CHAPTERXIII
Aboutthis time I met Dorothea Dix, that masterful woman by whose persevering energies insane women were provided with suitable hospitals, instead of being confined with criminals, as was usual in the old days. She devoted her time, thought and influence to compelling the opening of decent asylums for these often refined, unfortunate women patients. Her good work, begun in this country, reached England and other countries, and was the beginning of that civilizing influence that no longer considered these unfortunates as subjects of divine punishment.
Miss Dix, a dignified lady, was then organizing a trained nurse corps. There were no trained nurses, or “Red Cross” at that time, but later we followed the Swiss movement. Miss Dix asked me to join her corps, but I declined, preferring to do independent work. I was glad, however, to turn over to her nurse corps, my three assistant nurses, knowing that with her they would receive pay for their services, which the Masonic Mission had falsely promised to us. Several young girls had been sent, with directions not to take money or clothing, as everything would be furnished. I had insisted on taking both. Some girls were stranded at Fortress Monroe, two or three of whom I succeeded in sending home safely. Three others, stranded and penniless, fell under the protection (?) of young officers. I then resigned my secretaryship of the Masonic Mission, with a threat to expose and have them arrested for false pretenses, but they disappeared in a night, and were never more heard of.
On the return of Miss Hancock to the second corps’ kitchen, some red tape became tangled up, and, as I was invited to assist in the New Jersey and Pennsylvania Agency with Doctor Hettie K. Painter, I gladly accepted, and worked for the men of those states, though, each of the Agencies desiring my help, we all worked in the same spirit for all the “Boys.”
A most interesting Pennsylvania case was that of a young captain who had received a thigh fracture while at the front at Petersburg. The leg had to be amputated so high that the artery could not be taken up, and it was impossible to close it in the usual manner. Consequently men were detailed to hold or press their thumbs ceaselessly upon the open artery, each man serving four hours at a time, although another was always ready to take his place in case the strain of holding so long in a cramped position should cause him to relax or faint. This was continued for weeks till the artery actually healed. I believe only one other such case occurred during the Civil war. While hastily passing through his ward one day, Lieutenant Stanwood called my attention to this officer.
Contrary to my intention of caring only for young boys, I felt it my duty to do what I could for this sufferer, whom I found in a very critical state, needing the utmost care to bring him through. Being a blonde, he was transparently white from loss of blood, and so weak that he scarcely tried to live. He had no interest in anything and no appetite. There was no time to be lost here, so I said—“Captain, you do not eat, I hear, and I want to make you something that you would like.”
“I have no appetite,” he replied feebly.
“Can you think of something you could relish?”
After a pause he said, “I think it’s hardly worth your time. I shall not recover, but perhaps I could eat some barley broth if it is possible to get it.”
Always strong on the optimistic side, I answered, “I think we can find some, Captain.”
But where? Perhaps not nearer than Washington and forty or more hours away. Here was possibly a life to save. Beginning at the Sanitary Commission, at the head of the agency row, I went to each State agency in a faint hope of at least securing some substitute, but nothing could I find. Barley was such a simple thing; and now might save a life! I racked my brain to find some palatable substitute. As a last hope I went to the Christian Commission with my anxious inquiry, “Can’t you remember if on your list of supplies some thoughtful man or woman has sent this now invaluable donation?”
Mr. Houghten said, “I seem to remember that about six months ago there was sent a little package marked barley, but how can we find it in this great store of supplies?”
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “put on all your men to hunt for it; it may save a life worth saving.”
To my delight, after a long search, a package of about four by three inches was discovered. Losing no time, I ran to my tent and started a few spoonfuls boiling. The surgeon had said not even salt could be allowed the patient, lest it should increase circulation and thus break open the artery scarcely healed.
At last with my special attractive little array of silver cup, dainty doiley, etc., I went to the poor captain. His refined face at once showed his appreciation of the neat service.
“Here’s your barley, Captain,” I said cheeringly; “let me feed you a few spoonfuls now, and I’ll come back and give you a little more bye and bye. And, Captain, I shall leave it all here on this little table; don’t let any one carry it off.”
The poor, feeble cripple, who had not been allowed to change his position for many days, said—“They’d better not touch it!” and he fixed his great blue eyes on the tray with an air of defiance, pathetic to see. So his mind had something to guard, and this somewhat diverted his attention from the dying and suffering men about him. Next day the surgeon allowed a little salt, then a little butter, and at last a little meat. By this time his digestion would allow stronger food, and this was fortunate, for, though I had guarded every grain of the precious little package, it was almost exhausted.
I have often pictured to myself a kindly, country old lady in white cap and kerchief, whose prescience in sending this precious barley probably saved a life, and I wished that she could know it.
The captain lived, and went to Washington quite recovered, where he received a government leg (gratis) which fitted so well that he could jump off a moving car. He then went home quite well, having sacrificed a leg to his country. His temperate clean manner of living served him in an emergency and carried him over the crisis.
The mistaken idea of so many men, especially military men of that time, that liquor gives strength and courage, cost many an otherwise pure character his life in such an exigency.
By contrast with the above I will cite the case of Colonel Murphy, Sixty-ninth New York Infantry, second corps, a brave officer, worshipped by his men. He was a man of fine physique and robust appearance when I saw him, despite his fatal wound, a fracture of the thigh, similar to that of the Pennsylvania captain. To perform the amputation and carry him over successfully it was necessary to stimulate him and this was impossible, his body being already over-stimulated by the drinking habit to the last degree. I never before begrudged anything to a wounded man, but I knew that my choice brandy could not help him. He died without even a chance of being saved, mourned and regretted by his whole corps.