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Miss Annie Bailey, daughter of Captain Bailey, of Savannah, was matron of the home. She was assisted in the work by committees of three ladies, who, each in turn, spent several days at the home. The regular servants were kept and extra help called in when needed.
This home was to the weary and hungry Confederate soldier as an oasis in the desert, for here he found rest and plenty beneath its shelter. And the social feature was not its least attraction, when a bevy of blooming girls from our bonny Southland would visit the home, and midst feast and jest spur the boys on to renewed vigor in the cause of the South. They felt amidst such inspirations it would be glorious to die but more glorious to live for such a land of charming women. One of our matrons with her sweet old face softened into a dreamy smile by happy reminiscences of those days of toil, care, and sorrow, where happy thoughts and pleasantries of the past crowded in and made little rifts of sunshine through the war clouds, remarked: “But with all the gloom and suffering, we girls used to have such fun with the soldiers at the home, and at such times we could even forget that our loved South was in the throes of the most terrible war in the history of any country!”
The home was operated for two years or more and often whole regiments of soldiers came to it, and all that could be accommodated were taken in and cared for.
It was destroyed by Sherman’s army on their march to the sea. The car shed, depot, hotel and home all disappeared before the torch of the destroyer and only the memory, the well, and the trees remain to mark the historic spot where the heroic efforts of our Burke county women sustained the Wayside Home through long years of the struggle.
Mrs. Amos Whitehead and others who have “crossed the river” were prominently connected with this work; in fact, every one lent a helping hand, for it was truly a labor of love, and was our Southern women’s tribute to patriotism and heroism.
110A NOBLE GIRL
[From theFloridian, 1864.]
Upon the arrival of the troops at Madison sent to reinforce our army in East Florida, the ladies attended at the depot with provisions and refreshments for the defenders of their home and country. Among the brave war-worn soldiers who were rushing to the defence of our State there was, in one of the Georgia regiments, a soldier boy, whose bare feet were bleeding from the exposure and fatigue of the march. One of the young ladies present, moved by the impulse of her sex, took the shoes from her own feet, made the suffering hero put them on, and walked home herself barefooted. Wherever Southern soldiers have suffered and bled for their country’s freedom, let this incident be told for a memorial of Lou Taylor, of Madison county.
THE GOOD SAMARITAN
[In Christ in Camp, pages 98-99; J. William Jones, D. D.]
At Richmond, Va., there was a little model hospital known as the “Samaritan,” presided over by a lady who gave it her undivided attention, and greatly endeared herself to the soldiers who were fortunate enough to be sent there. “Through my son, a young soldier of eighteen,” writes a father, “I have become acquainted with this lady superintendent, whose memory will live in many hearts when our present struggle shall have ended. But for her motherly care and skilful attention my son and many others must have died. One case of her attention deserves special notice. A young man, who had been previously with her, was taken sick in camp near Richmond. The surgeon being absent, he lay for two weeks in his tent without medical aid. She sent several requests to his captain to send him to her, but he would not in the absence of the surgeon. She then hired a wagon and went for him herself; the captain allowed her to take him away, and he was soon convalescent. She says she111feels that not their bodies only but their souls are committed to her charge. Thus, as soon as they are comfortably fixed in a good, clean bed, she inquires of every one if he has chosen the good part; and through her instruction and prayers several have been converted. Her house can easily accommodate twenty, all in one room, which is made comfortable in winter with carpet and stove, and adorned with wreaths of evergreen and paper flowers, and in summer well ventilated, and the windows and yard filled with green-house plants. A library of religious books is in the room, and pictures are hung on the walls.”
FEMALE RELATIVES VISIT THE HOSPITALS.
[Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.]
There was no means of keeping the relations of patients from coming to them. There had been rules made to meet their invasion, but it was impossible to carry them out, as in the instance of a wife wanting to remain with her husband; and, besides, even the better class of people looked upon the comfort and care of a hospital as a farce. They resented the detention there of men who in many instances could lie in bed and point to their homes within sight, and argued that they would have better attention and food if allowed to go to their families. Thatmaladie du payscalled commonly nostalgia, the homesickness which rings the heart and impoverishes the blood, killed many a brave soldier, and the matron who day by day had to stand helpless and powerless by the bed of the sufferer, knowing that a week’s furlough would make his heart sing with joy and save his wife from widowhood, learned the most bitter lesson of endurance that could be taught.
My hospital was now entirely composed of Virginians and Marylanders, and the nearness to the homes of the former entailed upon me an increase of care in the shape of wives, sisters, cousins, aunts, and whole families, including the historic baby at the breast. They came in112troops, and, hard as it was to know how to dispose of them, it was harder to send them away. Sometimes they brought their provisions with them, but not often, and even when they did there was no place for them to cook their food. It must be remembered that everything was reduced to the lowest minimum, even fuel. They could not remain all day in the wards with men around them, and if even they were so willing, the restraint on wounded, restless patients who wanted to throw their limbs about with freedom during the hot days was unbearable.
Generally their only idea of kindness was giving the sick men what food they would take in any quantity and of every quality, and in the furtherance of their views they were pugnacious in the extreme. Whenever rules circumscribed their plans they abused the government, then the hospitals, and then myself. Many ludicrous incidents happened daily, and I have often laughed heartily at seeing the harassed ward-master heading away a pertinacious female who, failing to get past him at the door, would try the three others perseveringly. They seemed to think it a pious and patriotic duty not to be afraid or ashamed under any circumstances. One sultry day I found a whole family, accompanied by two young lady friends, seated around a sick man’s bed. As I passed through six hours later, they held the same position.
“Had not you all better go home?” I said good-naturedly.
“We came to see my cousin,” answered one very crossly. “He is wounded.”
“But you have been with him all morning and that is a restraint upon the other men. Come again to-morrow.”
A consultation was held, but when it ceased no movement was made, the older ones only lighting their pipes and smoking in silence.
“Will you come back to-morrow and go now?”
“No! You come into the wards when you please, and so will we.”
“But it is my duty to do so. Besides, I always ask113permission to enter, and never stay longer than fifteen minutes at a time.”
Another unbroken silence, which was a trial to any patience left, and finding no movement made, I handed some clothing to the patient near.
“Here is a clean shirt and drawers for you, Mr. Wilson. Put them on as soon as I get out of the ward.”
I had hardly reached my kitchen, when the whole procession, pipes and all, passed me solemnly and angrily; but, for many days, and even weeks, there was no ridding the place of this large family connection. Their sins were manifold. They overfed their relative who was recovering from an attack of typhoid fever, and even defiantly seized the food for the purpose from under my very nose. They marched on meen-masseat 10 o’clock at night, with a requisition from the boldest for sleeping quarters. The steward was summoned, and said “he didn’t keep a hotel,” so in a weak moment of pity for their desolate state, I imprudently housed them in my laundry. They entrenched themselves there for six days, making predatory incursions into my kitchen during my temporary absences, ignoring Miss G. completely. The object of their solicitude recovered and was sent to the field, and finding my writs of ejectment were treated with contemptuous silence, I sought an explanation. The same spokeswoman alluded to above met me half-way. She said a battle was imminent she had heard, and she had determined to remain, as her husband might be wounded. In the ensuing press of business she was forgotten, and strangely enough, her husband was brought in with a bullet in his neck the following week. The back is surely fitted to the burden, so I contented myself with retaking my laundry and letting her shift for herself, while a whole month slipped away. One morning my arrival was greeted with a general burst of merriment from everybody I met, white and black. Experience had made me sage, and my first question was a true shot, right in the center.
“Where is Mrs. Daniels?”
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She had always been spokeswoman.
“In ward G. She has sent for you two or three times.”
“What is the matter now?”
“You must go and see.”
There was something going on either amusing or amiss. I entered ward G, and walked up to Daniel’s bed. One might have heard a pin drop.
I had supposed, up to this time, that I had been called upon to bear and suffer every annoyance that humanity and the state of the country could inflict, but here was something most unexpectedly in addition; for lying composedly on her husband’s cot (for he had relinquished it for the occasion) lay Mrs. Daniels and her baby (just two hours old).
The conversation that ensued is not worth repeating, being more of the nature of a soliloquy. The poor wretch had ventured into a bleak and comfortless portion of the world, and its inhuman mother had not provided a rag to cover it. No one could scold her at such a time, however ardently they might desire to do so. But what was to be done? I went in search of my chief surgeon, and our conversation although didactic was hardly satisfactory on the subject.
“Doctor, Mrs. Daniels has a baby. She is in ward G. What shall I do with her?”
“A baby! Ah, indeed! You must get it some clothes.”
“What must I do with her?”
“Move her to an empty ward and give her some tea and toast.”
This was offered, but Mrs. Daniels said she would wait until dinner time and have some bacon and greens.
The baby was a sore annoyance. The ladies of Richmond made up a wardrobe, each contributing some article, and at the end of the month, Mrs. D., the child, and a basket of clothing and provisions were sent to the cars with a return ticket to her home in western Virginia.
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[I. L. U.]
In later years of the war a great many of the wounded soldiers were brought from east and west to Augusta, Ga. Immediately the people from the country on both sides of the Savannah River came in and took hundreds of the poor fellows to their homes and nursed them with every possible kindness. Ten miles up the river, on the Carolina side, was the happy little village of Curryton, named for Mr. Joel Curry and his father, the venerable Lewis Curry. Here, many a poor fellow from distant States was taken in most cordially and every home was a temporary hospital. Among those nursed at Mr. Curry’s, whose house was always a home for the preacher, the poor man, and the soldier, was Major Crowder, who suffered long from a painful and fatal wound, and a stripling boy soldier from Kentucky, Elijah Ballard, whose hip wound made him a cripple for life.
Miss Sadie Curry nursed both, night and day, as she did others, when necessary, like a sister. Her zeal never flagged, and her strength never gave way. After young Ballard, who was totally without education, became strong enough, she taught him to read and write, and when the war ended he went home prepared to be a book-keeper. Others received like kindness.
But this noble girl had from the beginning of the war made it her daily business to look after the families of the poorer soldiers in the neighborhood. She mounted her horse daily and made her round of angel visits. If she found anybody sick she reported to the kind and patriotic Dr. Hugh Shaw. If any of the families lacked meal or other provisions, it was reported to her father, who would send meal from his mill or bacon from his smoke-house.
In appreciation of her heroic work, her father and her gallant brother-in-law, Major Robert Meriwether, who was in the Virginia army, now living in Brazil, bought a beautiful Tennessee riding horse and gave it to her. She named it “Clara Fisher” and many poor hearts in old Edgefield were made sad and many tears shed in the116fall of 1864, when Sadie Curry and “Clara Fisher” moved to southwest Georgia.
Bless God, there were many Sadie Currys all over the South, wherever there was a call and opportunity. Miss Sadie married Dr. H. D. Hudson and later in life Rev. Dr. Rogers, of Augusta, where she died a few years ago.
MANIA FOR MARRIAGE
[In Diary of a Refugee, pages 329-330.]
There seems to be a perfect mania on the subject of matrimony. Some of the churches may be seen open and lighted almost every night for bridals, and wherever I turn, I hear of marriages in prospect.
“In peace Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;In war he mounts the warrior’s steed,”
“In peace Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;In war he mounts the warrior’s steed,”
“In peace Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war he mounts the warrior’s steed,”
sings the “Last Minstrel” of the Scottish days of romance; and I do not think that our modern warriors are a whit behind them, either in love or war. My only wonder is, that they find time for love-making amid the storms of warfare. Just at this time, however, I suppose our valiant knights and ladies fair are taking advantage of the short respite, caused by alternate snows and sunshine of our variable climate having made the roads impassable to Grant’s artillery and baggage-wagons.
A soldier in our hospital called to me as I passed his bed the other day, “I say, Mrs. ——, when do you think my wound will be well enough for me to go to the country?”
“Before very long, I hope.”
“But what does the doctor say, for I am mighty anxious to go?”
I looked at his disabled limb and talked to him hopefully of his being able to enjoy country air in a short time.
“Well, try to get me up, for, you see, it ain’t the country air I’m after, but I wants to get married, and the117lady don’t know that I am wounded, and maybe she’ll think I don’t want to come.”
“Ah,” said I, “but you must show her your scars, and if she is a girl worth having she will love you all the better for having bled for your country, and you must tell her that—
“‘It is always the heart that is bravest in warThat is fondest and truest in love.’”
“‘It is always the heart that is bravest in warThat is fondest and truest in love.’”
“‘It is always the heart that is bravest in war
That is fondest and truest in love.’”
He looked perfectly delighted with the idea; and as I passed him again he called out, “Lady, please stop a minute and tell me the verse over again, for, you see, when I do get there, if she is affronted, I wants to give her the prettiest excuse I can, and I think that verse is beautiful.”
GOVERNMENT CLERKSHIPS
[In Richmond During the War, pages 174-175.]
From the Treasury Department, the employment of female clerks extended to various offices in the War Department, the Post Office Department, and indeed every branch of business connected with the government. They were all found efficient and useful. By this means many young men could be sent into the ranks, and by testimony of the chiefs of bureaus, the work left for the women was better done; for they were more conscientious in their duties than the more self-satisfied, but not better qualified, male attaches of the government offices. The experiment of placing women in government clerkships proved eminently successful, and grew to be extremely popular under the Confederate government.
Many a young girl remembers with gratitude the kindly encouragement of our Adjutant-General Cooper, our chief of ordnance, Colonel Gorgas, or the first auditor of the Confederate treasury, Judge Bolling Baker, or Postmaster-General Reagan, and various other officials, of whom their necessities drove them to seek employment. The most high-born ladies of the land filled these places118as well as the humble poor; but none could obtain employment under the government who could not furnish testimonials of intelligence and superior moral worth.
SCHOOLS IN WAR TIMES
[In Richmond During the War, pages 188-189.]
As the war went on a marked change was made in the educational interests of the South. For a certain number of pupils, the teachers of schools were exempt from military duty. To their credit be it recorded that few, comparatively, availed themselves of this exception, and the care of instructing the youth devolved, with other added responsibilities, upon the women of the country. Only the boys under conscript age were found in the schools; all older were made necessary in the field or in some department of government service, unless physical inability prevented them from falling under the requirements of the law. Many of our colleges for males suspended operation, and at the most important period in the course of their education our youths were instructed in the sterner lessons of military service.
HUMANITY IN THE HOSPITALS
[RichmondEnquirer, June 6, 1862.]
In our visits to the various hospitals, we cannot but remark, admire, and commend the kindly harmony and sweet-tempered familiarity which mark the intercourse of the ladies who have devoted themselves to the care of the sick and the wounded. There is a unity in the actions and solicitude of all which only a unity of motive could induce. The amiable and unpretending sister of mercy, the earnest bright-eyed Jewish girl and the womanly, gentle, and energetic Protestant, mingle their labors with a freedom and geniality which would teach the most prejudiced zealot a lesson that would never be forgotten.119The necessity of charity, once demonstrated, teaches us that we are one kindred, after all, and whatever differences may exist in the peculiar tenets of the many, all hearts are alike open to the same impulses, and the couch of suffering at once commands their sympathy and reminds them of an identity of hope and a common fate.
MRS. DAVIS AND THE FEDERAL PRISONER
[Augusta, Ga.,Constitutionalist.]
A clerical friend of ours in passing through one of our streets a few days since, to perform a ministerial duty—attending to the sick and wounded in the hospitals—encountered a stranger, who accosted him thus: “My friend, can you tell me if Mrs. Jeff Davis is in the city of Augusta?”
“No, sir,” replied our friend. “She is not.”
“Well, sir,” replied the stranger, “you may be surprised at my asking such a question, and more particularly so when I inform you that I am a discharged United States soldier. But (and here he evinced great feeling), sir, that lady has performed acts of kindness to me which I can never forget. When serving in the valley of Virginia, battling for the Union, I received a severe and dangerous wound. At the same time I was taken prisoner and conveyed to Richmond, where I received such kindness and attention from Mrs. Davis that I can never forget her; and, now that I am discharged from the army and at work in this city, and understanding that the lady was here, I wish to call upon her, renew my expressions of gratitude to her, and offer to share with her, should she unfortunately need it, the last cent I have in the world.”
Can it be truly charged on a nation that it was wantonly, criminally cruel, when a generous foe bears testimony to the mercy, kindness, and lowly service of the highest lady of the land?
120SOCKS THAT NEVER WORE OUT
General Gordon tells of a simple-hearted country Confederate woman who gave a striking idea of the straits to which our people were reduced later in the war. She explained that her son’s only pair of socks did not wear out, because, said she: “When the feet of the socks get full of holes, I just knit new feet to the tops, and when the tops wear out I just knit new tops to the feet.”
BURIAL OF AUNT MATILDA
[Mrs. R. A. Pryor’s Reminiscences.]
This precise type of a Virginia plantation will never appear again, I imagine. I wish I could describe a plantation wedding as I saw it that summer. But a funeral of one of the old servants was peculiarly interesting to me. “Aunt Matilda” had been much loved and, when she found herself dying, she had requested that the mistress and little children should attend her funeral.
“I ain’ been much to church,” she urged. “I couldn’t leave my babies. I ain’ had dat shoutin’ an’ hollerin’ religion, but I gwine to heaven jes’ de same”—a fact of which nobody who knew Aunt Matilda could have the smallest doubt.
We had a long, warm walk behind hundreds of negroes, following the rude coffin in slow procession through the woods, singing antiphonally as they went, one of those strange, weird hymns not to be caught by any Anglo-Saxon voice.
It was a beautiful and touching scene, and at the grave I longed for an artist (we had no kodaks then) to perpetuate the picture. The level rays of the sun were filtered through the green leaves of the forest, and fell gently on the dusky pathetic faces, and on the simple coffin surrounded by orphan children and relatives, very dignified and quiet in their grief.
The spiritual patriarch of the plantation presided. Old Uncle Abel said:
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“I ain’ gwine keep you all long. ’Tain’ no use. We can’t do nothin’ for Sis’ Tildy. All is done fer her, an’ she done preach her own fune’al sermon. Her name was on dis church book here, but dat warn’ nothin’; no doubt ’twas on de Lamb book, too.
“Now, whiles dey fillin’ up her grave, I’d like you all to sing a hymn Sis’ Tildy uster love, but you all know I bline in one eye, an’ I dunno as any o’ you all ken do it”—and the first thing I knew, the old man had passed his well-worn book to me, and there I stood at the foot of the grave, “lining out”:
“‘Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep,From which none ever wake to weep.’”
“‘Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep,From which none ever wake to weep.’”
“‘Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep,
From which none ever wake to weep.’”
Words of immortal comfort to the great throng of negro mourners who caught it up line after line, on an air of their own, full of tears and tenderness,—a strange, weird tune no white person’s voice could ever follow.
“ILLEGANT PAIR OF HANDS”
[Phoebe Y. Pember.]
A large number of the surgeons were absent, and the few left would not be able to attend to all the wounds at that late hour of the night. I proposed in reply that the convalescent men should be placed on the floor on blankets or bed-sacks filled with straw, and the wounded take their place, and, purposely construing his silence into consent, gave the necessary orders, eagerly offering my services to dress simple wounds, and extolling the strength of my nerves. He let me have my way (may his ways be of pleasantness and his paths of peace), and so, giving Miss G. orders to make an unlimited supply of coffee, tea, and stimulants, armed with lint, bandages, castile soap, and a basin of warm water, I made my first essay in the surgical line. I had been spectator often enough to be skilful. The first object that needed my care was an Irishman. He was seated upon a bed with his hands crossed, wounded in both arms by the same122bullet. The blood was soon washed away, wet lint applied, and no bones being broken, the bandages easily arranged.
“I hope that I have not hurt you much,” I said with some trepidation. “These are the first wounds that I have ever dressed.”
“Sure, they be the most illegant pair of hands that ever touched me, and the lightest,” he gallantly answered. “And I am all right now.”
THE GUN-BOAT “RICHMOND”
[Scharf’s Confederate Navy.]
The “Ladies’ Defence Association” was then formed at Richmond, with Mrs. Maria G. Clopton, president; Mrs. General Henningsen, vice-president; Mrs. R. H. Maury, treasurer, and Mrs. John Adams Smith, secretary. At its meeting, on April 9th, an address, prepared by Captain J. S. Maury, was read by Rev. Dr. Doggett. In this address it was eloquently stated that the first efforts of the association would be “directed to the building and putting afloat in the waters of the James River a steam man-of-war, clad in shot-proof armor; her panoply to be after the manner of that gallant ship, the nobleVirginia.” Committees were appointed to solicit subscriptions, and so much encouragement was received that the managers of the association called upon President Davis for sanction of its purpose, which he gladly gave, and it was announced that the keel of the vessel would be laid in a few days; that Commander Farrand would be in charge of the work, and that he would be assisted by Ship-builder Graves.
Words can but inadequately represent the energy with which the women of Virginia undertook this work, or the sacrifices which they made to complete it. That their jewels and their household plate, heirlooms, in many instances, that had been handed down from generation to generation and were the embodiments of ancestral rank123and tradition, were freely given up, is known. “Virginia,” said they in their appeal, “when she sent her sons into this war, gave up her jewels to it. Let not her daughters hold back. Mothers, wives, sisters! what are your ornaments of silver and gold in decoration, when by dedicating them to a cause like this, you may in times like these strengthen the hand or nerve the arm, or give comfort to the heart that beats and strikes in your defence! Send them to us.”
The organization, moreover, did not confine itself to urging upon the women of the State that this was particularly their contribution to the maintenance of the Confederacy. “Iron railings,” the address continued, “old and new, scrap-iron about the house, broken ploughshares about the farm, and iron in any shape, though given in quantities ever so small, will be thankfully received if delivered at the Tredegar Works, where it may be put into the furnace, reduced, and wrought into shape or turned into shot and shell.” A friendly invasion of the tobacco factories was made by a committee of ladies, consisting of Mrs. Brooke Gwathney, Mrs. B. Smith, and Mrs. George T. Brooker, and the owners cheerfully broke up much of their machinery that was available for the specified purpose. Mrs. R. H. Maury, treasurer of the association, took charge of the contributions in money, plate, and jewelry; the materials and tools were sent to Commodore Farrand, and an agent, S. D. Hicks, was appointed to receive the contributions of grain, country produce, etc., that were sent in by Virginia farmers to be converted into cash. By the end of April the construction had reached an advanced stage; President Davis and Secretary Mallory had congratulated the Ladies’ Association upon the assured success of its self-allotted task, and by the sale of articles donated to a public bazaar or fair, almost a sufficient sum to complete the ship was secured.
TheRichmondwas completed in July, 1862, and although detailed descriptions are lacking all mention made124of her is unanimous that she was an excellent ship of her type. Captain Parker says that “she was a fine vessel, built on the plan of theVirginia.”
Note.—Mrs. General Henningsen received from New Orleans boxes containing articles to be sold for contribution to building the Richmond. Among the articles were two beautiful vases, which were bought by a gentleman of Richmond and are now in the possession of his family. The Richmond was destroyed on the evacuation of the Capital City.—J. L. U.
Note.—Mrs. General Henningsen received from New Orleans boxes containing articles to be sold for contribution to building the Richmond. Among the articles were two beautiful vases, which were bought by a gentleman of Richmond and are now in the possession of his family. The Richmond was destroyed on the evacuation of the Capital City.—J. L. U.
CAPTAIN SALLY TOMPKINS
[By J. L. Underwood.]
Southern women have cared little for public honors nor have they courted masculine titles. But a recent number of the RichmondTimes-Dispatchrecalls the pleasant bit of history that in the case of Miss Sallie Tompkins a remarkable honor was deservedly conferred upon a worthy Virginia girl by the Confederate authorities.
While yet a very young woman Miss Tompkins used her ample means to establish in Richmond a private hospital for Confederate soldiers. She not only provided for its support at her own expense, but devoted her time to the work of nursing the patients.
The wounded were brought into the city by the hundreds and there was hardly a private house without its quota of sick and wounded. Quite a number of private hospitals were established but, unlike Miss Tompkins’s splendid institution, charges were made by some of them for services rendered. In course of time abuses grew with the system, and General Lee ordered that they all be closed—all except the hospital of Miss Tompkins. This was recognized as too helpful to the Confederate cause to be abolished.
In order to preserve it it had to be brought under government control, and to do this General Lee ordered a commission as captain in the Confederate army to be issued to Miss Sallie Tompkins. Though a government125hospital from that time on, Captain Tompkins conducted it as before, paying its expenses out of her private purse.
The veterans are proud of her record, and a movement is now on foot among them to place Captain Tompkins in a position of independence as long as she lives.
THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL
[From the Gray Jacket, pages 143-146.]
’Twas nightfall in the hospital. The day,As though its eyes were dimmed with bloody rainFrom the red clouds of war, had quenched its light,And in its stead some pale, sepulchral lampsShed their dim lustre in the halls of pain,And flitted mystic shadows o’er the walls.No more the cry of “Charge! On, soldiers, on!”Stirred the thick billows of the sulphurous air;But the deep moan of human agony,From the pale lips quivering as they strove in vainTo smother mortal pain, appalled the ear,And made the life-blood curdle in the heart.Nor flag, nor bayonet, nor plume, nor lance,Nor burnished gun, nor clarion call, nor drum,Displayed the pomp of battle; but insteadThe tourniquet, the scalpel, and the draught,The bandage, and the splint were strewn around—Dumb symbols, telling more than tongues could speakThe awful shadows of the fiend of war.Look! Look! What gentle form with cautious stepPasses from couch to couch as silentlyAs yon faint shadows flickering on the walls,And, bending o’er the gasping sufferer’s head,Cools his flushed forehead with the icy bath,From her own tender hand, or pours the cupWhose cordial powers can quench the inward flameThat burns his heart to ashes, or with voiceAs tender as a mother’s to her babe,Pours pious consolation in his ear.She came to one long used in war’s rude scenes—A soldier from his youth, grown gray in arms,Now pierced with mortal wounds. Untutored, rough,Though brave and true, uncared for by the world.His life had passed without a friendly word,Which timely spoken to his willing ear,Had wakened God-like hopes, and filled his heartWith the unfading bloom of sacred truth.Beside his couch she stood, and read the pageOf heavenly wisdom and the law of love,And bade him follow the triumphant chiefWho bears the unconquered banner of the cross.The veteran heard with tears and grateful smile,Like a long-frozen fount whose ice is touchedBy the restless sun, and melts away,And, fixing his last gaze on her and heaven,Went to the Judge in penitential prayer.126She passed to one, in manhood’s blooming prime,Lately the glory of the martial field,But now, sore-scathed by the fierce shock of arms,Like a tall pine shattered by the lightning’s stroke,Prostrate he lay, and felt the pangs of death,And saw its thickening damps obscure the lightWhich make our world so beautiful. Yet thoseHe heeded not. His anxious thoughts had flownO’er rivers and illimitable woods,To his fair cottage in the Western wilds,Where his young bride and prattling little ones—Poor hapless little ones, chafed by the wolf of war—Watched for the coming of the absent oneIn utter desolation’s bitterness.O, agonizing thought! which smote his heartWith sharper anguish than the sabre’s point.The angel came with sympathetic voice,And whispered in his ear: “Our God will beA husband to the widow, and embraceThe orphan tenderly within his arms;For human sorrow never cries in vainTo His compassionate ear.” The dying manDrank in her words with rapture; cheering hopeShone like a rainbow in his tearful eyes,And arched his cloud of sorrow, while he gaveThe dearest earthly treasures of his heart,In resignation to the care of God.A fair man-boy of fifteen summers tossedHis wasted limbs upon a cheerless couch.Ah! how unlike the downy bed preparedBy his fond mother’s love, whose tireless handsNo comforts for her only offspring sparedFrom earliest childhood, when the sweet babe slept,Soft—nestling in her bosom all the night,Like a half-blown lily sleeping on the heartOf swelling summer wave, till that sad dayHe left the untold treasure of her loveTo seek the rude companionship of war.The fiery fever struck his swelling brainWith raving madness, and the big veins throbbedA death-knell on his temples, and his breathWas hot and quick, as is the panting deer’s,Stretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain.“Mother! Oh, mother!” oft his faltering tongueShrieked to the cold, bare wall, which echoed backHis wailing in the mocking of despair.Oh! angel nurse, what sorrow wrung thy heartFor the young sufferer’s grief! She knelt besideThe dying lad, and smoothed his tangled locksBack from his aching brow, and wept and prayedWith all a woman’s tenderness and love,That the good Shepherd would receive this lamb,Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,And shelter him in His all-circling arms,In the green valleys of Immortal rest.And so the angel passed from scene to sceneOf human suffering, like that blessed One,Himself the man of sorrows and of grief,Who came to earth to teach the law of love,And pour sweet balm upon the mourner’s heart,And raise the fallen and restore the lost.Bright vision of my dreams! thy light shall shineThrough all the darkness of this weary world—Its selfishness, its coolness, and its sin,Pure as the holy evening star of love,The brightest planet in the host of heaven.
’Twas nightfall in the hospital. The day,As though its eyes were dimmed with bloody rainFrom the red clouds of war, had quenched its light,And in its stead some pale, sepulchral lampsShed their dim lustre in the halls of pain,And flitted mystic shadows o’er the walls.
’Twas nightfall in the hospital. The day,
As though its eyes were dimmed with bloody rain
From the red clouds of war, had quenched its light,
And in its stead some pale, sepulchral lamps
Shed their dim lustre in the halls of pain,
And flitted mystic shadows o’er the walls.
No more the cry of “Charge! On, soldiers, on!”Stirred the thick billows of the sulphurous air;But the deep moan of human agony,From the pale lips quivering as they strove in vainTo smother mortal pain, appalled the ear,And made the life-blood curdle in the heart.Nor flag, nor bayonet, nor plume, nor lance,Nor burnished gun, nor clarion call, nor drum,Displayed the pomp of battle; but insteadThe tourniquet, the scalpel, and the draught,The bandage, and the splint were strewn around—Dumb symbols, telling more than tongues could speakThe awful shadows of the fiend of war.
No more the cry of “Charge! On, soldiers, on!”
Stirred the thick billows of the sulphurous air;
But the deep moan of human agony,
From the pale lips quivering as they strove in vain
To smother mortal pain, appalled the ear,
And made the life-blood curdle in the heart.
Nor flag, nor bayonet, nor plume, nor lance,
Nor burnished gun, nor clarion call, nor drum,
Displayed the pomp of battle; but instead
The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the draught,
The bandage, and the splint were strewn around—
Dumb symbols, telling more than tongues could speak
The awful shadows of the fiend of war.
Look! Look! What gentle form with cautious stepPasses from couch to couch as silentlyAs yon faint shadows flickering on the walls,And, bending o’er the gasping sufferer’s head,Cools his flushed forehead with the icy bath,From her own tender hand, or pours the cupWhose cordial powers can quench the inward flameThat burns his heart to ashes, or with voiceAs tender as a mother’s to her babe,Pours pious consolation in his ear.She came to one long used in war’s rude scenes—A soldier from his youth, grown gray in arms,Now pierced with mortal wounds. Untutored, rough,Though brave and true, uncared for by the world.His life had passed without a friendly word,Which timely spoken to his willing ear,Had wakened God-like hopes, and filled his heartWith the unfading bloom of sacred truth.Beside his couch she stood, and read the pageOf heavenly wisdom and the law of love,And bade him follow the triumphant chiefWho bears the unconquered banner of the cross.The veteran heard with tears and grateful smile,Like a long-frozen fount whose ice is touchedBy the restless sun, and melts away,And, fixing his last gaze on her and heaven,Went to the Judge in penitential prayer.
Look! Look! What gentle form with cautious step
Passes from couch to couch as silently
As yon faint shadows flickering on the walls,
And, bending o’er the gasping sufferer’s head,
Cools his flushed forehead with the icy bath,
From her own tender hand, or pours the cup
Whose cordial powers can quench the inward flame
That burns his heart to ashes, or with voice
As tender as a mother’s to her babe,
Pours pious consolation in his ear.
She came to one long used in war’s rude scenes—
A soldier from his youth, grown gray in arms,
Now pierced with mortal wounds. Untutored, rough,
Though brave and true, uncared for by the world.
His life had passed without a friendly word,
Which timely spoken to his willing ear,
Had wakened God-like hopes, and filled his heart
With the unfading bloom of sacred truth.
Beside his couch she stood, and read the page
Of heavenly wisdom and the law of love,
And bade him follow the triumphant chief
Who bears the unconquered banner of the cross.
The veteran heard with tears and grateful smile,
Like a long-frozen fount whose ice is touched
By the restless sun, and melts away,
And, fixing his last gaze on her and heaven,
Went to the Judge in penitential prayer.
126She passed to one, in manhood’s blooming prime,Lately the glory of the martial field,But now, sore-scathed by the fierce shock of arms,Like a tall pine shattered by the lightning’s stroke,Prostrate he lay, and felt the pangs of death,And saw its thickening damps obscure the lightWhich make our world so beautiful. Yet thoseHe heeded not. His anxious thoughts had flownO’er rivers and illimitable woods,To his fair cottage in the Western wilds,Where his young bride and prattling little ones—Poor hapless little ones, chafed by the wolf of war—Watched for the coming of the absent oneIn utter desolation’s bitterness.O, agonizing thought! which smote his heartWith sharper anguish than the sabre’s point.The angel came with sympathetic voice,And whispered in his ear: “Our God will beA husband to the widow, and embraceThe orphan tenderly within his arms;For human sorrow never cries in vainTo His compassionate ear.” The dying manDrank in her words with rapture; cheering hopeShone like a rainbow in his tearful eyes,And arched his cloud of sorrow, while he gaveThe dearest earthly treasures of his heart,In resignation to the care of God.
126
She passed to one, in manhood’s blooming prime,
Lately the glory of the martial field,
But now, sore-scathed by the fierce shock of arms,
Like a tall pine shattered by the lightning’s stroke,
Prostrate he lay, and felt the pangs of death,
And saw its thickening damps obscure the light
Which make our world so beautiful. Yet those
He heeded not. His anxious thoughts had flown
O’er rivers and illimitable woods,
To his fair cottage in the Western wilds,
Where his young bride and prattling little ones—
Poor hapless little ones, chafed by the wolf of war—
Watched for the coming of the absent one
In utter desolation’s bitterness.
O, agonizing thought! which smote his heart
With sharper anguish than the sabre’s point.
The angel came with sympathetic voice,
And whispered in his ear: “Our God will be
A husband to the widow, and embrace
The orphan tenderly within his arms;
For human sorrow never cries in vain
To His compassionate ear.” The dying man
Drank in her words with rapture; cheering hope
Shone like a rainbow in his tearful eyes,
And arched his cloud of sorrow, while he gave
The dearest earthly treasures of his heart,
In resignation to the care of God.
A fair man-boy of fifteen summers tossedHis wasted limbs upon a cheerless couch.Ah! how unlike the downy bed preparedBy his fond mother’s love, whose tireless handsNo comforts for her only offspring sparedFrom earliest childhood, when the sweet babe slept,Soft—nestling in her bosom all the night,Like a half-blown lily sleeping on the heartOf swelling summer wave, till that sad dayHe left the untold treasure of her loveTo seek the rude companionship of war.The fiery fever struck his swelling brainWith raving madness, and the big veins throbbedA death-knell on his temples, and his breathWas hot and quick, as is the panting deer’s,Stretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain.“Mother! Oh, mother!” oft his faltering tongueShrieked to the cold, bare wall, which echoed backHis wailing in the mocking of despair.Oh! angel nurse, what sorrow wrung thy heartFor the young sufferer’s grief! She knelt besideThe dying lad, and smoothed his tangled locksBack from his aching brow, and wept and prayedWith all a woman’s tenderness and love,That the good Shepherd would receive this lamb,Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,And shelter him in His all-circling arms,In the green valleys of Immortal rest.
A fair man-boy of fifteen summers tossed
His wasted limbs upon a cheerless couch.
Ah! how unlike the downy bed prepared
By his fond mother’s love, whose tireless hands
No comforts for her only offspring spared
From earliest childhood, when the sweet babe slept,
Soft—nestling in her bosom all the night,
Like a half-blown lily sleeping on the heart
Of swelling summer wave, till that sad day
He left the untold treasure of her love
To seek the rude companionship of war.
The fiery fever struck his swelling brain
With raving madness, and the big veins throbbed
A death-knell on his temples, and his breath
Was hot and quick, as is the panting deer’s,
Stretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain.
“Mother! Oh, mother!” oft his faltering tongue
Shrieked to the cold, bare wall, which echoed back
His wailing in the mocking of despair.
Oh! angel nurse, what sorrow wrung thy heart
For the young sufferer’s grief! She knelt beside
The dying lad, and smoothed his tangled locks
Back from his aching brow, and wept and prayed
With all a woman’s tenderness and love,
That the good Shepherd would receive this lamb,
Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,
And shelter him in His all-circling arms,
In the green valleys of Immortal rest.
And so the angel passed from scene to sceneOf human suffering, like that blessed One,Himself the man of sorrows and of grief,Who came to earth to teach the law of love,And pour sweet balm upon the mourner’s heart,And raise the fallen and restore the lost.Bright vision of my dreams! thy light shall shineThrough all the darkness of this weary world—Its selfishness, its coolness, and its sin,Pure as the holy evening star of love,The brightest planet in the host of heaven.
And so the angel passed from scene to scene
Of human suffering, like that blessed One,
Himself the man of sorrows and of grief,
Who came to earth to teach the law of love,
And pour sweet balm upon the mourner’s heart,
And raise the fallen and restore the lost.
Bright vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine
Through all the darkness of this weary world—
Its selfishness, its coolness, and its sin,
Pure as the holy evening star of love,
The brightest planet in the host of heaven.
127CHAPTER IIITHEIR TRIALS
OLD MAIDS
[J. L. Underwood.]
This would be a dark world without old maids—God bless them! No one can measure their usefulness. Many a one of them has never married because she has never found a man good enough for her. The saddest mourners the world ever saw were some of our Southern girls whose hearts and hopes were buried in a soldier’s grave in Virginia or the Far West. For four years the daughters of the South waited for their lovers, and alas! many waited in a life widowhood of unutterable sorrow. After the seven days’ battles in front of Richmond a horseman rode up to the door of one of the houses on —— street in Richmond and cried out to an anxious mother: “Your son is safe, but Captain —— is killed.” On the opposite side of the street a fair young girl was sitting. She was the betrothed of the ill-fated captain, and heard the crushing announcement. That’s the way war made so many Southern girls widows without coming to the marriage altar.
“It matters little now, Lorena;The past is the eternal past.Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena;Life’s tide is ebbing out so fastBut, there’s a future—oh, thank God—Of life this is so small a part;’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,But there—up there,—’tis heart to heart.”
“It matters little now, Lorena;The past is the eternal past.Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena;Life’s tide is ebbing out so fastBut, there’s a future—oh, thank God—Of life this is so small a part;’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,But there—up there,—’tis heart to heart.”
“It matters little now, Lorena;
The past is the eternal past.
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena;
Life’s tide is ebbing out so fast
But, there’s a future—oh, thank God—
Of life this is so small a part;
’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,
But there—up there,—’tis heart to heart.”
The writer is so partial to the old maids of the Confederacy that he is afraid of a charge of extravagance were he to say anything more. But the author of this book is not the only one to admire and love them. Hear what another old Confederate soldier says in the following letter in the AtlantaJournal:
128
Sugar Valley, Ga.Dear Miss Thomas:Will you permit an old Confederate soldier, who has nearly reached his three-score and ten, to occupy a seat while he says a few words?The old maids of to-day were young girls in my youthful days. They were once young and happy and looked forward with bright hopes to the future, while the flowers opened as pretty, the birds sung as sweetly, and the sun shone as brightly as it does to the young girls of to-day. They had sweethearts; they loved and were loved in return; they had pleasant dreams of the coming future to be passed in their own happy homes surrounded by husband and children. But, alas! the dark war clouds lowered above the horizon and all their bright dreams of the future were overcast with gloom. They loved with a pure and unselfish devotion, but they loved their country best. The young men of the sixties were the first to respond to their country’s call and marched away to the front, to undergo the hardships and dangers of a soldier’s life.Now, can you imagine the pangs that rent the maiden’s breast as she bid farewell, maybe for the last time this side of eternity, to the one who was dearer than her own heart’s blood, as she watched his manly form clothed in his uniform of gray disappear in the distance? She tried to be brave when she bade him go and fight the battles of his country. She remained at home and prayed to an all-wise and merciful God to spare him amidst the storm of iron and lead, but her heart seemed rent in twain and all of her bright hopes for the future seemed turned to ashes. The weary days and months passed in dread suspense.Now and then a letter from the front revived her drooping spirits, as her soldier boy told of his many escapes amid the charging columns and roar of battle. After many months or maybe years she received the sad tidings that her gallant soldier was no more; his gallant spirit had flashed out with the guns, and his manly form, wrapped in a soldier’s blanket, had been consigned129to an unmarked grave far away from home and loved ones. The last rays of hope fled, and she resigned herself to her sad and lonely fate. They were true to their country in its sore distress, true to their heroes wearing the gray, and true to their God who doeth all things well. Could any one lead a more consecrated life? Now, let us, instead of deriding, cast the veil of charity over their desolate lives.The once smooth cheek is furrowed with the wrinkles of time, the glossy braids have whitened with the snows of winter, the once graceful form is bending under the weight of years, while the bright eyes have grown dim watching, not for the soldier in gray, but for the summons that calls her to meet him on that bright and beautiful shore, there to be with loved ones who have gone before, and receive the reward of “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” Soon the last one of those patriotic women of the sixties will have passed over the river, and their like may never be seen again, but their love of home and country will be handed down to generations yet unknown.With best wishes for the household,W. H. Andrews.
Sugar Valley, Ga.
Dear Miss Thomas:
Will you permit an old Confederate soldier, who has nearly reached his three-score and ten, to occupy a seat while he says a few words?
The old maids of to-day were young girls in my youthful days. They were once young and happy and looked forward with bright hopes to the future, while the flowers opened as pretty, the birds sung as sweetly, and the sun shone as brightly as it does to the young girls of to-day. They had sweethearts; they loved and were loved in return; they had pleasant dreams of the coming future to be passed in their own happy homes surrounded by husband and children. But, alas! the dark war clouds lowered above the horizon and all their bright dreams of the future were overcast with gloom. They loved with a pure and unselfish devotion, but they loved their country best. The young men of the sixties were the first to respond to their country’s call and marched away to the front, to undergo the hardships and dangers of a soldier’s life.
Now, can you imagine the pangs that rent the maiden’s breast as she bid farewell, maybe for the last time this side of eternity, to the one who was dearer than her own heart’s blood, as she watched his manly form clothed in his uniform of gray disappear in the distance? She tried to be brave when she bade him go and fight the battles of his country. She remained at home and prayed to an all-wise and merciful God to spare him amidst the storm of iron and lead, but her heart seemed rent in twain and all of her bright hopes for the future seemed turned to ashes. The weary days and months passed in dread suspense.
Now and then a letter from the front revived her drooping spirits, as her soldier boy told of his many escapes amid the charging columns and roar of battle. After many months or maybe years she received the sad tidings that her gallant soldier was no more; his gallant spirit had flashed out with the guns, and his manly form, wrapped in a soldier’s blanket, had been consigned129to an unmarked grave far away from home and loved ones. The last rays of hope fled, and she resigned herself to her sad and lonely fate. They were true to their country in its sore distress, true to their heroes wearing the gray, and true to their God who doeth all things well. Could any one lead a more consecrated life? Now, let us, instead of deriding, cast the veil of charity over their desolate lives.
The once smooth cheek is furrowed with the wrinkles of time, the glossy braids have whitened with the snows of winter, the once graceful form is bending under the weight of years, while the bright eyes have grown dim watching, not for the soldier in gray, but for the summons that calls her to meet him on that bright and beautiful shore, there to be with loved ones who have gone before, and receive the reward of “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” Soon the last one of those patriotic women of the sixties will have passed over the river, and their like may never be seen again, but their love of home and country will be handed down to generations yet unknown.
With best wishes for the household,
W. H. Andrews.
A MOTHER’S LETTER
[From a dying soldier boy.]
The Alabama papers in 1863 published the following letter from Private John Moseley, a youth who gave up his life at Gettysburg:
Battlefield, Gettysburg, Pa.,July 4, 1863.Dear Mother:I am here, prisoner of war and mortally wounded. I can live but a few hours more at furthest. I was shot fifty yards from the enemy’s line. They have been exceedingly kind to me. I have no doubt as to the final result of this battle, and I hope I may live long enough to130hear the shouts of victory before I die. I am very weak. Do not mourn my loss. I had hoped to have been spared, but a righteous God has ordered it otherwise, and I feel prepared to trust my case in His hands. Farewell to you all. Pray that God may receive my soul.Your unfortunate son,John.
Battlefield, Gettysburg, Pa.,July 4, 1863.
Dear Mother:
I am here, prisoner of war and mortally wounded. I can live but a few hours more at furthest. I was shot fifty yards from the enemy’s line. They have been exceedingly kind to me. I have no doubt as to the final result of this battle, and I hope I may live long enough to130hear the shouts of victory before I die. I am very weak. Do not mourn my loss. I had hoped to have been spared, but a righteous God has ordered it otherwise, and I feel prepared to trust my case in His hands. Farewell to you all. Pray that God may receive my soul.
Your unfortunate son,
John.
TOM AND HIS YOUNG MASTER
[In Richmond During the War, pages 178-179.]
A young soldier from Georgia brought with him to the war in Virginia a young man who had been brought up with him on his father’s plantation. On leaving his home with his regiment, the mother of the young soldier said to his negro slave: “Now, Tom, I commit your master Jemmy into your keeping. Don’t let him suffer for anything with which you can supply him. If he is sick, nurse him well, my boy; and if he dies, bring his body home to me; if wounded, take care of him; and oh! if he is killed in battle, don’t let him be buried on the field, but secure his body for me, and bring him home to be buried!” The negro faithfully promised his mistress that all her wishes should be attended to, and came on to the seat of war charged with the grave responsibility placed upon him.
In one of the battles around Richmond the negro saw his young master when he entered the fight, and saw him when he fell, but no more of him. The battle became fierce, the dust and smoke so dense that the company to which he was attached, wholly enveloped in the cloud, was hidden from the sight of the negro, and it was not until the battle was over that Tom could seek for his young master. He found him in a heap of slain. Removing the mangled remains, torn frightfully by a piece of shell, he conveyed them to an empty house, where he laid them out in the most decent order he could, and securing the few valuables found on his person, he sought a conveyance to carry the body to Richmond. Ambulances131were in too great requisition for those whose lives were not extinct to permit the body of a dead man to be conveyed in one of them. He pleaded most piteously for a place to bring in the body of his young master. It was useless, and he was repulsed; but finding some one to guard the dead, he hastened into the city and hired a cart and driver to go out with him to bring in the body to Richmond.
When he arrived again at the place where he had left it, he was urged to let it be buried on the field, and was told that he would not be allowed to take it from Richmond, and therefore it were better to be buried there. “I can’t do it. I promised my mistress (his mother) to bring his body home to her if he got killed, and I’ll go home with it or I’ll die by it; I can’t leave my master Jemmy here.” The boy was allowed to have the body and brought it to Richmond, where he was furnished with a coffin, and the circumstances being made known, the faithful slave, in the care of a wounded officer who went South, was permitted to carry the remains of his master to his distant home in Georgia. The heart of the mother was comforted in the possession of the precious body of her child, and in giving it a burial in the church-yard near his own loved home.
Fee or reward for this noble act of fidelity would have been an insult to the better feelings of this poor slave; but when he delivered up the watch and other things taken from the person of his young master, the mistress returned him the watch, and said: “Take this watch, Tom, and keep it for the sake of my boy; ’tis but a poor reward for such services as you have rendered him and his mother.” The poor woman, quite overcome, could only add: “God bless you, boy!”