CHAPTERXXI
General Collis, then in command of the colored brigade at the Point, on abandoning his adjutant’s little frame house or office about fifteen feet by ten, kindly gave it to me. A large army wagon on which it was raised, for removal, supported by a squad of soldiers on either side, and hauled by six mules, made quite an impression coming up Agency Row, especially as it carried away the telegraph wires over the road. One of our large tents was moved to give it space, and the real door and little glass window in it made us quite the envy of the Row. It was divided into two rooms, having a tent roof. The front room was for business purposes. The smaller, which had a window about a foot square, was large enough only for a bunk with a straw bed, a packing box for a dresser, a hand glass and a barrel chair, and so New York was added to Pennsylvania and New Jersey Agencies.
This recalls a night incident somewhat later, when Mrs. Painter and I were sleeping in the bunk. I was startled by Mrs. Painter springing up on to the dresser and screaming loudly, “Murder! Thieves! Help!” almost in the face of a scamp at the window, who was evidently trying to reach the wines hidden under the dresser. Mrs. Painter was a very small woman of the old time Quaker stamp, and she wore a little white night cap, and the proverbial short gown and petticoat. As the poor fellow took to his heels and the neighbouring tents were aroused, I could only lie still and laugh at the ludicrous scene. He lost a great army shoe which rested conspicuously on a rise of ground, quite distant.
Another amusing incident comes to my mind in connection with my little house. One night there came a thundering knock on the door, on which remained the word “Adjutant.” On opening I found a soldier standing at attention and more than “half-seas-over,” so that he could not distinguish a woman from an officer. He had been on furlough, and insisted on my taking his pass, but at last I succeeded in starting him for the proper office.
An incident occurs to me of a New York newspaper reporter who was invited to the mess of General Grant and staff. While drinking was more common than now, no one so far forgot himself as to become intoxicated in the presence of the General, whose self-control and rigid discipline all respected. But this man so demeaned himself as to “get under the table,” and the officers present were excited to the utmost contempt and indignation at this breach of etiquette in the presence of the commander of the United States Armies. If intoxication had been common at Headquarters, camp gossip would certainly have travelled the half mile to the state agencies and brought us news of it. General Grant, however, was unhappily addicted to the excessive use of tobacco, which eventually caused him much suffering, and, later, his life.
MISS JONES, OF PHILADELPHIA
How few, even of the army veterans, remember the sacrifices of the “Women of the War” in hospitals, homes and elsewhere! In the many G. A. R. annual Memorial services held since the war, when they are received in churches to hear their heroic deeds extolled, never have I heard a chaplain or minister give a thought of the women workers, by whose faithful care many of these brave soldiers were nursed back to life, and restored to their anxious families and to the country.
Miss Jones, of Philadelphia, was one of these rare, forgotten workers. Accomplished, refined, though delicate, she left her luxurious home with its order and comforts, to give her time, strength and means to the principles of national liberty, inbred into the life of every citizen of Philadelphia by the frequent sight of the old cradle of the American flag, the little home of Betsey Ross, where, under the direction of General Washington, Lafayette and others—she sewed into the bunting the thirteen stars and stripes of our national emblem. A million subscribers, at ten cents each, have enabled the Association to make it a national or State reservation in the densest business section of the city, where it has become a national Mecca to thousands yearly visiting the City of Brotherly Love.
Miss Jones, on arriving at City Point Hospital, at once took up the rough camp life in an army tent with earth floor,—often damp and wet,—a little cot, an apology for a table, barrel chairs, the usual chimney built roughly of logs and mud with barrel top, the plain and sometimes distasteful food, and the atmosphere of the sick wards. Here, however, she worked for many weeks in that enthusiastic ardor which inspired her kindly heart, feeling that she was giving help, comfort, and perhaps life, to the sick who came under her care.
Thoughtless of self, and with failing strength, she continued to work ceaselessly, till, contracting typhoid fever, she collapsed quite suddenly, but still hoped that rest in the bare lonely tent might restore her to her hospital work.
I had been too much occupied with my sick Boys even to see Miss Jones, though much interested in her, having lived near her in Philadelphia some years before the war; and the sad news came with a shock that this frail, devoted soul had sacrificed her life to her country and died in the field, like many a true soldier and patriot, far from friends and the home where every tender luxury was awaiting her.
Doctor Painter and I volunteered to sit beside her slight form during the night, which was intensely cold, while a full moon shed its silvery rays over the phantom of midnight silence in camp, and glittered like rare crystals on the pure white snow that seemed to reach the distant horizon, whence the brilliant stars looked down in love and pity. Mrs. Painter and I sat on rough chairs with our feet on logs, while the fire logs in the crude chimney burned brightly. Mrs. Painter, who had been among the first women to reach the front, meanwhile told me many a tale of her strange experiences when system had not reached the improvised temporary hospital tents, where many suffered for help and nourishment then unattainable. So the night passed, while the moaning wind sang “Rest, sweet soul,” often slightly swaying the white sheet that covered the pallid body. More than once we started quickly to the seeming motion of life, hoping it might be real, but the pure spirit had passed on, while the frail body rested with a pleasant smile, calmly, as if tended by the friends of home and the formalities of a last funeral service for the dead.
Her brother, Horatio, came for the body, and at last it was laid away among her ancestors in the family lot near Philadelphia.
Recognition of her services has been given in Philadelphia by the naming of one of the G. A. R. Posts “the Hetty Jones Post.”
The only other post that I have ever heard of named after a woman is the Betsey Ross Post, also of Philadelphia.
From Harper’s WeeklySaturday April 30th, 1864(By Private Miles O’Reilly)Gen. Chas. Halpin.
Three years ago to-dayWe raised our hands to heaven,And on the rolls of musterOur names were thirty-seven;There were just a thousand bayonets,And the swords were thirty-seven,As we took the oath of serviceWith our right hands raised to heaven.Oh, ’twas a gallant day,In memory still adored,That day of our sun-bright nuptialsWith the musket and the sword!Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,And beneath a cloudless heavenTwinkled a thousand bayonets,And the swords were thirty-seven.Of the thousand stalwart bayonetsTwo hundred march to-day;Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,And hundreds in Maryland clay;And other hundreds, less happy, dragTheir shattered limbs around,And envy the deep, long, blessed sleepOf the battle-field’s holy ground.For the swords—one night, a week ago,The remnant, just eleven,Gathered around a banqueting boardWith seats for thirty-seven;There were two limped in on crutches,And two had each but a handTo pour the wine and raise the cupAs we toasted “Our flag and land!”And the room seemed filled with whispersAs we looked at the vacant seats,And, with choking throats, we pushed asideThe rich but untasted meats;Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,As we rose up—just eleven,And bowed as we drank to the loved and the deadWho had made us thirty-seven!
Three years ago to-dayWe raised our hands to heaven,And on the rolls of musterOur names were thirty-seven;There were just a thousand bayonets,And the swords were thirty-seven,As we took the oath of serviceWith our right hands raised to heaven.Oh, ’twas a gallant day,In memory still adored,That day of our sun-bright nuptialsWith the musket and the sword!Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,And beneath a cloudless heavenTwinkled a thousand bayonets,And the swords were thirty-seven.Of the thousand stalwart bayonetsTwo hundred march to-day;Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,And hundreds in Maryland clay;And other hundreds, less happy, dragTheir shattered limbs around,And envy the deep, long, blessed sleepOf the battle-field’s holy ground.For the swords—one night, a week ago,The remnant, just eleven,Gathered around a banqueting boardWith seats for thirty-seven;There were two limped in on crutches,And two had each but a handTo pour the wine and raise the cupAs we toasted “Our flag and land!”And the room seemed filled with whispersAs we looked at the vacant seats,And, with choking throats, we pushed asideThe rich but untasted meats;Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,As we rose up—just eleven,And bowed as we drank to the loved and the deadWho had made us thirty-seven!
Three years ago to-day
We raised our hands to heaven,
And on the rolls of muster
Our names were thirty-seven;
There were just a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven,
As we took the oath of service
With our right hands raised to heaven.
Oh, ’twas a gallant day,
In memory still adored,
That day of our sun-bright nuptials
With the musket and the sword!
Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
And beneath a cloudless heaven
Twinkled a thousand bayonets,
And the swords were thirty-seven.
Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
Two hundred march to-day;
Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
And hundreds in Maryland clay;
And other hundreds, less happy, drag
Their shattered limbs around,
And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep
Of the battle-field’s holy ground.
For the swords—one night, a week ago,
The remnant, just eleven,
Gathered around a banqueting board
With seats for thirty-seven;
There were two limped in on crutches,
And two had each but a hand
To pour the wine and raise the cup
As we toasted “Our flag and land!”
And the room seemed filled with whispers
As we looked at the vacant seats,
And, with choking throats, we pushed aside
The rich but untasted meats;
Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,
As we rose up—just eleven,
And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead
Who had made us thirty-seven!