman I ever saw, and she was very dignified in manner and conversation.

Although at that time she was about sixty years old, she was tall, straight as an arrow, and unusually slender. Her hair, which was abundant, was very dark brown, almost black, and was combed and coiled on the top of her head, except two locks in front, which were combed smoothly over each ear and carried in a loop up over the coil on top of her head. This peculiar manner of dressing her hair seemed to add to her height and dignity. Her dress was always exceedingly plain, but neat, and her linen collar and cuffs were always immaculate. She wore no jewels, not even a breastpin. She required the same degree of plainness on the part of her nurses.

It was not long after the boat left the dock at Washington till we had passed Alexandria and Mount Vernon, and were steaming on to Fortress Monroe at the mouth of the Potomac, with the ocean in full view.

There was always a long stop at this point, as it was not only a strong military station, well-fortified and strongly guarded by troops and gunboats, but it was a great hospital centre. Thousands of sick and wounded lay sorely stricken in these great barracks and tents by the sea.

It was about nine o’clock that evening when we reached City Point. We had discussed the question of lodging before we left the boat, and Miss Dix had said,--

“I have no concern. There are always plenty of cots, and I’ll find room in some of the nurses’ tents,” and she urged me to go with her.

But I was equally confident, and assured her that the Christian Commission would take care of me. Mr. Cole, of Boston, the chief agent, was standing beside a tent, in deep thought, when I approached. When he saw me he lifted up his hand in dismay.

“I have no place for you; every foot of space is occupied,” was his greeting.

“How about the little tent where I stayed the last time?”

“It is full of delegates lying on the ground on their blankets. I’ve given up my little corner to Dr. ----, and have no place to sleep myself.”

“How about the storeroom?”

His face brightened.

“I never thought of that; but it’s full of barrels and boxes, and is not in order.”

“No matter; there will be shelter and room, and there is a lock on the door, and I’ll get on all right.”

A candle and some matches were procured, and, accompanied by the agent and his assistant, I went into the storeroom near by. It was a great, rough, strong plank barracks; boxes and barrels were piled up nearly to the roof. There was a vacant space where they handled the supplies, near the door.

“There is not a cot on the premises; they have all been taken for the sick and wounded. What will you do?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor, of course,” I answered cheerfully.

But they turned some of the boxes around, and gathered up all the straw and shavings that were in sight, that had been used in packing, and put them together, and I placed my satchel for a pillow; and after I had assured them that it would be all right, they left, and I locked the door after them.

They had not been gone ten minutes till there was a knock at the door. I went very close to the door and called,--

“What is wanted?”

“Mrs. Wittenmyer, Miss Dix is here, and she has no place to stay. Can she come in?”

“Certainly; of course she can.”

And I opened the door, and that stately woman, with all her dignity upon her, which was really a part of herself, entered, glad to find even such a shelter as that. My candle lighted up the building sufficiently to show its unsightliness, and the dust and rubbish that were all about us. As Miss Dix was old enough to have been my mother, of course there was but one thing to do, and that was to give up my bed of shavings and straw to her, and with the stub of an old broom try to clear a place on another part of the floor for myself. She generously offered to divide her bed; but there was not enough to divide, so I spread my blanket-shawl down on the rough, uneven floor for my bed, and I took my satchel for a pillow.

I was weary and anxious, and for a few moments I felt the service was too hard to be endured much longer. But there came another train of thought, as I heard the booming of the cannon at no great distance.

“How glad the brave men on the picket-line, where to sleep is death, the men in the trenches, and working the guns, would be to have a good dry floor to sleep on, and the right and privilege to sleep,” I said to myself. Somehow my bed grew soft and my pillow downy, and all the clouds of care and spirit of self-pity cleared away before the magic power of patriotism and sympathy for the brave men who stood so gallantly for my country and its flag; and I never in all my life had a better bed, or a sweeter night’s sleep.

HARDSHIPS OF CAMP-LIFE AT VICKSBURG.

There was little level ground on which to camp about the lines. Excavations had to be made to get a level place to sleep. So all the bluffs around Vicksburg were catacombed to afford sleeping apartments. No wonder there was sickness--no wonder Death held high carnival on both sides of the lines. It was not only dangerous, but almost impossible, to reach the little hospitals under the shadow of the guns. Very many times driven at full speed I reached them, but it was at great peril. How the memory of those hospital scenes comes back to me now!

At one point I went down under the guns of the fort at one of the most exposed places, with a carriage-load of supplies for the little fort hospital under the bluff, just behind the heavy guns. I found when I reached there that the position was so dangerous that it would be madness, so the officers said, to try to get out of there till I could go under the cover of darkness. But the afternoon was well-spent in making lemonade and ministering to the men who had been stricken down with fever and hardships.

The ceaseless roar of artillery, and scream of shot and shell; the sharp whiz and whirr of small shot just over our heads; the June sun blazing down upon us with torrid heat, and no shelter for the sick but the white canvas tents, perched on the sides of the bluffs in places excavated for them, the bank cutting off the circulation of air,--were almost unbearable. How the poor fever-racked heads and fainting hearts ached amid the ceaseless din and the dust and heat of these little camp hospitals! One poor fellow, with parched lips and cheeks red with the fever that was burning through every vein, said, “I got a little sleep a while ago, and I dreamed that I was at the old spring; but just as I was taking a good cool drink I waked up.”

I partially met his cravings for a drink from the well at the old home by giving him generous draughts of lemonade, but when night came on I had to leave him. Poor boy, I never knew whether he got back to the old spring and home or not. There was no cool water there to allay his burning thirst. One of the hardships of that long summer campaign was the lack of good cool water. There were some springs, and a few wells were dug; but at points water had to be hauled long distances. Think of thousands of men to be supplied--of the thousands of horses and mules, the great burden-bearers of the army, that must have their thirst quenched.

Most of the water for the use in camp was hauled up from the Mississippi River or the Yazoo, through the hot sun in barrels, and stood in camp all day.

During that dreadful day I sat down in one of the tents for a little while; there was a patch of weeds growing near the tent-door. I noticed the weeds shaking as though partridges were running through them. I called attention to the matter, which made the surgeon smile, as he explained, “Why, those are bullets!”

“Bullets? Do bullets come so near as that?”

“Oh, yes,” he answered cheerfully; “they are flying around here quite thick.”

“Do you consider yourself safe while in this tent? It seems to me the bullets are coming very close.”

“It is considered very safe. The bullets fall a little short you see.”

All the while I sat there I watched the bullets coming over and clipping through the weeds.

Three days from that time an officer was killed while sitting in the same chair on the same spot where I had sat and watched the bullets shaking the weeds.

A PAINFUL ACCIDENT.

The smoke of the battle-field at Shiloh had cleared away; the dead had been buried; the wounded gathered up, and their ghastly wounds dressed--so that the people who came crowding to the battle-field saw little of the horror of war.

Among the multitudes who came down with supplies and words of sympathy and encouragement was Governor Harvey of Wisconsin, a grand, loyal man. He walked over the battle-field, the scene of the recent terrible conflict, and through the hospitals improvised for the accommodation of the thousands who had been wounded, and over the score and more of steamboats where many of the wounded were quartered.

He had given his promise of support to the men who stood between the North and the sword and torch of war. And now, with a hasty farewell to the crowd of distinguished patriots and officers who came down to wish him Godspeed on his return to the loyal State of Wisconsin, he stepped upon the single plank that bridged the little space between the shore and the boat. There were a few steps forward--a misstep--a sudden plunge, and the flowing tide ingulfed him out of sight. There was a moment of awful suspense--he did not rise. Men plunged into the water, reaching out their hands in every direction to find the lost one, but alas! he was not found till life was extinct.

The boat on which he was going to take passage was lying just above our sanitary boat, and a number of us saw him make the misstep and fall.

That was a sad day to us all--a sad day for the Army of the Tennessee--a sad day for the State of Wisconsin--a sad day for the wife, a grand, noble woman, who, crushed by the heavy blow, waited in almost speechless agony for the bringing home of her dead.

But in those heroic days women did not sit down in speechless grief to weep over their dead, but, crushing back their tears, consecrated themselves to the cause of humanity and their country.

Mrs. Governor Harvey was no exception to this rule. Still staggering under this stunning blow, she consecrated herself to service in the Sanitary Commission and to the hospital work, and in blessed and unwearying service for others solaced her own deep grief. Who shall know how much comfort and encouragement the presence of this fair, beautiful, refined lady brought into the hospitals where so many homesick and pain-weary boys lay on their beds, longing for the sight of a woman’s face, and tender touch of a woman’s hand?

Often amid the sickening scenes of the overcrowded hospitals, I met her on her weary round of holy service.

And at the close of the war she was active in the establishment of a home for the orphan children of soldiers in Wisconsin.

BURSTING OF A SHELL BEHIND MY CARRIAGE.

The line of battle was so closely drawn around Vicksburg that every camp, and hospital, and wagon-train with provisions and ammunition, was under fire.

Every worker of the Christian and Sanitary Commissions, who ventured out to labor with the sick and the dying, knew that the Confederate sharpshooters at many points were within easy range, and that the flying shot and shell, that at times almost darkened the sky, were liable to drop in the pathway of the worker, and blot him or her out of existence.

None but the more courageous remained on the field. Curiosity-hunters, and bombastic dress-parade workers, fled from the scene as from a battle-field; for in truth every inch of ground about Vicksburg was a battle-field.

The perplexities of the service, and the dangers attending every effort made to relieve the suffering, were so great, and the laborers in consequence so few, that every helper was overwhelmed and overworked.

One day, coming in from a weary round, a day’s work of unusual peril and hardship, we reached a point in the road sheltered from the enemy by a clump of trees.

Though at no great distance from the Confederate guns, it seemed more secure because we were out of sight of the frowning batteries.

Suddenly there was a crash in the timber, and we knew and heard no more. We were all so stunned that we did not know that a shell, crushing through the tops of the trees, had struck the ground in the middle of the roadway not forty feet behind our carriage.

If it had come a moment sooner, we would all have been scattered in fragments to the four winds.

As it was, the road was torn up so that it was impossible for teams to pass till it was repaired; the horses fell to the earth, the driver seemed dazed for a time, the carriage was covered with the dirt thrown out, for an ox might have been buried in the pit that that one shell dug out. Though it was the main thoroughfare, along which much of the ammunition and provisions were hauled, fortunately no teams were nearer than our own, and no one was killed or hurt.

If these lines should fall under the eyes of George, the driver, a soldier detailed for that service, he will excuse me for saying that he was about the worst frightened person I ever saw. That evening he said,--

“I wish you would release me, and ask for some one else. I’d rather be with my regiment behind the fortifications than driving around this way all the time.”

“You’ll feel better about it in the morning, George--you will get over the shock. And then, too, remember that those who are behind the fortifications may be ordered at any time to make a charge, which would be more dangerous than the work you are now doing. But think about it; and if in the morning you would rather go back to your regiment, I will have the change made.”

The next morning George was all right, and he continued to drive for me until after Vicksburg was taken.

MEETING A REBEL WOMAN AT NASHVILLE.

There was great rejoicing over the fall of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson. The gunboats and transport vessels were pressing on to Nashville, which was occupied by the Union army soon after the fall of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson. I went up on the first transport.

The women were mostly left behind in the scramble to get out of the city, and they were more intense in war spirit and partisan feeling than the men. In the heat of the excitement the chief hotel was thronged with both parties, where I took lodgings. The women sung ditties about Beauregard and Davis before the door of my bedroom till midnight, at intervals.

The great parlor of the hotel was a scene of the utmost confusion, judging from the tumult of angry voices.

The women blamed the men about them. “Every man who is able to bear arms ought to be ashamed to be seen outside of a war-camp in days like these,” was the sharp rejoinder of a woman to her husband. I did not hear his answer, but suppose from her reply that he said he would only be throwing away his life.

“Throwing away your life, indeed! A man that is not true to our cause at such a time _ought not to live_.”

Some one was sitting at the piano, and banged the keys of the instrument in wildest fury to drown the sound of the contentions.

The next morning, in the dining-room, every Southern man and woman gave us all a wide berth, not deigning to sit at the same end of the dining-room.

After breakfast I went for a few minutes into the parlor. The lady whose voice I heard in falsetto the night before followed me, accompanied by her colored nurse-girl carrying her baby, perhaps six months old.

I had no purpose of controversy in my heart; and so when the lady said, “My baby is named after the best man in the world--Beauregard,” I only smiled.

“I suppose you Yankees think you can conquer us?”

“That is what the people of the North hope to do.”

“Well, you can’t. There is not men enough in the North to conquer us; for when you kill the men off, the women will take up arms.”

“Well, madam, there are thousands of men gathering and drilling in the North, and they will soon be here; and it’s their firm purpose to maintain the Union, cost what it will.”

“They’ll kill the women, will they?”

“They will _conquer the South_.”

“Contemptible hirelings! they’ll kill the women, will they?” she hissed.

“I don’t think they want to kill the women; but if that is necessary for the maintenance of the Union, I suppose they will have to do it.”

“Wretches! wretches! They’ll kill the women, will they?” she screamed, and her eyes blazed fire and scintillated like the eyes of a maniac. I thought she was going to leap upon me in her fury. We were standing facing each other; and I made up my mind that if she did assault me that I would do my little share of fighting, and choke a little of the treason out of her. But she changed her mind, and rushed from the room, slamming the door after her with such force as to shake the house to its foundations. A year after that she was playing the _rôle_ of a Union woman, and was quite popular as a loyal Southerner among the officers.

No one in these calm days can imagine the fiery, cruel spirit of war. I was not afraid; the Stars and Stripes were over us, and the Union army within call.

But what seems laughable to me now, was exceedingly exasperating and insulting at that time. There is no question about the matter--the Southern women, in their blind, partisan fury, prolonged the contest to the last extreme of desperation. They could not believe defeat possible.

No longer we hear the clash of arms,
And the cannon’s fearful booming;
No longer the torch of war alarms,
Our cities and homes consuming:
The smoke of battle has cleared away,
And Peace her vigil is keeping,
Though wet with tears are the flowers we lay,
Where our gallant dead are sleeping.

VISITING HOSPITALS UNDER THE GUNS.

I came down the river with a heavy lot of supplies at the beginning of the siege. I sent an order to the quartermaster for an ambulance. Instead of sending the ambulance, he sent me a fine silver-mounted, easy carriage captured at Jackson, which I afterwards found drew the fire of the enemy.

It was reported in Vicksburg that an old, experienced general, too crippled to ride on horseback, made his rounds in that carriage, and the Confederates made it a target every day.

One captain of sharpshooters told Dr. Maxwell of Davenport, Iowa, that his men had sent more than a hundred shots after that carriage, supposing some high official was the occupant. He was very much shocked to know that they had been shooting at a lady. In most cases the shot fell low, but the wheels were chipped till they were quite a curiosity.

I drove out in company with Mrs. General Stone to the nearest hospital one day. We had gone through the tents, and attended to the business that had brought us, and were standing beside the carriage, when a shell from Vicksburg burst near us, scattering fragments all around us. To me the shock was terrific. I could feel my flesh crawl in the most uncomfortable way, and every hair on my head seemed to stand upright.

“Are you so near the enemy’s guns?” I questioned.

“Oh, yes; all the hospitals are under fire. A shell burst in this hospital a few days ago, killing one man and wounding three others.”

“It’s horrible that sick men must be placed under fire. Why don’t the authorities remove the sick and wounded to a safe distance?” I spoke with some spirit.

“You forget,” said the surgeon, “that General Johnson’s army is near, and that we are forced to draw in our lines. We would rather take the risk of a random shell than to risk being between two contending armies during a battle.”

That was quite another view of the matter, and now I was brought face to face with the facts of the situation. If I visited the hospitals I must do it under fire. I had been under fire before, but only for an hour. To go out day after day under a rain of lead was quite a different thing.

I went back to the Sanitary boat at the Yazoo Landing in a very thoughtful mood. The muddy, sluggish stream was well named Yazoo, meaning the River of Death.

That night was spent in prayer. The next morning I arose with a courage born of faith. I seemed immortal; not a bullet had been moulded that could hit me.

I went out to my work without a fear. My carriage was struck time and again, and bullets whizzed past me, but never a feeling of fear crept into my heart. I was “under the shadow of His wings, and he covered me with His feathers.”

Mrs. General Stone, whose husband commanded the right wing of the army, and who now lives at Mount Pleasant, Iowa, camped with her father out on the bluffs. She invited me to leave the sluggish river with its miasma, and come up and stay with her; and I accepted the invitation. She had a beautiful tent put up beside her own; and as the lizards were very abundant, the feet of our cots were put in jars of water, and we tucked up the covers about us so as to keep them off of our beds. We could hear their little feet scratching as they raced after each other over the tents.

The soldiers got used to them, but somehow we women shrank from contact with anything so nearly akin to the serpent family.

Night and day the battle went on. The shells with their burning fuses would sail up into mid-air like stars of the first magnitude, and burst into a shower of sparks and fragments, setting the heavens ablaze with their scintillation, and jarring the foundations of the earth with the thunder of their explosions.

We became so accustomed to the horrid sounds of war that the absence or abatement of it would awaken us out of our sleep.

EXHIBITIONS OF MOTHER-LOVE.

TO WHAT LENGTHS AFFECTIONS WOULD CARRY WOMEN IN THE WAR.

War brought heavy burdens of anxiety and sorrow to the women on both sides of the lines during the terrible struggle of 1861-1865. The anxious waiting for news from the battle-field, the heart-breaking scrutiny of the list of wounded and killed, cannot, with their sorrows, be measured by words and phrases.

One Philadelphia mother, whose husband and son were in the war, received news that her son had been killed in one of the smaller battles of Virginia. She determined to recover the body, and bring it home for burial. After many delays and hindrances, she reached the regiment of which he was a member. She had walked three miles to get there, and had left the casket she had brought down at the station, where fire had destroyed everything but the track.

The soldiers brought up the coffin, and the next morning exhumed the body. They had wrapped him carefully in his blanket, and marked the spot with a rough board, on which they had carved his name and regiment and company with their knives. When they lifted him out, and laid him at her feet, she recognized him at once.

“Yes, this is my boy,” she said, pushing the damp hair back from his fair young face.

The soldiers, who were glad to render the heart-broken mother any service they could, carried the coffin down to the railroad track, where the station had once stood, and instructed her how to “flag a train;” and assuring her that “a train might come at any time,” they left her there with her dead.

There was no human dwelling in sight. She seated herself on her son’s coffin, beside the charred timbers and ashes, to await the coming of the train. Behind her was the little valley where the Union troops were stationed to guard an important pass. On either side of her were mountains that rose majestically, that might be infested with wild beasts and creeping things. Before her was a little brook and the bands of iron along its banks that rendered it possible to make the journey through that mountain gorge by rail. The afternoon wore away, but no train came; the shades of night closed her in, but no sound of wheels greeted her ears.

She built a little fire so as to signal the train. The sharp notes of the night birds, the fighting of the wildcats on the side of the mountain, the mysterious noises in the air, the sound of stealthy footsteps near her,--all fell with fearful distinctness on her ears; for every nerve was strained to its utmost tension. But no train came to relieve her weary vigil. Her garments were wet with the dews of night; and she added wood to the smouldering fire, for the cheerful blaze comforted her.

As the night wore on, all nature seemed at rest. The night birds ceased their calls, the wildcats climbed higher up the mountain, and the whippoorwill ceased its mournful song. But this was even more terrible, as every remaining sound was more distinct. The rustling of a leaf or a noise in the bushes sent the blood hurrying to her heart.

At last gray streaks of light began to climb above the mountain in the east, and were tinged with purple and orange, and soon the white light of day fell about her; but it was not till late in the afternoon of the second day that a train came, and her weary vigil ended. For twenty-six hours she had been alone with her dead.

She reached Washington without delay, and before boarding the train for Philadelphia saw the coffin of her son put on board. But when she reached Philadelphia she found that by some mistake the remains had been left at Baltimore. She telegraphed back, and waited in the station till they were brought to her, and then followed them to her own house.

Afterward her husband was killed; and she went to the front again, and secured his body, and brought it home for interment. Who shall measure the anguish of the women who watched at home till there was one dead in almost every house?

A mother in Maine received the news that her only son had been wounded and taken prisoner, and had been sent to Richmond. “I am going to him,” she said. Her husband and neighbors tried to dissuade her. On her journey toward the front she called on Governor Andrew of Massachusetts. “My dear madam,” he said, “I can do nothing for you. The only thing I could do would be to give you a letter of introduction to President Lincoln.”

“Well, give me that.”

When she reached Washington she called on the President, and after a weary waiting was shown into his presence. “Why, madam,” said the great-hearted Lincoln, “I can do nothing for you. If he were within our own lines, I would give you a pass, but I cannot send you to Richmond. At the best, I could only get you beyond our own pickets.”

“Then, please give me a pass beyond your pickets.”

This was done, and she passed the Union lines to fall into the hands of the Confederate pickets. The latter refused to allow her to proceed.

“I am going right on to Richmond. Shoot if you will.” And she started on. They did not shoot, but took her into camp, and from the headquarters of that command she was sent on to Richmond.

When she reached the hospital where her son lay, the surgeon refused to allow her to see him.

“I must see him! I’m sure it will do him good to see his mother!”

As soon as the son saw her, he cried out,--

“There is my mother! I knew she would come. I’ll get well now.” And sure enough he did.

THE SURRENDER OF VICKSBURG.

For days there had been unusual activity in the camp. The Fourth of July was to be celebrated by a general bombardment; and if there were signs of yielding, a sharp assault and an attempt to capture the city would be made. The besieged party was not in ignorance of what was going on. The pickets and sharpshooters, and the soldiers at points where the fortifications touched each other, had given the whole programme of a grand Fourth of July celebration in boastful proclamations. Everything was at fever-heat on the 3d of July, though the firing was kept up at the usual rate till about one or two P.M. Suddenly all firing ceased. The silence could almost be felt. There had been pauses before, lasting an hour or more, during interviews under a flag of truce. But as the afternoon slowly wore away, and the firing was not resumed, the excitement became intense. Later, it was reported that General Grant and General Pemberton had met under a great spreading oak-tree just inside the Union lines, and that General Grant had made his terms known in the memorable phrase “_unconditional surrender_.”

It was a sad hour for Pemberton. His army was starving; his ammunition and his fighting force were so diminished that to continue the siege seemed madness. And yet he had held out so long hoping help might come--it might now be near him--that it was hard to surrender. His was a fearful struggle. Not many words passed between these two men as they stood there, a little apart from their staff officers. Later, the time of the surrender was fixed at 9 A.M. on the Fourth of July, which was the next morning. The news flew through the camp at lightning speed. Soon everybody, sick and well, knew that Vicksburg had surrendered. The firing had ceased, but on both sides every man stood at his post.

There was little sleep for any of us that night; the stillness was so unusual and impressive, and the excitement so intense, that sleep fled.

The morning of the Fourth dawned fair and beautiful. Very early in the morning, in company with Dr. Maxwell and Mrs. General Stone, I drove out to General Logan’s headquarters, whence the army was to begin the triumphant march into the city.

We took our position on the battlements of Fort Hill, where we had a full view of the city and surrounding country. The point where we stood had been more sharply contested than any other. The fort had been undermined and blown up; and amid the confusion and disaster that buried a hundred or more in its ruins, an attempt had been made to scale the fort and enter the city. Before the dust of the explosion had cleared away a hand-to-hand battle was raging, and hand-grenades were being tossed as freely as balls on a playground, which exploded with great destruction. The roar of battle had raged again and again about that fort, but now all was calm and still at the dawning of this day of peace. As far as we could see, the muskets were stacked, and white handkerchiefs were fluttering above them. The Confederate and Union soldiers stood along the lines in groups, talking as friendly as though they had never exchanged shot with intent to kill. But there was no loud talking--all seemed to feel that it was a moment of deep solemnity.

At last the stillness was broken by the tramp of horsemen; and General Grant, with his staff of officers following, passed near us and honored us with a military salute,--not with guns, but that peculiar and graceful lifting the right hand, open, to the full length of the arm, with a graceful wave, and touching the cap,--a salute we never see in civil life, unless some old soldier forgets himself. Following close upon these came General McPherson and his staff. General McPherson was the most kingly looking man on horseback I ever saw. In personal appearance he was a prince among men at any time; but on this glad morning he seemed to be grander and taller under the enthusiasm and flush of victory than ever before. General Logan followed with his staff and his division on foot.

We stood there with our field-glasses in our hands, watching them as they marched down into the city. There was a long halt. They approached each other forming into long double columns, then we saw, opposite the blue, the gray forming into lines. Every eye was strained to take in the scene. There was a movement forward of officers, the flash in the bright sunlight of swords as they were handed over to the conquerors, and _then handed back_; for General Pemberton and his staff were allowed to carry their swords, and enjoy the freedom of the city. They had conducted an honorable warfare and must not be humiliated.

But now there was another point of interest. The Confederate flag had floated over the Court House tower through all these months of conflict, but the Stars and Stripes was now to take its place. Soon a little glinting of our loved flag came into view. But what could be the matter? Surely a tangle in the ropes could be adjusted in a few minutes. All stood in breathless anxiety. Such a delay at such a time was startling, and every moment seemed an hour to those who were watching from a distance. At last with rapid sweep the Stars and Stripes was run up to the top of the staff, and a heaven-sent breeze unfurled it to our delighted eyes.

What a burst of enthusiasm greeted it. We waved our handkerchiefs, while men who had faced the cannon’s mouth for the flag sobbed in their wild joy, and flung their caps into the air. But the Confederate soldiers, as far as we could see, stood with folded arms, silent, motionless. And yet with all our gladness that the guns had ceased to belch forth their murderous fire, there was a deep, fathomless undertone of sorrow over the cruel, bloody work of red-handed war, that the glad acclaim of triumph and victory could not drown.

HEALED SOUL AND BODY.

In 1863, just after the fall of Vicksburg, I visited the hospitals in Helena, Ark. Going into a large ward one day, filled with sick and wounded soldiers, I saw in the farthest corner of the room a very sick man. I noticed him the more because he was looking towards me, and there was upon his face such a look of agony and despair as I had never seen on any human face before, and I trust I may never see again. I said to the surgeon, who had stepped in with me,--

“You have one very sick man here.” And when I designated him, he answered, “Yes, he is almost gone; poor fellow, he’ll not live long.” I said no more,--my heart was too deeply touched,--but went directly to him. As I approached his cot-side, I said tenderly, “You seem to be very sick, my friend.” The look of agony deepened in his face as he answered,--

“_My friend!_ I have no friend. I am here dying among strangers, and nobody cares whether I live or die.”

“Oh, don’t say that. You have many friends in the North;” and I was going to say, “I’ll be your friend,” but I remembered how empty such a profession of friendship would be on the part of a stranger, and instead, I said, “There is a _Friend_ that sticketh closer than a brother. Can’t you make Jesus your friend in this dark hour?”

When I spoke the name of Jesus, he cried aloud,--

“Oh! would that Jesus were my friend; but I am a great sinner.”

“But Jesus is the sinner’s friend.”

“O lady! you don’t know what a wretched sinner I am, to what lengths of wickedness I’ve run, or you would not think that Jesus could save me.”

But I answered, “You don’t know what a great Saviour we have, or you would not doubt. He is the mighty God, and he is able to save to the uttermost; and that means that _he can save you_.”

“It is too late. It is too late!” he cried with such bitterness of soul that the men lying upon their cots--brave young men, who bore in their own persons the marks of their heroism--covered their faces with their bedclothes, and wept like little children.

But I urged that it was not too late, and commenced telling him of the thief on the cross; but he stopped me.

“Oh, I know about the thief on the cross; but, lady, I am a thousand times worse than the thief on the cross.”

“If you were _ten thousand times worse, Jesus could save you_; for he can save to the _uttermost_.”

These words gave hope, and he exclaimed, “Pray for me!”

I knelt by his cot-side; and while he prayed and I pleaded, “the opening heaven around us shone,” and the mighty power of saving grace came down upon his soul.

The tempest was stilled, and all was _peace_. I looked up into his face to see, that in a moment--as it were, in the twinkling of an eye--all the lines of despair had been taken out of his face, and that it was beaming with joy; a joy unspeakable, and full of glory.

If I had been an infidel up to that time, it seems to me that I should have been convicted of the truth of Christianity in that presence.

There were many witnesses to that scene; and it was as though the Master would show his mighty saving power, for _he healed that man soul and body_. My secretary was with me. Three days from that time I found him on the shady side of the house reading the Testament I had given him the day before. The same look of peace and joy was in his face, as he said,--

“Oh, I am so happy this morning! I have a _furlough_, and I am going home. How glad my Christian mother will be to know that I have found salvation.”

“Young man,” I said, “wherever you go, remember that you were snatched as a brand from the burning.”

“I can never forget that. My disease and despair were crushing me down. I must have died if salvation had not come just then; but when you _spoke the name of Jesus_, I knew you were a Christian, and that you would help me if you could.”

THE NEW YORK HERALD REPORTER WHO LIVED FOR TWO WORLDS.

Two weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg, I took passage on a steamer for the North. Just before the boat left the wharf, a gentleman whom I knew came on board in company with a sick friend, whom he introduced as Mr. Brown, “Correspondent of the _New York Herald_.” I was so weary with the scenes of war, with the heat and hard labor which had been the common lot of all workers during the siege, that I did not want to talk to any one, much less to a “_Herald_ reporter.” He was sick, and was going home for a season of rest, so he said. How deceptive appearances are. I set him down at once as a drinking man, because his face was flushed and his eyes red; and I determined to be as unsocial as possible. I did not see him again till evening, when he came back into the ladies’ cabin and began social conversation.

I determined our talk should be religious, and soon introduced the subject. He had remarked that we were making headway, and would probably reach Helena by eight o’clock the next morning. But he said, “of course there are dangers on every side--sand-bars, snags, and guerillas. _So we can’t tell where we will be in the morning._”

“It matters little,” I answered, “to those who live for two worlds. We have the promise that everything shall work together for good to those who love God.”

“I believe that, and am living for both worlds,” he responded heartily. Then began one of the most interesting conversations that it has ever been my privilege to engage in. He was a most deeply pious man, and through all the army life had walked with God.

As the evening wore on, conversation turned upon heaven, and the joys and privileges of the redeemed. I remember how his face glowed with holy enthusiasm as we talked of heaven. He contrasted the noisy, horrid scenes of war with the peace and sweet harmony of that world of light and love. He said, “I am prepared for such a blessed change of scenes at any moment.”

The evening was now well-spent, and bidding him good-night I retired to my stateroom. The next morning when I stepped out into the ladies’ cabin, I found the captain of the boat waiting for me.

“Did you know the gentleman you were talking with last evening?”

“Yes, slightly.”

“He is dead.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes, he is dead and cold; he must have died immediately after retiring. The gentleman who occupied the lower berth noticed his arm hanging down over the side of the berth when he went to retire, and spoke to him, but he made no answer; and this morning his arm was just in the same position.”

Yes, he was dead. He had gone from that talk about heaven right into the grandeur and glory of all its blessed mysteries. How thankful I was that our conversation had been about Christian duty and heaven!

My thoughts turned quickly to the widowed mother and the sisters so well beloved; for he had spoken of them all most tenderly. We were now nearing Helena, where he must be taken ashore and buried. He had died of heart disease; and it was that, not drink, which made his face so flushed.

I wrote to his mother, who lived in Lancaster, Pa., telling her all I could recall of our talk about God, duty, heaven, and all the circumstances of our brief acquaintance and his death.

One of his sisters answered my letter, for his mother was quite prostrated by the shock the news of his death had given her.

She said they were looking for his home-coming every hour, when the sad message that he was dead and buried reached them. But the sister’s faith rose triumphantly above it all.

“We all thank God for the loving providence which cast our dear one in the pathway of a Christian who directed his thoughts and hopes heavenward at the last. It is a great comfort to us that his faith was so bright and clear, and that his last thoughts on earth were about heaven.”