CHAPTER XIV.

WRETCHED CONDITION OF OUR HOSPITAL—A REBEL FAMILY—HOME DUTIES—ARRIVAL OF THE WOUNDED—SAD SCENES AND INCIDENTS—BATTLEFIELD OF DEC. 13TH, 1862—TENT HOSPITALS—MR. WATERS—PAPER MILL HOSPITAL—THE CITY EVACUATED—THE SLAUGHTER ESTATE—MRS. WASHINGTON’S MONUMENT—NINTH CORPS BURYING-GROUND—FAREWELL TO THE BLOODY CITY.

Monday, 16th.

Early this morning I started out, accompanied by one of the “boys” detailed to assist us, for an old four story factory, situated in the outskirts of the city, with beef-soup, crackers, and pillows. Another revolting scene, one from which the mind instinctively turns, was there witnessed. I found the wounded, as in other hospitals, lying upon the hard floor, some with but many without even a blanket. Everything in the shape of knapsacks, haversacks, canteens, and even boots, are used for pillows. For one to stand and look in upon them in all their destitution and suffering, and to hear the begging for pillows upon which to rest aching heads, wounded limbs, and broken bones, and to see the empty cups held up for a littlesoup—“just a little, please,”—would be a soul-sickening sight! A mere spectator could not live here; not if he had a heart to feel for others’ woes. There must be something to stimulate; and the hope of being able, though in a small degree, to alleviate the suffering seen on every hand nerves one for the work and enables him to labor on week after week composedly, it may be, amid scenes the most revolting, with ghastly death staring him in the face at every turn. This is no place for idlers or the faint-hearted. Strong nerves, brave hearts, and willing hands are needed. My next visit was to the hospitals on the Heights, where I found a large number who have, to-day, arrived from the battlefield. Many of these were wholly unprovided for; some were lying upon the ground, others sitting upon old boxes, benches, and even the wood-pile, while the hot sun was pouring his searching beams upon them. Among these seemingly neglected ones was a poor fellow who had lost part of his lower jaw; his swollen face was bound around with an old blood-stained bandage, and the bloody water was running from his mouth. He could not speak, but looked, oh, so imploringly for help! I resolved to do something for him. My first thought was to provide for him a bed; but where was the bedding to come from? It was suggested that I should go to a “Secesh” family, living about eighty rods from there,and try and beg some. I readily yielded to the suggestion; but, on making known my errand, the woman—I can not call her lady—of the house utterly refused to let me have any, saying that they needed what little they had for themselves. I did not doubt her word, but told her she must try and divide with me, even if it were no more than a couple of quilts or blankets, as I wished to fix a bed for a soldier who was very badly wounded. But she still refused. “Very well,” I replied, “I shall report you to the Provost Marshal,” and turned to leave, when an old gentleman—her father, I concluded—said, “I reckon we can spare a couple of blankets and a mattress;” and, without waiting for her consent, went into an adjoining room and brought them out. This was better than I expected, and more than I had asked for; but, on seeing the blankets, I recognized them as belonging to “Uncle Sam.” The look of gratitude the poor boy gave, as he lay down to rest upon his new bed, with a clean bandage about his face, will never be effaced from memory.

A few words in regard to our home-duties, perhaps, would not be amiss. We made our coffee in a caldron-kettle, stewed our fruit in a large copper boiler, and made our soups, puddings, and tea over the stove. It took one to attend to the storeroom, one or two busy cooking, and several constantlyemployed carrying and distributing supplies to the various hospitals. Our rooms were continually besieged with weary, hungry soldiers, who were more fortunate than their comrades in not being wholly disabled. To all such, wherever they hailed from, coffee and crackers were furnished as long as the supply lasted. Among the soldiers detailed to assist us were Leonard Sears and George Taylor, of the Eighth Michigan; James Meade and Frank Phillips, of the Twentieth; Hall, of the Fourth; Lewis Gridley, of the Second; and one whose name I have forgotten, whom we always called “Curly.” Poor boy! he was mortally wounded at the battle of Cold Harbor, and died whileen routefor Washington. In addition to the above there were three from the Twenty-Sixth, whose names I have not. These were not able-bodied men from the ranks, but convalescents from the hospitals, who were detailed at different times and places during the summer of 1864. They were faithful to duty, and did us excellent service.

Tuesday, the 17th.

The wounded still arriving. Early this morning a long train came in and parked across the way from us. Among those who assisted in the work of feeding these was Chaplain Way, of the Twenty-Fourth Michigan Infantry, who always seems to know justwhat, when, and where to do. He is always willing to assist, and always at work.

Many of these had been in the hands of the rebels, and were nearly starved. Most of them were seriously, and many mortally wounded. Death was at work while on their way from the field; his cold, icy fingers had chilled the life-current in the hearts of some. There was one poor man with both thighs amputated. As I handed him a cup of wine, he raised up, drank a few swallows, and, without a murmur or even a groan, lay down again. Instead of complaining at his hard lot, he had a word of thanks for this small favor. “Oh, what bravery this!” thought I, as I passed on to the next ambulance. After all had been fed, the train moved on toward Belle Plain, where they are to be taken on board transports and carried further North. The suffering experienced during that tedious ride, what pen can portray? During the day I have been to several hospitals, with soup, crackers, milk-punch, tea, etc. One of these, formerly a stable, I found in a most deplorable condition. The wounded, terribly mangled and covered with blood, were lying upon the floor. Many of these were rebels. Only a few hours had elapsed since their arrival from the field of battle. A more heart-sickening sight I have not witnessed since coming to this bloody city. I couldnot pass them by neglected. Though enemies, they were nevertheless helpless, suffering human beings. I deemed it best to act in accordance with the injunction: “If thine enemy hunger, feed him.”

With these few extracts from my journal, something of an idea can be formed, not only of our work while in Fredericksburg, but also of the wretched condition of our hospitals—though, in most of these, great improvements were made before the place was evacuated. Cots were furnished, and other comforts supplied, which it was impossible to have at first; for the wounded were brought in, not only by hundreds, but by thousands. Day after day, long trains freighted with human suffering continued to arrive, until it was estimated that there were at least ten thousand wounded in the city at a time. All the public buildings—the Court-House, churches, hotels, warehouses, factories, the paper mill, theatre, school-buildings, stores, stables, many private residences—and, in fact, everything that could give shelter was converted into receptacles for the wounded, until Fredericksburg was one vast hospital.

Our daily duties were so similar, that an account of one day’s work would be a fair specimen of every day’s. We knew no rest until the wounded were all removed. Night ever found us weary and foot-sore. There was a large number of faithful laborers at Fredericksburg.The different commissions and State associations were there, each with a noble corps of earnest workers. Among these untiring ones was Mrs. General Barlow, whose husband commanded the First Division, Second Corps. Many of the improvements made in our hospitals—especially of the Second Corps—were the result of her personal efforts. She worked on through sunshine and storm, until her overtaxed system yielded to the ravages of disease, and she fell a martyr to the cause she had so faithfully served. But the laurels she won “are unfading, and will be verdant in heaven.” Among the many faithful workers in Fredericksburg, I knew of none who accomplished more than Mrs. Samson, of Maine, and Miss Hancock, of Pennsylvania. They were not only earnest and faithful, but efficient—going where many would not think of venturing, overcoming obstacles to others insurmountable, yielding to discouragements never. Heat or cold, storm or sunshine, distance or danger, were never allowed to interfere with duty. There were many others whose noble deeds are recorded on high.

We were aided in our work by a number of volunteer laborers, who, one after another, remained a few days or weeks, as they had opportunity. Among these were Colonel Barnes, Messrs. Bayley and Wallace, of Detroit; also, Messrs. Thompson, Moses, Pierce,Horton, Willcox, and Green. Each day’s work was full of incident, sad yet interesting. One morning, accompanied by Mr. Horton, I went with supplies to one of the hospitals, which I found in a most destitute and neglected condition. It was filled with wounded, brought in the night before. As yet they had eaten nothing, neither had they been visited by a surgeon, consequently their wounds remained undressed. The hospital was filthy beyond all comparison. After dishing out our soup and crackers to those poor half-starved men, Mr. H. began the work of dressing wounds, while I started in search of a surgeon, or some one, to assist him. At the Cavalry Corps Hospital—more than a mile distant—I secured the services of Steward Smith; and, as we were hurrying back to that abode of wretchedness, we were overtaken by Steward Dennis, of the Sixth Cavalry, who volunteered to assist us; and very soon both were at work in good earnest, while I hastened “home” to replenish our supply of rags, bandages, shirts, drawers, pillows, and handkerchiefs; and then, assisted by the nurse, began the work of cleaning the hospital. Before leaving, all had been fed, wounds dressed, clean clothing provided, the worst of the filth and dirt removed, and a large quantity of lemonade made for the “boys.” One poor fellow died during the day, and three more before morning. In a few days, thosewho survived were removed, and the hospital again filled with others. Thus they continued to come and go, until the last wounded were brought from the field.

The next day I made another visit to the hospitals on the “Heights.” Mr. Marvin, A. C. C. delegate, accompanied me. The heat was oppressive. The perspiration dropped profusely from our faces while climbing that long hill with our loaded baskets. We found a large number of new arrivals. In the open air, near one of the hospitals, amputations were being performed, and, from the pile of dissevered limbs near by, it was evident that the number was fearfully large. A young man in one of the wards, who had just been brought from the amputating-table, and had sufficiently recovered from the effects of chloroform to realize his loss, was most bitterly deploring it. To him his loss was irreparable. All efforts to pacify him were made in vain; he gave himself up to weeping, lamenting his great misfortune.

But his was an exceptional case. The language of the wounded was oftener in accordance with the spirit of the following touching poem:

“The knife was still; the surgeon boreThe shattered arm away;Upon his bed, in painless sleep,The noble hero lay.He woke, but saw the vacant placeWhere arm of his had lain,Then faintly spoke: ‘Oh! let me seeMy strong right arm again.’“‘Good-by, old arm!’ the soldier said,As he clasped the fingers cold;And down his pale but manly cheekThe tear-drops gently rolled.‘My strong right-arm, no deed of yoursNow gives me cause to sigh;But ’tis hard to part such trusty friends—Good-by, old arm! Good-by!“‘You’ve served me well these many years.In sunlight and in shade;But, comrade, we have done with war—Let dreams of glory fade.You’ll never more my sabre swingIn battle fierce and hot;You’ll never bear another flag,Or fire another shot.“‘I do not mourn to lose you nowFor home and native land;Oh! proud am I to give my miteFor freedom, pure and grand.Thank God, no selfish thought is mine,While here I bleeding lie;But bear it tenderly away.Good-by, old arm! Good-by!’”

“The knife was still; the surgeon bore

The shattered arm away;

Upon his bed, in painless sleep,

The noble hero lay.

He woke, but saw the vacant place

Where arm of his had lain,

Then faintly spoke: ‘Oh! let me see

My strong right arm again.’

“‘Good-by, old arm!’ the soldier said,As he clasped the fingers cold;And down his pale but manly cheekThe tear-drops gently rolled.‘My strong right-arm, no deed of yoursNow gives me cause to sigh;But ’tis hard to part such trusty friends—Good-by, old arm! Good-by!

“‘Good-by, old arm!’ the soldier said,

As he clasped the fingers cold;

And down his pale but manly cheek

The tear-drops gently rolled.

‘My strong right-arm, no deed of yours

Now gives me cause to sigh;

But ’tis hard to part such trusty friends—

Good-by, old arm! Good-by!

“‘You’ve served me well these many years.In sunlight and in shade;But, comrade, we have done with war—Let dreams of glory fade.You’ll never more my sabre swingIn battle fierce and hot;You’ll never bear another flag,Or fire another shot.

“‘You’ve served me well these many years.

In sunlight and in shade;

But, comrade, we have done with war—

Let dreams of glory fade.

You’ll never more my sabre swing

In battle fierce and hot;

You’ll never bear another flag,

Or fire another shot.

“‘I do not mourn to lose you nowFor home and native land;Oh! proud am I to give my miteFor freedom, pure and grand.Thank God, no selfish thought is mine,While here I bleeding lie;But bear it tenderly away.Good-by, old arm! Good-by!’”

“‘I do not mourn to lose you now

For home and native land;

Oh! proud am I to give my mite

For freedom, pure and grand.

Thank God, no selfish thought is mine,

While here I bleeding lie;

But bear it tenderly away.

Good-by, old arm! Good-by!’”

I often wondered at the cheerfulness and fortitude with which they bore not only their great losses, butso much pain. If they were heroes amid the fierce conflict of battle, they were equally so when suffering in hospitals. On our return from this sad visit we were joined by Captain Williams, of the Seventh Michigan Infantry, who pointed out to us the battlefield of December 13th, 1862, and the very places where Michigan regiments were stationed; also the line of works charged on and carried. As I gazed upon those long lines of fortifications, “rising one above the other, tier upon tier,” upon which rebel batteries were planted that mowed our men down so fearfully as they advanced in solid phalanx, facing those unyielding guns which continually belched forth their missiles of death, I did not wonder that they were compelled to fall back. It seems like madness to have attempted to carry such works by direct attack. It was done at a fearful loss of life. The blood poured forth on that eventful day quenched the light in many a home. The battle work of thousands was that day completed, and they left sleeping upon the “green couch of our final rest.” By how many, ere the heart grew still, might not the confession and the earnest appeal expressed in the following have been made?

“I’m no saint!But, boys, say a prayer—there is one that begins‘Our Father,’ and then says, ‘Forgive us our sins;’Don’t forget that part, say that strongly, and thenI’ll try to repeat it, and you’ll say ‘Amen!’Ah! I’m no saint!”

“I’m no saint!

But, boys, say a prayer—there is one that begins

‘Our Father,’ and then says, ‘Forgive us our sins;’

Don’t forget that part, say that strongly, and then

I’ll try to repeat it, and you’ll say ‘Amen!’

Ah! I’m no saint!”

Not far from the 20th of the month, tent hospitals were erected about a mile and a half from the city along the south bank of the Rappahannock, to which many of the more seriously wounded were removed, as the atmosphere, being so much purer than in the city, would greatly favor their recovery. To one of these tents Mr. Waters—whom I had previously mentioned—was taken. The evening before his removal, when I took him his supper—consisting of tea and custard, which he had requested—I found him in great distress of mind. He had heard it rumored that he was to be removed, but knew not whither, and anxiously inquired, “What does it all mean?” He was well aware that frequently, when soldiers were given up to die, they were taken into what was called the “death ward,” and the poor man thought that was where he was to go; but when he learned where he was going, and the reason therefor, the tears started from his eyes, and, with quivering lips, he exclaimed, “Oh! I thought my death-warrant was sealed.” “Well, what if it were; are you afraid to die?” I asked. “Oh, no,” he replied, “for my trust is in Jesus. I feel that all would be well with me were I to die; but I have a large family who need me somuch; for their sakes I hope my life will be saved.” When about to leave him he extended his hand, saying, “Now be sure and find me at the other hospital, won’t you?” The promise was made and kept, but I found him fast sinking into the grave. He expressed little hope of recovery, but a good hope in Jesus. He was soon after removed to Washington and taken to Armory Square Hospital, where he lingered until the 26th of June, when he exchanged his suit of blue for a robe of white, and laid him down to rest. After I had taken my leave of Mr. W.—the evening in question—and as I was hastily leaving the hospital, my attention was attracted to a soldier who was weeping and sobbing as though his heart would break. On going to him I recognized one to whose wants I had frequently ministered. On inquiring the cause of his trouble, “Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, “the doctor isn’t going to let you bring anything more into the hospital; but, if you don’t, I shall starve to death.” I could scarcely convince him that it was only a rumor, and that I should continue my visits as before, but he would not relinquish his hold on my hand until he had exacted a positive promise that I would surely come again; and not until my next visit was he fully reassured that all was right. In a few days my poor one-armed boy was sent off, and I saw him no more. The same evening I again visited “Planter’s Hotel.”Edward Fisher, whom I found in the afternoon peaceful and happy, was now raving with delirium. Approaching his bed and calling him by name, I asked if he knew me; for a moment he appeared rational, looked up and smiled, but the next he was wild and delirious again. He had already given an arm for his country, and now he was about to offer his young life a sacrifice upon the same altar. Ere the morning’s dawn he was enrolled in the army of the “Boys in White.”

Upon one of my visits to the Paper Mill Hospital I found seventy men who had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Although late in the afternoon, I promised the “boys” that they should have something to eat before I slept that night; so hurrying home I made farina and corn-starch puddings for these seventy hungry men. But, before returning to the hospital, rations had been issued, which, together with the puddings, they declared just made a good meal. At that late day I knew of no excuse for being short of government rations, and there must have been great neglect on the part of some one; though when we first occupied Fredericksburg it was almost impossible to procure transportation sufficient to convey supplies from Belle Plain, a distance of twelve miles from the city, and twenty-five or thirty from the army. Much suffering and many deaths were the unavoidable result.

Presently it began to be rumored that the city was about to be evacuated. It was thought by many that either Bowling Green or Port Royal would be the new base of operations—though all was conjecture. But soon the order to evacuate was received; consequently our supplies, not yet disposed of, were packed, transportation procured, passes obtained, and everything put in readiness for a move. Wednesday, the 25th of May, all the Michigan delegation, except myself, went on board transports bound for Washington. As I had a promise of transportation to the “new base,” I greatly preferred going there to returning to Washington. Our tent hospitals were not broken up until the 27th, though the last of the wounded (in the city) were removed the 25th. That morning I visited the Amputation Hospital—so called from the fact that nearly all the wounded there had been subjected to the amputating knife. This, I believe, was the last hospital in the city broken up. Most of the patients in it at this time were from Michigan. Among the number was a brave Indian chief, who had received a mortal wound, and died soon after arriving at Washington. The others, as far as I know, recovered. The afternoon of the same day I made another visit to our tent hospitals, taking sundry articles for distribution, among which was a bottle of sherry brandy, for Mr. Waters, who, I knew, would greatly need stimulantsduring his tedious journey to Washington. That day I took my farewell leave of him. In one of the wards was a man in the agonies of death, alone and unconscious. Taking a fan, I stood by his cot and brushed away the flies, which were buzzing and swarming around him like bees. But the struggle was soon over; he died without returning to consciousness. I deeply regretted afterwards that I did not obtain the address of some member of his family, and write the anxiously awaiting friends, whose dreadful suspense, perhaps, was not relieved until the official announcement of his death reached them.

The Slaughter estate, on which these tents were pitched, was a lovely place. The site of the mansion was delightful. A beautiful flower-garden, in which various kinds of roses blossomed abundantly, making the very atmosphere heavy with their fragrance, gradually sloped toward the river. But the old house was deserted; it bore fearful testimony to the destructive effect of balls, of both friend and foe. I never saw a building more completely riddled with shot and shell.

The afternoon of the 26th, in company with four other ladies, who were also waiting transportation, I paid a visit to the tomb of Mrs. Mary Washington. The monument had evidently been struck by a cannon-ball, as the top was broken off, and lay in fragmentson the ground. We gathered up a few pieces as sacred mementoes of the spot where repose the ashes of that noble woman—the mother of the “Father of his Country.” As we stood in silence, gazing with solemn awe upon her grave, we could not help thinking of her son—that little boy, who once, perhaps, played in childish glee upon the very ground where we were standing, and who with his little hatchet cut the favorite cherry-tree, growing, as some affirm, upon the spot where that monument now stands. Then the beautiful lesson taught by his truthful simplicity, and the deep impression it made upon our minds in early life, were recalled; also the purity of his after life, his noble record, his philanthropic deeds, his peaceful death. With reflections like these we leave this venerated tomb, and slowly wend our way to the soldiers’ burying-ground, and pay our last tribute of respect to the hundreds of brave men who were there resting from their labors, and “whose slumbers will not be broken until the reveille of the resurrection morn shall awake them.”

“Soldiers’ graves are thickly scatteredO’er the valley and the lea;They are sleeping on the mountains,They are sleeping by the sea.”

“Soldiers’ graves are thickly scattered

O’er the valley and the lea;

They are sleeping on the mountains,

They are sleeping by the sea.”

The morning of the 27th, a detachment of cavalry was sent out to the “wilderness” to recapture someof our wounded who had been for several days in the hands of the rebels. Before night they returned with forty of those poor half-starved men, whom I assisted in feeding after they were taken on board the steamer “George Weems.” About nine o’clock that evening I went aboard the same boat. It was filled to its utmost capacity with the wounded, nurses, agents, officers and refugees. Next morning—as we had not left Fredericksburg—while waiting for the tide to come in, I went ashore and returned to our old quarters, nearly a mile and a half distant. Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Samson of Maine accompanied me. Having found the forgotten articles, which I was in search of, we retraced our steps; but, supposing we had plenty of time, we strolled leisurely along, gathering flowers, and stopping a moment to gaze upon the lonely, deserted hospitals that we passed, in which so many distressing sights had been witnessed, and so much suffering experienced.

On our way, several “Secesh” women greeted us with, “Good-by, Yanks; glad you’re going—reckon you won’t get back here again.” We most heartily responded to their expressions of joy. If they were rejoiced to have us go, we were no less so to leave. When within a few rods of the landing, the whistle blew, the plank was taken in, the water-wheel began to revolve, and the boat to shove out from the shore.If we never before knew the meaning of the phrase “double quick,” I think we then learned it; while the thought of being left in rebeldom every moment accelerated our speed. Hands extended to aid us were eagerly grasped, and with a desperate leap, as for life, we jumped on board. Had we been left, no alternative would have remained to us, except that of marching the overland route with the troops, the last of whom were then slowly filing out of town; for this was the last boat of any description that left Fredericksburg, and all communication with the place that day ceased. At ten o’clock we bade farewell to the “bloody city” with its hundreds of sleeping braves. But we could not forget the sad experiences of the previous two weeks.

The weariness, the fatigue, the oppressive heat, the care and anxiety, the sick, the wounded, the dying, the dead; the long trains of ambulances freighted with human suffering, the bloody scenes, the torn and mangled bodies, the newly-made graves, were all fresh in mind, and, being securely locked in the halls of memory, can never be forgotten.

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