CHAPTERXI
Thehospital was situated half a mile from General Grant’s headquarters at City Point, at the junction of the James and Appomatox Rivers, and about eight miles from Petersburg front. The hospital camp, then under the charge of Surgeon Edward Dalton and medical staff, was laid out with great precision. This field hospital was divided into the 9th,2d, 6th, 5th corps, and corps d’Afric, and these again into divisions, avenues, and streets at right angles,—numbered and lettered. There were many thousands of sick and wounded in these wards, nine thousand or more at a time, I believe.
Convalescent soldiers did police, ward, nurse and kitchen duty. There were hundreds of wards with stockade sides, covered with canvas roofs upheld in the usual manner by ridge and tent poles, each containing probably fifty or more bunks or cots. A perfect system of order and policing by convalescent men was enforced, and not a particle of refuse or any scrap was allowed to lie for a moment upon the immaculate streets or avenues of the “Sacred Soil,” which was generally beaten hard and dry, though in wet weather this was a problem to try men’s souls and women’s soles too. At such times we were obliged to wade through nearly a foot of liquid mud, occasionally sticking fast till pulled out somehow, perhaps with the loss of a high rubber boot.
The wards were wonders of cleanliness, considering the disadvantages of field life, and even at that time sanitation was of a high order and, to a great degree, prevented local diseases. Men nurses, soldiers unfit for active duty, took pleasure in fixing up their wards with an attempt at ornamentation, when allowed. These men well deserved their pay, as they worked cheerfully for the government and for their sick comrades, doing their part faithfully during the devastations of war. They were as much needed and as necessary as their heroic comrades in the field. I never knew of one of these faithful, hard-working amateur nurses being guilty of neglect or unkindness, though chronic growlers and irritable sick men were often exasperating to the nurse’s unfailing care and patience. They frequently conveyed some interdicted luxuries from the sutler, or extra rations, to make life more endurable and comfortable for the invalids. This was usually winked at by their officers. They were generally appreciated, and little dissatisfaction or complaint could have been expressed. Perfect discipline and sympathy seemed to prevail.
Tent at City PointSANITARY COMMISSION TENT AT CITY POINT
SANITARY COMMISSION TENT AT CITY POINT
During my year in this Field Hospital I did not hear of any enforcement of severe punishment, but I remember, one day, while riding outside of hospital lines, past a post or camp in the woods, seeing in the distance a poor fellow hanging by his thumbs to the branch of a tree. It was said by the men of his regiment that “the fellow ought to have been hanged.”
Just across the road on one side of the hospital was a row of State Agency tents. Larger tents of the Sanitary Commission,—that magnanimous gift of the people that so often, even in the far South, so nobly supplemented the regular hospital work and supplies, sometimes even with its own transports and its own official corps of workers,—headed this row. In the middle of the Agency row were the tents of the Christian Commission, supported chiefly by churches from all over the Northern States. They had built a large rough wooden structure where regular services were held on Sundays and on many evenings during the week, to the great relief and enjoyment of weary men seeking to find a word of hope and comfort, and a change from the monotony of ward life. Many ministers and other speakers came to look over the work, and many of them were very interesting and earnest.
Along this extensive row of tents were the Agencies, supported by the liberality of their several States, which also supplemented the government in giving special care to their own individual men. Capable men and refined women workers toiled uncomplainingly to make hospital life more endurable for the sick.
From Petersburg front sick and wounded were daily sent to the hospital, often on rough flat sand cars, over badly laid shaking tracks, being brought as hastily as possible that they might receive proper care and help. The sight of these cars, loaded with sufferers as they lay piled like logs, waiting their turn to be carried to the wards,—powder-stained, dust-begrimed, in ragged torn and blood-stained uniforms, with here and there a half-severed limb dangling from a mutilated body,—was a gruesome, sickening one, never to be forgotten, and one which I tried not to see when unable to render assistance.
Not only were the sick and wounded from near by brought there, but large numbers came from more southerly points of the army of the Potomac. Many seriously or permanently injured were sent here to wait until able to be forwarded to Washington. Some came en route on sick furloughs, or to be discharged, or when fit returned to their regiments in the field. Every grade of suffering or weariness found temporary shelter and care here. All incurable cases were hurried forward as soon as possible to make room for the multitude still coming.
One day while I was passing through a large ward, a number of sick and wounded men were brought in. Suddenly one of them,—a boy of about eighteen,—stood before me at “attention.” Signs of typhoid were only too evident, as quite wildly, he struggled to express himself, much like the following:
“Oh, Miss, won’t you just take my name? It’s John C. Guffin; and write to my parents and tell them about me?” Controlling himself with an effort he continued: “And Oh, do write to my employer, Mr. Gibson, in Albany, and now, now be quick, won’t you?”—always prepared for such emergencies, I quickly took down these addresses,—“for in a minute I won’t know anything, just like I was when they brought me in.”
John GuffinJOHN C. GUFFIN
JOHN C. GUFFIN
With a painful struggle he controlled his mind, saying: “Just take these” (small articles) “and this little watch and wear it until I get well.” This intense strain exhausted the last gleam of intelligence, and he fell unconscious on a cot near by. Many weeks he lay, raving and incoherent, till the fever had spent its malign power. During these weeks I had many times stopped to glance at the poor fellow, with burning fever and his eyes rolling wildly; but I could do little for him. The soldier nurses, always kind to their sick comrades, did all that was necessary or possible.
At this crisis Dr. O’Maugher came to me in the Maine State Agency saying, “Do you remember the boy Guffin? Well the fever has spent itself, and he is now lying in a critical state of exhaustion, refusing all nourishment. I know you are over-worked, but he is at a point when only a woman’s care can pull him through. Can you make a place for him on your list?”
I went as soon as possible to the emaciated patient, whose mind was not yet quite clear, though he seemed at once to have confidence in me and wished me to stay by his side. Losing no time, I said: “Why, John, I hear you will not eat anything, and now if you will not eat you will certainly relapse and die.”
“I can’t eat, I can’t eat,” he continued to repeat.
“Why not?” I asked. “Why can’t you eat?”
“Why,” he said, “these ain’t John C. Guffin’s teeth, and I can’t eat, I can’t eat.”
Here was a problem. The boy must not be forced against his own will. “Why, my boy, that’s nonsense, because you have had a bad fever.”
He repeated, “Can’t eat, can’t eat; these ain’t my teeth, and I can’t eat with another man’s teeth.”
Experience had taught us many devices while in our daily care of irresponsible patients, so I replied quickly, “O, that makes no difference, don’t you know you can eat just as well with another man’s teeth as with your own?”—a fact painfully true to many. He turned and looked at me very doubtfully while I repeated and urged him to try. “Now, John, I’m going to make something real nice for you, and you are going to eat it.”
Very soon I brought my little tray, with silver cup and spoon and a pretty doily, in which for refined patients I had much confidence, and which at once diverted their attention. When I sat down beside him he said once more to me rather quietly, “Can’t eat, can’t eat.”
“Now, John, I made this just for you; it’s awfully good, taste it.”
Taking advantage of an open-mouthed objection, I slipped in a spoonful which he was obliged to swallow, greatly to his surprise; and so I quickly followed it with two or three more spoonfuls, and left the little tray for him to look at, and to help him to reason out why he could eat with another man’s teeth.
Daily I fed him until he was able to take the regular hospital diet. While convalescent, and when quite himself, we had almost a quarrel. I wished to return the little silver watch, and he insisted upon my keeping it, this I refused until he declared that it was not good enough, and if I would not keep it he would send me a handsome gold one when he reached home. At last I consented to accept it as a keepsake from a boy friend, saying I would rather have it than a gold one. To my great regret, while galloping with a party through Petersburg, just after the capture, I lost it from my belt, with a bunch of rings made from buttons, and little tokens made by the boys from the bones of the meat in their rations.
Meanwhile I had written to his family and to his employer, Mr. Gibson, who wrote that if the boy could be taken home he would come for him. Immediately I wrote and explained to him what was necessary to procure a discharge or sick furlough. The former was soon obtained, as he was even then but a boy. Mr. Gibson came at once, and took the lad home in a most generous manner.
When, later, I went to Albany for an interview with Governor Fenton, I was entertained by his family; but John was not at home, and I have never seen him since.
During this period of the great Rebellion the most terrible battles of any recorded in modern history, were fought. After one of them, during which the same ground had been fought over repeatedly, now with success on the Southern side, now on the Northern, a flag of truce was sent in from the Confederate Army, asking for a cessation of hostilities that its soldiers might be allowed to bury their dead. The following poem, written by Amanda T. Jones, author of “A Psychic Autobiography,” commemorates the heart-breaking incident. It will be found among her collected works entitled “Poems: 1854-1906.”
A REBEL FLAG OF TRUCE
Let us bury our dead:Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;And our army, so grand in onslaught of late,All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead—For the carnage was great:Let us bury our dead.Let us bury our dead.Oh, we thought to surprise you, as panting and flushed,From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:But you fought like the gods, till we faltered and fled,And the earth, how it hushed!Let us bury our dead.So, we bury our dead—From the field, from the range and the crash of the gun,From the kisses of love, from the face of the sun!Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!Lay them in, one by one:So we bury our dead.Fast we bury our dead.All too scanty the time let us work as we may,For the foe burns for strife, and our ranks are at bay:On the graves we are digging what legions will tread,Swift and eager to slay—Though we bury our dead.See we bury our dead!Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,Who fancy their war is a war for the right!Right or wrong, it was precious—this blood they have shed:Surely God will requite,And we bury our dead.Yes, we bury our dead.If they erred as they fought will He charge them with blame?When their hearts beat aright and the truth was their aim?Nay, never in vain has such offering bled!—North or South, ’tis the same—Fast we bury our dead.Thus we bury our dead,O, ye men of the North, with your banner that wavesFar and wide o’er our Southland, made rugged with graves,Are ye verily right that so well ye have sped?Were we wronging our slaves?Well, we bury our dead!Ah, we bury our dead!And granting you all you have claimed on the whole,Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,To be spurned at Heaven’s court when its records are read?Nay, expound not the scroll,Till we bury our dead!Haste and bury our dead.No time for revolving of right and of wrongWe must venture our souls with the rest of the throngAnd our God must be Judge as He sits overhead,Of the weak and the strong,While we bury our dead.Now peace to our dead;Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they lie;Hark! the musketry roars and the rifles reply.Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread!To the ranks let us hie:We have buried our dead.
Let us bury our dead:Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;And our army, so grand in onslaught of late,All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead—For the carnage was great:Let us bury our dead.Let us bury our dead.Oh, we thought to surprise you, as panting and flushed,From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:But you fought like the gods, till we faltered and fled,And the earth, how it hushed!Let us bury our dead.So, we bury our dead—From the field, from the range and the crash of the gun,From the kisses of love, from the face of the sun!Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!Lay them in, one by one:So we bury our dead.Fast we bury our dead.All too scanty the time let us work as we may,For the foe burns for strife, and our ranks are at bay:On the graves we are digging what legions will tread,Swift and eager to slay—Though we bury our dead.See we bury our dead!Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,Who fancy their war is a war for the right!Right or wrong, it was precious—this blood they have shed:Surely God will requite,And we bury our dead.Yes, we bury our dead.If they erred as they fought will He charge them with blame?When their hearts beat aright and the truth was their aim?Nay, never in vain has such offering bled!—North or South, ’tis the same—Fast we bury our dead.Thus we bury our dead,O, ye men of the North, with your banner that wavesFar and wide o’er our Southland, made rugged with graves,Are ye verily right that so well ye have sped?Were we wronging our slaves?Well, we bury our dead!Ah, we bury our dead!And granting you all you have claimed on the whole,Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,To be spurned at Heaven’s court when its records are read?Nay, expound not the scroll,Till we bury our dead!Haste and bury our dead.No time for revolving of right and of wrongWe must venture our souls with the rest of the throngAnd our God must be Judge as He sits overhead,Of the weak and the strong,While we bury our dead.Now peace to our dead;Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they lie;Hark! the musketry roars and the rifles reply.Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread!To the ranks let us hie:We have buried our dead.
Let us bury our dead:
Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;
And our army, so grand in onslaught of late,
All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead—
For the carnage was great:
Let us bury our dead.
Let us bury our dead.Oh, we thought to surprise you, as panting and flushed,From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:But you fought like the gods, till we faltered and fled,And the earth, how it hushed!Let us bury our dead.
Let us bury our dead.
Oh, we thought to surprise you, as panting and flushed,
From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:
But you fought like the gods, till we faltered and fled,
And the earth, how it hushed!
Let us bury our dead.
So, we bury our dead—From the field, from the range and the crash of the gun,From the kisses of love, from the face of the sun!Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!Lay them in, one by one:So we bury our dead.
So, we bury our dead—
From the field, from the range and the crash of the gun,
From the kisses of love, from the face of the sun!
Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!
Lay them in, one by one:
So we bury our dead.
Fast we bury our dead.All too scanty the time let us work as we may,For the foe burns for strife, and our ranks are at bay:On the graves we are digging what legions will tread,Swift and eager to slay—Though we bury our dead.
Fast we bury our dead.
All too scanty the time let us work as we may,
For the foe burns for strife, and our ranks are at bay:
On the graves we are digging what legions will tread,
Swift and eager to slay—
Though we bury our dead.
See we bury our dead!Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,Who fancy their war is a war for the right!Right or wrong, it was precious—this blood they have shed:Surely God will requite,And we bury our dead.
See we bury our dead!
Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,
Who fancy their war is a war for the right!
Right or wrong, it was precious—this blood they have shed:
Surely God will requite,
And we bury our dead.
Yes, we bury our dead.If they erred as they fought will He charge them with blame?When their hearts beat aright and the truth was their aim?Nay, never in vain has such offering bled!—North or South, ’tis the same—Fast we bury our dead.
Yes, we bury our dead.
If they erred as they fought will He charge them with blame?
When their hearts beat aright and the truth was their aim?
Nay, never in vain has such offering bled!—
North or South, ’tis the same—
Fast we bury our dead.
Thus we bury our dead,O, ye men of the North, with your banner that wavesFar and wide o’er our Southland, made rugged with graves,Are ye verily right that so well ye have sped?Were we wronging our slaves?Well, we bury our dead!
Thus we bury our dead,
O, ye men of the North, with your banner that waves
Far and wide o’er our Southland, made rugged with graves,
Are ye verily right that so well ye have sped?
Were we wronging our slaves?
Well, we bury our dead!
Ah, we bury our dead!And granting you all you have claimed on the whole,Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,To be spurned at Heaven’s court when its records are read?Nay, expound not the scroll,Till we bury our dead!
Ah, we bury our dead!
And granting you all you have claimed on the whole,
Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,
To be spurned at Heaven’s court when its records are read?
Nay, expound not the scroll,
Till we bury our dead!
Haste and bury our dead.No time for revolving of right and of wrongWe must venture our souls with the rest of the throngAnd our God must be Judge as He sits overhead,Of the weak and the strong,While we bury our dead.
Haste and bury our dead.
No time for revolving of right and of wrong
We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng
And our God must be Judge as He sits overhead,
Of the weak and the strong,
While we bury our dead.
Now peace to our dead;Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they lie;Hark! the musketry roars and the rifles reply.Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread!To the ranks let us hie:We have buried our dead.
Now peace to our dead;
Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they lie;
Hark! the musketry roars and the rifles reply.
Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread!
To the ranks let us hie:
We have buried our dead.
I found plenty of work to do, and attached myself to the Ninth Corps especially, though visiting all the wards and corps. I was invited by Mrs. Mayhew to work with her for some weeks in the Maine State Agency. While there I was asked later, in the absence of Miss Gilson, of Lynn, Massachusetts, to take charge of the Corps d’Afric, but I soon found that the work was chiefly to look after refugee negroes, and to give them employment in laundry work, etc. Doctor Thomas Pooley was then in charge of that corps, and is now a distinguished oculist of Manhattan. I still see him, a very young man, resplendent in a new uniform with bright buttons, red sash, etc., as officer of the day.
Helen GilsonHELEN LOUISE GILSON
HELEN LOUISE GILSON
Miss Gilson had come with Mr. Fay, General Superintendent of the Sanitary Commission, in the field, and formerly Mayor of Chelsea, Massachusetts, and she chose to work for the Corps d’Afric. That was quite as well conducted as any other corps. Miss Gilson was a dainty young woman, and, while in camp, wore a short pretty dress of grey cloth and a white kerchief tastily arranged over her dark hair and one about her neck. She had a pure soprano voice, and frequently sang army songs and hymns to the men, making them quite happy, and with a sort of reverence, they seemed to find her an angel of peace. In her earnest devotion, Miss Gilson remained too long ministering to typhoid patients from whom she contracted the fever, and at last was compelled to leave her chosen work and go to her home, still hoping to recover and to return to the patients of her corps. Her strength was not equal to the waste of that burning fever, however, and she died in her early womanhood, a sacrifice to her benevolence and patriotism as truly and honorably as the men who died on the field of battle.
I returned to the Maine State Agency, and found more special cases in the hospital than could be cared for by all the ladies. The United States Sanitary Commission was under the direction of the late J. Yates Peek, of Brooklyn, New York. The absence of sectarianism in their work gave them greater freedom than was found in the work of the “Christian Commission,” which was conducted on “religious” principles. The latter, however, did a very large work under the direction of the late Mr. Henry Houghton, a distinguished oculist of Manhattan.
The large wooden chapel accommodated many hundreds, and here came preachers from all over the country, whose churches had contributed supplies and were anxious to know how their contributions were applied. Some ministers, from remote localities, were a great annoyance, having to be entertained by the Christian Commission, and wanting to regulate their donations according to the ideas of their own little parishes.
In the Maine State Agency the “mess” was at that time composed of Mrs. Mayhew and her lady assistants, with two or three convalescent officers. This pleasant party I was invited to join.
LIEUTENANT STANWOODLIEUTENANT STANWOOD
LIEUTENANT STANWOOD
Surgeon William O’Maugher, of the 69th New York Infantry, late coroner of New York City, a jolly Irish gentleman, and Lieutenant Stanwood, of Maine, with their wit and jolly talk were a great help to us, when we sometimes actually staggered to our tents, completely discouraged and exhausted. It was impossible to help all the sick “Boys,” who were happy if we could give them only a pleasant word of cheer in passing. We frequently sat on the rough seats, leaning wearily on the plank tables supported on empty barrels; but their Yankee and Irish jokes, after a good meal, soon raised our spirits and we were ready to start again on the endless round among the sick.
One day at dinner, when I was particularly depressed, Doctor O’Maugher began with an extra brogue—“Yees all think a deal of Miss Smith, don’t yees?”
“Well, I guess we do,” said Lieutenant Stanwood, “and no one had better say anything against her.”
“Well, if yees knew what I know about her y’d change yer mind.” I was too tired to raise my head, and he went on: “Yees know about that Guffin boy she tuk care of? Well, she saved his life to be sure, but if ye knew the rist of it.”
At last I said, “What’s the matter with you, O’Maugher?”
“Well,” he went on, “do ye know whin I wanted to put a fly blisther on the back of the boy’s head, she wouldn’t allow it, and for why do ye think? Well, she said it would spoil his looks for a corpse.” This of course was followed with a shout of laughter which happily relaxed the tension of fatigue, and gave us courage to go on.
One morning when Doctor O’Maugher came to his “mess” he looked a picture of misery. “Why, Doctor, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, it’s a poor miserable cuss of a biped I am onyway.”
“What makes you so unhappy?”
“Oh, it’s just a miserable toothache that I have.”
“Is that all? Well then, Doctor, you are only a bicusped after all.”
“Be garry, it’s right ye are,” he laughed.
Mrs. Mayhew, a lady of much refinement, possessed a sweet soprano voice, and a few of us formed a chapel quartette. The singing was greatly enjoyed by the convalescents, especially as we took care to select good old time choruses in which they joined heartily. Planed planks on logs made tolerable seats, and a rough platform and a desk, lighted at night with lamps or candles, completed the arrangements of the great square room of unplaned boards, where, as Miss Nye remarked, we sometimes literally “sat under the drippings of the sanctuary.”
Many evenings while resting from the fatigue of the day we sat outside the Maine Agency tent and sang army and other patriotic songs. Mrs. Mayhew with her rare sweet voice led the singing, and the chorus followed in our favorite songs of “Picking the Lint,” “Tenting To-night,” “We Shall Meet but We Shall Miss Him,” “Star Spangled Banner,” “Home, Sweet Home.” The latter, however, caused many stealthy tears among the listening patients, so we often closed with something cheerful like “Yankee Doodle” or “John Brown’s Body,” etc. Owing to the quiet of the great hospital after dark the singing could be heard all over camp.
I was urged to take charge of the 2nd corps’ diet kitchen in the absence of Miss Hancock, which meant to direct the soldier cooks, see to supplies, regulate hours and kitchen diet, etc., for four hundred convalescents.
Late one morning the head cook came to me saying, “It’s time to begin dinner, and we have nothing but one little shoulder of lamb. The Commissary has not sent any meat or vegetables. What shall we do?”
This was a dilemma certainly. Four hundred hungry men must somehow be fed. All through the army at every camp, I believe, a temporary oven was set up during the halts, and excellent fresh bread was served daily. The government also supplied the very best of coffee, but this was not dinner. One must be equal to any emergency in the army. Telling the cook to get out his large cauldron and put into it the little allowance of meat to boil, I took an orderly with a wheelbarrow, and started on a forage among the agencies.
At Maine I begged some fresh vegetables. Ohio gave some canned meat, Indiana onions, New Jersey more canned goods. I sent the orderly with these to the cook, directing that everything be put into the cauldrons. We got another barrow load from the Pennsylvania, the Christian and the Sanitary Commissions. This miscellaneous collection, when cooked and well seasoned, made “the best stew we ever ate,” said the satisfied four hundred.
While at this diet kitchen some one stole my journal, money, and pass,—the latter the most serious loss, as no one could remain in camp without written authority. Happily, and to my surprise, when I applied to Surgeon Dalton as to what I must do, he said, “As I know of your good work in New York, Miss Smith, I will be happy to have you remain, but hope you will get a pass as soon as possible. The Provost Marshall, General Patrick, has authority higher than mine.” The General was a strict disciplinarian, and had he known that my pass was lost he could have ordered me to “report to Washington at once.”
Many strange things occurred in our daily work. While I was helping at the Pennsylvania Agency, a wild-eyed, simple-minded woman found her way to our tents. Twice before she had somehow either eluded the guards or had worried officers into giving her a temporary pass. She had come for “the bones of her son” who had died at White House Landing and was supposed to have been buried there in the early skirmishes of the war. Hoping to satisfy this persistent woman, Mrs. Painter, whose pass gave her authority, ordered a transport to take her with a detachment of men to the golgotha of her hopes.
We took the short sail and landed at White House Point, where it was thought the boy might possibly have been buried, as the men had been in a skirmish there. They tried to locate the body by driving down in many places a long slender iron bar, but no trace of it was found. The half-demented woman continued to declare that she would “yet hold those dear bones in her arms.” She was finally persuaded to go home and come another time, which was the only way of relieving the hospital of her presence.
According to army usage everything movable might be taken from a deserted point. The White House was still standing in good order, with green lattice shutters, and Mrs. Painter directed the men to take them off and bring them to our tents, and a small summer house was added to our army property.