REVIEW OF HOSPITAL AND CAMP LIFE—QUESTIONS ANSWERED—BEHIND THE SCENES—BLESSED EMPLOYMENT—LIVING PAST SCENES OVER AGAIN—MY MOST IMPORTANT LABORS—MOTHER AND SON—STRANGE POWER OF SYMPATHY—HERO’S REPOSE—OFFICERS AND MEN—THE BRAVEST ARE KINDEST—GENERAL SEDGWICK—BATTLE SCENES—MR. ALVORD’S DESCRIPTION—VOLUNTEER SURGEONS—HEART SICKENING SIGHTS—AN AWFUL PICTURE—FEMALE NURSES—SENTIMENTAL—PATRIOTIC—MEDICAL DEPARTMENT—YOUNG SURGEONS—ANECDOTES.
REVIEW OF HOSPITAL AND CAMP LIFE—QUESTIONS ANSWERED—BEHIND THE SCENES—BLESSED EMPLOYMENT—LIVING PAST SCENES OVER AGAIN—MY MOST IMPORTANT LABORS—MOTHER AND SON—STRANGE POWER OF SYMPATHY—HERO’S REPOSE—OFFICERS AND MEN—THE BRAVEST ARE KINDEST—GENERAL SEDGWICK—BATTLE SCENES—MR. ALVORD’S DESCRIPTION—VOLUNTEER SURGEONS—HEART SICKENING SIGHTS—AN AWFUL PICTURE—FEMALE NURSES—SENTIMENTAL—PATRIOTIC—MEDICAL DEPARTMENT—YOUNG SURGEONS—ANECDOTES.
SinceI returned to New England there have been numerous questions asked me with regard to hospitals, camp life, etc., which have not been fully answered in the preceding narrative, and I have thought that perhaps it would not be out of place to devote a chapter to that particular object.
One great question is: “Do the soldiers get the clothing and delicacies which we send them—or is it true that the surgeons, officers and nurses appropriate them to their own use?”
In reply to this question I dare not assert that all the things which are sent to the soldiers are faithfully distributed, and reach the individuals for whom they were intended. But I have no hesitation in saying that I have reason to believe that the cases are very rare where surgeons or nurses tamper with those articles sent for the comfort of the sick and wounded.
If the ladies of the Soldiers’ Aid Societies and other benevolent organizations could have seen even the quantity which I have seen with my own eyes distributed, and the smile of gratitude with which those supplies are welcomed by the sufferers, they would think that they were amply rewarded for all their labor in preparing them.
Just let those benevolent hearted ladies imagine themselves in my place for a single day; removing blood-clotted and stiffened woollen garments from ghastly wounds, and after applying the sponge and water remedy, replacing those coarse, rough shirts by nice, cool, clean linen ones, then dress the wounds with those soft white bandages and lint; take from the express box sheet after sheet, and dainty little pillows with their snowy cases, until you have the entire hospital supplied and every cot looking clean and inviting to theweary, wounded men—then as they are carried and laid upon those comfortable beds, you will often see the tears of gratitude gush forth, and hear the earnest “God bless the benevolent ladies who send us these comforts.”
Then, after the washing and clothing process is gone through with, the nice wine or Boston crackers are brought forward, preserved fruits, wines, jellies, etc., and distributed as the different cases may require.
I have spent whole days in this blessed employment without realizing weariness or fatigue, so completely absorbed would I become in my work, and so rejoiced in having those comforts provided for our brave, suffering soldiers.
Time and again, since I have been engaged in writing this little narrative, I have thrown down my pen, closed my eyes, and lived over again those hours which I spent in ministering to the wants of those noble men, and have longed to go back and engage in the same duties once more.
I look back now upon my hospital labors as being the most important and interesting in my life’s history. The many touching incidents which come to my mind as I recall those thrilling scenes make me feel as if I should never be satisfied until I had recorded them all, so that they might never be forgotten. One occurs to my mind now which I must not omit:
“In one of the fierce engagements with therebels near Mechanicsville, a young lieutenant of a Rhode Island battery had his right foot so shattered by a fragment of shell that on reaching Washington, after one of those horrible ambulance rides, and a journey of a week’s duration, he was obliged to undergo amputation.
“He telegraphed home, hundreds of miles away, that all was going on well, and with a soldier’s fortitude composed his mind and determined to bear his sufferings alone. Unknown to him, however, his mother—one of those dear reserves of the army—hastened up to join the main force. She reached the city at midnight, and hastened to the hospital, but her son being in such a critical condition, the nurses would have kept her from him until morning. One sat by his side fanning him as he slept, her hand on the feeble, fluctuating pulsations which foreboded sad results. But what woman’s heart could resist the pleading of a mother at such a moment? In the darkness she was finally allowed to glide in and take the nurse’s place at his side. She touched his pulse as the nurse had done. Not a word had been spoken; but the sleeping boy opened his eyes and said: ‘That feels like my mother’s hand! Who is this beside me? It is my mother; turn up the gas and let me see mother!’ The two loving faces met in one long, joyful, sobbing embrace, and the fondness pent up in each heart wept forth its own language.
“The gallant fellow underwent operation after operation, and at last, when death drew near, and he was told by tearful friends that it only remained to make him comfortable, he said he ‘had looked death in the face too many times to be afraid now,’ and died as gallantly as did the men of the Cumberland.”
When a hero goesUnto his last repose,When earth’s trump of fame shall wake him no more;When in the heavenly landAnother soul doth stand,Who perished for a Nation ere he reached the shore;Whose eyes should sorrow dim?Say, who should mourn for him?Mourn for the traitor—mournWhen honor is forsworn;When the base wretch sells his land for gold,Stands up unblushinglyAnd boasts his perfidy,Then, then, O patriots! let your grief be toldBut when God’s soldier yieldeth up his breath,O mourn ye not for him! it is not death!
Another question is frequently asked me—“Are not the private soldiers cruelly treated by the officers?” I never knew but a very few instances of it, and then it was invariably by mean, cowardly officers, who were not fit to be in command of so many mules. I have always noticed that the bravest and best fighting officers are the kindest and most forbearing toward their men.
An interesting anecdote is told of the late brave General Sedgwick, which illustrates this fact:
“One day, while on a march, one of our best soldiers had fallen exhausted by fatigue and illness, and lay helpless in the road, when an officer came dashing along in evident haste to join his staff in advance.
“It was pitiable to see the effort the poor boy made to drag his unwilling limbs out of the road. He struggled up only to sink back with a look that asked only the privilege of lying there undisturbed to die.
“In an instant he found his head pillowed on an arm as gentle as his far-away mother’s might have been, and a face bent over him expressive of the deepest pity.
“It is characteristic of our brave boys that they say but little. The uncomplaining words of the soldier in this instance were few, but understood.
“The officer raised him in his arms and placed him in his own saddle, supporting the limp and swaying figure by one firm arm, while with the other he curbed the step of his impatient horse to a gentler pace.
“For two miles, without a gesture of impatience, he traveled in this tedious way, until he reached an ambulance train and placed the sick man in one of the ambulances.
“This was our noble Sedgwick—our brave general of the Sixth Corps—pressed with great anxieties and knowing the preciousness of every moment. His men used to say: ‘We all know that greatthings are to be done, and well done, when we see that earnest figure in its rough blouse hurrying past, and never have we been disappointed in him. He works incessantly, is unostentatious, and when he appears among us all eyes follow him with outspoken blessings.’”
I have often been asked: “Have you ever been on a battle-field before the dead and wounded were removed?” “How did it appear?” “Please describe one.”
I have been on many a battle-field, and have often tried to describe the horrible scenes which I there witnessed, but have never yet been able to find language to express half the horrors of such sights as I have seen on those terrible fields.
The Rev. Mr. Alvord has furnished us with a vivid description of a battle-field, which I will give for the benefit of those who wish a true and horrifying description of those bloody fields:
“To-day I have witnessed more horrible scenes than ever before since I have been in the army. Hundreds of wounded had lain since the battle, among rebels, intermingled with heaps of slain—hungering, thirsting, and with wounds inflaming and festering. Many had died simply from want of care. Their last battle was fought! Almost every shattered limb required amputation, so putrid had the wounds become.
“I was angry (I think without sin) at your volunteer surgeons. Those of the army were toofew, and almost exhausted. But squads of volunteers, as is usual, had come on without instruments, and without sense enough to set themselves at work in any way, and without any idea of dressing small wounds. They wanted to see amputation, and so, while hundreds were crying for help, I found five of these gentlemen sitting at their ease, with legs crossed, waiting for their expected reception by the medical director, who was, of course, up to his elbows in work with saw and amputating knife. I invited them to assist me in my labors among the suffering, but they had ‘not come to nurse’—they were ‘surgeons.’
“The disgusting details of the field I need not describe. Over miles of shattered forest and torn earth the dead lie, sometimes inheapsandwinrows—I mean literally! friend and foe, black and white, with distorted features, among mangled and dead horses, trampled in mud, and thrown in all conceivable sorts of places. You can distinctly hear, over the whole field, the hum and hissing of decomposition. Of course you can imagine shattered muskets, bayonets, cartridge-boxes, caps, torn clothing, cannon-balls, fragments of shell, broken artillery, etc. I went over it all just before evening, and after a couple of hours turned away in sickening horror from the dreadful sight. I write in the midst of the dead, buried and unburied—in the midst of hospitals full of dying, suffering men, and weary, shattered regiments.”
This is a very mild illustration of some battle-fields, and yet it presents an awful picture.
O God! this land grows rich in loyal bloodPoured out upon it to its utmost length!The incense of a people’s sacrifice—The wrested offering of a people’s strength.It is the costliest land beneath the sun!’Tis purchaseless! and scarce a roodBut hath its title written clear, and signedIn some slain hero’s consecrated blood.And not a flower that gems its mellowing soilBut thriveth well beneath the holy dewOf tears, that ease a nation’s straining heartWhen the Lord of Battles smites it through and through.
Now a word about female nurses who go from the North to take care of the soldiers in hospitals. I have said but little upon this point, but could say much, as I have had ample opportunity for observation.
Many of the noble women who have gone from the New England and other loyal States have done, and are still doing, a work which will engrave their names upon the hearts of the soldiers, as the name of Florence Nightingale is engraved upon the hearts of her countrymen.
It is a strange fact that the more highly cultivated and refined the ladies are, they make all the better nurses. They are sure to submit to inconvenience and privations with a much better grace than those of the lower classes.
It is true we have some sentimental youngladies, who go down there and expect to find everything in drawing-room style, with nothing to do but sit and fan handsome young mustached heroes in shoulder-straps, and read poetry, etc.; and on finding therealsomewhat different from theideal, which their ardent imaginations had created, they become homesick at once, and declare that they “cannot endure such work as washing private soldiers’ dirty faces and combing tangled, matted hair; and, what is more, won’t do it.” So after making considerable fuss, and trailing round in very long silk skirts for several days, until everybody becomes disgusted, they are politely invited by the surgeon in charge to migrate to some more congenial atmosphere.
But the patriotic, whole-souled, educated woman twists up her hair in a “cleared-for-action” sort of style, rolls up the sleeves of her plain cotton dress, and goes to work washing dirty faces, hands and feet, as if she knew just what to do and how to do it. And when she gets through with that part of the programme, she is just as willing to enter upon some new duty, whether it is writing letters for the boys or reading for them, administering medicine or helping to dress wounds. And everything is done so cheerfully that one would think it was really a pleasure instead of a disagreeable task.
But the medical department is unquestionably the greatest institution in the whole army. I willnot attempt to answer all the questions I have been asked concerning it, but will say that there are many true stories, and some false ones, circulated with regard to that indispensable fraternity.
I think I may freely say that there is a shadow of truth in that old story of “whiskey” and “incompetency” which we have so often heard applied to individuals in the medical department, who are intrusted with the treatment, and often the lives of our soldiers.
There is a vast difference in surgeons; some are harsh and cruel—whether it is from habit or insensibility I am not prepared to say—but I know the men would face a rebel battery with less forebodings than they do some of our worthy surgeons.
There is a class who seem to act upon the principle of “no smart no cure,” if we may be allowed to judge from the manner in which they twitch off bandages and the scientific twists and jerks given to shattered limbs.
Others again are very gentle and tender with the men, and seem to study how to perform the necessary operations with the least possible pain to the patients.
But the young surgeons, fresh from the dissecting room, when operating in conjunction with our old Western practitioners, forcibly reminded me of the anecdote of the young collegian teaching his grandmother to suck an egg: “We make an incision at the apex and an aperture at the base;then making a vacuum with the tongue and palate, we suffer the contained matter to be protruded into the mouth by atmospheric pressure.” “La! how strange!” said his grandmother; “in my day we just made a hole in each end, and then sucked it without half that trouble.”
I once saw a young surgeon amputate a limb, and I could think of nothing else than of a Kennebec Yankee whom I once saw carve a Thanksgiving turkey; it was his first attempt at carving, and the way in which he disjointed those limbs I shall never forget.
CLOSING INCIDENTS—PROFESSOR LOWE’S BALLOON—FITZ JOHN PORTER’S ADVENTURE—HIS UPWARD FLIGHT—RECONNOITERING FROM A DANGEROUS POSITION—COOL COURAGE—ENTHUSIASTIC GREETING—AN EARNEST INQUIRER—A BAPTISM IN THE ARMY—PREACHING BY MOONLIGHT—A MAGNIFICENT SCENE—A WEDDING IN CAMP—GAY TIMES—A CONTRAST—HOSPITAL IN WINCHESTER—SPIRIT OF REVENGE—SABLE HEROINE—A WHITE DARKEY—COLORED SOLDIERS—CONCLUSION.
CLOSING INCIDENTS—PROFESSOR LOWE’S BALLOON—FITZ JOHN PORTER’S ADVENTURE—HIS UPWARD FLIGHT—RECONNOITERING FROM A DANGEROUS POSITION—COOL COURAGE—ENTHUSIASTIC GREETING—AN EARNEST INQUIRER—A BAPTISM IN THE ARMY—PREACHING BY MOONLIGHT—A MAGNIFICENT SCENE—A WEDDING IN CAMP—GAY TIMES—A CONTRAST—HOSPITAL IN WINCHESTER—SPIRIT OF REVENGE—SABLE HEROINE—A WHITE DARKEY—COLORED SOLDIERS—CONCLUSION.
Inlooking back over the events of the two years which I spent in the army, I see so much worthy of record I scarcely know where to stop.
A most thrilling incident occurs to my mind at this moment in connection with Professor Lowe and his balloon, which I must relate before closing.It took place while McClellan’s army was in front of Yorktown.
General Fitz John Porter having been in the habit of making frequent ascensions in company with Professor Lowe, learned to go aloft alone.
One morning he stepped into the car and ordered the cable to be let out with all speed. We saw with surprise that the flurried assistants were sending up the great straining canvas with a single rope attached. The enormous bag was only partially inflated, and the loose folds opened and shut with a sharp report like that of a pistol. Noisily, fitfully, the great yellow mass rose toward the sky, the basket rocking like a feather in the breeze. Presently a sound came from overhead like the explosion of a shell—the cable had snapped asunder, and the balloon was adrift.
All eyes were turned toward the receding car, where General Porter sat in his ærial castle, being borne heavenward as fast as if on eagle wings, without the power either to check or guide his upward flight.
The whole army was agitated by this unwonted occurrence, and the rebel army evidently partook in the general excitement.
Lowe’s voice could be heard above the confusion and tumult shouting to the soaring hero—“Open—the—valve! Climb—to—the—netting—and—reach—the valve—rope!”
“The valve—the valve!” repeated a multitudeof voices, but all in vain, for it was impossible to make him hear.
Soon the signal corps began to operate, and at last the general was made to understand by signals when it was impossible to reach him by the human voice.
He appeared directly over the edge of the car, and then clambered up the netting and reached for the cord, but he was so far above us then he looked no bigger than a great black spider.
It was a weird spectacle—that frail, fading object floating in the azure sky, with the miniature boat swinging silently beneath, looking no bigger than a humming-bird’s nest; and a hundred thousand brave hearts beneath beating with the wildest excitement and warmest sympathy, yet powerless to render the least assistance to their exalted brother-in-arms.
“Had the general been floating down the rapids of Niagara he could not have been farther from human assistance.”
We at length saw him descend from the netting and reappear over the edge of the basket, and he seemed to be motioning to the breathless crowd below the story of his failure.
Soon after the balloon began slowly to descend, and when we next saw him it was with spyglass in hand, reconnoitering the rebel works. Shouts of joy and laughter went up from the long lines of spectators as this cool procedure was observed.
For a moment it seemed doubtful in which direction the balloon would float; it faltered like an irresolute being, and at length moved reluctantly toward Fortress Monroe. Bursting cheers, half uttered, quivered on every lip. All eyes glistened, and many were dim with tears. But the wayward canvas now turned due west, and was blown rapidly toward the confederate works.
Its course was fitfully direct, and the wind seemed to veer often, as if contrary currents, conscious of the opportunity, were struggling for the possession of the daring navigator.
The south wind held the mastery for awhile, and the balloon passed the Federal front amid groans of despair from the soldiers. It kept right on, over sharpshooters, rifle-pits, etc., until it stood directly over the rebel fortifications at Yorktown. The cool courage, either of heroism or despair, seemed to seize the general, for turning his tremendous glass upon the ramparts and masked batteries below, he viewed the remote camps, the beleaguered town, the guns of Gloucester Point, and distant Norfolk. Had he been reconnoitering from a secure perch on the top of the moon he could not have been more vigilant; and the Confederates probably thought this some Yankee device to peer into their sanctum in spite of ball or shell. None of their large guns could be brought to bear upon the balloon, but there were some discharges of musketry, which seemed to have noeffect whatever, and finally even these demonstrations ceased.
Both armies were gazing aloft in breathless suspense, while the deliberate general continued to spy out the land.
Suddenly another change of position, and the air craft plunged and tacked about, and steered rapidly for the Federal lines again. Making a desperate effort to catch the valve-rope, the general at length succeeded, and giving it a jerk, the balloon came suddenly to the ground; fortunately, however, it struck a tent as it descended, which perhaps saved the general from any serious injuries from the fall.
By the time the crowd had reached the spot, Porter had disentangled himself from the folds of oiled canvas, and was ready to greet his anxious friends; and amid hearty congratulations and vociferous cheers, he was escorted to his quarters.
As this chapter is devoted to incidents in camp, I will try to illustrate the variety of interesting events with which our camps abound.
After one of the most severe battles ever fought in Virginia, and while our troops were still rejoicing over their victory, a young soldier sought the chaplain for the purpose of religious conversation. Said the chaplain: “The tears were in his eyes, and his lips trembled with emotion. I knew that he was in earnest. We knelt down together and I prayed with him, and he prayed for himself. Inthis manner we spent several hours, pleading with God in his behalf, until light broke through the darkness, and he arose from his knees praising God.”
Wishing to manifest by some outward sign his consecration to God and to His service, he requested the chaplain to baptize him by immersion. The next day being the Sabbath his request was complied with, in the presence of thousands of his comrades.
The scene was a most solemn one, and after the ordinance was administered there was scarcely a dry eye in the company to which he belonged.
In the evening one of the delegates of the Christian Commission preached to an immense congregation of grim warriors seated on the ground—a little pine grove for a church, the great blue dome of heaven for galleries, and the clear, bright moon for a chandelier.
The scene was a magnificent one. A little to the right lay a cloud of white canvas tents shining in the moonlight, and just below, in plain sight, were the transports dotting the water, with their gleaming lights and star-spangled banners floating in the evening breeze. All combined to make the scene beautiful and interesting.
The discourse was excellent and well chosen, and the men listened with profound attention, and I have no doubt with much profit. Then was sung
Lord, dismiss us with thy blessing,
and the benediction being pronounced, the vast assembly marched to their quarters as solemnly as if going from a funeral.
Next came a wedding! Yes; a real wedding in camp. You must know that when military necessity prevents our young heroes from going home to fulfill their engagements to their devoted fair ones, it is the privilege of the waiting damsels, in war times, to remove all unnecessary obstacles, and facilitate matters by declaring themselves in favor of theunion, and claiming their lovers on the field.
This wedding was a grand affair, and took place in a camp which was very prettily decorated, being picturesquely arranged among pine trees—just the most romantic place imaginable for such an event.
A little before noon the guests began to arrive in large numbers. Among them were Generals Hooker, Sickles, Carr, Mott, Hobart, Ward, Revere, Bartlett, Birney, and Berry.
The troops, looking their very best, formed a hollow square, in the center of which a canopy was erected, and an altar formed of drums.
As the generals marched into the square—General Hooker leading the van—and grouped themselves on each side of the altar, the bands struck up “Hail to the Chief,” and on the appearance of the bridal party the “Wedding March” was played.
The day was cold and windy, with a few snow-flakes interspersed, which made the ladies in attendance look very much like “blue noses”; but the blushing bride bore the cold and the admiring glances of the soldiers like a martyr, and retained her dignity and self-possession throughout the ceremony worthy of a heroine, as she was.
To add to the dramatic effect of the scene, a line of battle was formed by the remaining troops in that section, a short distance from camp, to repel an expected attack of the enemy.
The ceremony having been performed, dinner was announced, and all partook of the good things provided for the occasion.
After dinner, came numerous toasts, speeches, songs, and music from the bands, and, to close up the day in good style, a regular military ball was held, and fireworks exhibited in the evening—“and on the whole,” a newspaper correspondent says, “it entirely eclipsed an opera at the Academy of Music.”
I have before alluded to the vindictive spirit manifested by the women of Virginia toward our soldiers. I will illustrate this fact by an incident which took place in one of the hospitals just after a severe battle.
Many wounded soldiers, both Union and Confederate, were brought into the town of Winchester, and placed in the churches and court-house side by side.
The ladies (beg pardon, ladies, I mean females) of that place brought into the hospital many things to nourish and tempt the appetites of the sufferers, but they gave all these delicacies to the Confederate soldiers: our men were passed by as unworthy of notice or sympathy.
One day a lady, who had been a constant visitor, brought in a supply of fragrant tea. She went from one cot to another of her friends, but had no eye or heart of pity for others.
One of our wounded men, who lay near his end, longed for a cup of this tea as he saw it handed to those around him, and requested the chaplain, who stood by his side, to ask the lady for a little of the tea.
He did so in a very polite manner, at the same time telling her how ill the man was, and that it was the soldier himself who wished him to make the request.
“No,” said she, and her face flushed with anger; “not a drop of it; this tea is all for our suffering martyrs.”
The chaplain replied: “Madam, I looked for no other answer. I beg pardon for having seemed for a moment to expect a different one.”
A few moments afterwards, as the poor disappointed man lay there seeing the delicious tea passed on all sides of him and could not procure a drop of it, an old lame negro woman came limping up the aisle with a large basket on each arm.
Coming up to where the chaplain stood, she laid down the baskets and addressed him thus:
“Massa, I’se a slave—my husban’ and chil’en is slaves. Will you ’cept dese tings for de poor men?”
Then taking up a roll of stockings, she said: “Dem I knit wid my own hands for de soldiers, when all sleep, in my cabin. We know’d dis war was comin’ long ’fore you Yankees did. We see it ’proaching, an’ we began to prepare for it.”
Then taking packages of tea, cans of fruit, pears and peaches, lint, linen for bandages, and pocket-handkerchiefs, she said: “Massa, permit me to give you dese for de poor men. I have not stole ’em. My own hands have earned ’em over de washtub. I wish to do something for de Union soldiers, Lord bless ’em!”
“As she talked,” says the chaplain, “she grew more earnest, and looking around on the mutilated men the tears rolled down her black face, and fell on her hands, as she lifted the treasures out of the baskets and handed them to me.”
Our sick men looked with wonder and admiration on the old colored woman, and soon a hundred voices cried out “God bless you, aunty! You are the only white woman we have seen since we came to Winchester.”
Some people assert that colored people have no souls. Which, think you, acted most as if lacking soul—the black or the white woman in the hospital at Winchester?
The devotion of the negro woman, as manifested in the hospital, is a perfect sample of the devotion of the contrabands, male and female, to the Union cause.
And now that the time has come when the colored men are permitted, by the laws of the land, to assume the privileges of rational beings, and to go forth as American soldiers to meet their cruel oppressors on the bloody field, there is evidently as great, if not greater, enthusiasm and true patriotism manifested by them, as by any troops in the United States army.
And still further—it has been proved satisfactorily within the last twelve months that the colored troops endure fatigue as cheerfully and fight as well (and get less pay) as any of the white troops. Thank God, this is one great point gained for the poor down-trodden descendants of Africa.
I imagine I see them, with their great shiny eyes and grinning faces, as they march to the field, singing—
Oh! we’re de bully soldiers of de “First of Arkansas,”We are fightin’ for de Union, we are fightin’ for de law,We can hit a rebel furder dan a white man eber saw,As we go marchin’ on:Glory, glory, hallelujah, etc.See dar! above de center, where de flag is wavin’ bright;We are goin’ out of slavery; we are bound for freedom’s light;We mean to show Jeff. Davis how de Africans can fight!Glory, glory, hallelujah,Glory, glory, hallelujah,Glory, glory, hallelujah,As we go marching on.
And now, what shall I say in conclusion? The war still continues—our soldiers are daily falling in battle, and thousands are languishing in hospitals or in Southern prisons; and I for months past have not given even a cup of cold water to the sufferers. I am ashamed to acknowledge it! But when I look around and see the streets crowded with strong, healthy young men who ought to be foremost in the ranks of their country’s defenders, I am not only ashamed, but I am indignant!
To prove to my friends that I am not ambitious of gaining the reputation of that venerable general (Halleck) whose “pen is mightier than his sword,” I am about to return to the army to offer my services in any capacity which will best promote the interests of the Federal cause—no matter how perilous the position may be.
And now I lay aside my pen, hoping that after “this cruel war is over,” and peace shall have once more shed her sweet influence over our land, I may be permitted to resume it again to record the annihilation of rebellion, and the final triumph of Truth, Right, andLiberty.
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness,Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief,Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress,And give us peace which is no counterfeit!