CHAPTER II.

Battle of Gettysburg.—The Wounded.—Incidents in Hospital.—Sanitary Commission Work.—The Flag on “Round Top.”

We remained at home only long enough for Mr. H. to recuperate sufficiently to bear the fatigues of travel. While he was still unfit for the journey, the great battle of Gettysburg, July 1st, 2d, and 3d, 1863, was fought; within one week after it, we were on our way thither; reaching the town late in the evening, spent the night upon the parlor floor of one of the hotels; with a satchel for pillow, slept soundly. In the morning went to the Field Hospital, where we were most warmly welcomed by our old friends of the second corps. The wounded, at that time, lay just where they had been placed when carried from the battle—friend and foe resting together.

“Beside a stricken field I stood;On the torn turf, on grass and wood,Hung heavily the dew of blood.Still, in their fresh mounds lay the slain,But all the air was quick with pain,And gusty sighs, and tearful rain.”

“Beside a stricken field I stood;

On the torn turf, on grass and wood,

Hung heavily the dew of blood.

Still, in their fresh mounds lay the slain,

But all the air was quick with pain,

And gusty sighs, and tearful rain.”

We soon found where and how to resume work, which we had so lately left off: a tent was promptlyprepared for our use; it was not many hours until the “diet kitchen” was in full operation; with the large and valuable supplies taken on with us, the “institution” moved on in a wonderfully smooth, efficient manner.

To aid in relieving the suffering among these wounded men was the “Germantown Field Hospital Association” formed; I mention it here because this was the first point where it came prominently into notice. They sent as their representative the well-known rector of one of their churches, Rev. B. W. Morris; his services as chaplain are gratefully remembered by many in these eventful times.

An incalculable amount of good resulted from this new “Association:” to me was given the great pleasure of distributing the articles which they contributed; and, until the close of the war, appeals for money or hospital comforts ever met with a ready, cheerful response, and an abundant supply of all that was needed. They afterward became one of the most valuable aids to the “United States Sanitary Commission” to be found in Pennsylvania.

The scenes around Gettysburg were horrible in the extreme: the green sod everywhere stained with the life-blood of dying men; the course of the fearful struggle marked by the “ridges” which furrowed the ground until onegreathillock would be pointed outwherehundreds, perhaps, had sternly fought and bravely fallen. To persons unfamiliar with such things, as sad a sight as any are the heaps of bloodstained clothing, the shattered muskets, the discarded knapsacks, disabled cannon and caissons, and the innumerable heaps of slain horses which literally cover the hard-fought field.

For a few weeks, the events daily occurring in the hospitals were most painful; they might be summed up, briefly, to be: fearfully wounded men; nurses watching for the hour when suffering would cease, and the soldier be atrest; parents and friends crowding to the hospital, hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst; strong men praying that they might livejust long enoughto see, butoncemore, wife, or child, or mother.

After this battle, relief came promptly; it was uponour own soil, and the “great heart of the people” was stirred to its very depths, when they knew that among us thousands of our countrymen lay with ghastly wounds,—men who had stood as a “living wall” between us and the foe, to save our homes from rebel rule.

All of home luxuries thatcouldbe carried, were lavished with an unsparing hand by a now deeply grateful people.

The government, fully equipped for the contest, hadmedical and hospital stores abundantly supplied. With the perfectly organized system and immense resources of the “United States Sanitary Commission,” ever ready and anxious to fill up all demands which the governmentcould not,—aided by the Christian Commission and large volunteer assistance,—there was no long-continued suffering, as in the earlier battles of the war.

These days have left their impress upon all who were actors in them. Now, on this calm morning upon which I write, there comes thronging before me a vast array of forms and faces that I had thought forgotten. “Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!”—and so the swiftly changing scenes appear.

Prominent in them, I recall a burial where three were at one time taken to the little spot we called a cemetery. One sultry afternoon in July the stretcher-bearers came tramping wearily, bearing three bodies of those who had given their lives forfreedom; as the last reached the place, the men dropped with a rough, jolting motion the army couch whereon he rested. The impatient effort to be rid of their burden was probably the means of saving a precious life; for the man—dead, as they supposed—raising his head, called in a clear voice: “Boys, what are you doing?” The response as prompt: “We came to bury you, Whitey.” His calm reply was: “I don’t see it, boys; give me adrink of water, and carry me back.” And then glancing into the open grave: “I won’t be buried by this raw recruit!” The raw recruit was a lieutenant of his own regiment. Not many stand so near the “dark valley” that they look into their own graves, andlive. The “boys” did carry him back; and with the greatest care, his lifewassaved; months afterward he was sent to “Chestnut Hill Hospital,” Philadelphia; from there he wrote to me to say that his surgeon thought he would recover. His name was Luther White, Co. K, 20th Massachusetts, from Boston; he was wounded by a piece of shell, which tore off part of his ear, and shattering his jaw, laid bare one side of the throat. After the battle, he remained for three days unconscious, then rallied; and again sank away until he died,—as it was thought, and carried to the grave.

While the hospitals remained in thewoods, the number of deaths daily was very large; as soon as the removal to the clover-field was accomplished, where all were in the sun, the change for the better was very decided; the night after, only two deaths occurred. During the few weeks the wounded remained there, my notes were too hurried and unsatisfactory for reference; they merely repeat that one and another has passed “to the land of rest.”

Large numbers of rebel wounded, numbering thousands,were left in our corps hospital; and though attended by their own surgeons, they neglected them so shamefully that it was an act of common humanity to provide better treatment for men helpless and suffering,—prisoners as they were. One of our surgeons volunteered to undertake the duty of attending them, and others were detailed for that purpose. Their condition when captured was so filthy that the task of waiting upon them was a revolting one.

All of our wounded that could bear transportation were forwarded, as rapidly as it could be done, to hospitals in Pennsylvania and Maryland. By the 7th of August there still remainedthree thousand, who were moved into tents at the United States General Hospital on the York Turnpike; when our corps hospital was merged into this, we removed there; I remained as its matron until the close.

While the wounded were being brought in from different directions, arebelwas placed in a tent ofUnionmen; one of the number protested against having him among them. As they seemed to pay no heed to his objections, ended by saying that “he enlisted to kill rebels, and certainly as they left him there, his crutches would be the death of him—he could usethem, if not the musket.” The attendants, finding the soldier was in earnest and the rebel in mortal fear of him, good humoredly took him among his own countrymen. Inopposite extremes of the camp this same scene occurred: two men protesting that they “enlisted to kill rebels,” and would not have them under the same shelter.

Captain J. C. H., of the 145th Pennsylvania Vols., from Erie, had much the same idea; he was suffering from a thigh amputation—the only one of nineteen similar cases, performed at the same time, that lived; a rebel officer was placed in the back part of the captain’s tent, when he instantly ordered the nurses to carry him, upon his bed, under a tree which stood near—and there he remained nearly all day, until the surgeon in charge settled the difficulty by removing the rebel.

About one-third of the camp were rebels; this proportion was almost uniformly kept up; rebel ladies from Baltimore and other places were permitted to come and wait upon their own wounded; as matron, it was part of my duties to attend to the distribution of delicacies, etc.; I have waited upon them hour after hour, as kindly as I ever did upon our own loyal men. All this was before I had been among those who were starved in Southern prisons; after having seen them, the task might have been a difficult one. The orders were imperative in the hospital: no difference was permitted in the treatment of the two.

We found, in the rebel wards, the son of a former Secretary of State of New Hampshire, a conscriptfrom Georgia; his life had been repeatedly threatened by them, if he dared to leave, or if he admitted that he was a Union man; so that no one ever suspected the fact, until the rebel officers had all been sent to “Johnson’s Island” or Baltimore; the same evening he came to the Sanitary tent, and told his story; from there taken to headquarters, where it was repeated,—insisting that he would take his own life, rather than leave the hospital a rebel prisoner. To assure him that he was among friends, the provost marshal was sent for, and the oath of allegiance taken. He remained as clerk for some time; when his wound permitted, was sent home.

A nephew of President Johnson, named Burchett, was also a Union man among rebels; with a number of others, they were attempting to come into our lines when captured. The rebels told them they would be put in the front ranks, and when they came to Gettysburg, carrying out their threat, they were made breast-works of. None of the sixty escaped unhurt; many were killed. Burchett lost a leg, and one arm permanently disabled. He was a free-spoken Union man among them, and seemed to be no favorite with the rebs on that account. He remained a prisoner, hoping in the exchange to be sent to Richmond, that he might save some property belonging to his father, who had lost everything in Kentucky.

In the “Union tent,” as it was called, standing alone in a rebel row, I found a boy of seventeen, wounded and “sick unto death,” whose wan, emaciated face, and cheerful endurance of suffering, at once enlisted my sympathy. He was the son of a clergyman in Maine; and in answer to inquiries about his wound, told me, with a feeling of evident pride, that “early in the day his right leg was shattered and left upon Seminary Hill, and he carried to the rear; that the stump was doing badly; he had enlisted simply because it was hisdutyto do so; now he had no regret or fear, let the result be as it might.” I wrote immediately to his home, to tell them he was sinking rapidly; my next briefly stated how very near his end was; there were but a few days more of gentle endurance, and the presentiment of the child we had so tenderly cared for proved true—when, with murmured words of “home and heaven,” his young life ebbed away—another added to the many thousands given for the life of the nation. One week after his burial his father came; with a heart saddened with his great loss, said that his eldest had fallen at “Malvern Hill,” the second was with the army at Fernandina, and Albert, his youngest born, slept with the heroes who had made a worldwide fame at Gettysburg. They were his treasures, but he gave them freely for his country.

Another, the only child of a widowed mother, fromMontgomery County, Penna., lay from July until October, calmly bearing untold agony from a wound which he certainly knew must result in death; yet his one anxious thought, constantly expressed, was: “Mother, do not grieve; it is best, and right; bury me with my comrades on the field.” So, at sunrise one bright autumn morning, his soul went up to God,—the casket which had held it, we laid to rest among the nation’s honored dead in Gettysburg Cemetery.

This bereaved mother, who gave herallfor her country,—her eldest upon Antietam’s hard-fought field, Willie at Gettysburg,—with the thousands of others who have made the same precious offering, are names to be gratefully remembered and cherished while the record of this war endures.

It is very rarely that our braveUnionsoldiers complain, or bear impatiently their wounds; on the contrary, they endure suffering with a heroism which exceeds even the bravery of the battle-field.

George W. Warner, of the 20th Connecticut, was a case in point: while in the act of firing his musket, a shell exploded which took offboth armsnear the shoulders, inflicting also serious wounds in his head and leg. He was uniformly cheerful with it all; sometimes would despond for a moment when speaking of his wife and children, but the cloud was of short duration; the pleasant thought of how his little childrenwould wait upon him, seemed to reassure him. As soon as he was able to walk, every one seemed ready to watch over, assist, and feed him.

In the officers’ row lay, for some weeks, a young lieutenant, from Schuylkill County, Penn., with both thighs shattered, suffering fearfully. A few hours before his death, at his request the Holy Communion was administered to him; after joining in the solemn services, he remained perfectly still,—unconsciously “passing away,” as those present thought,—until a glee club, from Gettysburg, going through the hospital, singing as they walked, paused at his tent and sung—without knowing anything of what was passing within—“Rally round the Flag.” The words and the music seemed to call back the spirit to earth, and forgetting his crushed limbs and intense suffering, sprang up, exclaiming: “Yes, boys, wedid'rally round the flag;’ and you will rally oft again!” then sank back exhausted, and soon was at rest.

The clergyman who was present said it was a scene never to be forgotten; the Christian soldier’s devotion to his country, even when within the “dark valley,” to be called back to life again by thoughts of the flag in whose defense his young life was given.

In another portion of the hospital was a man from Western Pennsylvania, whom his friends mourned as dead; whose funeral sermon had been preached, andhis name on the rolls marked “killed in battle.” His captain and comrades saw him fall in the midst of a desperate charge, and almost without a struggle life was gone,—as they thought, and so reported. But it was not so; the bullet, in its course, went crashing through both eyes, though sparing life. A few hours later, when the wounded were gathered up, they found him—

“Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day,And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen.”

“Where the fierce fight raged hottest through the day,

And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen.”

Then taken with others to the hospital, he lay for weeks unconscious, his brain affected from the inflammation which ensued. He could give no history of himself; but when hungry, would make it known by calling “mother;” and talk to her constantly,—first about his food, then of home concerns. I have heard him in these sad wanderings when he would ask: “What do the girls say about me, now I have gone to the war? does Jenny miss me?” and so on. At length his parents heard of him, and from the description thought it might be the son they mourned as dead. I was in his tent when his father came, and recognized in the blind, deranged man his handsome, brave boy. Eventually his mind would be restored, but his sight never. In this state he took him home to the mother he talked of so much.

In September, while the hospital was still crowdedwith patients, a festival was given for their amusement. The surgeon in charge, with the other officers, entered heartily into the plan. The Christian Commission took an active part in completing the arrangements, soliciting and obtaining abundant supplies of fruits and delicacies from friends in Philadelphia; to this were added contributions from the town and adjoining counties, making a grand feast of good things. The day selected, proving bright and balmy, tempted many, who had not yet ventured outside their tents, into the open air, hoping they might be able to participate in the promised enjoyments. The streets and tents of the hospital had been decorated with evergreens, and everything on this gala day had a corresponding cheerful look. Hospital life, with its strict military rule, is so wearisome and monotonous, that what would be the most trivial pleasure at other times and places, isheremagnified into a matter of great importance.

When the hour came for the good dinner, which was known would be provided, hundreds moved upon crutches with feeble, tottering steps to the table, looking with unmistakable delight upon the display of luxuries. Bands of music enlivened the scene. All the variety of army amusements were permitted and encouraged, followed in the evening by an entertainment ofnegrominstrels,—the performers being allwhitesoldiers in the hospital. This last, the soldiersthought the crowning pleasure of the day. At an early hour the large crowds who had enjoyed it all, with the patients, quietly dispersed.

Our long residence in the hospital gave us the opportunity of understanding fully all the prominent points of interest in the battle-field, which was constantly before us: if we but raised our eyes, they rested upon “Culp’s Hill,” “Cemetery” or “Seminary Hill,” and in the distance “Round Top,” made forever memorable by the heroic conduct of the brave men of the fifth corps, who, by order of Gen. Meade to Gen. Sykes, directed it “to be held at all hazards.”

Among the few valued friends who regularly met in our tent, when the fatiguing duties of the day were over, was frequently discussed the propriety of placing upon some part of the field a flag, to manifest our sympathy and esteem for those who “here fought and won this great battle for our liberties.” Some intimation of the plan proposed reached our friends at home, and directly we heard that a flag would be sent by persons residing in our immediate vicinity. To two of the ladies most active in procuring it, was given the pleasure of conveying it to Gettysburg. Many of the wounded knew when it arrived, and the arrangements being made to receive it; at their request, the flag (twenty-five feet in length) was carried through the streets of the hospital, then taken to “Round Top.” All whocould leave the hospital—officers, ladies, and soldiers—joined the procession. A large concourse of persons manifested, by their presence, the pleasure they felt in the event. Appropriate and eloquent addresses were delivered by David Wills, Esq., of Gettysburg; J. T. Seymour, of New York; and Surgeon H. C. May, of the 145th New York Vols.

Dr. May gave a graphic account of the battle as he saw it, describing in glowing words the many historic localities now before us; and, explaining the purpose which had brought there so large an assemblage, continued: “The occasion of our meeting together on this rock-bound, rock-capped hill, to day, needs no explanation from me. The most rapturous bursts of eloquence, from the most gifted orator of the land, could not intensify your interest in the spot on which now we tread. When the golden rays of the rising sun lit up this elevation on the morning of July 1st, 1863, 'Round Top’ was scarcely known beyond the few honest husbandmen who dwell beneath its shadow. When that same sun was setting behind the western horizon on the evening of July 4th, and again illumined the foliage now immediately over our heads, the name of 'Round Top’ was on the tongues of millions all over the land. It has been in contemplation, for some weeks, by a few friends at the General Hospital, to erect a national flag on the summit of 'Round Top,’constituting, as it does, one of the flanks of the Federal position, and its elevation being so singularly located that the flag could be seen for miles in every direction. The desire was simply expressed, a short time since, to a circle of patriotic ladies of a township of Montgomery County,—the immediate vicinity of 'Valley Forge,’ of precious Revolutionary memory,—that they would contribute a flag for this purpose. Soon the word came back that the work was in progress; later still, that it was successfully accomplished. Willing hands from the hospital have prepared and erected this staff: and it is our delight and pride, to-day, to behold the beautiful folds of our 'Starry Banner’ floating in the breeze from this hallowed spot, mid the booming of artillery and the sweet strains of music—a slight token of affection to the memory of our gallant comrades who 'sleep the sleep that knows no waking,’ on every side of us.”

The ceremonies ended, we came back to the sad routine of hospital life and suffering; brightened, however, with the pleasant remembrance of the events in which we had been participating.

The work of reducing the number of patients was now commenced in earnest. Sixty were at one time sent in the cars, who had each but one arm a piece; the next train took the same number with one leg a piece, and one little cavalry boy who had lost both at the knee.

These sights have always been to me the saddest, most painful of any. Amid scenes like these we were constantly occupied until the breaking up of the hospital, and the dedication of the National Cemetery. That had tousa deeper interest than to many of the lookers-on: many of the quiet sleepers, by whom we were surrounded, we had known, and waited upon until care was no longer needed.

During the ceremonies of that day, we were so fortunate as to have a place directly in front and within a few feet of our now martyred President, and there heard distinctly every word he uttered of that memorable speech, which will last while the Republic endures.

There was now, November, 1863, nothing more to be done at Gettysburg, and we gladly turned our faces homeward. Remained there but a few days, until—at the urgent request of the Sanitary Commission—I consented to call together the various “Soldiers’ Aid Societies” throughout the State, and in those meetings to tell the ladies what I knew personally of the wants of the hospitals,—the best way of preparing delicacies for their use, the clothing most required, and so on.

It wasimpossibleto be an idler while this gigantic struggle was in progress. The current of swiftly passing events had, all unconsciously, drifted me to this point; I yielded to its force, and commenced this additional labor as part of the work which came unsought.There was not the least recognition ofselfin any part of it; had there been, it would have been impossible to have gone on with it. While talking, the disagreeableness of the situation was all forgotten, and thinking only of far-off hospital scenes,—the lonely, dreary couch of the wounded or sick man, uncheered by loving care of wife or child,—the weary tramp of the sentinel, or the wretched life of men in trenches, I could do nothinglessthan tell to other women the story that I knew so well,—of want, of suffering unparalleled, of bravery and endurance unequaled,—and then remind them how much was in their power to soothe and comfort those on battle-field, or hospital, by the preparation of articles for their use.

Of our army in health, I knew comparatively nothing. Men sick, wounded, and dying were not likely to manifest any but thegoodtraits in their character; and from this knowledge the estimate was made. I have been for weeks the only lady in a camp of seven hundred men, and have never been treated with more deference, respect, and kindness than when thus situated.

The first group of ladies that I met numbered about fifty. Their eagerness to learn the little I could tell them amazed me, and made it seem a lighter task when I next talked to others. These meetings have frequently numbered from one to three hundred; oftentwo or three such talks of an hour and a half each in one day, continued, without any opportunity for rest, week after week. This was our plan for aiding the soldiers, while not actuallyinthe hospital. With my husband, we traveled through Pennsylvania, taking in our route those places which were deemed of most importance; and were thus engaged until the spring campaign commenced in Virginia.

The schools, both public and private, were also allotted as part of my field of labor. In Philadelphia and vicinity, the scholars often numbered from three to nine hundred. It has always been a matter of surprise, how intensely interested the children invariably were in the simple stories of hospital life I gave them, and the plans by which their work and offerings could be most effective. Their tear-dimmed eyes and eager manner always charmed me, and made this part of the work a source of pleasure. In numerous places through the State “Aid Societies” were organized by this means that worked vigorously until the close of the war.

We found, among the ladies in Carlisle, several very flourishing societies. Living upon the border, they realized, as others more remote could not, the necessity for this kind of exertion. There was also a society of children, called “The Little Helpers.” Through the energy of the few ladies who directed them, they had accomplishedwonders. Their origin was beautiful as their title was expressive. A lady lost her little boy, a child of six summers, whose mind was full of what he and his little play-fellows could do for thesoldiers. Suddenly taken from earth to the angels above, his mother, in her grief, anxious to carry out his plans, called the children together at her house. Every week found the little hands busy,—and in their simple, childlike way contriving what else they could do for the sick and wounded. A fair was the result of this first successful effort.

The name, so suggestive to children of what they were, and so readily comprehended by them, was mentioned, and adopted in many places as that by which their circle should be known.

In different portions of Pennsylvania, were incidents relating to the numerous Aid Societies of deep interest to us who knew them; but not properly belonging to the work we had undertaken, are omitted here.

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