Part 2

JUST as my father recovered sufficiently to walk about a little, he was seized with a violent attack of inflammatory rheumatism, and lay helpless for several weeks. During this time we had four men nurses who assisted my mother in caring for him. They were ward-master Gilmore, Cole, the artilleryman before spoken of, Thomas Terrie, a Scotchman, and Thomas Enslow, from one of the New England States. The latter two were my devoted friends, and gave me little trinkets and keepsakes.

The room adjoining ours was occupied by an old Quaker lady and her son. The mother’s name was Ann Roman, the boy’s Isaac. He was wounded, and she had come to take him home, but he was not able to travel, and a furlough could not immediately be secured. They were detained several weeks and we became great friends. They were the first Quakers I had ever seen, and “auntie” Roman’s Quaker garb and quaint “thees” and “thous” were a novelty to me, and I sometimes addressed her in her own dialect, much to her amusement. Isaac suffered much from his wound, and was a little inclined to be cross, while I was greatly inclined to be noisy. Many times in trying to suppress a laugh I would giggle, and “auntie” would say, “Thee had better go into the hall, where thee can give vent to the giggles;” and fearing a scolding from Isaac, I always went. But Isaac grew better, and through a plea made by Mother B. to Gen. Grant, then at Memphis, a furlough was secured, and mother and son went to their home at Old’s Post Office, Washington County, Ohio. I have their address yet, written in my little cramped hand, on a faded bit of blue paper, at auntie’s dictation. After their departure we were given their room, which we occupied during the rest of our stay in the hospital.

While here I had a severe attack of quinsy, and was very sick for several days and nights. I had a burning fever, and in my delirium would cry out for water from the “cool well” on the bank of the river, in far away Ohio. The water at Corinth was not satisfying. It had to be boiled before drinking, and the tin fruit can on the window ledge outside was a familiar “institution.” Everything which had no particular name was called an “institution.” A place where cooking was done was called a “shebang,” and I was always running across one. In one of my morning rambles I came upon a little bake shop where bread and pies were made for the camp. A man was sitting on the steps, who at once entered into conversation with me. Learning that I was there with my parents, he went in and got a pie which he told me to take to my mother. It became so common for me to come home carrying something good to eat, that about the hospital they called me “The little forager.”

My mother and I took supper with the officers in their mess room one evening. I came to their door just at their supper hour. They invited me to remain. With the sublime confidence of childhood I took a seat at the table with them. There were a number of them and they had a man cook. My mother coming to look after me, was invited to partake of the evening meal in such a cordial manner that she could not but accept. I remember that there was no fork at my plate and I was too timid to make it known, but one of the officers soon noticed my dilemma and the omission was promptly supplied. I do not know the names of any of these men, but I know they were gentlemen and soldiers, and I have never forgotten their gallant and courteous treatment of my mother and myself.

SUNDAY IN CAMP

THERE is of necessity in a large camp more or less stir and activity on the Sabbath day, even when no battle is on, but even here there seemed to be a difference between it and other days. There was a hush and stillness in the air that seemed to proclaim, “It is the holy Sabbath day.” Religious services were held by chaplains and pious soldiers. There were several lady nurses, and they occupied a tent near the college building. Their names were: Miss Adaline Williams, Miss Babcock, Mrs. Cunningham and Mrs. Yates. Mrs. Penfield did not remain long, as there seemed to be some friction between her and the other ladies. Always a welcome visitor to this tent, I was in and out all day Sunday, but with one restraint. I was told that I must not talk or ask questions, as that was their day for writing letters to friends in the North. They had leather portfolios, which they used as writing desks on their laps. Miss Williams and my mother became great friends, and I was very fond of her. I made many visits with her and for years the little red-backed books she gave me from the Christian Commission supplies were counted among my treasures. My life on Sundays was about the same as on other days. I visited the big “shebang” three times a day, wandered around from tent to tent, and sat for hours on the steps of the portico wishing for companionship of my own age, myself and sister being the only children in the hospital and entire encampment.

THE TISHOMINGO HOTEL. MY SCHOOL AND OTHER INCIDENTS

THE scene changes. We were now ordered to turn. We “moved” in an ambulance, my father being taken on a cot, and were given quarters in the Tishomingo Hotel. The old Tishomingo House! Can I ever forget it? The historic, dilapidated old hotel through which a cannon ball passed during the progress of battle. We were given a large, cheerless room in the second story; the floor was bare, the four large windows were each guiltless of blind or curtain.

Our bed consisted of two cots placed together, with an army blanket to each for covering. The nights were cold, and we would have suffered had not my mother arisen through the night and replenished the fire. There was a large stove in the room and we had a plentiful supply of wood. The hotel was used as a hospital, although it was not full at this time, there being a number of vacant rooms. I remember but one nurse here, a Miss Johnson. We were great friends, and I spent as much time in her room as in our own. I frequently took walks with her about town. I went with her one morning to call on Dr. Norman Gay and family, of Columbus, O., who had roomed for a time at the hotel, but who afterward rented furnished rooms in a private house in another part of the town. On our way we passed the Iuka House and several sutlers’ stores. I had not been long in the Tishomingo House until I made the acquaintance of the cook, a curly-headed young fellow whose name was John Storms, of Ohio.

Part of the time we took our meals in the dining room with the doctors and officers. By “we” I mean my mother and myself; my father not being able to leave the room his meals were carried to him. At other times we all took our meals in our own room. Those who ate in the dining-room were: Dr. Gay, wife and son, Dr. Spicer, Dr. Huntington, Captain Pemberton, Chaplain Estabrook, Miss Johnson, ourselves and many others, comers and goers, whose names I can not now recall.

Across the railroad and directly opposite the hotel was another encampment, and reveille and lights out were again daily and nightly sounds. Gen. Hunter had his headquarters in a large white house not far away, and night after night I have sat on the upper porch listening entranced to the regimental band, as it played Hail Columbia, Star Spangled Banner, Red, White and Blue, Rally round the Flag, and America. Each night this band would play from dark until bedtime, and I could not be induced to leave my post until the last note died away in silence. Many events come to my mind as I write of this time. One day a man was brought in who had been accidentally shot through both thighs. While sitting on the floor of a box car a jolt dislodged a musket from where it was standing. As it fell, it was discharged, and the man being in direct range, the ball passed through both limbs. Amputation was decided upon as a forlorn hope of saving his life. Not knowing the time fixed upon for the operation, I passed down the stairway leading through the Medical Director’s room, which was also the operating room, and there, on the operating table, under the influence of chloroform, white and lifeless-looking, surrounded by the doctors, lay the poor fellow undergoing the awful ordeal of having both legs taken off. Sick at heart, I hurried on and delayed my return until I felt sure the operation was well over with. But alas! the hope of saving his life was a vain one, as he died a few days later.

While here we one day received a visit from our old friend Frank Williams, of the Seminary Hospital.

He came to tell us goodby, as he expected to leave with Mother Bickerdyke in a few days for La Grange, Mississippi.

A few days later he sent a friend to have my picture taken at the little gallery built up against one end of the hotel, and authorized him to spare no expense in securing it. Photography was not then the fine art it is today and this picture was an excellent sample of the old time ambrotype and was placed in the handsomest case the establishment afforded at a cost of $4.00. By this time the agent of my friend had fallen in love with me, and wished a picture for himself, which with the consent of my parents, he secured at a cost of $2.50. Some months later both these pictures were given my father at Memphis, but were one night stolen from his tent with all the contents of his satchel.

Should the thief ever see these lines, repent, and return the pictures, he will receive my full and free forgiveness and everlasting gratitude.

I never saw my old friend after the day he called to bid us goodby, but received several letters from him after returning home, and then all knowledge of him ceased. He has doubtless passed into the Great Beyond long ago.

There were a great many refugees or contrabands in Corinth. President Lincoln’s proclamation of Emancipation had not yet been issued; yet the slaves were practically free. Some of them had quarters near the hotel. Among them was a quaint old couple known as Uncle Sandy and Aunt Katy with whom we became well acquainted. Aunt Katy did washing for us and was frequently in our room.

My mother bought a large piece of homespun cotton cloth of her such as was used by the slave women for dresses and aprons. After Aunt Katy had tasted of freedom, she thought “Massa Linkum” a grand man, and the best friend the slave had.

My mother one day asked her what she thought the “Yankees” looked like before she saw them. “Well, hunny,” said she, “I thought they was some kind of wild animals with ho’ns on their heads and they would eat me up,” and then she laughed until her fat sides shook as she realized what kind of an animal the Yankee really was.

Uncle Sandy told us that when he first entered within the Union lines he ate so much he became very sick and thought he was going to die, and that the only reason he hated to die was because he could never eat any more.

From among the children of the refugees I organized and taught a school on the upper veranda of the Tishomingo, which was situated at the crossing of the Memphis & Charleston and the Mobile & Ohio railroads. The pupils were all girls, some older and some younger than myself, and so far as I have ever been able to learn to the contrary, this was the first crude, little contraband school organized in the great state of Mississippi, and humble though it was, I feel very proud of my share in it. I taught them the alphabet, and how to make a few figures. Our text books were the heads of newspapers, and cards with figures numbering the rooms, which we tore off the doors. Many trains passed our open air schoolroom daily, and each whistle that pierced the air was a signal to suspend lessons, and teacher and pupils alike would scramble to the front, and leaning far over the rotten railing, would wave and cheer at the blue-coated soldiers being borne onward to victory or defeat, life or death, God alone knew.

But the time came all too soon when the Tishomingo House was ordered evacuated, as it was to be again used for hotel purposes. We received instructions to go to Jackson, Tennessee, sixty miles north, and one sunny Sabbath morn we boarded the train for that place, and it was many a day before I ceased to regret my dusky pupils and playmates.

It was with sad hearts we left Corinth. We had been here so long it had become like home to us, and we were much attached to the place, the nurses, and our soldier friends. But the fortunes of war are many and varied, and there is no sure abiding place in the army.

JACKSON

SOME of the happiest days of my childhood were spent in Jackson, magnolia-clad, holly-decked Jackson.

I remember the journey very well. We went in a box car, my father on his cot. We had nothing for seats but some boxes. There were armed soldiers on our train. We passed little squads of soldiers at intervals along the roadside, some of whom with stacked arms were engaged in cooking by their campfires. Sometimes the train would stop a few minutes, and some of the “boys” would come up and talk to us.

Arrived at Jackson, we were taken in an ambulance to hospital No. 2, where they were too full to receive us. We were invited to dinner, however, and were then assigned quarters in a large hotel called the Manassas House. The hotel property was owned by a Mr. Tolliver. There were two landlords or proprietors, Hotellen and Wilcox by name. There was no landlady but a housekeeper known as Irish Mary. There was also an Irishman employed as a “handy man,” whose name was Mike.

Jackson was a beautiful little city situated between two railroads. It contained many handsome residences set back in well kept grounds. It was in possession of the Union troops. Gen. Sullivan was in command. Col. Lawler had his headquarters near the hotel. The 103d Illinois and other regiments were in camp here. There were two large brick hospitals, known as No. 1 and No. 2, situated on opposite sides of the town. Dr. Haversett was in charge of both. Miss Adaline Williams had been sent here from Corinth and was assigned to duty in No. 1, where I made daily visits passing on the way two huge piles of cannon balls stacked up in pyramidal form.

THE MEASLES

WHILE in the Manassas House we had many pleasures and some sorrow. In room No. 19 “Little Rosebud” and I had measles, which nearly cost us our lives. We took it of one of the colored chambermaids, who died before we got well. We could see the negro quarters from the back window of our room, and my mother propped me up in bed with pillows, one Sunday afternoon, that I might see poor Ann placed in a common road wagon and hauled away for burial. Little Rosebud’s life was despaired of several times, it being thought one night that she could not live until morning. We had many kind friends during this time of trial.

Dr. Huntington came over from Hospital No. 2 several times each day to attend us, and to him my parents always gave the credit of having saved my sister’s life.

While we were sick, our former nurse, Thomas Torrie, came to see us. When he first entered the room I knew him, but soon after, the fever arose, and I became delirious. He was a very religious man and my parents asked him to pray with them. I remember yet the impressions of that hour. It seemed to me that we were all in an old barn, with long, dusty cobwebs hanging from the high rafters, and as I saw the three kneeling not far from my bed, they seemed afar off, and the tones of the prayer sounded faint and distant to my fever-thickened ears. A few days later our friend Thomas visited us again and found us much improved. The fever had left me, my mind was clear and I was able to talk to him. He loaned me a stencil plate, ink and brush, and I amused myself by marking the hotel linen with his name. I made a rapid recovery, but alas! my voice was gone, and for weeks I spoke only in whispers.

THE STOLEN PRESERVES

ABOUT the time of our recovery, the housekeeper, “Irish Mary,” took the measles and was quite sick for some days. She had been in the habit of giving out the linen and towels for the bedrooms and always carried the key to the linen closet, a large wardrobe which stood in one end of the hall. During her illness each lady boarder looked after the supplies for her own room, and would obtain the key when anything was needed. One day a doctor’s wife, an intimate friend of ours, came to our room in great excitement, saying she had found a large jar of peach preserves in the wardrobe, and that she “was going to have some of them.” She rushed down stairs to the dining room, secured a saucer and spoon, returned and dipped out a bountiful supply. By this time several other ladies had “caught on,” and they all swarmed about that jar as flies around a molasses barrel. One lady with a “down-east” accent, who always said “gude” for good, ate her portion, smacked her lips and said, “My, but they are gude!”

I do not mention these ladies’ names, but it is not because I have forgotten them. I remember their names and faces distinctly, and should they ever see this word picture they will readily recognize themselves and their part in it. It is needless to say that I came in for my share of the “stolen sweets.”

THE THREATENED BATTLE

IN my visits to the City Hotel and other places it was my delight to scale the “breast works” that barred the way, built of huge bales of cotton belonging to northern speculators. Cotton, which had long reigned king in the South, was now “Uncle Sam’s” servant and was made to do his bidding.

Vast quantities were stored away in warehouses and depots, awaiting shipment, when one night the cry went around, “The rebels are coming, the rebels are coming.” The cotton was seized by the military authorities, piled up in the form of a wall around the most exposed parts of the town and earth thrown over it. The soldiers worked all night in constructing these fortifications. Ah! how well I remember the night. We were awakened near the hour of midnight and told to prepare to fly at a moment’s warning, as the rebels were rapidly advancing on Jackson. We packed our few belongings, and after listening a while with bated breath, lay down again with our clothes on and slept securely till morning. With the morning’s dawn preparations were made for a mighty battle. Artillery was planted in different parts of the town, three lines of battle were formed, one of them being drawn up in front of the hotel, and there the soldiers stood all day, their bayonets flashing and glittering in the sunlight. The greatest excitement and enthusiasm prevailed; officers and orderlies on horseback went dashing by, here, there and everywhere, but the battle was never fought, for the rebels never came. Four days later, on the 20th of December, the same troops, headed by Earl Van Dorn, a dashing young cavalry officer, entered Holly Springs, Miss., surprised and captured the Federal forces, which they at once released on parole, fired the Union stores, blew up the arsenal and paymaster’s quarters, and gained such a victory withal, as to set all their hearts adancing, and all their flags aflutter. It was a great day for the people of Holly Springs, and they yet speak of it as the “glorious, glorious twentieth.”

CHRISTMAS IN JACKSON

FOR a time we “fared sumptuously every day,” but there came a time when, owing to burned bridges and blockades, communication was entirely cut off with Cairo, Ill., which was our base of supplies, and the fare became very scant. For several days we had no coffee, but in some manner the landlord managed to secure 50 pounds, for which he paid $50.00.

On Christmas Day, 1862, our breakfast consisted of tea, bread, and pickled pigs’ feet; dinner the same with the addition of dried apple pie. In the afternoon we went, by invitation of Major Winn, to Bolivar, twenty-eight miles south of Jackson. I shall never forget the pleasure of that little war-time excursion. We stayed two hours and watched the boys in camp getting supper. One little fellow was making hash in a camp kettle near the railroad track where our train stood. He stirred it with a bayonet; it was very thin, and he said he didn’t know whether to call it hash or soup, but that he could thicken it with cotton, which was stacked up in great walls all about him. I can hear his merry, ringing laugh yet. My father’s regiment was in camp here, and we met his Colonel. That Colonel is now Brigadier General Wager Swayne, of New York city, and I often wonder if Gen. Swayne remembers that Christmas afternoon of 1862 as well as I do.

If the ride down to Bolivar was memorable, the return trip was even more so. There was supposed to be some danger of our train being fired into, and no lights were allowed. Part of the way lay through the woods, and our phantom train glided along in darkness and silence, for neither whistle was blown nor bell rung as we made the perilous little run through the enemy’s country. With a child’s confidence I knew and felt no fear. We arrived safely at the hotel at 8 p. m. and went immediately to the dining room, where we had some more pigs’ feet and dried apple pie. We didn’t hang up our stockings that Christmas Eve. There was nothing to put in them, unless it were minnie balls, and they were needed far worse in the muskets at that time.

THE DINING ROOM

IN the large dining room of the hotel were eight tables, and there was a black waiter for each table. We ate at what was known as the Colonel’s table, and Tom was our waiter. He was as black as the “ace of spades,” but the very pink of politeness. I became so familiar with his “formula” or bill of fare, that I can repeat it now. In times of plenty it was, “Roast beef, roast pork, co’n beef, or meat pie.” Also, “beef-steak or po’k-steak.” If one chose the former, Tom would ask, “Well done or rare?”

Many times there was such a rush for the dining room that it almost amounted to a mob, and both doors leading into it were kept locked. Several trains arrived at noon, and emptied themselves of passengers into the Manassas House, and many times a lot of hungry soldiers came pouring in just as dinner was ready. On one occasion a revolver was fired in the mad rush for entrance. The regular boarders were instructed to knock at the rear door, and my timid little tap was responded to as promptly as that of the wearer of gold cord and glittering shoulder straps.

INMATES AND INCIDENTS

THERE were many Northern people at the hotel, and among them we formed pleasant friendships and acquaintances, and visited around from room to room. Those whom I most distinctly remember were Dr. De Forest, wife, and little daughter, of Troy, Ohio; Mr. James Leighton and wife, of Vermont; Captain Ford and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Munn, Mrs. Captain Birch, Mrs. Webb, and “Camp” Dick Robinson, of Kentucky. There were a number of cotton speculators here. Several Jews by the name of Levi from Cincinnati, a Mr. Coan and a Mr. Cohn, from Columbus, Ohio, and Colonels, Majors, Captains and Lieutenants galore. We also met a Dr. Mitchell and wife, of Illinois, who boarded at the City Hotel. Much of the time I was the only child about, and was petted and spoiled to my heart’s content.

The water supply at Jackson was very scant, and there was not enough for domestic purposes at the hotel. There was a well in the yard, but its supply was soon exhausted. The negroes would haul it in barrels from the Forked Deer river, and many times I have watched them loading up the empty barrels, and then unloading them full of water upon their return.

By a strange coincidence my mother was now within a few miles of her father’s unknown and unmarked grave, he having died and been buried on the banks of the Forked Deer many years before, when she was a child too small to remember him. A sad rendering of the words, “So near and yet so far.”