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Title: Three years in field hospitals of the Army of the Potomac

Author: Anna M. Holstein

Release date: February 28, 2023 [eBook #70170]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: J.B. Lippincott & Co

Credits: Bob Taylor, Sonya Schermann and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THREE YEARS IN FIELD HOSPITALS OF THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC ***





  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




  THREE YEARS

  IN

  FIELD HOSPITALS.




  THREE YEARS

  IN

  FIELD HOSPITALS

  OF THE

  ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.

  BY

  MRS. H.

  PHILADELPHIA:

  J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

  1867.




  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by

  J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,

  In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States
  for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.




INTRODUCTION.


This simple story of hospital scenes, and the unpretending sketches
of the few brave soldiers to which they allude, is arranged from the
meager notes which were hurriedly written at the time they occurred,
when there was not the most remote idea of ever preparing them for
publication.

The events of the war are “graven as with an iron pen” upon my
memory. To preserve some slight memento of them for friends at home,
was the primary object of these notes: to gratify the same persons
are they now grouped together.

  MRS. H.

  UPPER MERION,
  Montgomery County, Penna.,
  _October 1, 1866_.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.

  Antietam—Hospitals—Frederick City—Virginia—Breaking
  up of the Hospitals—Moving North with the Army                     9

  CHAPTER II.

  Battle of Gettysburg—The Wounded—Incidents in Hospital—Sanitary
  Commission Work—The Flag on “Round
  Top”                                                              38

  CHAPTER III.

  The Campaign of 1864—Port Royal—White House—City
  Point                                                             58

  CHAPTER IV.

  First Visit to Annapolis—Stories of Starved Men—Burial
  at Andersonville—Neely’s Life in the Dungeon of Castle
  Thunder—Sergeant Kerker—Captains Wilson and Shelton
  in the “Iron Cage,” in Buncombe County, Tenn.—The
  Boy and the Flag—Gould’s returning Consciousness—Mr.
  Brown in Danville Prison                                          91




THREE YEARS IN FIELD HOSPITALS.




CHAPTER I.

  Antietam.—Hospitals.—Frederick City.—Virginia.—Breaking up of the
  Hospitals.—Moving North with the Army.


When the first sounds of war were heard, and there dimly dawned the
startling fact that traitors were imperiling the life of the nation,
we all remember how thousands rushed to arms at our country’s call,
eager to proffer aid in this her hour of need. City, village, and
country alike gave, as their first offering, their young men, the
pride and strength of the land.

The first that our quiet valley knew of the preparation for war,
a company was being gathered from about our very doors,—with Col.
Hartranft (now major-general—and nobly has he won the double stars,
to which his bravery entitles him) as their chosen commander. We
saw them as they stood beneath the shade of a spreading tree, with
uplifted hand, vowing true allegiance to the best government the
world has ever yet beheld; and as that roll now shows, many upon
far-off battle-fields have sealed it with their blood.

They followed where Burnside led; and all along that way, which
occupied four years of these eventful times, we trace their course,
marked by the battles in which they so bravely bore their part.

As the soldiers went out from among us, there came the yearning
wish to lessen somewhat the hardships of their lonely camp life,
especially when sick in hospital or wounded. What each family first
began to do for _their_ relatives and friends, soon became general;
and thus by uniting together, “Soldiers’ Aid Societies” were formed.
With all loyal women of the land, I worked zealously in their
behalf; worked, because there was irresistible impulse _to do_, _to
act_. Anything but idleness, when our armies were preparing for the
combat, and we knew not who should be the first to fall, who be
called _widow_, or who _fatherless_. At length the battle of Antietam
came so startlingly near, that it brought before us the horrors
and sufferings of war as we had never previously felt it. From our
midst six women felt called upon to offer their services, for a few
weeks, to nurse the wounded. Though strongly urged to make one of the
number, I declined. The idea of seeing and waiting upon wounded men,
was one from which I shrank instinctively.

But when my husband returned, soon after, with the sad story that
men were actually dying for food, home comforts and home care; lying
by the roadside, in barns, sheds, and out-houses; needing everything
that we could do for them, I hesitated no longer, but with him went
earnestly to work in procuring supplies of food, medicine, and
clothing. Through the kindness of friends and neighbors, we were
enabled to take with us a valuable supply of articles that were most
urgently required. Fortunately they were hurried through without
delay, came most opportunely, and were invaluable. The name of
Antietam is ever associated in my mind with scenes of horror.

As I passed through the first hospitals of wounded men I ever saw,
there flashed the thought—_this_ is the work God has given _me_ to do
in this war. To care for the wounded and sick, as sorrowing wives and
mothers at home would so gladly do, were it in their power. From the
purest motives of patriotism and benevolence was the vow to do so,
faithfully, made. It _seemed_ a long time before I felt that I could
be of any use—until the choking sobs and blinding tears were stayed;
then gradually the stern lesson of calmness, under all circumstances
was learned.

We found the men, who had so bravely fought, still scattered over
the hardly-contested field. At this time, 6th of October, 1862, they
were all under some kind of shelter. A sad want of suitable food
and medical stores was still felt; and though both were forwarded as
rapidly as possible, yet it was insufficient to relieve the distress.

At that early day in the history of the war, we found our noble
United States Sanitary Commission here, doing a vast amount of good.
From their store-room were sent, in every direction, supplies to
relieve the greatest suffering. And to it, strangers as we were to
them, we daily came for articles which we found, in our visits to
the hospitals, were most urgently needed, and which our own more
limited stores could not furnish. They were as freely given to us for
distribution, as they had been in like manner intrusted to them by
friends at home. The Montgomery County delegation occupied one room
in a house adjoining the “German Reformed Church Hospital.” In this
uncomfortable, little place, crowded with boxes and swarming with
hospital flies, the six ladies continued their labors during the day,
waiting and working faithfully among the wounded. And so dividing
their number that part went daily in the ambulance, which was
furnished for their use, to look after and prepare food for those in
the country that urgently required it, while the remainder attended
to the same kind offices for those who were in town. Of the six who
at that time volunteered their services, one remained in the hospital
for two years; two others, from that date until the close of the
war, were known as reliable, valuable helpers.

Added to this fatiguing kind of labor, there seemed no limit to the
numbers who came looking after their dead and wounded, the “loved
and lost.” From that little room persons were constantly aided in
their search for missing friends, food furnished at a time when it
was almost impossible to buy at _any_ price, and they directed to
lodgings in the town or elsewhere.

Among these was a young wife, whose frantic grief I can never forget.
She came hurriedly, as soon as she knew her husband was in the
battle, only to find him dead and buried two days before her arrival.
Unwilling to believe the fact that strangers told her—how in the
early morning they had laid him beside his comrades in the orchard,
she still insisted upon seeing him. Accompanying some friends to the
spot, she could not wait the slow process of removing the body, but,
in her agonizing grief, clutched the earth by handfuls where it lay
upon the quiet sleeper’s form. And when at length the slight covering
was removed, and the blanket thrown from off the face, she needed but
one glance to assure her it was all too true. Then, passive and quiet
beneath the stern reality of this crushing sorrow, she came back to
our room. The preparations for taking the body to Philadelphia were
all made for her, and with his remains she left for her now desolate
home.

My imperfect notes of this date are filled with names of terribly
wounded men, who are scattered over the entire extent of the field,
recalling most vividly scenes that can _never_ be forgotten. Those
were fortunate who were in barns, where they were sure of a little
hay or straw upon which to rest their shattered limbs, while many of
the others lingered a few days, with no bed nor pillow other than
a knapsack or piece of clothing. And then—the weary marches over,
_their_ last fight ended, they closed their eyes, and sank to rest.
Upon one end of the piazza, at Locust Spring, lay Lieut. Williams, of
Connecticut. For three weeks he lingered in intense suffering, and
then passed from earth. That same piazza had been thickly strewn with
the dying, and the wounded, ever since the battle. In the house were
several officers, all seriously wounded. The barns were crowded with
the sufferers; among them Lieut. Maine, of the 8th Connecticut—nursed
by his wife, patient and gentle, while life lasted. In one of the
tents was a zouave; a shell had torn his chin and fractured the
shoulder; both legs broken; the fingers of one hand partly gone,—yet
he is cheerful, and thinks he got off well. Near him lay a young
boy, from Union, Centre County, Penna., wounded in the chest badly,
but, as his surgeon said, not fatally. His thoughts, sleeping and
waking, were of home. He was constantly repeating, “Oh, take me to
my mother.” And when I told him that I would do all I could for him,
that I knew many persons in Centre County, he brightened up and
quickly said: “Then you _will_ take me to my mother.” Of his wound
he never seemed to think, but at each visit we saw that he was fast
passing beyond our care; and in a few days, repeating, while life
lasted, the same words, he “fell asleep,” and so went to his “long
home.” In a miserable little log-house near the Potomac, thirty men
lay upon the floor, ill with fever; some had a little straw, but no
pillows were to be found; at that time it was unavoidable, but their
food was hardly fit for well men; medicines very scarce;—this house
the counterpart of many others, both as to occupants, food, etc.

On the same road were several places filled with wounded rebels; in
their hurried flight, they had been left by thousands, and now had to
be provided for. The Episcopal church in the town had also been taken
for their use. The rest of the churches, and half the houses in the
place, were crowded with our wounded troops.

Going into the hospital one evening, I found, lying upon a stretcher
near the door, Wm. P. C., of the 12th New York State Vols., “the only
son of his mother, and she was a widow.” To my question, if I could
do anything for him, he replied: “Not now; he was waiting for the
surgeon to attend to him.” A few hours later, when taken from the
operating table, I found him perfectly calm and quiet; after making
him as comfortable as could be done for the night, promised to care
for him on the morrow. When I first wrote to his mother, it was only
to tell her he was wounded. The following day was a decided change
for the worse, and he thought he could not live. Even then, it was
not upon his own sufferings and death that his mind dwelt, but upon
his absent mother and sisters. He would constantly exclaim, “This
will kill my mother; oh, break it gently to her.” After messages to
them, would ask that some portion of Scripture be read to him, and
the prayers which he named repeated with him. Thus occupied, the
hours fled too rapidly, as we felt that each moment was precious to
him who was upon the brink of that unknown river, whose crossing
must be _alone_. By his lonely bedside, I wept bitter tears for the
home so darkened, the light of a mother’s life departed, and the
sorrowing sisters of whom he spake. Conscious almost to the moment
of his departure, he calmly and trustfully passed “into the spirit
land.” Upon the evening of the same day, 13th of October, 1862, with
my husband and a lady friend, we accompanied the detachment of his
own regiment which carried his body to the grave. In the Lutheran
church-yard, with the solemn burial-service of the Episcopal Church,
Mr. Holstein committed his remains to the grave. “Earth to earth,
ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” Soon after came the most touching
letter of thanks from his sister. I thought _then_, as I _still_
think, that those kindly words amply repaid me for the little I had
done for him, or all I _could_ do, for other soldiers, in the future.
A few months afterward we stood again beside his open grave; this
time, at the request of his sister, that we should once more look
upon the body we had placed there, and know that it was _indeed_ her
brother. Painful as it was, her request was complied with to the
letter; the body, disinfected, was prepared for reinterment. With
my husband as its escort, the homeward journey was taken; at length
reached Utica, N. Y., in safety; then, his last request complied
with, carried by loving hands to its final resting-place. Again came
words of thanks, dearer far to me than any earthly treasure.

While the army rested in the vicinity of Sharpsburg, in addition
to the wounded, scores of fever-patients came pouring in; some new
regiments went down by hundreds. About this time the wounded were
gathered up from the numerous scattering hospitals, and sent to
“Smoketown” or “Frederick City.” As the short supply of medicine,
food, and clothing continued, we left, when the party of six went
home. Going directly to Philadelphia, came to the house of a relative
as the wedding-party of a dear friend was about proceeding to
the church; with the family, we stood around the chancel, as our
beloved Bishop Potter pronounced the words which made the twain one;
and then, as the guests returned to the house, for a few moments
mingled with the crowd. But think of the _contrast_! Only yesterday
walking among, and waiting upon the mangled, brave defenders of our
country’s flag; men who were in want of suitable food, lying upon
the hard ground; needing beds, pillows, clothing, covering,—_is it_
any wonder that I turned away, sick at heart, coldly calculating
how many lives of noble men might have been saved with the lavish
abundance of the wedding festivities which I saw? Of the wedding, I
knew nothing more; but quietly withdrew to an upper room. From thence
sent notes, imploring help for the wounded, to friends throughout the
city: so prompt and abundant was the response, that in forty-eight
hours we were on our way back to Antietam, with boxes of medical
stores, valued at one thousand dollars. Delicacies, clothing, etc.,
all selected to meet the wants as we represented. We were again most
warmly welcomed by our friends, the surgeons, under whose direction
our labors had heretofore been carried on. The supplies, as they
said, were in many instances a perfect “Godsend,” as we had articles
which it was impossible to obtain there. This time, our location was
a better one, near the Lutheran church, occupying part of a house
devoted to fever-patients. A narrow entry separated our room from the
one where twenty men laid upon the floor. Here, in one corner, was a
graduate of Yale College; his opposite neighbor, a young lawyer, from
near Pittsburg, who was an only son; next to him, upon the floor, the
son of a Presbyterian clergyman; the rest of the occupants, Eastern
and Western men, indiscriminately mingled. All privates. But _all_,
far superior to the same number from any portion of the rebel ranks
that I have ever seen.

The next house was filled in like manner: soon after we came, and
before the names and faces of the men were familiar, I went there,
carrying some nourishing food. A Pittsburg colonel had just requested
that I would find some of his regiment, if possible, that _he_ could
not trace. As I opened the door, and asked, “Are there any from
Pennsylvania here?” a number replied in the affirmative; but the one
nearest me sank back gloomily upon his handful of straw, murmuring:
“Well, as I am from Massachusetts, I suppose _that_ means that _we_
are not to have any of that nice supper.” I quickly corrected his
mistake, and explaining my errand, told them the supper was for
_all_: there could be no distinction of _States_, where all the
soldiers needed care. Thus early was I taught a lesson I never forgot.

It was but a few days until they were _all_ moved into our house,
and this same Massachusetts soldier, Mr. B., was one that required
more kindness and attention than any of the others, during the short
time he lived. In the same room was Jim C., a boy of nineteen,
belonging to the 32d Massachusetts Vols.; he had been very ill with
fever, but was thought convalescent; but owing to some imprudence,
there was a relapse, and he sank rapidly. When he knew there was no
hope of his recovery, his greatest comfort seemed to be to have the
Scriptures read to him; recognizing my voice, called: “Oh, pray for
me! I have sinned, have sinned; but I repent, and ‘believe in God the
Father,’” etc. “Jim, who taught you the Creed?” “I don’t know; but I
want to say it all;” so it was repeated with him; and again, with the
earnestness of a child, the Lord’s Prayer was uttered. He listened
with the closest attention, as different passages were recited to
him; and would frequently interrupt the reading, saying: “Yes, I _do_
believe; say that over again.” It was a most affecting sight, the
dying boy begging God’s forgiveness of his sins, that he might be
“taken up,” as he expressed it; and then his body laid in the earth
without a fear. The few days he lingered were all thus spent, and
when death was near, almost to the last moment that consciousness
remained, and his voice could be heard, prayers for pardon were upon
his lips. The evening of the 24th of October, 1862, he suddenly and
peacefully died. Early the following morning, wrapped in his blanket,
he was given a soldier’s burial in the little church-yard.

    “Leave him to God’s watching eye;
    Trust him to the hand that made him.”

At this time our valued friend, Mrs. E...., who had been the
directing power among the party of six, and who returned with us to
Sharpsburg, had unmistakable symptoms of camp fever. She was taken
home as quickly as possible; the attack at first seemed a light one,
until an unlooked-for relapse brought her within the very shadow of
the “dark valley,” and she appeared sinking beyond all human skill.
But prayers were heard, and answered, and a life so precious spared
to be the sunlight of her husband’s home, and a blessing to all
around her.

Her sister, “Miss Lizzie,” then came to assist: from this period
almost to the close of the war, she was my excellent co-worker.
Among the wounded at Antietam, Gettysburg, and in Virginia, her kind
ministrations will be long remembered.

The 26th of October the army, which had been resting for more than
a month in the vicinity of the battle-field of Antietam, took up
its line of march southward; by the evening of the same day their
camping-grounds were nearly all vacated. The 30th of the month, the
last of the troops were moving, and the town looked deserted; but in
the hospitals the duties continue the same, and cases of the deepest
interest are daily found. Of the numbers we had known upon our first
arrival, many had gone to their “dreamless sleep” by the side of
comrades who had early fallen; and we now saw many hillocks in the
little inclosures, where a few weeks ago lonely graves were found.

The little hospital in our house continues full. When a soldier
dies, his vacant place upon the floor is soon filled by another;
and thus the _number_ remains the same. D—g, from Pittsburg, an
orphan, with only an elder brother to grieve for him, was a case that
seemed particularly hard. “Leave of absence,” at the right time,
might possibly have saved his life; but his furlough came a few
hours _after_ death had released the suffering body from sorrow and
disappointments.

Mr. B., the Massachusetts soldier, mentioned some time since, was
now extremely ill: as I was busied in waiting upon them, one Sunday
morning, he inquired if I would write home for him, as he dictated;
and replying that I certainly would, he directed me where to find
his little writing-case, preferring that his own paper and envelopes
should be used, that his wife might recognize his writing upon them.
In a calm, composed manner, speaking so clear and distinct that the
surgeon involuntarily paused in his work to listen, he gave the
parting messages to wife and children; wished a lock of his hair
cut for his wife, while he was living; then, taking a ring off his
finger, it was inclosed, as he directed, to his little daughter;
after disposing of other keepsakes to his children, added: that their
likenesses, with his wife’s, that had so often comforted him in hours
of sadness, and weary marches, though dimmed with the smoke and dust
of battles, would be buried by his side. This was _all_ he had of
his distant home—pictures that were so dear, that even when life was
gone, they must not be separated from him. Then, giving instructions
as to the final disposition of his property, and the education of his
children, he commended them, in a few earnest words, to the loving
care of their Heavenly Father. As he directed, I closed the letter,
and kept it until a few days later, when another was added to it,
to say that the patient sufferer was at rest. Death, to him, was
not unlooked for, though it came suddenly; as I was reading to him
in the evening, he fell asleep, and never more wakened upon earth.
In the morning we found his lifeless body, wrapped in his blanket,
lying in the entry near our door,—the same resting-place that his
fellow-soldiers had found. The first coffin that we knew used in
the hospital was made for Mr. B., of rough boards—the remains of
our packing-boxes. His request was faithfully carried out, and the
pictures placed beneath his folded hands.

Our party having for some time consisted of Mr. H., myself, and
friend, we stayed until the town was deserted; the few that were
left being taken to “Smoketown” and “Locust Spring.” Our services no
longer required, we went home the last of November; staying there
only long enough to arrange about the forwarding of supplies to us,
as we should need them in the hospitals.

Another trip to Antietam and Harper’s Ferry, and Mr. H. returned, ill
with the fever; fortunately, it was not a serious attack. We remained
there only long enough to nurse him through it, when our trips to the
hospitals at Antietam and Frederick City were resumed. While in the
latter place, our home was the house of a well-known loyal family.
They _felt_, what we at the North knew nothing of, that loyalty
meant life was at stake, homes deserted, property destroyed, and the
friends of early, happier years, _all_ given up,—for what? devotion
to the country, and the flag!

As “Stonewall’s” men marched through the town, they manifested their
contempt for the “Starry Flag” by trailing it in the dust, at their
horses’ feet, as they rode along. Our friends, pained to know of
their ill deeds, and unwilling to look upon the disgraceful act they
were powerless to prevent, closed their doors and windows, that they
might be out of sight. Their old neighbors pointed them out to the
rebels, as they passed exultingly through their streets, as hated
Unionists. But their joy was of short duration; soon driven out by
our forces, and many prisoners taken, a long line of the captured
were marched by their door. Now was _their_ hour of triumph; the flag
which had been so cautiously concealed, and sacredly guarded, was
brought from its hiding-place, and secured to the staff. Mrs. J....,
an elderly lady, a Virginian by birth, determined they _should_ again
pass under the flag they had dishonored.

    “In her attic window the staff she set,
    To show that one heart was loyal yet.
    She leaned far out on the window-sill,
    And shook it forth with a royal will.”

The rebels could only threaten, as they moved on, that if again in
possession of the city, they and their home were doomed. Some months
after this had occurred, I stood by that attic window as she related
the story, and pointed out how defiantly she had waved it over them.
Its weight was as much as I could raise, and yet, in the excitement,
my friend was all unconscious of it. It was long after, before I saw
or heard of Whittier’s “Barbara Frietchie,”—that charming story, so
told that it will live for ages to come; and have often wondered
whether _his_ original and _my_ friend were the same. In visits to
the hospitals, collecting and distributing articles needed among the
wounded, the time was occupied until the battle of Fredericksburg.

Soon after as possible, we went to Virginia, and remained in the
Second Corps Hospital, near Falmouth. Army life taught, perhaps,
_all_ who were in it many useful lessons. I never knew before how
much could be done, in the way of cooking, with so few utensils.
We thought we had some experience in that line at Sharpsburg, but
here the conveniences were still fewer. When we commenced, a little
“camp-stove,” very little larger than a lady’s band-box, fell to
our lot, upon which to prepare the “light diet,” as it is termed.
Three articles—a coffee-pot, a half-gallon tin-cup, and a small
iron-boiler—were the sum total of kitchen furnishing: we soon learned
to manage nicely; by beginning in time, were always ready at the tap
of the drum. For several weeks, seventy men were daily supplied with
all the “light diet” they required, prepared upon it; our soldier
assistants worked admirably with it;—and gradually, from the Sanitary
Commission and friends at home, _this_ department was fitted for
work; an abundance of delicacies could be made with the condensed
milk and fresh eggs, which were regularly forwarded to us; bread and
biscuit were also sent, with farina, wines, butter, dried fruits,
etc., so that the men fared well. Penn Relief, Reading, Pottstown,
Danville, and some portions of Montgomery County, were the sources
from which our supplies, at _this_ time, principally came. From
the commencement until the close of the war, they never wearied in
well-doing; but worked on devotedly, as only those could whose hearts
were in it. The memory of them, and their good deeds, will ever be
lovingly cherished by those whose hands were made the channel through
which this stream of life-sustaining gifts flowed.

We still depended entirely upon home-supplies for our own use;
frequently, during that winter, our bread was _four_ or _five_ weeks
old; we never called it stale even then, though at home we would
think it unfit for the table in as many days. Several trips were made
to Washington, to purchase bread for us; at length, at the request
of the surgeon in charge, we drew army rations, and were spared much
trouble. Our dwelling was a little “Sibley” tent, whose only floor
was the fragrant branches of the pines—giving additional care to our
attentive “orderly,” in its frequent renewing; there, while fully
occupied, the winter slowly wore away. The deep mud, and impassable
roads, cut by the army, precluded travel; no chaplain, that _I_
ever saw, came to our camp until the roads were in good order: men
sickened and died, with no other religious services, save the simple
Scripture reading, and prayers, which I was in the daily practice of
using for them; and which invariably were received with a pleasant
“thank you,” and adding: “We are always glad to see you, and have you
read to us.”

A boy, belonging to the 148th P. V., George S. L...., whose home
was in Centre County, Penna., was very low from hemorrhage; his
nurse came to ask if _I_ would try to induce him to eat; he had
refused all food that had been offered, and it was important that
his strength should be kept up: I prepared some article as directed
by the surgeon, and took it to him; when I entered the tent, he was
lying with closed eyes, and a face colorless as the canvas above
him; I spoke, telling him that I came, at the surgeon’s request,
to feed him, that he was not to speak or make any exertion—merely
swallow what I gave him. The blue eyes opened _wide_, scanned my
face steadily for a moment; possibly satisfied with the scrutiny,
no objection was made, and he really enjoyed the slight repast. I
told him at such an hour I would be there again, and would prepare
his food and drink. For two weeks, all he ate was what I gave him;
during that time was a very decided change for the better, and he
could now converse without danger. The week preceding the battle
of Chancellorsville, we were obliged to go home for a short time;
but left, to carry on the work, my valuable assistant, Miss P. When
George found we expected to leave, he cried bitterly, exclaiming that
“he knew he should die, if I left him;” and thanking, and blessing me
for my care.

As soon as it was possible, after the battle, to get within our
lines, we were at our posts. During our absence the hospital had been
moved two miles, and was now located near Potomac Creek. Of course,
as soon as we arrived, my first inquiry was for George; the surgeon
replied, “he was living, that was all; was in a stupor, and knew no
one.” I could not realize that the boy must die; when I hastened to
his tent, and spoke, asking if he knew me, his reply was, calling me
by name: “Do you think I _ever_ could forget you?” My daily reading
was again resumed; the blue eyes now regularly brimmed over at my
approach: it was his expressive, silent greeting; though apparently
insensible to all around him, my voice would at any time rouse him,
and a faint smile light up his wasted face. He lingered a few days
longer, and then, one quiet morning, with the precious words of faith
and hope yet sounding in his ears, he gently passed from earth.

Trains of wounded were still coming from the late battle, when
we arrived; some had lain for many days upon the field, and were
gathered up in out-of-the-way places; one such group, of five, “shot
to pieces,” as they said, were entirely overlooked, until found by a
New Hampshire chaplain, who brought them water for their wounds, and
obliged the rebels to bring them food: finding they had not died, as
they had hoped, they sheltered them slightly from the weather; and
at length, to their great joy, they were sent to our lines. In the
number were many badly, some singularly wounded. While the hospital
continued crowded, the duties were wearisome, giving but little time,
either day or night, for any of the attendants to rest; there was
much daily occurring of interest among those who now filled the wards.

Our nearness to the “front,” within sound of musketry and cannon,
prepared us for whatever might occur, so that we were always
anticipating more than passed around us. As soon as transportation
could be had, the number in the hospital was lessened by sending the
patients North. And now that milder days gave promise of the coming
spring, the “surgeon in charge” commenced the work of beautifying
the grounds; soon the sloping hillsides were covered with a neatly
planted garden, containing a large variety of vegetables. Flowers,
roots, and seeds were sent to us; and as if by magic, beds of flowers
were scattered everywhere; many springing into beauty in the form
of the _corps badge_—needing but a few weeks’ sunshine and showers
to perfect the red color of the division. Rustic work of the most
artistic order graced the grounds; all this was done for a twofold
reason—to give employment to the convalescents, and amusement to the
patients. In front of our tent was a rustic arbor, so complete that
any of our country homes would prize it for its beauty.

Work went on, and everything made _apparently_ as lasting as though
we expected to spend the summer within sight and sound of rebel
batteries. A few days previous to the army moving, a portion of the
sixth corps was sent across the river to attract the attention of
the rebels in that direction, and to ascertain what force they had
remaining. We were close to one of our batteries during a portion of
the time this was occurring, intently watching the skirmishers, and
the rebels, that were plainly seen in the woods near them. Within a
few minutes after we left the spot, the rebels again renewed their
leaden compliments to the battery where we had been: they returned
them in like manner; in the distance, we plainly heard the sharp
firing which ensued. Things continued in this way until Saturday,
the 13th of June, 1863: while at dinner, the order was received
to break up the hospital; quietly and rapidly was it obeyed; the
ambulances were in readiness to take all who could not walk, and in
_two hours_ the seven hundred men were on their way to the station.
It was surprising to see how quickly crutches were thrown aside, and
all who _could_, were willing to start for the cars—exulting in the
prospect of going that much nearer home. When the order to “break up”
was given, the gardener was putting the finishing touches to some
ornamental rustic work about our tent: _instantly_ hammer and hatchet
were thrown aside, flowers remained unplanted, and, with a hurried
“good-by,” he fell into line with his comrades. The remainder of that
day was a busy scene of destruction and confusion; but the night
found us still occupying our tent, though nearly all the others,
except a few of the officers’ quarters, had been “struck.” The next
day, Sunday, came with all the loveliness of June; but there was
nothing in _our_ surroundings to point it out to us as a day of rest.

Almost the first object which the early morning revealed to us
was the Army of the Potomac in motion. Looking down upon the
plain beneath, far as the eye could reach, was a moving mass of
men, horses, and artillery, with the heavy army wagons and trains
of ambulances; gleaming through and above it all, in the bright
sunlight, were the _bayonets_—upheld by that heroic column, which the
future record proved to be firm and enduring as their trusty steel.
It _was_ a grand sight, never to be forgotten; in one continued
stream, this mighty army poured along. At six in the evening, our
hospital train of empty ambulances was in readiness; and then the
torch was applied to all that remained of so much beauty about our
camp. We sat, quietly watching the flames as they curled and flashed
from one arbor to another, encircling in a wall of fire the evergreen
screens which had so pleasantly shielded us from heat and dust,
and crumbling into ashes in a few moments the work of months. All
hospital and army property which could not be transported, was thus
consumed, two officers remaining to see that the work of destruction
was complete; what could not be _burned_, the axe rendered useless.
As the flames lessened, we took our places and moved on with the
train, expecting to join the division at Stafford Court House;
halting there long enough for a hasty supper, the march was resumed.
To lookers-on, if any could be found in that desolate region, it
must have presented the appearance of an almost unending torch-light
procession: as from nearly every ambulance and wagon was suspended
a lantern, to point out the dangers of an unknown road. At the
crossing of Aquia Creek, rested for an hour; and here all were glad
to sleep, even for that short time. A little distance beyond, passed
a Connecticut battery of six siege guns—32-pounders, each drawn by
ten horses. Very early in the morning, the sixth army corps came up,
moving quickly by, cheering as they passed, and calling, “On for
Pennsylvania!” Breakfasted near Quantico Creek, in a rebel house; the
occupants enjoyed our coffee, as a luxury beyond their reach since
the commencement of the war; on the surrounding hills, found many
deserted rebel camps, abatis, and defenses of various kinds. This
day’s march brought us to Dumfries, and camped in its vicinity at 11
P.M., the occupants of our ambulance most thoroughly _used up_, all
but myself; assisted in arranging our little tent, prepared lunch,
and made very strong tea with thick, muddy water—tired and hungry
as we were, it was not as unpalatable as one would imagine. After
three hours’ rest, the order was given, quietly, to move quickly as
possible, but cautiously, as we were in sight of rebel camp fires.
Here, as elsewhere in this hurried journey, whenever such orders were
given, some of the soldiers _ran_ with our ambulance, steadying it,
as the wretched roads required. The rebels were continually harassing
the rear of our column. _We_ had left Stafford Court House late in
the evening; the next morning our cavalry had a short fight with them
there.

The morning of the 16th of June was cool and delightful, but the
mid-day heat was intense; the soldiers feeling it painfully, but
bearing it cheerfully. From this place onward, our course could
be traced by the blankets, coats, and knapsacks thrown aside by
the foot-sore and weary men; broken, abandoned wagons and disabled
horses, seen all along the route. The difficulty of procuring water
was greater than any previous time; numbers of wells by the roadside
were observed filled with stones; the water was always muddy and
bad, and could be had only at long distance from the road. This day
found both men and horses needing a full night’s rest: quite early
in the evening we halted at the edge of a beautiful wood in Fairfax
County, and in its shade our little tent was pitched; with the dawn
we were astir, deeply thankful for our safe, refreshing rest and
shelter during the night. Of course, in all this journey, our bed was
a soldier’s couch—the _ground_; with a gum-blanket, and satchel for a
pillow, could at any time or hour sleep soundly.

We crossed the stony Occoquan at Wolf’s Ford; on the heights were
the remains of formidable-looking rebel fortifications. Here, June
15th, 1863, we heard the first tidings that the rebels were in
Pennsylvania; the excitement the news created was intense. This
day’s heat told sadly upon the men; despite their eagerness to reach
Pennsylvania, they could not bear up, and many fell by the wayside
from exhaustion: in one division, one hundred and twenty reported
with sunstroke. During the hurried march, numbers of cavalry horses
had been abandoned by their riders, who only required a few days’
rest to recruit, and again they were ready for duty. They were to be
seen all along our route, undisturbed by the passing column, except
when caught by some of the foot soldiers. It was amusing to observe
the ingenious arrangements made to answer for the horses’ trappings:
a piece of old tentcanvas was soon converted into an admirable
bridle; another piece of the same shelter kept the saddle (a
blanket) in its place: thus mounted, he would be delighted; and day
by day added to the number of _this_ escort. There were constantly
exciting incidents: sometimes we were in a dangerous position, from
our driver losing his place in the line; then the crossing of the
infantry through the train, the frequent breaking down of bridges,
and the delay caused by disabled wagons constantly impeded our
progress.

Near “Union Mills,” our troops camped for the night in “line of
battle;” our little tent was pitched upon the banks of the stream, in
rear of _our_ army, almost within bugle-call of the rebel lines. Here
the order was given to reduce officers’ baggage to twenty pounds,
forward the surplus to Washington—or destroy it. Many officers
and men came with the request that we would take charge of money
and valuables for them. It was a touching sight—upon the eve of a
battle, as it was thought—to see keepsakes, from loved ones at home,
intrusted to comparative strangers, hoping thus to save them in case
of attack, which here, near the old “Bull Run” battle-ground, seemed
imminent. I wore under my coat a belt, and carried the costly sword
belonging to it under my dress. A civilian, as my husband was, could
not do so without danger of arrest, while _I_ would pass unnoticed.
The large amount of money and valuables in our possession were
brought safely to Philadelphia, the former soon restored to its
rightful owners; the sword with some other articles were unclaimed
till near the close of the war.

As a battle was anticipated, and we were now accessible to railroad,
near Sangster’s Station, it was thought advisable to proceed
without delay to Alexandria and Washington, from whence we could
readily return if our services were needed. After remaining some
days in Washington, Mr. H. was threatened with an attack of malaria
fever—warning us to proceed homeward without delay. We came to it,
worn out and wearied as we were, as to a haven of _rest_.




CHAPTER II.

  Battle of Gettysburg.—The Wounded.—Incidents in Hospital.—Sanitary
  Commission Work.—The Flag on “Round Top.”


We remained at home only long enough for Mr. H. to recuperate
sufficiently to bear the fatigues of travel. While he was still unfit
for the journey, the great battle of Gettysburg, July 1st, 2d, and
3d, 1863, was fought; within one week after it, we were on our way
thither; reaching the town late in the evening, spent the night upon
the parlor floor of one of the hotels; with a satchel for pillow,
slept soundly. In the morning went to the Field Hospital, where we
were most warmly welcomed by our old friends of the second corps.
The wounded, at that time, lay just where they had been placed when
carried from the battle—friend and foe resting together.

    “Beside a stricken field I stood;
    On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
    Hung heavily the dew of blood.
    Still, in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
    But all the air was quick with pain,
    And gusty sighs, and tearful rain.”

We soon found where and how to resume work, which we had so lately
left off: a tent was promptly prepared for our use; it was not many
hours until the “diet kitchen” was in full operation; with the large
and valuable supplies taken on with us, the “institution” moved on in
a wonderfully smooth, efficient manner.

To aid in relieving the suffering among these wounded men was the
“Germantown Field Hospital Association” formed; I mention it here
because this was the first point where it came prominently into
notice. They sent as their representative the well-known rector of
one of their churches, Rev. B. W. Morris; his services as chaplain
are gratefully remembered by many in these eventful times.

An incalculable amount of good resulted from this new “Association:”
to me was given the great pleasure of distributing the articles which
they contributed; and, until the close of the war, appeals for money
or hospital comforts ever met with a ready, cheerful response, and an
abundant supply of all that was needed. They afterward became one of
the most valuable aids to the “United States Sanitary Commission” to
be found in Pennsylvania.

The scenes around Gettysburg were horrible in the extreme: the
green sod everywhere stained with the life-blood of dying men; the
course of the fearful struggle marked by the “ridges” which furrowed
the ground until one _great_ hillock would be pointed out where
_hundreds_, perhaps, had sternly fought and bravely fallen. To
persons unfamiliar with such things, as sad a sight as any are the
heaps of bloodstained clothing, the shattered muskets, the discarded
knapsacks, disabled cannon and caissons, and the innumerable heaps of
slain horses which literally cover the hard-fought field.

For a few weeks, the events daily occurring in the hospitals were
most painful; they might be summed up, briefly, to be: fearfully
wounded men; nurses watching for the hour when suffering would cease,
and the soldier be at _rest_; parents and friends crowding to the
hospital, hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst; strong men
praying that they might live _just long enough_ to see, but _once_
more, wife, or child, or mother.

After this battle, relief came promptly; it was upon _our own soil_,
and the “great heart of the people” was stirred to its very depths,
when they knew that among us thousands of our countrymen lay with
ghastly wounds,—men who had stood as a “living wall” between us and
the foe, to save our homes from rebel rule.

All of home luxuries that _could_ be carried, were lavished with an
unsparing hand by a now deeply grateful people.

The government, fully equipped for the contest, had medical and
hospital stores abundantly supplied. With the perfectly organized
system and immense resources of the “United States Sanitary
Commission,” ever ready and anxious to fill up all demands which the
government _could not_,—aided by the Christian Commission and large
volunteer assistance,—there was no long-continued suffering, as in
the earlier battles of the war.

These days have left their impress upon all who were actors in them.
Now, on this calm morning upon which I write, there comes thronging
before me a vast array of forms and faces that I had thought
forgotten. “Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!”—and so the
swiftly changing scenes appear.

Prominent in them, I recall a burial where three were at one time
taken to the little spot we called a cemetery. One sultry afternoon
in July the stretcher-bearers came tramping wearily, bearing three
bodies of those who had given their lives for _freedom_; as the last
reached the place, the men dropped with a rough, jolting motion the
army couch whereon he rested. The impatient effort to be rid of
their burden was probably the means of saving a precious life; for
the man—_dead_, as they supposed—raising his head, called in a clear
voice: “Boys, what are you doing?” The response as prompt: “We came
to bury you, Whitey.” His calm reply was: “I don’t see it, boys;
give me a drink of water, and carry me back.” And then glancing
into the open grave: “I won’t be buried by this raw recruit!” The
raw recruit was a lieutenant of his own regiment. Not many stand so
near the “dark valley” that they look into their own graves, and
_live_. The “boys” did carry him back; and with the greatest care,
his life _was_ saved; months afterward he was sent to “Chestnut Hill
Hospital,” Philadelphia; from there he wrote to me to say that his
surgeon thought he would recover. His name was Luther White, Co. K,
20th Massachusetts, from Boston; he was wounded by a piece of shell,
which tore off part of his ear, and shattering his jaw, laid bare
one side of the throat. After the battle, he remained for three days
unconscious, then rallied; and again sank away until he died,—as it
was thought, and carried to the grave.

While the hospitals remained in the _woods_, the number of deaths
daily was very large; as soon as the removal to the clover-field was
accomplished, where all were in the sun, the change for the better
was very decided; the night after, only two deaths occurred. During
the few weeks the wounded remained there, my notes were too hurried
and unsatisfactory for reference; they merely repeat that one and
another has passed “to the land of rest.”

Large numbers of rebel wounded, numbering thousands, were left in
our corps hospital; and though attended by their own surgeons, they
neglected them so shamefully that it was an act of common humanity to
provide better treatment for men helpless and suffering,—prisoners
as they were. One of our surgeons volunteered to undertake the duty
of attending them, and others were detailed for that purpose. Their
condition when captured was so filthy that the task of waiting upon
them was a revolting one.

All of our wounded that could bear transportation were forwarded,
as rapidly as it could be done, to hospitals in Pennsylvania and
Maryland. By the 7th of August there still remained _three thousand_,
who were moved into tents at the United States General Hospital on
the York Turnpike; when our corps hospital was merged into this, we
removed there; I remained as its matron until the close.

While the wounded were being brought in from different directions,
a _rebel_ was placed in a tent of _Union_ men; one of the number
protested against having him among them. As they seemed to pay no
heed to his objections, ended by saying that “he enlisted to kill
rebels, and certainly as they left him there, his crutches would
be the death of him—he could use _them_, if not the musket.” The
attendants, finding the soldier was in earnest and the rebel in
mortal fear of him, good humoredly took him among his own countrymen.
In opposite extremes of the camp this same scene occurred: two men
protesting that they “enlisted to kill rebels,” and would not have
them under the same shelter.

Captain J. C. H., of the 145th Pennsylvania Vols., from Erie, had
much the same idea; he was suffering from a thigh amputation—the
only one of nineteen similar cases, performed at the same time, that
lived; a rebel officer was placed in the back part of the captain’s
tent, when he instantly ordered the nurses to carry him, upon his
bed, under a tree which stood near—and there he remained nearly all
day, until the surgeon in charge settled the difficulty by removing
the rebel.

About one-third of the camp were rebels; this proportion was almost
uniformly kept up; rebel ladies from Baltimore and other places were
permitted to come and wait upon their own wounded; as matron, it was
part of my duties to attend to the distribution of delicacies, etc.;
I have waited upon them hour after hour, as kindly as I ever did upon
our own loyal men. All this was before I had been among those who
were starved in Southern prisons; after having seen them, the task
might have been a difficult one. The orders were imperative in the
hospital: no difference was permitted in the treatment of the two.

We found, in the rebel wards, the son of a former Secretary of
State of New Hampshire, a conscript from Georgia; his life had
been repeatedly threatened by them, if he dared to leave, or if he
admitted that he was a Union man; so that no one ever suspected
the fact, until the rebel officers had all been sent to “Johnson’s
Island” or Baltimore; the same evening he came to the Sanitary tent,
and told his story; from there taken to headquarters, where it was
repeated,—insisting that he would take his own life, rather than
leave the hospital a rebel prisoner. To assure him that he was among
friends, the provost marshal was sent for, and the oath of allegiance
taken. He remained as clerk for some time; when his wound permitted,
was sent home.

A nephew of President Johnson, named Burchett, was also a Union man
among rebels; with a number of others, they were attempting to come
into our lines when captured. The rebels told them they would be
put in the front ranks, and when they came to Gettysburg, carrying
out their threat, they were made breast-works of. None of the sixty
escaped unhurt; many were killed. Burchett lost a leg, and one arm
permanently disabled. He was a free-spoken Union man among them, and
seemed to be no favorite with the rebs on that account. He remained
a prisoner, hoping in the exchange to be sent to Richmond, that
he might save some property belonging to his father, who had lost
everything in Kentucky.

In the “Union tent,” as it was called, standing alone in a rebel row,
I found a boy of seventeen, wounded and “sick unto death,” whose wan,
emaciated face, and cheerful endurance of suffering, at once enlisted
my sympathy. He was the son of a clergyman in Maine; and in answer to
inquiries about his wound, told me, with a feeling of evident pride,
that “early in the day his right leg was shattered and left upon
Seminary Hill, and he carried to the rear; that the stump was doing
badly; he had enlisted simply because it was his _duty_ to do so; now
he had no regret or fear, let the result be as it might.” I wrote
immediately to his home, to tell them he was sinking rapidly; my next
briefly stated how very near his end was; there were but a few days
more of gentle endurance, and the presentiment of the child we had
so tenderly cared for proved true—when, with murmured words of “home
and heaven,” his young life ebbed away—another added to the many
thousands given for the life of the nation. One week after his burial
his father came; with a heart saddened with his great loss, said that
his eldest had fallen at “Malvern Hill,” the second was with the army
at Fernandina, and Albert, his youngest born, slept with the heroes
who had made a worldwide fame at Gettysburg. They were his treasures,
but he gave them freely for his country.

Another, the only child of a widowed mother, from Montgomery County,
Penna., lay from July until October, calmly bearing untold agony from
a wound which he certainly knew must result in death; yet his one
anxious thought, constantly expressed, was: “Mother, do not grieve;
it is best, and right; bury me with my comrades on the field.” So,
at sunrise one bright autumn morning, his soul went up to God,—the
casket which had held it, we laid to rest among the nation’s honored
dead in Gettysburg Cemetery.

This bereaved mother, who gave her _all_ for her country,—her eldest
upon Antietam’s hard-fought field, Willie at Gettysburg,—with the
thousands of others who have made the same precious offering, are
names to be gratefully remembered and cherished while the record of
this war endures.

It is very rarely that our brave _Union_ soldiers complain, or bear
impatiently their wounds; on the contrary, they endure suffering with
a heroism which exceeds even the bravery of the battle-field.

George W. Warner, of the 20th Connecticut, was a case in point: while
in the act of firing his musket, a shell exploded which took off
_both arms_ near the shoulders, inflicting also serious wounds in his
head and leg. He was uniformly cheerful with it all; sometimes would
despond for a moment when speaking of his wife and children, but the
cloud was of short duration; the pleasant thought of how his little
children would wait upon him, seemed to reassure him. As soon as he
was able to walk, every one seemed ready to watch over, assist, and
feed him.

In the officers’ row lay, for some weeks, a young lieutenant, from
Schuylkill County, Penn., with both thighs shattered, suffering
fearfully. A few hours before his death, at his request the Holy
Communion was administered to him; after joining in the solemn
services, he remained perfectly still,—unconsciously “passing away,”
as those present thought,—until a glee club, from Gettysburg, going
through the hospital, singing as they walked, paused at his tent and
sung—without knowing anything of what was passing within—“Rally round
the Flag.” The words and the music seemed to call back the spirit to
earth, and forgetting his crushed limbs and intense suffering, sprang
up, exclaiming: “Yes, boys, we _did_ ‘rally round the flag;’ and you
will rally oft again!” then sank back exhausted, and soon was at rest.

The clergyman who was present said it was a scene never to be
forgotten; the Christian soldier’s devotion to his country, even when
within the “dark valley,” to be called back to life again by thoughts
of the flag in whose defense his young life was given.

In another portion of the hospital was a man from Western
Pennsylvania, whom his friends mourned as dead; whose funeral sermon
had been preached, and his name on the rolls marked “killed in
battle.” His captain and comrades saw him fall in the midst of a
desperate charge, and almost without a struggle life was gone,—as
they thought, and so reported. But it was not so; the bullet, in its
course, went crashing through both eyes, though sparing life. A few
hours later, when the wounded were gathered up, they found him—

    “Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day,
    And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen.”

Then taken with others to the hospital, he lay for weeks unconscious,
his brain affected from the inflammation which ensued. He could
give no history of himself; but when hungry, would make it known
by calling “_mother_;” and talk to her constantly,—first about his
food, then of home concerns. I have heard him in these sad wanderings
when he would ask: “What do the girls say about me, now I have gone
to the war? does Jenny miss me?” and so on. At length his parents
heard of him, and from the description thought it might be the son
they mourned as dead. I was in his tent when his father came, and
recognized in the blind, deranged man his handsome, brave boy.
Eventually his mind would be restored, but his sight never. In this
state he took him home to the mother he talked of so much.

In September, while the hospital was still crowded with patients, a
festival was given for their amusement. The surgeon in charge, with
the other officers, entered heartily into the plan. The Christian
Commission took an active part in completing the arrangements,
soliciting and obtaining abundant supplies of fruits and delicacies
from friends in Philadelphia; to this were added contributions from
the town and adjoining counties, making a grand feast of good things.
The day selected, proving bright and balmy, tempted many, who had
not yet ventured outside their tents, into the open air, hoping
they might be able to participate in the promised enjoyments. The
streets and tents of the hospital had been decorated with evergreens,
and everything on this gala day had a corresponding cheerful look.
Hospital life, with its strict military rule, is so wearisome
and monotonous, that what would be the most trivial pleasure at
other times and places, is _here_ magnified into a matter of great
importance.

When the hour came for the good dinner, which was known would be
provided, hundreds moved upon crutches with feeble, tottering steps
to the table, looking with unmistakable delight upon the display of
luxuries. Bands of music enlivened the scene. All the variety of army
amusements were permitted and encouraged, followed in the evening
by an entertainment of _negro_ minstrels,—the performers being all
_white_ soldiers in the hospital. This last, the soldiers thought
the crowning pleasure of the day. At an early hour the large crowds
who had enjoyed it all, with the patients, quietly dispersed.

Our long residence in the hospital gave us the opportunity of
understanding fully all the prominent points of interest in the
battle-field, which was constantly before us: if we but raised our
eyes, they rested upon “Culp’s Hill,” “Cemetery” or “Seminary Hill,”
and in the distance “Round Top,” made forever memorable by the heroic
conduct of the brave men of the fifth corps, who, by order of Gen.
Meade to Gen. Sykes, directed it “to be held at all hazards.”

Among the few valued friends who regularly met in our tent, when the
fatiguing duties of the day were over, was frequently discussed the
propriety of placing upon some part of the field a flag, to manifest
our sympathy and esteem for those who “here fought and won this great
battle for our liberties.” Some intimation of the plan proposed
reached our friends at home, and directly we heard that a flag would
be sent by persons residing in our immediate vicinity. To two of
the ladies most active in procuring it, was given the pleasure of
conveying it to Gettysburg. Many of the wounded knew when it arrived,
and the arrangements being made to receive it; at their request, the
flag (twenty-five feet in length) was carried through the streets
of the hospital, then taken to “Round Top.” All who could leave
the hospital—officers, ladies, and soldiers—joined the procession.
A large concourse of persons manifested, by their presence, the
pleasure they felt in the event. Appropriate and eloquent addresses
were delivered by David Wills, Esq., of Gettysburg; J. T. Seymour, of
New York; and Surgeon H. C. May, of the 145th New York Vols.

Dr. May gave a graphic account of the battle as he saw it, describing
in glowing words the many historic localities now before us;
and, explaining the purpose which had brought there so large an
assemblage, continued: “The occasion of our meeting together on this
rock-bound, rock-capped hill, to day, needs no explanation from me.
The most rapturous bursts of eloquence, from the most gifted orator
of the land, could not intensify your interest in the spot on which
now we tread. When the golden rays of the rising sun lit up this
elevation on the morning of July 1st, 1863, ‘Round Top’ was scarcely
known beyond the few honest husbandmen who dwell beneath its shadow.
When that same sun was setting behind the western horizon on the
evening of July 4th, and again illumined the foliage now immediately
over our heads, the name of ‘Round Top’ was on the tongues of
millions all over the land. It has been in contemplation, for some
weeks, by a few friends at the General Hospital, to erect a national
flag on the summit of ‘Round Top,’ constituting, as it does, one
of the flanks of the Federal position, and its elevation being so
singularly located that the flag could be seen for miles in every
direction. The desire was simply expressed, a short time since, to a
circle of patriotic ladies of a township of Montgomery County,—the
immediate vicinity of ‘Valley Forge,’ of precious Revolutionary
memory,—that they would contribute a flag for this purpose. Soon the
word came back that the work was in progress; later still, that it
was successfully accomplished. Willing hands from the hospital have
prepared and erected this staff: and it is our delight and pride,
to-day, to behold the beautiful folds of our ‘Starry Banner’ floating
in the breeze from this hallowed spot, mid the booming of artillery
and the sweet strains of music—a slight token of affection to the
memory of our gallant comrades who ‘sleep the sleep that knows no
waking,’ on every side of us.”

The ceremonies ended, we came back to the sad routine of hospital
life and suffering; brightened, however, with the pleasant
remembrance of the events in which we had been participating.

The work of reducing the number of patients was now commenced in
earnest. Sixty were at one time sent in the cars, who had each but
one arm a piece; the next train took the same number with one leg a
piece, and one little cavalry boy who had lost both at the knee.

These sights have always been to me the saddest, most painful of any.
Amid scenes like these we were constantly occupied until the breaking
up of the hospital, and the dedication of the National Cemetery. That
had to _us_ a deeper interest than to many of the lookers-on: many
of the quiet sleepers, by whom we were surrounded, we had known, and
waited upon until care was no longer needed.

During the ceremonies of that day, we were so fortunate as to have
a place directly in front and within a few feet of our now martyred
President, and there heard distinctly every word he uttered of that
memorable speech, which will last while the Republic endures.

There was now, November, 1863, nothing more to be done at Gettysburg,
and we gladly turned our faces homeward. Remained there but a few
days, until—at the urgent request of the Sanitary Commission—I
consented to call together the various “Soldiers’ Aid Societies”
throughout the State, and in those meetings to tell the ladies what
I knew personally of the wants of the hospitals,—the best way of
preparing delicacies for their use, the clothing most required, and
so on.

It was _impossible_ to be an idler while this gigantic struggle
was in progress. The current of swiftly passing events had, all
unconsciously, drifted me to this point; I yielded to its force,
and commenced this additional labor as part of the work which came
unsought. There was not the least recognition of _self_ in any part
of it; had there been, it would have been impossible to have gone on
with it. While talking, the disagreeableness of the situation was all
forgotten, and thinking only of far-off hospital scenes,—the lonely,
dreary couch of the wounded or sick man, uncheered by loving care
of wife or child,—the weary tramp of the sentinel, or the wretched
life of men in trenches, I could do nothing _less_ than tell to
other women the story that I knew so well,—of want, of suffering
unparalleled, of bravery and endurance unequaled,—and then remind
them how much was in their power to soothe and comfort those on
battle-field, or hospital, by the preparation of articles for their
use.

Of our army in health, I knew comparatively nothing. Men sick,
wounded, and dying were not likely to manifest any but the _good_
traits in their character; and from this knowledge the estimate was
made. I have been for weeks the only lady in a camp of seven hundred
men, and have never been treated with more deference, respect, and
kindness than when thus situated.

The first group of ladies that I met numbered about fifty. Their
eagerness to learn the little I could tell them amazed me, and made
it seem a lighter task when I next talked to others. These meetings
have frequently numbered from one to three hundred; often two or
three such talks of an hour and a half each in one day, continued,
without any opportunity for rest, week after week. This was our plan
for aiding the soldiers, while not actually _in_ the hospital. With
my husband, we traveled through Pennsylvania, taking in our route
those places which were deemed of most importance; and were thus
engaged until the spring campaign commenced in Virginia.

The schools, both public and private, were also allotted as part of
my field of labor. In Philadelphia and vicinity, the scholars often
numbered from three to nine hundred. It has always been a matter
of surprise, how intensely interested the children invariably were
in the simple stories of hospital life I gave them, and the plans
by which their work and offerings could be most effective. Their
tear-dimmed eyes and eager manner always charmed me, and made this
part of the work a source of pleasure. In numerous places through
the State “Aid Societies” were organized by this means that worked
vigorously until the close of the war.

We found, among the ladies in Carlisle, several very flourishing
societies. Living upon the border, they realized, as others more
remote could not, the necessity for this kind of exertion. There was
also a society of children, called “The Little Helpers.” Through the
energy of the few ladies who directed them, they had accomplished
wonders. Their origin was beautiful as their title was expressive. A
lady lost her little boy, a child of six summers, whose mind was full
of what he and his little play-fellows could do for the _soldiers_.
Suddenly taken from earth to the angels above, his mother, in her
grief, anxious to carry out his plans, called the children together
at her house. Every week found the little hands busy,—and in their
simple, childlike way contriving what else they could do for the sick
and wounded. A fair was the result of this first successful effort.

The name, so suggestive to children of what they were, and so readily
comprehended by them, was mentioned, and adopted in many places as
that by which their circle should be known.

In different portions of Pennsylvania, were incidents relating to the
numerous Aid Societies of deep interest to us who knew them; but not
properly belonging to the work we had undertaken, are omitted here.




CHAPTER III.

  The Campaign of 1864.—Port Royal.—White House.—City Point.


The 9th of May, 1864, Mr. H. left Philadelphia, with a number of
other gentlemen, agents of the Sanitary Commission, for the purpose
of proceeding directly to the front, to wait upon the wounded—which
it was known must be expected in large numbers after the army crossed
the Rapidan. The spring was rainy, and the roads horrible, even for
Virginia; with so many discomforts surrounding them, and the exposure
of lying upon the damp earth, it was thought most prudent for me
to remain in Pennsylvania, and continue my labors there, until the
weather became settled.

Battles were now daily occurring, and our soldiers falling by
thousands. The inaction and feeling of doing nothing for the wounded
was unbearable, and a constant source of anxiety and trouble. On the
18th of May, with my friend Miss Lizzie B...., we left home for the
hospitals; arrived at Belle Plain the evening of the 23d; the wharf
was then crowded with wounded, waiting transportation to Washington;
in twenty-four hours all were removed; and we left on a Sanitary
Commission steamboat, in company with other vessels,—all convoyed by
a United States gun-boat. The shores of the bay and rivers were at
that time infested by guerrillas, and as the rebels had a wholesome
dread of these _boats_, in their armed defense was our only safety.
At 7 P.M., May 26th, anchored at Port Royal; during the night, a
barge loaded with government hay was fired by the rebels—it was
supposed with the intention of its drifting out among the vessels,
and thus destroying much valuable property; fortunately the others
could be kept away from it, and no further damage was done. Very
early in the morning went on shore, and here had the pleasure of
finding Mr. H., who had preceded us by a few hours, with others, was
already busily at work.

The Sanitary Commission, with its admirably arranged system of
“relief,” was here _before_ any wounded were brought in; and when
the long trains began to arrive, hot coffee, farina, crackers, etc.
were in readiness to hand to the exhausted, famished sufferers before
they were lifted from the ambulances. _Two thousand_ were now here
awaiting transportation; the first food and care _all_ had upon their
arrival was due to them. Night and day—taking turns to sleep—the
work of preparing and distributing food among them was continued.
Within a few moments after we landed, a long train of ambulances came
in sight; and finding they were moving toward a little Methodist
church, we wended our way thither, taking as much as we could carry
for their present relief. By the time the first man was lifted out,
the little building was in readiness to receive them; benches and
stove removed, it was soon crowded to its utmost capacity. Very
grateful were they for the trifling relief we gave them; no straw,
few blankets, and no pillows used in this hasty transfer arrangement,
yet no murmuring word escaped them.

A fine-looking Massachusetts man, with a bone crushed from the knee
down,—where mortification was just commencing,—asked in a whisper,
as they were placing him within the little chancel: “Could I give
him some kind of stimulant to keep from fainting? the pain was
agonizing.” The little tin-cup was soon filled, and as quickly
drained; with the momentary strength it gave, he could better endure
the rearranging of splints and bandages. The surgeon shook his head
as he looked at the discolored limb, and to the soldier’s urgent
entreaties that “it might be taken off without a moment’s delay,”
replied “it could be done better on the boat;” but added, when beyond
his hearing, “the morning would find him out of the reach of pain.”

A young officer lay near him, bathing from his canteen his badly
wounded foot, and when offered assistance to dress it, replied: “He
had the use of both hands, while many had not, and could do without
help until they were waited upon.”

All were craving fresh vegetables, onions particularly; and to their
inquiries, we determined to get them if the town could furnish them.
We tried to purchase from a number of persons, but were always
denied; at length a place—evidently the abode of wealth—with a large,
well-planted garden, was seen; the same story was repeated: “Would
they sell a few onions for the wounded?” “_No_,” was the chilling
response. “But they are begging for them, and you have plenty; name
your own price in ‘greenbacks,’ but we _must_ have them.” Still the
same “_No_, we don’t want greenbacks.” A gentleman of the party
then offered gold in exchange. “No, gold was of no use to them.”
Finding we were going to appeal to an officer who just then made his
appearance, the lady changed her manner, and courteously remarked:
“If we would give her farina and lemons, we might have the onions.”
From the Sanitary Commission rooms, we soon furnished the articles
she wished. Fifty men lay upon the floor of the church, for whom we
were pleading: that number of onions was unwillingly counted down;
and then the lady, appealing to the officer, asked: “Might she take
a pan of clabber to the wounded Confederates next door?” His reply
was: “We might, if we chose; she could have no communication with
them.” Of course, we could not object; and a little colored boy
accompanied us, carrying what Mrs. W. evidently thought a great
delicacy. The filthy, ragged-looking rebels crowded round us and the
pan, until we were glad to deliver her message quickly and beat a
hasty retreat—leaving to the boy the pleasure of disposing of it.

We saw strawberries, cherries, and many early vegetables in her
garden, which we could not obtain upon any terms. Knowing how
valuable they were to our wounded, as we went back carrying our
coveted onions, we told many soldiers where they came from, and
advised them, if they knew any of their wounded comrades who needed
them, to find more; further instructing them that there was a guard
pacing up and down the pavement, to designate an officer’s quarters,
and another in the rear to protect his horses. If they were good
soldiers, they required no other orders; the hint, it is presumed,
was sufficient.

In a small house, crowded with the wounded, was an old gray-headed
man leaning against the wall; a ball had taken off part of his
tongue; the remaining portion hung, swollen and discolored, from his
parched and wounded lips. Unwilling to attempt to swallow the simple
food we offered, he made known by signs that it was _fresh milk_ he
craved. After diligent search, a cow was at length found, picking hay
among the wagons; a half pint was soon obtained and given him; his
expressive gestures of thanks showed how fully he appreciated the
kindness. Later in the day another cow was found, and thus he was fed
until taken to the boat.

Noticing a neat-looking church that was not a hospital, with a
guard in front, we entered and found it to be the Episcopal church.
Upon opening the prayer-book on the desk at the “Prayer for all
in Authority,” found that the words “the President of the United
States” were _cut out_. By it laid a manuscript copy of prayers for
the rebel government. Telling the guard he might look or not, as
he chose, that I intended to take that manuscript, and send to the
Sanitary Fair, then open in Philadelphia,—first reading it aloud for
the _benefit_ of those present, and putting in its place a leaf upon
which were the prayers, set forth by our beloved Bishop Potter, for
the army. That they might not be mistaken what it was, wrote upon the
margin—“Prayers for the Union Armies of the United States, by Bishop
Potter, of Pennsylvania.” The exchange was a fair one,—the rebels, it
is hoped, profiting by the sound doctrine which was given—for their
erring prayers.

At this place we saw the first _great_ flocking to our lines of the
colored population. On our way here, they were observed all along
the river banks, rushing down from every plantation and village,
with cheers, waving of hats, and other demonstrations of pleasure,
manifesting their joy at sight of the old flag, which _now_ meant
_freedom_ to them. A motley crowd of men, women, and children were
constantly arriving, begging to be protected and sent North. An old
gentleman—one of the wealthiest in the town—told us, as we sat upon
his piazza watching this strangely exciting scene, that _sixty_ of
his servants had gone that day, and were in the crowd before us; his
great grief was that he was powerless to prevent their leaving, and
that he had no one to till his corn crop for him. We afterward heard
that the cavalry foraged upon the fields, so he was spared further
trouble on that score.

In the town, Mr. H. met an old woman of _eighty_ carrying, as he
supposed, a child in her arms; but upon coming to her and questioning
her as to her burden, said she “had her old mother, who was over _one
hundred_; that they were going to the ‘land of freedom,’ and could
not leave _her_ a slave in Virginia!”

The burial of the wounded who died at this transfer-post was
intrusted to the Sanitary Commission. Every soldier was carefully
interred, the burial-service used for all, the grave marked and
numbered, and all money, valuables, and other articles found upon
his person forwarded to Washington, to await the orders of relatives
and friends. A plan of the ground was left with an old colored man
living near, and the care of the graves given to him—for the purpose
of aiding friends who came for their remains, and knew nothing of
any other direction they might have. The same plan, with the numbered
graves, was retained by the Sanitary Commission—so that, in case
the marks were removed, they could _positively_ and certainly be
identified.

Last March, Mr. H. went to Port Royal, for the purpose of pointing
out the resting-place of a Rhode Island soldier, and found that
three days after our troops left the town, rebel cavalry entered
it,—trampling down every head-board, destroying the graves as much
as possible, and threatening to hang old George, if he put them in
order. With the numbered plan in Mr. H.’s possession, all marks
having been removed, by counting and measurement, the spot was
readily found; the skeleton remaining as it had been placed, with his
knapsack at his feet.

On the 29th of May, left Port Royal with a fleet of seventy-five
vessels bound for White House, on the Pamunkey, where the wounded
were now to be sent. Vessels loaded with troops for the front were
continually meeting us, far outnumbering those we had sent home
weighed down with the wounded “soldiers of the Republic.” As they
pass, all were cheering heartily; no note of despondency, as they
came within sound of the conflict.

The evening of the 30th, landed at White House; found Gen. Butler’s
command here, on their way to the front; within twelve hours, some
of his wounded were brought back; and from that date, much more
rapidly than tents could be erected to shelter them, they were
sent on. Day and night the interminable trains continued, bringing
thousands of wounded men, with the dust and smoke of battle yet upon
them. _Acres_ of ground were soon covered with bleeding, mangled men,
who had so lately stood unflinching mid the storm of rebel shot and
shell; now as bravely they endured suffering, while needing every
comfort—thousands not even shielded from the burning sun.

The work of waiting upon them continued uninterruptedly, all resting
in turn; _sleep_ was almost impossible, as every spot of ground was
covered, close up to the canvas, with soldiers who had crept there
for shelter. Our duties were many and various: the preparation
of food and drinks, directing and overseeing our diet kitchen,
occasionally busy for hours among the wounded.

One morning as I came out of our tent very early, before the bustle
of the day had commenced, a soldier came walking feebly, leaning
upon a comrade’s shoulder, and inquired: “Would I dress his arm?
it was untouched since first bandaged upon the field, and he knew
was in offensive, bad condition, filled with creeping life!” The
man said truly, it looked _bad_; and I shrank from the task, but
persevered until it was nicely cleansed and dressed. Then with
a clean “Sanitary shirt,” the sufferer was delighted and happy,
and overwhelming in his thanks. The sincere, heartfelt gratitude
of those for whom such trifling services were rendered was ample
recompense. Their earnest words of thanks were often more than
could be borne—destroying, for the moment, the composure which was
all-important. As the work of attending to that soldier went on,
hundreds of others, reclining upon the ground, were intently watching
the process.

Eager for _their_ turn, one after another came slowly up, with
the same query from all: “Would the lady dress their wound?” A
rough-looking Irishman among the number, having a fearful-looking
wound in his head, said “he could bear any pain _I_ gave him, if the
doctors did not dress it;”—while in the midst of it, one of our best
and most experienced surgeons made his appearance; observing what
was going on, came to my relief, and, to the utter dismay of the
poor fellow, took the sponge out of my hand to show me how much too
tenderly and carefully the work was done; at every movement of the
sponge in his hand, the soldier’s head bent and shrank beneath the
touch, but not one word of complaint escaped him; as the doctor moved
away, his thanks were _not_ for the kindness shown him, but that he
was _gone_, and that my unskillful hands would now finish. At this
hour the regular dressers commenced their work, and the one who had
usurped their office gladly disappeared among the heaps of edibles
which filled the shelter nearest us.

Our “diet kitchen” was almost entirely supplied from the Sanitary
Commission: it seems almost incredible the amount consumed in
one day: on the 3d of June, _two thousand_ were fed from that
establishment. The working force consisted of eight soldiers; each
had his allotted place, and knew the duties required of him. Caldrons
of soup were quickly made: using essence of beef as the foundation,
adding to it canned meats and vegetables, hard tack, or corn starch.
The capacity of the caldrons varied from thirty to sixty gallons,
and during these exciting times they were pushed to their utmost.
There were men to act as “hewers of wood and drawers of water;”
others whose work was to open the cans, which, as fast as emptied,
were thrown into a barrel—and picked up directly by the soldiers to
be used as tin-cups for their soup, coffee, etc. Tubs and buckets
of milk-punch and lemonade were always in readiness. Apart from
the eatables, one corner was appropriated to crutches, arm-slings,
bandages, etc.; these were given, and fitted as required. They
were clothed, bathed, fed; all hurried, continued work, making it
impossible to give an exact account of even one day’s labor. This
day’s notes end with: “Gave my only straw pillow to a wounded zouave,
Sergeant Beecher, from Connecticut; his thanks were enough to make
my sleep sweet without it.”

The 5th of June, Mr. Schall came, bringing the body of his brother,
Col. Edwin Schall, to be embalmed. He fell at Cold Harbour on the 3d
of June, shot through the neck. Connected with this gallant officer’s
death is an incident so singular that it is worthy of record: Sunday,
the 7th of June, in the Officers’ Hospital in Georgetown, my niece
was sitting by her husband’s bedside, watching the passing away
of a life now near its close. As the things of earth receded, and
another world dawned upon his gaze, the lamp of life flickered and
flashed in this its closing scene. Suddenly rousing up, his voice,
which had previously been faint and feeble, rang out in a clear, loud
tone: “Lieutenant, lieutenant!” A wounded lieutenant lying near him
answered: “What is it, captain?” He replied: “I’m not calling you,
it is Lieut.-Col. Schall; I saw him fall, and thought the way he was
lying perhaps he was dead.” His wife soothed him, telling him “the
colonel was all right;” and he sank exhausted on his pillow. But in
a few moments called in the same tone: “Lieutenant, lieutenant!”
repeating again the same words, that “he had seen him fall,” etc.
Again he was soothed to quietness. Fully conscious that death was
near, the brave soldier, in a few earnest, never-to-be-forgotten
words, sent home the message, that he “gave his life freely for his
country.” Then commending his soul to God, and committing wife and
children to the same loving care, in two hours peacefully passed to
that land “where there is no more sorrow, or sickness, or pain.” In
Captain Bisbing’s death, _two_ homes were made desolate; he was an
_only child_; to the home circle of wife and children an irreparable
loss, whose sorrows we do not presume to dwell upon. When Mrs. B.
returned with her husband’s body to their home, she then first
learned that the colonel had fallen—as the captain described—two days
previously. _His_ body also was brought home for burial, and interred
the day preceding the captain’s funeral.

June the 7th, wounded still pouring in; frequently orders would
be sent to us to prepare to feed a train of wounded five miles in
length. I do not know how accurate that estimate may have been, but
it seemed to us as though they _never_ would end. Upon each arrival
of the wagons, would be found some who had gone to their final rest
during the roughness of the way,—suffering alone in the midst of so
much misery, without any of the kind words and tender ministrations
which we, at home, love to lavish upon those who we know are entering
into the “dark valley.”

One of our party, while distributing food and drink at night, noticed
a corporal’s arm over the side of the ambulance, and offered to him a
cup of punch; finding _another_ hand stretched out for it, called,
“_that_ is for the corporal;” the reply was, “he has been dead for
hours.”

Many, of necessity, were buried by the roadside, or wherever they
chanced to be; but when practicable, the bodies were brought on and
interred in our little cemetery—making this desolate land truly
“sacred soil.” The site selected was just without the intrenchments,
near the burial-ground of the Peninsular campaign: in it the graves
remain as they were left two years previous; some few inscriptions
still legible. Major D. H. Von Valkenburg, 1st New York Artillery,
killed May 31st, 1862, was the only officer’s grave to be seen. The
inscription on a head-board, at the grave of a sergeant, was re-cut
by a comrade on the second anniversary of his death.

The Sanitary Commission continued superintending the burial of the
dead, their chaplains performing the service at the grave; the record
kept in the same order as before mentioned.

Among a large number which arrived at this time was a man who had
lain between the breast-works of the two armies for _five_ days
without care, and no food except the very small quantity he had with
him when wounded; one leg was amputated, the other dressed, before he
was brought to the hospital; he will soon be sent to Washington, and
his surgeon thinks _may_ recover.

Transports leave daily, crowded with the wounded. Among the thousand
that were to-day fed from our diet kitchen were numbers of officers,
worn out and weary, who had been sent from the front with various
orders. The unusual activity indicates that our stay here will be
short.

Eight hundred captured rebels brought in, guarded by a negro
regiment—the most humiliating thing to _them_ that could have
occurred; the sight was so novel that we all left our tents to
look at them; one of our men, recognizing his former owner, ran up
with a pleased look to speak to Massa Charles, but he refused to
recognize him, and moved on with the crowd; among them is a rebel
woman, sergeant of artillery—she was the _last_ to leave the gun when
captured.

The 13th of June, we packed all that could be spared on the Sanitary
Commission barge; we remain for the purpose of waiting upon any
wounded that may yet be sent; after the removal had fairly commenced,
and all in confusion, several hundred arrived; all of whom were fed
and provided for at our diet kitchen.

Nearly all the wounded hurried off to-day; all that can in any way
limp to the wharf do so; preparing rations for the trip. Guerrillas
reported near us; two of our soldiers, who went beyond the picket
lines to forage, were caught, stripped of their clothing, and sent
back to camp. It taught the boys a useful lesson—that they must be
satisfied with their position _as it is_.

White House, from very early times, has been a place of historic
interest; here General Washington met his wife, and from here they
went to the little church four miles distant to be married. At the
commencement of the war, it belonged to the Lee family; during Gen.
McClellan’s administration was carefully guarded, so much so that,
when our soldiers were lying upon the wet ground, heaps of unused
boards were near the buildings. The house was afterward destroyed by
fire, trees cut down, fences and out-buildings removed; at the time
we were there, two tall chimneys alone remained to mark the spot.
Some distance from the ruins of the house, a few dilapidated negro
cabins were standing, occupied by very old people, who had been
slaves on the plantation all their lives. Before leaving, we supplied
them with food, clothing, and medicines sufficient to last them six
months; it was all secreted, before we left, to secure it from the
rebels.

June 15th, 1864. This day last year, moving with the “Army of the
Potomac” northward; now preparing to move, with the same army,
south. Three times this morning the order was given to proceed to
the boat, but each time recalled; tents are all gone, and we wander
listlessly about in the hot sun, or sit upon the boxes containing all
our present “worldly goods.” The soldiers who comprise our “kitchen
department” take it all very philosophically; _they_ while away the
hours lounging upon the ground, singing “When this cruel war is
over,” and other favorite songs. At 12 M. the final order came to
start, and the odd-looking party slowly trudged along, each laden
with what they considered indispensable for the trip; a hot, dusty
walk, without umbrellas, to the wharf—a mile distant; at the last
moment procure an additional supply of “hard tack” and pork, in case
of emergency, and have with us five days’ rations for our party.

The “Montauk,” a government vessel, is crowded with our corps
officers, surgeons, nurses, and attendants; on our vessel, and the
canal-boats which are lashed to its sides, there are six hundred
persons. We were hardly out of sight, not yet of _sound_, when the
rebels attacked the small force which had been left to guard the
trains, and drove them within the intrenchments; fortunately, a
portion of Sheridan’s cavalry came up soon after it commenced and
routed them thoroughly.

We steamed slowly down the Pamunkey; came to West Point and York
River about six; anchored at dark: at daybreak, moved on down the
York River. This evening, full rations could not be issued to the
men, a mistake having been made about the supplies being placed on
the wrong boat—a load of _iron bedsteads_ sent in their place.

The morning of the 17th, the men still short of rations, and trouble
threatening, the Sanitary Commission gave them the pork and “hard
tack,” with coffee, which had been provided in case of need. This
restored peace and order again. Soon after we came up with the rest
of the fleet; anchored below Fort Powhatan; an order was sent to the
supply-boat for rations, and no further difficulty occurred. Here
we were detained while Gen. Grant was crossing with his army to the
south side of the James River. The pontoon bridges upon which they
passed were the objects upon which all eyes were fastened. The roads
leading to the river could be traced by the clouds of dust which hung
heavily over them. This was the _second_ time we had seen that grand
army moving in “battle array.” In the evening signal lights were
seen flashing upon the hill-tops and from their camping grounds; the
shipping was beautifully illuminated with various-colored lanterns;
and though in the midst of war, the river, with its numerous lights,
had a gay, holiday look.

On the 18th of June the pontoons were removed, and we pass on up the
James; at 1 P.M. landed at City Point; the town filled with wounded.
In the evening, walked through the dust two miles to the site
selected for the hospital, which is a wheat-field on the Appomattox.
The continued heavy firing near Petersburg plainly heard. A few tents
were arranged for the surgeons, nurses, etc., and in refreshing sleep
all else was soon forgotten.

In the morning, _our_ rations were very scanty—we had but the remains
of what we brought with us from White House. Before a stove could be
had, or caldrons in readiness, those who were slightly wounded came
straggling in; soon the number increased; and then trains came in
sight, and were unloaded upon the ground. Battle-smoked and scarred,
dusty, weary, and hungry, the poor fellows came—looking longingly at
anything to eat; from early morning until late at night, the scene
was the same as White House—thronged with wounded; the worst cases
sheltered in tents, the others lying upon the now trodden wheat. It
was impossible, with the few conveniences at hand, to prepare food
for all that number. The night was far advanced before we were ready
for the rest we so much needed, and then retire, with wounded and
dying men lying upon the ground close to our tent. How heartless it
sounds, at _home_, to sleep under _such_ circumstances!

The next day, commenced 5 A.M. Nothing before us all the day but
wounded; wounded men at every step you take. Three times that day
we fed _six hundred_ men (when the number is given we know it to be
accurate, as it is taken from the morning-report at headquarters),
not counting the stragglers who received a cup of soup, farina, or
crackers, as the need might be.

The first boat-load sent off to-day; June 20th; but others directly
fill their places. All that makes endurable this voluntary life of
toil, and saddening scenes, is the simple fact that we know some
lives are brightened by the care we strangers give to sick or wounded
men. Every train brings with it cases of especial interest: one man,
as he was lifted from the ambulance, almost with his parting breath,
gave his name, company, and regiment; and then _slept_, to wake no
more to pain and agony. Upon the ground lay a little French boy, so
low he could scarcely speak; as I quietly sponged, with cool water,
his face and hands, his lips quivered, and from his firmly-closed
eyes _tears_ were slowly trickling; perhaps it may have reminded him
of a mother or sister’s care, in the far-off land of his birth.

The weather is now intensely warm, June 24th. Clouds of dust fill the
air; and though the hospital is some distance from the traveled road
to the front, yet by four o’clock the rows of tents which stand but
a few yards from us are obscured, and the river, about one square
distant, is invisible.

The Sanitary Commission, with the consent and approval of the
“authorities,” again select the spot for the cemetery, and continue
to superintend its arrangements and the burial of the dead. During
the past week, two hundred have come to this “silent city;” two
hundred were sent North to-day, all “walking cases,” as the surgeons
say; but such walkers are not often seen outside of a _field_
hospital. I happened to be passing as the sad procession came in
sight; of course stopped to give them a kind word, and say good-by.
As the motley-looking crowd, in their hospital uniform of shirt and
drawers,—a few wearing caps and shoes, many without either,—came
near, the first sentences I heard were from the “advance guard,” the
best walkers of the party, who shouted: “Here we come, reinforcements
for Grant.” Another calls: “Keep step; left, left.” “_We_ are the
cripple brigade,” said his comrade with the crutch. “This is war,”
in a sadder tone, from a faint-looking corporal, as he feebly passed
by. Some too ill even to raise their eyes, move slowly, painfully
on, step by step, through the burning sand to the boat. Many who are
really unfit, start to walk, as they say, imagining they will get
home sooner. The stretcher-bearers bring up the rear, to pick up
those who fall exhausted by the way.

The next day, two hundred _bad cases_ were sent: two of the number
were soon carried up again from the boat, wrapped in their blankets,
signifying that they had “fought their last battle,” and were now
ready to be laid beside their fellow-soldiers in the cemetery. They
died upon the wharf, while waiting to be carried on the boat.

The contrabands have been coming to the hospital in large numbers,
for protection, for some days past; in their hasty flight, they
pick up the very articles we would think they did not need—probably
leaving what would be useful. A group of fifty just passed, well
loaded: one with a bed upon his shoulders; another, a box as large
as he was; many of the women carrying cooking utensils; a little
fellow, of six or eight, wearing a gentleman’s coat, the skirts
sweeping the ground, a stove-pipe hat upon his head,—the style of
twenty years ago,—and, above all, a huge cotton umbrella! Many of the
young girls wore flounced silk dresses, evidently “confiscated” from
_missus’s_ wardrobe. Their arrival quite enlivened the hospital; they
were in every direction greeted with continued shouts, which mark of
attention seemed gratifying to them. Rations are furnished them by
government, and tents supplied for their use; all who wish to remain
are employed in some way, the rest are sent to Washington.

July 4th, all the North expecting some great battle or success,
while _here_ it is so quiet that it seems almost like a real Sunday.
Salutes are heard from every quarter in honor of the day; and at
the front, the “Petersburg Express” sent its compliments into the
town, at intervals of fifteen minutes, to remind them of the day we
celebrate. This morning Dr. C...., of Massachusetts, told me of a
young soldier in his ward that he knew must die; while attending to
him, dressing his wound, the man inquired in a cool, calm manner:
“Doctor, what is to be the result, life or death?” The doctor
hesitated a moment, and said: “There is _one_ chance in _ten_ that
you may live.” He was quiet for a little while, then, with a bright,
beaming smile, replied: “Better than that, doctor; God is good!”
“Well, my boy,” answered the surgeon, “that chance _is_ the best.” He
has all the care that can be given him; but with a wounded, fractured
thigh, the doctor says the “chance” is even _less_ than he stated.

A steam fire-engine has been furnished to force water from the river
to the hospital, for sprinkling the streets and to cool the heated
tents. Gen. Grant was walking through the hospital a few days since,
and observing how much they suffered from dust, said “his wounded men
must be better cared for; the streets must be watered, if it took a
regiment of men each day to do it.” As his word is _law_, the engine
came: a large force of negroes have it in charge, and already the
good results are seen. Water-tanks were afterward built, more engines
and hose obtained, and all day long the street-sprinklers are at
work. The dust continues fearfully deep; it is the only thing that
moves about _freely_.

The third division of the sixth corps marched by today, to embark
on transports; going North, it is said, to look after Ewell’s
corps—that, we hear, is destined for another raid upon Pennsylvania.
Numbers of “volunteer aids” have been obliged to give up their work
here; many ill with fever; Mr. H. obliged to go home for a few days’
rest, thoroughly worn out with the arduous labors which have occupied
him since early in the spring. Each corps hospital has its share of
the colored population: _our_ settlement for them is on the river
bank; from there we hear their voices as they join in their evening
worship; going into their meeting, we found them kneeling upon
the earth, praying earnestly that “God would bless good President
Lincoln,” and “all do great Union armies;” that “He would take care
of de breddern and sisters, now they be in a foreign land;” then,
interrupting the prayers, a voice commenced—

    “O, praise an’ tanks! Do Lord he come
    To set de people free!”

Prayers and their simple music were strangely blended, but all in the
most devout manner.

On the 14th of July, a floor was put in our tent; previous to this,
the deep dust was the only carpet we had; an arbor of evergreen
branches was also placed at the two entrances; now sheltered from the
scorching sun, we are very comfortable—quite luxurious living, and
certainly we should never complain while sick and wounded lie upon
the ground. But, in contrast with _this_ dwelling, sometimes _will_
come before us thoughts of a country home in Pennsylvania, with cool,
airy rooms, and pleasant surroundings of shade- and fruit-trees,
abundantly-planted gardens, etc., until the longing to be there seems
irresistible. The absorbing duty in which we are engaged, is all that
can make us forget it.

July 30th. Rebel fort blown up at seven this morning; the cannonading
and firing during the night which preceded the explosion were
fearfully distinct, so much so as to prevent sleeping. Large numbers
of wounded were brought in to-day, principally to the ninth corps and
the colored hospital. Among the colored troops, _four_ out of every
five of their officers were either killed or wounded; yet the men
behaved bravely.

A young lieutenant from the ninth corps called to tell us he had been
wounded in the late engagement, and that he had been promoted; with
his twin brother, he entered the service at the very commencement
of the war; the other, a lieutenant, fell at South Mountain; but
—— passed unhurt through numberless battles, until this time; and
was determined to remain with his regiment after being wounded,
until told by the surgeon that if he did so he would lose his foot,
probably his life; very reluctantly he came to the hospital. When his
commission was received, his comrades asked him if he was aware that
“in their regiment promotion meant _death_?” and then going over the
list of names, such and such a one had been promoted, and soon after
fallen, his reply was: “_Yes_, he knew all that; but should accept
it just the same, if he was conscious that death came with it—was
perfectly willing to take _his_ chance with the ‘boys!’” With him was
a frail-looking lad, wounded in the head; the lieutenant found him,
after the fight, near the intrenchments, _sobbing_; as he came near,
the boy called that he was wounded, and quickly said: “_Will_ you
write to my father, and tell him I did my duty as a good soldier?”
“Yes,” was the response; “but first bear your wound _as_ a soldier.”
The sobs were instantly stilled, and he went with the lieutenant to
the hospital; his elder brothers were in the army, and he had long
been anxious to join them; but he was—

    “Only a boy! and his father had said
    He never could let his youngest go.”

His parting command had been to “do his duty; that he would rather
know his son had fallen in battle, than hear he was a coward.”
Painfully wounded in the head, he yet remembered the injunction; his
great anxiety was, that his father might know he had obeyed him.

The streets of this city of tents are gradually assuming a much more
cheerful appearance: arbors are erected at the front and rear of the
tents, thus forming a continuous shelter and pleasant walk for the
patients.

August 4th was the national fast-day; the camp unexpectedly short
of rations, so many fasted who would not otherwise have obeyed the
President’s proclamation; a sermon at headquarters, in the evening,
by the first division chaplain. A party composed of the ladies in
the hospital were invited, with the surgeons, to take a trip up the
James in the Sanitary Commission boat; through the dilatoriness of
_one_ of the ladies, _all_ were detained; when we at length reached
the wharf, it was only in time to see the boat slowly steaming on
its way with not more than eight or ten of the invited party on
board. Disappointed and sadly vexed, we retraced our steps; but when,
a few hours after, they returned with the mournful tidings that,
near Turkey Bend, they were fired upon by guerrillas,—the engineer
instantly killed, two Sanitary agents wounded, one mortally,—we saw
how providential was our detention; had all gone, the conspicuous
dress of the officers would have made them a fair mark for the
rebels; with a larger company, the loss of life would probably have
been greater. The boat was obliged to put on more steam, and proceed
on her way until they came to the gun-boat which brought them in
safety beyond the reach of rebel bullets. The large Sanitary flags
were floating from the mast, conclusive evidence to the guerrillas
that the vessel belonged to that noble organization whose field of
labor embraced all the wounded within our lines; Union and rebel
alike kindly cared for.

August 9th, a terrible explosion occurred on board the ordnance
barge at City Point; at the moment, I was occupied in the arbor in
front of our tent, and so had an unobstructed view; with the first
shock stooped to the earth, as though struck upon the head; the tent
quivered as though it _must_ fall; it seemed so _very_ near that the
first thought was, the rebels are shelling the hospital; finding
that not correct, the next surmise was, Gen. Grant’s headquarters
have been blown up. There now rose to a great height a dense
column of smoke, spreading out at the top in form of an umbrella,
and from it fell a shower of death-dealing missiles; it literally
_rained_ muskets; shells flew in all directions; some passing over
us, exploded beyond the hospital. The scene upon the bluff near
the landing was sickening: dismembered bodies were strewn about
the ground, the dead and dying side by side; the wounded were soon
gathered up and brought to the hospital.

The _cause_ of the accident could not be accounted for, until upon
the trial of the villain Werz, a rebel witness related how he had
done it: making some excuse to see the captain, was told he was not
on board, insisting the package that he had for him could be given
to no one else, asked permission to place it upon his table; as he
did so, arranged the fuse, and withdrew to a place of safety. The
explosion soon occurred, as he anticipated, destroying many lives,
principally among the colored laborers; the others having gone to
dinner. A large amount of government property was destroyed, and many
buildings.

August 12th, a few of the ladies in the hospital, with some Sanitary
Commission officers, went at 2 P.M. on board the little tug-boat
“Gov. Curtin” to Point of Rocks, Bermuda Hundred, and City Point,—the
first rest away from the wounded since this campaign commenced, in
May; took tea on board the supply-boat of the Commission, which is
anchored at City Point wharf. The short trip did us all good, and we
returned refreshed, ready for our daily duties. When we reached our
hospital, found the tents and every place of shelter filled; hundreds
of men lying upon the ground; occupied until late in the evening
waiting upon them. Cannonading again heard up the James River. The
second corps is moving somewhere, and the hospitals crowded in
consequence. During all that week there seemed to be no cessation
of the firing; wounded were constantly sent in; and old scenes were
again and again repeated.

A young lawyer, sergeant in a New York regiment, is so deeply
grateful for the little done for him—imagining, as many others do,
that he would have died without it. An elder brother had fallen in
one of the early battles of the war, and then he thought he must take
his place. When _he_ enlisted, it almost broke his mother’s heart;
and now he often asked, would she ever see him again? We feared
_not_, and as soon as possible hurried him off to a more favorable
climate and better care. Near him lies a Vermont sergeant, who tells
me he has been a wanderer in many lands; but that away up in Vermont
his mother is always working for the hospitals; he never could see
the use of it, but now will write and tell her it is returning in
blessings upon her son.

The fight at Deep Bottom sent to us many wounded, the most serious
cases taken without delay to Washington. The day before this battle,
as the men marched wearily by the hospital, covered with dust,
ignorant of their destination, all were exulting in the prospect of
going to Pennsylvania; still further to confirm them in the belief,
they were embarked at City Point and the transports started down the
river; proceeding on their way until darkness concealed them from
view, they silently turned about, and moved _up_ again, to be taken
into the battle. While it was raging, a company of the 57th New York
was commanded by a sergeant; unwilling to occupy the position, as his
comrades told me, he was lagging behind; a corporal near him could
bear it no longer, and stepped out to lead the men as though he had
always been accustomed to command. Gen. Barlow sat upon his horse,
quietly observing the whole manœuvre; and when the fight was over,
sent for the corporal, telling him at such an hour to report to Gen.
Hancock’s headquarters. The man left, wondering what had been done;
and when he returned according to orders, the two generals consulted
together for a few moments, the corporal was called in—and when he
left the tent, it was with the rank of _captain_, as a reward for his
gallant conduct. He again entered the battle, filling the position
he so well merited; but within an hour _fell dead_, shot through the
heart.

Similar cases were reported to us where bravery was encouraged
by promotion upon the field, to show that deeds of valor were
appreciated by their leader. Gen. Hancock possessed, in a remarkable
degree, the power of exciting enthusiasm among the mighty hosts he
so often led to victory. We, who have been with this corps long
enough to become “veterans” in the service, may well be pardoned for
the interest we feel in the enduring fame they and their intrepid
commander have achieved.

The hospital again crowded with the wounded and sick, which are
sent North as rapidly as the transports can take them. “Hancock’s
cavalry”—as the rebels style the second corps, from a way they have
of appearing in most unexpected places—again “on the move,” which
accounts for the late unexpected addition to our numbers.

September 9th. The first time during the summer, rode as far as Gen.
Meade’s headquarters, which is within sight of our fortifications,
and within shelling distance of the rebels—if so inclined. Passed,
both going and returning, through most fearfully desolate-looking
country. Part of it has been beautiful, as the remains of fine
orchards and the ruins of large houses testify. Where the families
remained in their homes, they were not molested; if the house was
vacant, it was certain to be destroyed by the army. Met hundreds
of men returning from Northern hospitals to duty; they look well,
while those we send to the front are miserable in comparison. Graves
scattered by the roadside, and gathered in clusters where hospitals
or camps have been located, marking the course of the army. Near a
deserted house, the large garden was made a burying-ground: many
of its quiet sleepers are, doubtless, mourned for in Northern
homes—_some_ whose resting place will never be known.

    “From Western plain to ocean tide,
    Are stretched the graves of those who died
          For _you_ and _me_.”

My husband’s health, which had not been good during the summer,
was now so much affected by the climate, that a change for him was
all-important, and he again went North. We remained a few weeks
longer, continuing the same routine of duties—varied only by the sad
scenes around us.

While in the midst of so much excitement, in the times which form
_history_, we were unconscious of it all: it was our daily life. Now,
in these peaceful days, we begin to realize where we have been, and
in _what_ we have taken part.

Early in November, we left, expecting to return, after a few weeks’
rest, and resume our position in the corps hospital; but Mr. H.’s
health was so much impaired that it was not thought prudent for us to
do so until cold weather. With a glimpse of home and its comforts,
in three days we again commenced visiting the “Aid Societies” and
schools, and continued uninterruptedly until January; during that
time, met several thousands.




CHAPTER IV.

  First Visit to Annapolis.—Stories of Starved Men.—Burial
  at Andersonville.—Neely’s Life in the Dungeon of Castle
  Thunder.—Sergeant Kerker.—Captains Wilson and Shelton in the “Iron
  Cage,” in Buncombe County, Tenn.—The Boy and the Flag.—Gould’s
  returning Consciousness.—Mr. Brown in Danville Prison.


In this closing period of the war, and of our labor in the
hospitals, comes the darkest, saddest page of all—too terrible to
be lightly spoken, and too painful in its remembrances to be dwelt
upon any longer than is needful for the connected continuance of
the narrative. The inhuman, fiendish treatment of our soldiers in
Southern prisons has now become a matter of history, the truthfulness
of which cannot be doubted. Would that it could be!

By the bedsides of dying skeletons, as they shudderingly recalled
their prison life, I have written their sad stories, which often
ended with: “We can never tell the half of all we have endured; it
would not be credited, if we did.” All of horrors that I had seen and
known during these memorable years, faded into insignificance when
contrasted with this heinous crime—a systematic course of starvation
to brave men made captives by the chances of war! Our first visit
to Annapolis was with the object of seeing and knowing more of them;
that by a recital of their condition, I might interest still more
those who were devoting themselves to the preparation of hospital
comforts. The little we saw of the starved men, at that time,
enlisted all my sympathies. In one of the wards of the hospital at
Camp Parole, a man belonging to the 5th Indiana Cavalry was reclining
in a large rocking-chair near the stove; his features sharpened by
suffering, the eyes sunken, skin tightly drawn over the lips, as
though they could never smile again; the whole face had an unearthly,
smoke-dried parchment look. Upon asking him where he was from, he
answered plainly: “Anderson; that cruel treatment, no shelter, with
want of food and water, had brought him to this condition.” His age
was _almost_ eighteen; I should have said at least _forty_. There was
no appearance of flesh upon the attenuated hands and arms; he died
within an hour, before we left the building. Near him lay two others,
who seemed pleased to relate their stories and have any one listen
to them. All had been so long unused to kindness, that a pleasant
word or the _least_ attention surprised them. They also had been at
Andersonville, Florence, and other prisons; but the first named was
worse than all. Their statements as to kind of food, want of shelter,
etc. were afterward confirmed by hundreds of others. They gave their
corps, regiment, when captured, etc., stating that of the large
number who entered with them, but few left it alive.

Their mode of burial was this: every morning a wagon was driven
through the camp, to pick up those who had died during the night;
the poor, emaciated bodies were caught up by an arm and foot, and
_pitched_ into the wagon as a stick of cord-wood would be thrown;
this was continued until no more could be piled in, then taken to the
shallow trenches which were to receive them; they were packed in,
lying upon the side, the head of one over the shoulder of the man in
front of him; a slight covering of earth concealed the victims from
sight, relieving them of that much care by lessening the number in
their vile prisons—but adding another to the list of martyrs from
the North. They crept, at night, in holes burrowed in the ground;
those too feeble to prepare such shelter, crowded together in _rows_
for warmth; during the winter, the _outside sleepers_ were almost
invariably found stiff and cold, in the morning light.

The appearance of those with whom I had been conversing reminded me
of the skeletons I had seen washed out, upon Antietam, Gettysburg,
and other battle-fields, only _they_ had ceased from suffering,
and were at rest; _these_ were still living, breathing, helpless,
_starved_ men.

On board a vessel, which had just unloaded its miserable passengers,
came a young boy, who was carried on shore; when bathed, and made
comfortable with clean clothing, taken into one of the tents at
Naval School Hospital. As he was laid upon his nice, clean mattress,
he called to his comrades in suffering: “Boys, I’m ready to _die_,
now that I’ve heard the music, and have seen the old flag.” Some
one answered: “Surely you don’t want to _die_, now that we are
home again?” The boy replied: “I prayed so earnestly that I might
live only long enough to die upon our own soil; and now, though I
should like to see my own home, I am perfectly happy, and ready to
go; I know I can’t live.” He continued to talk cheerfully of death,
repeating every few minutes: “I’ve heard the music, and I’ve seen the
old flag.” In three hours the feeble spark of life was gone; and he
was, the next morning, carried to the cemetery—with _sixty-five_ of
his companions! the most saddening funeral procession that perhaps
was ever formed. _Sixty-five_ starved men, who lingered long enough
to die upon our own soil, and under the “dear old flag!”

    “In treason’s prison-hold,
      Their martyr-spirits grew
    To stature like the saints of old,
    While, amid agonies untold,
      They _starved_ for _me_ and _you_!”

In one arrival of four hundred and sixty, only sixty were able to
walk ashore; the four hundred were carried; half of these died within
a few days; one-third of the whole number imbecile. They appeared
like a wretched bundle of bones, covered with a few filthy rags. Of
those who were able to totter about, the greatest care was requisite;
they would search eagerly for bones, crusts, crumbs, or anything that
was or _had been_ eatable; some discovered the slop-barrels, and took
out of them the savory morsels of bones or vegetables. There were
instances where a sick man was feebly raising the bread to his lips,
when a stronger one would snatch it from his fingers. The same look
of hopeless sadness is on every face, without a smile—smoke-dried
skeletons.

Their statements, though coming from different prisons, all agree
in this one fact: they were starved, without shelter, and wearing
only the scantiest clothing—the rags which remained from the time
they were captured;—when their coats, blankets, and valuables were
all taken from them. Many, after conversing about it, will say: “You
never could imagine such horrors.” In one room, I singled out the
two most skeleton like, and asked the least emaciated one: “What
prison did you come from?” He looked at me with a vacant stare, and
answered: “Prison? ah—yes, I’m Anderson!” I gave him up, and his
friend replied: “He thought they had been shown through _all_ the
prisons, though last from Anderson.” Another, that I asked the same
question, replied: “He was from Florence; had been at Charleston
once; didn’t know how long since; they were all bad alike.”

In another ward were five, all very low: two of the most fearfully
emaciated men that we had yet seen; one from Iowa, the other from
Michigan; they were too feeble to speak; we could only take the
nurse’s account, which varied but little from the others; both died
during the night.

In the next room was —— Andrews, from Ohio; at the commencement of
the war, he was about finishing his college course—and wrote to his
parents that “he _must_ go, it was his duty to do so; that his life
was no more precious than others which must be given.” His mother,
repeating to me what I have just written, said: He was an only son,
it was agony to think of parting with him; but they did not, could
not object, and he went. In the same town was his very dear friend,
also an only son; _his_ parents would not consent to his going, and
during that year he died at college. Now, her son had been spared
through many battles and hardships, and through the sufferings of
prison life; he was ill, when exchanged; had at one time escaped; but
chased by dogs to the swamps, was concealed in them until he became
so exhausted for food, that when he came out in search of it, was
unable to run from his pursuers, and taken back to prison; where
his only shelter was a narrow alley between two buildings, until a
rebel, with some kindness of heart, picked him up and laid him upon
a scrap of blanket, from which a dead man had just been carried out.
At length, some Sanitary Commission blankets were given them—one for
five men; as their companions died, they crept closer together; and
at the time of leaving, he had half of one. When he arrived, he was
among the bad cases; his mother heard he was in Annapolis, and came
directly on; to her devoted care he owes his life; she never left
him day or night, but gave him, by the spoonful, nourishing food
and drink as ordered by his surgeon; at length, to her great joy,
was pronounced some change for the better. When we saw him, he was
sitting up for the first time: had he been anything but a “returned
prisoner,” we would have said such an emaciated man could _not_
live. His mother was sitting by him, bathing his skeleton-looking
hands; and calling our attention to the shrunken arms, said they were
looking so much better, that she was perfectly happy in the thought
of soon taking him home.

In the same building is a man whose mind seems quite gone: he is
always looking for his mother; unconscious as he is, they cannot tell
where to write, or whether she is living. As I entered the door, he
sprang up in an excited manner, calling out; “Yes, yes, there is my
mother!” With a few soothing words, he was soon quieted; but when
the nurse attempted to give him medicine, threw it from him, saying:
“They are always trying to poison us in prison.”

On the second floor was —— Arnold, from Milesburg, Centre County,
Penna.; his feet were frozen, and he was so starved that but little
hope was entertained of his recovery. His mother was with him, doing
all in her power for him.

A boy who had been very low, but then seemed rallying, was requested
by the surgeon to show his emaciated arms; unfastening his collar, he
said: “This is the color I was all over, when we landed; but it is
_not_ dirt, lady; I’m clean now.” The bony framework of the chest was
plainly visible, giving painful evidence of what he had endured.

In the officers’ ward was a young man from the 121st New York, who
looked feeble and emaciated, with but little hope of life; he had
just picked out a tooth; thought all were loose. Another, with a
fractured thigh when captured, but who now seemed apparently doing
well, had been without _any_ care while in rebel hands; they never
did anything for him. As a general rule, the officers fared better
than the men; but there were also many sad cases among them.

The food given to the men in those hospitals was the _very best_,
and most nourishing that could be prepared. As one of their surgeons
remarked: “Medical skill was often at a loss; their books never
taught them how _starved_ men should be treated.” They relied almost
entirely upon good food for their cure.

Upon our return home, the work for the hospitals was resumed; with
this added incentive, to urge upon those we met untiring efforts in
behalf of our returned starved prisoners. There were but few families
who had not some friend or relative among them, whose stories of
patient endurance of suffering touched all hearts. While help was
needed for them, there seemed no limit to the generous offerings
of the people. Through the Sanitary Commission, an immense supply
was forwarded for their use, beside what was sent through other
sources. There was too much to be done at Annapolis, for the returned
prisoners, to remain contentedly telling others what _they_ could do;
so that in a very short time we returned,—accompanied by a friend,
Mrs. S., of Boston, who had with her a valuable contribution of
articles from persons there; she remained a few weeks,—our stay was
until July.

Directly after our return to Annapolis, while waiting in the Sanitary
Commission Rooms, a train of ambulances, containing nineteen bodies,
passed, the first and last of the number covered with the flag; we
followed the procession to the cemetery, and saw them laid side by
side in their quiet resting-place—Chaplain Sloan officiating. Upon
the head-boards of all the prisoners should be inscribed “starved to
death!” that in future years Southern “chivalry” might read and know
the fact.

In one of the wards of St. John’s Hospital was Mr. Kerker, of Ohio,
watching by the bedside of his only child—the last of six; an elder
son had been captured a year previous, and afterward murdered by the
rebels. This one was a sergeant of the 2d Virginia Cavalry: with
three others, had volunteered to go upon a dangerous expedition for
the purpose of carrying a dispatch to headquarters for Merril’s
Division; seeing troops in the distance, and not knowing who they
were, gave his saber, etc. to the men, telling them if he was not
back in two hours, to return and report his fate, but he would go on
alone. Moving cautiously, hiding in the bushes and grass, he was at
length seen by their pickets,—surrounded and captured,—but tore his
dispatch into small pieces; the rebels picked it up, and fitting it
all together, read that the general must take the north road with his
force, and troops would be sent to meet him. Missing the dispatch,—as
intended,—he took the south road, as had previously been decided;
the rebels were deceived, and the division saved. It was a ruse—to
sacrifice one man, and save numbers. The poor fellow lived through
his imprisonment, reaching Annapolis an emaciated skeleton. His
father heard of his arrival, and came immediately to wait upon him:
he watched him with the most anxious, tender care,—hoping each day to
see him better, that he might take him where he was so impatient to
be—home; but all in vain: we saw how the wasted frame daily became
weaker, and at length there came suddenly to both father and son the
utter hopelessness of anticipating any change but that which death
must bring. From that time, cheerfully and pleasantly, as though
preparing for a delightful journey, his last arrangements were made,
looking forward to that home “not made with hands, eternal in the
heavens.” As his father remarked: “He had always been a good boy,
attentive at church and other religious duties.” The first letter
which he wished to dictate was to his former pastor, thanking him
for all his care and kindness during his early life, and telling
him how happy he was, now that earthly scenes were so nearly over,
etc. There were parting messages to dear friends at home; and all
the time, loving words of thanks, and pleasure, that his _father_
could be with him. With the most earnest, childlike faith and trust
in our Saviour’s promises, his face ever wore a bright look when
telling that “he was going home to God.” A lady who had manifested
much interest in him, he asked to “be his mother while he lived, and
watch over him.” Most faithfully did she fulfill the request. As
we entered his tent in the morning, he would greet us with a smile,
and say: “Still here, waiting.” It was one of the most beautifully
touching death-beds that I have known in the hospitals. Early in the
morning of the 20th of April, 1865, death came gently to the boy who
had so longed for him, and the freed spirit was at rest. The wasted
body was taken by the sorrowing father to their home in Ohio: another
martyr added to the fearful list, whose reckoning God alone can
balance.

In the officers’ ward, at Naval School, was Capt. Washburn, of
Boston; he was ill when he came from prison. His father, who had five
sons out of six in the service,—all who were old enough to go,—was
waiting upon him.

In the late arrival was a young officer, emaciated and ill. His
brother had been with him during all his imprisonment: and when the
order came for their exchange, both were permitted to leave, if they
could reach the station, three miles distant; _this_ one started,
carrying his skeleton brother upon his back for two miles, when his
strength entirely failed, and he sank, overcome by the exertion, upon
the ground; after resting some time, started again with his burden;
but the effort was in vain—his wearied frame could go no farther: and
as he laid him down, the brother clasped his arms around his neck,
and died! There, by the dusty roadside, the brave young officer’s
grave was made.

In the chapel were a number of very bad-looking skeletons; several
with frozen feet.

A few days since an old gentleman came, inquiring for his son: he had
died two hours before his arrival—the last of seven! Four starved
to death in rebel prisons: all were in the service. Well might he
exclaim: “Behold, and see, if there be any sorrow like unto my
sorrow!”

Steward Newman, of Company D, 5th Michigan Cavalry,—whose statements
are confirmed by Lieut. Hayes, from near Lock Haven, Penna., ——
Miller, of Boston, and other comrades,—says: while in prison at
Andersonville, he has frequently seen our soldiers tied to the
whipping-post by the thumbs, their toes just touching the ground,
the helpless sufferers so thin and weak that their bodies swayed in
the wind like a moving pendulum; the crime, asking for food!—unable
to eat what, at home, their cattle and horses would refuse, and even
chickens could not live upon. At thanksgiving, they were kept _eighty
hours_ without any food, because they refused to tell where the
tunnel was which they were digging. At length it was completed, and
all their arrangements made for escaping, when one of their number,
tempted with tobacco, revealed their plans: one thousand were to have
left that very night. The tunnel was so wide that two could go out
abreast. They caught the scamp who told: with india-ink, put a large
letter T, for traitor, upon his forehead and nose, shaved half his
head, and turned him off. Their coffee was made of the burnt crusts
of their miserably baked corn-cob bread. At long intervals a little
rice would be given them, which they browned and made of it what they
thought good coffee, eating the roasted grains afterward. Another
drink was made by putting corn-cob meal in a bucket, and standing
it for three days in the sun to ferment, adding to it molasses and
sassafras—which the negroes would procure for them. A man fortunate
enough to have sufficient money for the purchase of a barrel and
the needful corn-meal and molasses, would soon improvise a sutler’s
establishment by stretching over poles the ragged remains of an old
blanket: and there, with this attempt at shelter from the sun, would
call to the ragged crowd, as they passed along:

    “Here’s your good, nice beer, five cents a glass!
    Good, cool, and tart! walk up and try;
    If you don’t like, you needn’t buy!”

When the prisoners were moved from Andersonville to Florence, they
left behind them all their cooking utensils, as they were told
they were to be exchanged, not sent to prison; but finding they
had been deceived, asked permission of a rebel, Major Brown (it is
humiliating to add that he was formerly from Pennsylvania), to
use the tin-roofing of the cars which stood near; he consented,
and they took off the entire roof of one. The only tools they had
were a cold-chisel, a railroad spike, and an old table-knife; in a
marvelously short time, cooking pans, cups, and buckets were cut out
and hammered together; and when the variety was shown to the rebel
major, he remarked: “They might turn a Yank into the woods with
nothing, and he would soon have all he needed.” Buckets, plates,
and spoons were made of wood. For the buckets, they split staves of
wood, the negroes furnishing poles for hoops and handles. As far as
ingenuity could go, they made the best they could of their wretched
surroundings. The men were divided by thousands, then hundreds,
for convenience in distributing rations: while at Florence, Newman
entered his name three times in one thousand,—giving, of course, two
feigned names,—that he might draw sufficient food to sustain life;
fortunately, he was not found out; if he had been, the penalty of one
hundred lashes, in his enfeebled health, would have killed him.

Staunton, Pete Obrey, and Hoover were the men of infamous notoriety,
who did more lashing of our soldiers at Andersonville than any
others. Staunton was chief of police: the few picks and spades within
the stockade were under his control; Newman asked permission to use
one, to repair his sleeping-pit; instead of a reply, was felled with
it to the earth; when consciousness returned, he dare not complain;
suffering with the blow, and ill as he was, could only crawl away to
his ditch, thankful to escape with life. The two first named were
at Annapolis while we were there; their lives had been so often
threatened, if found outside the hospital, that they were glad to
keep within its walls for safety. Pete disappeared one night, no one
knew where. These men all wore the Federal uniform: while doing so,
possessed the entire confidence of the rebels in command—proving
that, though wearing the “army blue,” they were rebels in disguise.

A Massachusetts sergeant said when his regiment entered Anderson, one
hundred and thirty-five men answered roll-call; after a captivity of
eight months, nineteen only could be found. An Illinois man remarked
that twenty of his company were taken prisoners with him; at the end
of five months, five were living. A little Massachusetts fellow,
wounded in the leg when captured, cut crutches from the woods, and by
their aid marched, for sixty miles, with his comrades. He was afraid
the rebels would do as they threatened, leave him to starve to death
if he did not keep up with the party. When they reached prison, he
was sent to the hospital. The ball is still in.

A fresh arrival of prisoners to-day, 27th of March; the most of them
can walk; if these were the first we had seen, we would think them
all bad. Among them was a young German who had lain for three days
beside his dead comrade, that he might draw his rations; representing
all the time that he was too ill to get up for them; and keeping him
covered with their rags, when the “dead-cart” passed along. Many are
suffering with frozen feet: some have lost all their toes, others
only on one foot.

On the 28th, assisted in the distribution of Sanitary Commission
articles—needles, thread, comb, paper, envelopes, and towel—to
fourteen hundred of the late arrivals: these are presumed to be well
men, at least they are well enough to keep out of the hospital for
a time. They march up in line for their dinner, which consists of
good soup, boiled cabbage, and half a loaf of bread, given to them
from an open window; in the same order, they march on to the next
building, where they receive the articles named. Their remarks, as
they pass along, are amusing; many “thank you’s” were said heartily;
they all looked, and I have no doubt were, pleased. “Boys, wouldn’t
we like the rebs to see this,” “the folks _do_ care for us at home,”
etc., showed how gratifying it was to them to be thus remembered. In
about two hours the fourteen hundred were all supplied, and the crowd
scattered.

A Maryland infantry boy, belonging to the ninth corps, was a prisoner
eight months; had had a furlough, and was now back ready for duty;
had “asked to be sent front,” saying, “the rebels had boarded him
eight months, and he was anxious to go back and settle his bill of
fare!”

April 29th. A boat, with three hundred, just arrived: the drum calls
the “stretcher-bearers” to fall in line; and all who can, rush to
the landing. Following the crowd, we come to the wharf just in time
to see the unsteady column begin to move. On board the vessel the
hospital band is playing cheerful strains of welcome, and they come
ashore to the music of familiar tunes.

    “Back to the North, where the air is free;
    Back from the land of pain.”

Tottering and feeble, bronzed and smoke-blackened, tangled hair
and matted beards, some in rebel garb, many barefooted and
bareheaded, the majority clothed in shirt and drawers furnished by
the Sanitary Commission in Wilmington, a few fortunate possessors
of a blanket,—such is the walking party. It was more than some of
them could do to walk, so they gave it up, and, as the line of
“stretcher-bearers” followed in their wake, were added to the number.
Sorry plight for three hundred brave men to come from Southern care!
Martyrs for the nation, patient and uncomplaining, they do not blame
the government—they censure no one!

In all the precious lives lost to friends and home, and the wrecks of
noble soldiers yet remaining, is not the hand of God seen? The costly
offering was asked for, and given, that the nation might be saved,
and that distant lands might learn to what refinements of cruelty
SLAVERY had educated a people!

Among them one was noticed straining his eyes toward the shore, and,
as they neared the wharf, was one of the first to press forward to
leave the vessel; he walked along the plank, eagerly looking in
the distance; tottered with a few feeble steps upon our soil, and
then—fell dead! his wish gratified: he died at home.

Another load of two hundred: some skeletons among them who could not
be made to comprehend that they were in a land of plenty, and _would
be_ provided for; but clutched with a firm grasp the bones and scraps
which they had concealed; and when forced to drop them outside the
gate, did so with tears, repeating, “they had been in prison eighteen
months, and _knew_ what starvation was.”

Thomas G. Spikean, from New York, while at Florence was set to work
outside of their prison inclosure, building chimneys for the rebels;
finding food daily becoming more scarce, determined to escape, or
perish in the attempt. Thinking death preferable to slow starvation,
five men broke their parole and started with him: for ten days kept
together, until they were tracked by dogs, and obliged to secrete
themselves in the swamps; wading about in them until they became
chilled, at length reached a small island in safety; from there to
land; came to Orangeburg just as Sherman’s forces left it, and to
Columbia as they were taking up the last pontoon; crossed in a skiff,
and were then taken care of by the army.

There had been terrible suffering during all the winter months,
among our soldiers in prisons, for want of clothing, food, fire, and
shelter. Five sticks of wood were given to one hundred men once in
three days! _That_ amounted to none at all, for, as they have shown
me the size, it could _all_ be burned in an hour.

A man, who has been a prisoner since the battle of the Wilderness,
now lies entirely stiffened, helpless, and unable to move, from
exposure and sleeping upon the cold ground: he says, at one time
Sanitary Commission clothing was pretended to be distributed by the
rebels—_six_ pieces to _one thousand_ men! the rebel guard wore the
caps, clothing, and blankets, while our men died by scores for the
want of them.

Again assisting in distributing Sanitary Commission articles to
sixteen hundred and forty men: they had been in prison but a few
months; a small number among them, eighteen months; these had
been resting at Wilmington, where they were well fed and kindly
cared for, and now looked well and happy in their new blue. The
distributions, which are made at College Green Barracks, are a source
of pleasure to the recipients, while it is both gratifying and
amusing to those who act as donors.

A German named Neabal, 54th New York, eleventh corps, who was
captured at Gettysburg, July, 1863: stayed in that horrid Belle
Island eight months; from there to Andersonville, thence to Savannah,
where they had good rations; then taken to Macon and Charleston; for
three weeks they were kept moving, for fear Gen. Sherman would find
and release them; the corn which the cavalry horses dropped upon the
ground, when they were fed, was all they had to eat for several days;
he was paroled in Wilmington the last of February, and soon after
sent North.

April 4th. Three boats filled with prisoners arrived: some
shocking-looking cases among them; as soon as they were bathed,
dressed, and made comfortable in good beds, you could hardly
recognize the squalid-looking crowd we had so lately seen. As soon
as possible, passed through the wards, taking names, and notes of
messages to write to friends at home—that is always the _first_
request; wrote, and mailed for them that evening, twenty-two letters.
In the morning, was pained to learn the number that died during the
night. Mrs. Hulster, of Ohio, found her nephew in this arrival: he
had been reported dead by his comrades, and so they all believed at
home. The toes of one foot were entirely gone, part of the other
badly frozen; he is ill with the terrible fever brought here by the
prisoners.

The one great, exciting event is the fall of Richmond, so long
expected, and now occurring so quietly that these poor fellows think
it cannot be; as we move among them, they constantly ask: “_Is_ it
true? God grant it may be!” The salute of one hundred guns, which
was soon afterward fired, confirmed their belief that it was so. The
Naval School band played patriotic airs in the cupola of the State
House, Governor Bradford made a speech to the excited crowd, flags
were floating, and the Union people here, as everywhere, jubilant
over the good news.

To-day, met Captains Wilson and Shelton, of the 57th Ohio Vols., who
have been in the service four years, and intend to remain while there
is a rebel in arms against the government; they were captured at
Atlanta, 20th of July, 1864; sent from there to Macon, thence through
nearly all the prisons in the Confederacy. As soon as taken, were
asked for all valuables—watches, rings, money, and clothing,—_last
of all_, their honorable captors took their arms. On the 10th of
November, escaped from Columbia; finding great difficulty in eluding
the pickets, they secreted themselves in the mountains, and built a
hut for shelter; while there, they were kindly provided with food by
the Union people and colored population; many very poor were anxious
to give up their small amount of provisions for Union officers
and soldiers; at night, some of the loyal people of Transylvania
County, N. C., would come, driving a cow before them loaded with
whatever provisions they could collect. The rebels became so expert
following a trail, that they would track them as the Indians do: as
they would not suspect a _cow_, she was made to carry the burden,
and deceive them. By such acts of kindness they were kept in good
health until the 18th of January, when they were recaptured and taken
to Asheville, Buncombe County, Tenn., where, with six others, they
were put in an _iron cage_ used as a dungeon. It was eleven feet in
length, nine wide, and seven high; there was no bed, bench, stool,
or anything to sit or lie down upon; no blanket, or covering of any
kind, except the scanty clothing which had been left them; they were
not out of the dungeon once during the month: filth and vermin in it
beyond description; a stove stood outside their bars: if the wood
was not placed just in one spot, they could have no fire, no matter
how much might be there. Their miserable allowance of food consisted
of the black corn-cob bread, varied at long intervals with rough
pieces of boiled pork, which was carried to them in a bucket, and
served out by a rebel, who had the itch, dipping his hand into the
bucket and tossing them whatever the fingers brought up! At first
they turned away with loathing, unable to catch the dainty morsels;
but continued starvation brought them to eat it without a word. While
in the cage, a lieutenant in our army, Wm. Johnson, a resident of
Haywood County, N. C., was placed there for a few hours; no clothing
left him but drawers; he was told he was a traitor, and a doomed man;
listened to it all with folded arms; and soon afterward was taken out
to a field near by, and deliberately shot by a rebel sergeant named
Bright; earth was thrown thinly over the young martyr’s remains; and
when their food came in the morning, the man brought the tidings that
the body had been nearly devoured in the night. After remaining there
one month, they were taken to Morganton and put in a similar cage for
a few days; from there sent to be exchanged. Capt. Wilson said he
had, at one time, a tender, sympathizing heart, even for _rebels_ in
suffering; but that was all gone now, and in its place something as
hard as their own cob bread.

Again occupied in the pleasant duty of distributing Sanitary
Commission articles, at the Barracks, to seventeen hundred and sixty
men: many have been prisoners but a little while. Among them are
some of Sherman’s veterans, and his noted “bummers,” who, smart as
they were, could not always escape from the rebels. Such work as
this is a most agreeable contrast to the wards, where we see nothing
but skeletons, and hear their sad tales of suffering so touchingly
related.

In this arrival were many wounded from the late battles and
skirmishes; their blankets and coats were taken from them: at night,
without any shelter, they suffered from exposure. From Danville to
Richmond, one hundred and forty miles, they were crowded on top of
box-cars: the rebel lieutenant in charge telling the guard to “push
them with his bayonet, crowd them up; he wished they were _all_
dead!” The poor wounded men had to hold on with both hands; many,
unable to do so, rolled off, and had broken bones added to the
suffering of their wounds; some died there from the effects of that
ride, and others who are here cannot live.

A young boy, after he was captured and robbed of his clothing, was
shot in the side by a man who rode up, and without one word, fired a
revolver, aiming at his heart; a quick movement saved his life, but
he lies helpless, and suffering with an ugly wound.

Many of the prisoners have been so long away from home and friends,
that they cannot understand why so much sympathy should be manifested
for _them_. Thomas Brown, Company I, 58th Massachusetts, who has
been for weeks the most patient sufferer, and now very near his end,
says he never saw anything like the kindness and attention shown to
the men in this hospital (St. John’s); that certainly the Lord put it
into the hearts of the people to do all this for them; he wished the
men in Southern prisons might know it.

Calder, of the 174th Ohio, is a Virginian, his wife and children
living on the Rapidan when last he heard from home. He had great
difficulty in eluding the conscript officers; at length crossed the
lines, and enlisted in Ohio; when captured by the rebels, was tried
for treason, and a rope tied round his wrists and ankles for three
months; was nine months in prison, then made his escape.

A boy was brought into “St. John’s” to-day, the son of a Presbyterian
clergyman near Baltimore: since the first battle in which he was
engaged, he has been frantic with terror; he knows very well that
he was a prisoner in Castle Thunder, but thinks he was put there
as a punishment for praying daily “that God would end the war,
give victory to our armies, and peace to the land.” His dread of
Southern prisons is painful to behold: when the flags which hang
upon the walls are pointed out, and he is asked “if _they_ look
like the rebels’?” conscious for the moment, he will reply, “oh,
no; _that_ looks like home;” but with a shudder he is again in the
dreaded prisons, and it is with difficulty he can then be calmed and
quieted. The surgeons think the rest and pleasures of home will, in
time, restore his mind; he will very soon be sent there.

In another ward is a case something similar to the Maryland boy,
though this man has endured longer imprisonment and greater
suffering. His name is Ephraim Gould, from Maine; his mind seemed
entirely gone; he was only conscious of his prison life: _that_ was
all fearfully distinct. To-day there seemed a gleam of returning
reason: and observing a lady near him, called his wife, and asked,
was she here, had she written, or was it all a dream? Fortunately,
his wife had been written to, and a letter received from her; some
money was handed to him, and told it was his own; he looked intently
at it for a moment, and then remarked: “Surely that is United States;
it don’t look like the rebel stuff!” Then recognizing a ten, a five,
and so on, gave their value correctly. Inquires as a little child
would do how he must get out of bed, must he ask if he wants to sit
up, and so on. It is the most complete awakening of an imbecile man
that I have yet seen. To the regret of all who knew him, this was but
a faint glimmer of reason, ere exhausted nature gave up the struggle.
Once more he was conscious for a short time; then sank into the
repose of death.

Among those whose minds were _not_ restored was “Fred,” supposed
to be a Swede: when asked his name and residence, would give the
first he thought of—rarely the same twice. At the breaking up of the
hospitals, “Fred” was sent to Baltimore: we saw him there in August,
1865; he seemed better; and wrote his name in a beautiful hand,
“Fred, Chicago.”

An intense love of the flag is observed in nearly all who are
received here. From the high flag-staff at the Naval School, the
vessels can distinguish the flag floating while yet some distance
out. A boy was lately carried from one of the boats who seemed wild
with excitement when he gazed upon it; and when laid upon his bed in
the hospital, asked that it might be placed where he could see it.
A small one was given to him: his greatest pleasure seemed to be to
lie under its folds; he held it in his hands, laid it upon his face,
nestled close to it in sleep, and would never have it out of his
sight. The poor emaciated child lingered a few days, forgetting his
sufferings and all the dark, weary months of hopeless imprisonment;
he was perfectly happy under its protection, and died with his flag
in his hands; was carried to his grave with it resting upon the
coffin lid.

Another boat load, of two hundred, just arrived: many of them in good
condition, having been sent from Wilmington to Fortress Monroe, where
they have been for three weeks; some skeletons in the number.

Met Mrs. Galbraith, of Ohio, looking for her son; she was lost and
bewildered in the crowd, and knew not where to go or what to do;
taking charge of her, he was soon found—the mother sobbing for joy
that her boy was alive. He was sitting up: now, with her care, can
soon bear the journey home.

In the last arrival, came Wm. Neely, Company B, 83d Pennsylvania
Vols., enlisted in Philadelphia. He was captured the 11th of October,
1863, and taken to Richmond, Va. After having made several desperate
efforts to escape with his comrades, on the 24th of December he was
put in the dark, condemned cell of Castle Thunder; an iron bar,
fifteen inches long, was _riveted_ upon his wrists and ankles; the
other end of the _same_ bar fastened in like manner to Capt. Avery,
of Kentucky. They were kept in that dungeon four months and six days;
the only clothing they were permitted to keep was pantaloons and
blouse; no covering of any kind allowed them; no chair, bench, or
bed; nothing to sit or lie down upon but the filthy floor. Sometimes
six men were kept in the same cell with them; at night, a light was
placed near the bars; during the day, total darkness. He concealed
in the roof of his mouth, for six weeks, a fine steel saw, such as
is used about gun-barrels: at the time they were sent away, had one
bar cut through, ready to make another effort to escape. The iron
bar upon his wrist cut into the bone, making an offensive wound;
the scar it made he carried to his grave. When taken out, they were
covered with filth and vermin, so enfeebled that they could with
difficulty stand alone, and looking like nothing human. The captain
was started for Tennessee to be tried for treason; but on the way
escaped, and reached his command at Knoxville in safety. Neely was
sent to Salisbury, from there to Columbia, thence to Macon, and
hurried back again to Columbia, dodging Sherman. He finally escaped,
by tunneling out under his prison walls, the Asylum in Columbia,
eight days before Gen. Sherman entered the town; a Union lady
concealed him, a lieutenant, and sergeant until they could rejoin our
forces; he came to Fayetteville with the second division hospital of
the fifteenth army corps; from there to Wilmington with the refugees,
where they were kindly fed and cared for until able to bear the
journey, when he was sent with others to Annapolis. He lingered two
months, and died in St. John’s Hospital. Continued efforts have been
made to find his family: this statement has been published in city
and country papers without avail: information of importance to _them_
is still in my possession.

Harris was one of the most revolting-looking skeletons that was
landed: when brought in, his head was without hair, except a little
tuft in front; his head and neck were eaten in great holes by
vermin—they had burrowed in ridges under the skin; mind and body were
alike weakened. He rallied for a few days: with good treatment and
kindness, it seemed as though his life might be saved; but all was of
no use: rebel cruelty had too surely done its work, and the victim
suddenly died without any apparent illness other than starvation.

The 15th of April, 1865, came the saddest news that ever startled the
American people: our beloved President Lincoln murdered! It seemed
incredible, and it was long before it could be realized. Where so
lately was rejoicing, all is now changed to mourning.

In one of the wards of “St. John’s” is a man who had been three
months a prisoner, and wounded. The flag always remained fastened to
his bed: this morning it was at half-mast, heavily draped with black.
Continuing our walk, found many others like it: the only token of
sorrow they could give.

In the Naval School Hospital is a man from New York Mounted Rifles
who has been a prisoner two years and three months, having tried all
their prisons in turn. His stories of the “dead line” are terrible,
yet agreeing accurately with all others I have heard speak of it.
A boy was with him, going to the stream near the “line” to procure
water that would be a _little_ purer than that farther down: as
he stooped to fill his cup, the guard tossed a piece of bread near
him—eagerly the hand was outstretched to grasp it, the fingers up to
the “line,” when, in an instant, his brains were scattered upon the
cup and bread he held! and the guard resumed his walk, well satisfied
that he had performed a commendable act.

A daily occurrence is the number of those who come searching for
friends: all they know is, they _were_ prisoners; and so hope to find
them, or hear tidings of them. Many, alas! have filled an unmarked
grave at “Andersonville,” “Florence,” or “Millen,” or perhaps may
have been among those who, unable to tell their names when landed,
died and were buried as “unknown!” and so added to—

    “The brave hearts that never more shall beat,
    The eyes that smile no more, the unreturning feet.”

An old gentleman from Ohio could not give his son up: but telling,
with tears, his affecting story, would ask help from every one he met
to find his boy. All the records were searched in vain for John H.
Ritchey, Company C, 122d Ohio Vols.

A mother came from New York to the Sanitary Home: after searching
all the records without success, she walked through all the
hospitals—gazing at every man, and inquiring if they knew her son;
at length a man said there was a book here with that name in it,
that the man died as they came to the wharf; as soon as she saw it,
exclaimed: “It was a Bible she had given him; her writing was in it!”
It was a great comfort to her to find out that much certainly.

Miller, belonging to a Massachusetts regiment, was so emaciated
when he arrived that, when his father came for him, it was thought
he could not reach Baltimore alive; by resting with him frequently,
reached home in safety. His weight then was sixty-five pounds, his
height six feet: after some weeks’ stay, returned, weighing one
hundred and twenty pounds. He walks very well with a cane, but cannot
stoop to the ground—as there are still large sores upon his back,
from lying on the ground through storms and sun.

Calling at the embalmer’s about the body of a man who had just died,
I found a gentleman from Connecticut waiting to have a coffin,
that had been disintered, opened. When the lid was thrown off, it
proved to be one of the most terribly starved ones. The face had
not changed: it was a ghastly green color, with mould upon it, as
he came from prison; the fair, light hair was brushed smoothly off
the forehead—for some reason it remained uncut, showing that it had
been matted and sunburnt. The father’s agony was most painful to
those who were present: taking up the skeleton hands, would exclaim:
“If he had fallen when with Sheridan, upon the battle-field, or by
illness, he could have borne it without a murmur; but _this!_—he
never thought his brave young boy would _starve_ to death!” repeating
over and again, “_starved, starved_ to death!” After the embalmer had
prepared the body, it was again robed in nice, clean clothing from
the Sanitary Commission; but the _face_ remained unchanged, when the
father took the wasted remains to his home.

Mr. Brown, a New York man, who enlisted in a Pittsburg regiment, is
one of the most suffering cases among the prisoners. Directly after
their capture, he was standing quietly with a group of others, when
a brutal rebel soldier struck him down with his musket; he was never
able to straighten himself afterward. He was taken to one of their
hospitals, where, without any care, the wound sloughed and became
offensive. When the men were taken from No. 4, Danville, he was left
in the room alone—as he says, to die; calling to a rebel nurse, he
implored him to carry him out with the others; but all in vain; at
length some one came in to hear what he was saying, when, with the
desperation of a drowning man, he clung with both arms round his
neck, telling him he would not let him go until he was taken to his
companions. In that way he was carried and laid upon the platform,
to wait for the cars: no blanket, or covering of any kind, to cover
his poor suffering body; his moans and cries from pain and the cold
were constant, until a rebel, more kind than his fellows, came to
him, saying “he had been in our prisons, and knew how well they
were treated; and would do all he could for him.” He succeeded in
procuring some whisky, which he gave him—that warmed and quieted him;
then finding a piece of blanket, wrapped him in it and laid him near
the fire. When the cars came, lifted him in, bidding him “good-by,”
with “Yank, you will soon be in your lines, while I go to the front
to bring over a crowd with me.” That was the last he saw of the man
who, at that time, saved his life. During all the time he lingered,
his sufferings were intense; his sister, Mrs. Clark, of Alleghany
City, waited upon him most devotedly until death released him from
all pain.

Two Georgia women, wives of prisoners, came on the boat with them,
and were brought to the “Sanitary Commission Home.” While the
prisoners were at Macon, these girls worked in a woolen mill near:
whenever they could do so unobserved, would take some of the cloth
and divide among them. The men assisted in some kind of work
outside their prison, and there the girls could take them food;
when released, they were married, and marched with them fifty-eight
miles—until they were put upon the cars, and sent on by boat. This is
the third party of the kind we have seen here.

The “Sanitary Commission Home” at this place, Annapolis, has been to
hundreds a place of shelter when the town was crowded to overflowing,
and a home at all times to those who were received beneath its
roof: here the relatives and friends of those in the hospitals were
provided for, meals and lodgings furnished gratuitously, and all made
comfortable. Mrs. Hope Sayers, the estimable matron who presided
so efficiently and pleasantly over the establishment, will ever be
kindly remembered by all who were its inmates.

May 13th. Eleven hundred and fifty men landed at the Barracks:
again employed distributing articles among them, which are always
received in the same pleasant manner. Those sent to the hospital are
very dark with smoke and sun, and skeleton-looking like those who
preceded them. They tell the same stories of their prison life, and
repeat what others have said—how they dug wells at Andersonville
fifty feet deep, their only tools the halves of a canteen and an old
table-knife. An arrival of rebel officers and privates with several
hundred “galvanized Yanks,”—an expressive term in army parlance,
meaning that these men, in their desperation for food, accepted the
tempting offers of the rebels,—but they were never trusted or kindly
treated by them—and despised by their old comrades.

Among the wounded is Sergeant Black, State color-bearer of the 67th
Pennsylvania Vols., who lost a leg while carrying the flag. He was
shot by a rebel not a yard from him: as he fell, they caught the
colors; it was but a moment ere his company had them back again, and
their rebel bars with it. The fight was through a swamp, which varied
in depth from four inches to as many feet.

May 29th. Another arrival of prisoners: among them are the _blackest
white_ men I have ever seen. These are nearly the last from the
South: they are suffering with scurvy and kindred ailments; exposed
for months to the sun and storms and the smoke of pitch-pine, they
are most thoroughly browned and tanned. Among them is a perfect
skeleton—a boy from Ohio: he enlisted in a Kentucky regiment; is now
sixteen, and has been in the service two years. Longing and praying
to see his mother, inquiring of every one how soon he will be sent
home—he died suddenly at the end of two days. There are twenty
others in the same arrival almost as bad as he is; the most of them
must die, as Ohio did.

The wife of one of these skeletons arrived directly after they
landed. She had heard, in her home in Western Pennsylvania, that he
was living, and was here. She came, dressed in the deep mourning she
had worn for him for two years: for so long was it since she had
heard of his death; but—

    “Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
    And yield their dead into life again.”

There was a happy meeting: he recognized, and could converse with his
wife for a few hours—and then death came. The following morning a few
sympathizing strangers stood with her, in the little chapel, as the
last impressive service was performed; and then he was carried to
rest beside the thousands of his fellow-soldiers.

A browned and emaciated boy, who had endured a long imprisonment,
said the earth he burrowed out was his only shelter until he planted
a few grains of corn: with great watching and care, it grew to screen
him slightly from the sun, and remind him of _fields_ of it at home.

A man from the 15th Massachusetts, whose name I neglected to take,
was captured at the battle of the Wilderness eight days after
re-enlisting. He had with him a blackened, soiled Bible: the binding
and paper had once been handsome, but now, from exposure to storms,
like its owner, looked badly; he said the rebels often tried to
get it, but he managed to secrete it: it was his best friend, and
very precious to him; he hoped to take it with him to his home in
Massachusetts.

Upon giving to one of them some trifling articles, he thanked me
very cordially, and said: “You must not think us a set of children,
because such little things make us so happy; but remember we have had
_no_ kindness shown us for fifteen months, and these things tell us
we are home again among friends.” And thus they talk by the hour.

Two brothers were lying side by side: one had lost half his foot
and was in the hospital, while his brother was in the stockade at
Andersonville. The one in the hospital had concealed some money,
which he divided with his brother as soon as he could get out to him;
thus enabling both to purchase food, and probably saved their lives.

Near them was a wounded Indian, and a Maine man six feet four inches
tall—now so emaciated that he does not weigh one hundred pounds: in
health, weighs over two hundred.

June 6th, came the last arrival of bad cases: among them Philip
Hattel, Company I, 51st Pennsylvania Vols., from near Barren Hill,
Montgomery County; he was captured at the battle of the Wilderness;
from prison, sent to Fortress Monroe; from there to this place. He
lingered three weeks, and died, as thousands of his comrades had,
from cruel starvation.

It seems strange that one of the earliest captured should be returned
among the very last. The name I have lost, but the facts are as I
wrote them when the man related the story to me: After the first
Bull Run fight, a number of men were making their escape to a place
of safety, when some negroes offered to pilot them beyond the
rebels; but they were soon surrounded, and the whole party taken to
Richmond, where they were tried for abducting slaves, and sentenced
to imprisonment during the war. They were kept in Richmond two years:
then moved in regular rotation through all the prisons, and sent
North with the very last. What became of their colored friends, they
never knew. It was very mortifying to the soldier to think he had
been a prisoner during the entire war: and fearful that his friends
would not receive him, he determined to take the name of one who had
died in prison; his comrades had great difficulty in dissuading him
from doing so.

An old gentleman, from Columbia, Penna., came inquiring for “St.
John’s Hospital.” Two days previous he had received a letter from his
son, whom they had long mourned as dead; and now, overjoyed to know
that he was alive, he could hardly wait to be directed to the place.
The boy came in the last arrival, is convalescent, and will return
with him.

The 1st of July found the hospitals vacated, and a few months later
restored to their former uses. The war ended, peace ensured, men
mustered out of service, our work completed, there came for the
first time in all these long, eventful years, to overtasked mind and
wearied body, the perfect _rest of home_!

This glimpse of hospital work can give but an imperfect sketch of
a portion of that mighty host “who have filled history with their
deeds, and the earth with their renown.”


THE END.




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 56 Changed: were also alotted as part
             to: were also allotted as part

  pg 59 Changed: anchored at Port Poyal
             to: anchored at Port Royal



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