CHAPTERXVIII
InPennsylvania and New Jersey State quarters combined, we had three good-sized connecting tents; and later the little New York house was added.
Our kitchen was generally run by Hannah, a rather incompetent contraband, with great wondering eyes and slipshod feet. There were many such about camp, girls and women as well as men and boys—anxious to work for shelter and food, but without knowledge of the value of money, which they generally squandered at the sutler’s for some trifle such as candy, or something to eat. Sufficient for the day was their evil tempter.
A good cooking stove was a great comfort, and Doctor Painter, an excellent cook, made our mess appetizing. The agents were expected to get their sustenance from State supplies, and we could buy from the Commissary Department good bread and coffee. Our table was made of boards resting on barrels, and sometimes we were quite stylish, having a white tablecloth instead of newspapers. Our dishes, mostly of tin, served quite well for hungry, hurried appetites.
Our reception tent, which was the largest, had at first a bunk in one corner where the rain sometimes percolated through the canvas walls, and one morning,—my pillow touching the wet wall of the tent,—I found my head in a little puddle of water. But I was in better health, if possible, than before. We laughed at these happenings, also when the rain ran in streams over our ground floor and at night we were obliged to sit resting, or writing by the light of candles stuck in bottles, with our feet on logs to keep them dry. Meanwhile a log fire burned cheerfully in the rough mud and log chimney. A barrel was placed on top for draught. It sometimes caught fire, but some one always managed to discover it, and knocked it off without setting fire to the canvas roofs. Our barrel chairs were not luxurious, but, like everything in camp, they served their purpose.
Though our tents were not transparent, the candle distinctly silhouetted our forms on the walls as we sat talking with friends, so that passers could recognize visitors and perhaps wait for a more favorable time to call. During the day our tent flaps were always open hospitably. Agents and officers often visited and talked of home, friends, comforts, etc., while each was always ready to assist in an emergency. Convalescents often got leave to come for some luxury or necessity; they craved fruit and vegetables, especially onions, and one so craved this luxury that he offered me fifty cents for one. Of course it became a gift, and one that was greatly enjoyed.
The wife of the Ohio agent, a pretty brunette with long black curls and black eyes, became very ill. Their small tents were not comfortable. All the ladies helped in many ways to make her limitations less trying. We were fearful of a sad ending as she lay helplessly weak for many days, but youth and courage, with good care, at last put her upon her feet again quite well.
An extremely annoying encounter occurred while I was with Mrs. Painter in my little house attached to another tent. One evening, with considerable clatter, an officer, followed by his orderly, halted at my door and knocked for admission. I saw at once that this otherwise fine young man, from Brooklyn, was under the influence of liquor. There was no escape and I must, if possible, get along peaceably with him.
My friends in the next tent could hear every word and could have helped me to get rid of him, but they thought it a good joke to get me cornered, while they laughed and quietly enjoyed the interview.
“Miss Smith,” mumbled the visitor, “I’m so glad to see you. I told the fer-rers I’d give fifty dollars for an introduction to you, when I saw you on the ch-cha-chapel platform singing just as if you didn’t care fu-fur any body.”
I could think of no plan to get rid of him, and still hoped my friends would come to my rescue.
“Oh, Miss Smith,” he went on, “I wish I had a ba-ba-badge like yours. Couldn’t you give it to me?”
Thinking to escape his effusions and to hasten his exit, I took off my precious Lincoln mourning badge and handed it to him. But he grew more persistent, saying:
“Wouldn’t you just pin-pin it on?”
In silent indignation and protest I did so, to his great satisfaction. Then as his speech grew more indistinct, he added: “W-w-when I tell the ferrers that M-Miss Smith put-put that on, they’ll all be ravin’ jealous!”
I do not remember how at last I got him out of the little house. I saw his orderly help him to mount a superb horse that had impatiently pawed the ground since he entered.
My indignation passed for little above the shouts of laughter at my discomfiture that for once I was caught in a dilemma.
But this recalcitrant young officer received a startling communication on the following day which, doubtless, caused a permanent revulsion of admiration.
The wife of an officer, with her four year old girl, was very anxious to join her husband at the front. Knowing that I held a pass, she persuaded me to take her to the camp, which might have made me considerable trouble, as she could not get permission from Headquarters. Being willing to help her, if possible, I sent for an ambulance and driver, and we started over the corduroy roads, ditches, ruts and mud,—a foot deep in some places,—occasionally in danger of being overturned, as we rode at times partly on one wheel or two, rarely on four. In a sudden lurch this mother so lost her head with fright that she raised her feet and shot out on one side into the “Sacred Soil” of Virginia, quite up to her knees. I grasped the child and flung myself with her on the opposite side, thus righting the ambulance, and feeling little sympathy for the mother who forgot her child, though her feet were completely covered with mud. We found her husband in camp, and I left them quite happy in their tent before Petersburg.
One of our surgeons owned a superb black horse that was so intelligent, one could not pass him without petting him. This he greatly enjoyed, and he showed that he remembered me. His handsome owner remarked, “I’m soon going to take you for a ride on him.”
“O, you are, indeed. I believe it takes two to make an engagement, and I have reasons for not wishing to ride with you,” I replied. “Good morning!” and so I left him greatly incensed.
Officers were constantly riding about our camp, and among them was Doctor Weir Mitchell of the cavalry, now the distinguished nerve specialist of Philadelphia, and author of many scientific works as well as novels. He often dashed down our row on a spirited horse, his long hair floating back, while his yellow-lined cape, thrown over his shoulder, made him a conspicuous figure.
Doctor Olmstead, of the 69th Regiment, a Brooklyn man, had received a wound in his foot from a spent ball, and for some time limped quite comfortably about camp. We much enjoyed his occasional calls and his kindly courtesy. I wear, on occasion, a silver trefoil of the2dDivision,2dCorps, to which he belonged, made from a silver quarter (scarce in those days) and urged upon me by a grateful boy patient. Doctor Olmstead was kind enough to send it to Washington and have it made. It is now a much valued relic.
On Christmas Day, 1864, Mrs. Painter, wishing to make a pleasant surprise with home-made cheer for her son, Hettie K. Painter, who was still in charge of the telegraph at Hatch’s Run, again invited me to accompany her.
After the usual bumping over corduroy and other bad roads near the point, we found him in his little improvised office and living room. Doctor Painter with the assistance of a cheerful contraband helper soon prepared a surprisingly comfortable Christmas dinner, which was greatly enjoyed by our little party.
During this homely visit, Hettie Painter remarked to me, “Miss Smith you are always looking up some souvenir of the war, here is something that you may appreciate. This is a telegram from General Sherman, received here this morning en route, and I immediately forwarded a copy to President Lincoln in Washington. It is therefore a copy of the message before it was despatched to the President.”
Much pleased with this souvenir, now a relic of that wonderful conquest, I have preserved it carefully. Some months since I presented it to the U. S. Grant Post of Brooklyn, and by them it was neatly framed and is now in the fine military museum of that post’s relics. The following is a verbatim copy:
“The United States Military TelegraphSavannah, Ga., 23, 1864Via Fortress Monroe, 25.To his Excellency, President Lincoln:I beg leave to present you as a Christmas gift the City of Savannah, 150 guns and plenty of ammunition; also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.W. T. SHERMAN,Major General.”
“The United States Military TelegraphSavannah, Ga., 23, 1864Via Fortress Monroe, 25.
To his Excellency, President Lincoln:
I beg leave to present you as a Christmas gift the City of Savannah, 150 guns and plenty of ammunition; also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.
W. T. SHERMAN,Major General.”
I mailed it to my home, writing on the back, “This despatch was just received by a telegraph reporter. It is the first reliable original telegram.”