Part 2

The night of his death Mr. Reid spent the evening with him, speaking words of comfort and Christian consolation. But to the dying saint death had no terror, for “his anchor was cast within the veil,” and “that anchor holds.” He could adopt the sweet words of the poet:

“Father! the pearly gates unfold, The sapphire walls, the streets of gold Are bursting on my sight; The angel bands come singing down, And one has got my starry crown And one my robe of white.”

The morning of the 15th, sister Anna and I, accompanied by Rev. Mr. Reid and wife, Miss Jones and Chaplain Gage, visited brother’s grave. Oh! how could we realize, as we stood by that little, narrow, turfless mound, that dear Orville lay there? His poor heart-broken widow threw herself upon his grave and gave vent to her deep grief in sobs and bitter tears. Nearly three hundred brave “boys in white” lay side by side in the same enclosure, with not even a stone to mark the place where they were sleeping, nor a spear of grass growing upon their graves, simply buried out of sight; but each little mound is cherished, oh, how sacredly by some one!

Night winds are mournfully sweeping, Whispering oak-branches wave Where your loved ashes are sleeping, Forms of the true and the brave! Silence reigns breathless around you, All your stern conflicts are o’er; Deep in the sleep that hath bound you, Trumpet shall rouse you no more.

Sweet and serene be your slumbers! Hearts for whose freedom ye bled, Millions whom no man can number, Tears of sad gratitude shed. Never shall morn brightly breaking Enter your chambers of gloom, Till the last trumpet awaking, Sounds through the depth of the gloom.

We returned to Mr. R.’s, feeling that the grave was a poor place to go for consolation in times of affliction; but there is comfort in the promise, “Thy brother shall rise again.” If you ask where my brother shall rise, I reply: “The scene of his death and burial is to be the scene of his resurrection.” “How beautiful the thought, that, when the trumpet sounds, the dead shall come forth from the spot whereon they fell. The sailor who found a watery grave will emerge from his long deep resting-place; the warrior who fell upon the battle-field will rise side by side with him who was slain by his hand, their feuds all ended.”

“Whole families will stand together on some green spot which they have adorned with care; brother and sister will rise side by side, and long parted friends will re-unite.”

“They will rise to enjoy all that angels feel of the celestial love and peace, to swell the anthem of the redeemed, which, beginning upon the outer ranks of the hosts of God, rolls inward, growing deeper and louder until it gathers and breaks in one full deep symphony of praise around the throne.” “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive honor, and power, and glory, and dominion for ever and ever!”

Viewed in this light, what a glorious idea the resurrection is! How does it destroy the fear of death, and take away the dark appearance of the grave!

_CHAPTER II._

MR. REID--LOYAL FRIENDS--VISIT TO THE LYCEUM--HOSPITAL--MISS JONES--LIEUTENANT STEVENSON--THE DECISION--FRIENDS--RETURN--THE FIRST WOUNDED--APPOINTMENT AS AGENT--FAIRFAX SEMINARY--HOSPITAL OF THE FIRST MICHIGAN CAVALRY--NEW SCENES--FIRST HOSPITAL WORK.

Our kind host and his excellent lady were untiring in their efforts to give consolation. We found them to be the most devoted friends of the soldiers, and the purest patriots of which our country can boast. They had been driven from their home in Martinsburg, Va., where Mr. Reid was preaching, and were refugees for several months, Mr. R. barely escaping with his life. They know full well what it costs to be loyal to the flag of their country in these perilous times, having sacrificed everything but life itself in its defence. When treason became so bold and threatening that he no longer dare pray, as had been his wont, for the President of the United States and his advisers, he would pray for those in authority, “and the Lord knew,” he says, “I did not mean Jeff. Davis.” Their sacrifice and sufferings have only made the fires of loyalty burn with an intenser heat upon the altar of their hearts.

The second day after our arrival, Chaplain Anderson, of the Third Michigan Volunteers, called to see us; also, some of the good loyal ladies of the city--of whom I am sorry to learn there are so few--and extended their kind sympathy. We felt very grateful to those dear friends: we did not expect to find so much true sympathy among strangers. But, oh! they could not heal the wound that death had made.

_Sept. 16th._

To-day we visited the Lyceum Hospital, where so recently dear Orville took his leave of earth. Only a few days ago he was among the sufferers there; now he is forever at rest. The hospital is full of the wounded from the late battles, suffering, oh, so much, and yet so patiently! There are many others upon whom Death has already set his seal, and whose places will soon be vacant, or occupied by others. Oh, how I long to stay and go to work for them! Perhaps I might be the means of saving somebody’s _husband or brother_.

This hospital was in a most wretched condition until the advent of Miss Jones, under whose wise management and untiring efforts it has greatly improved. Everything that woman can do will be done by her for her “boys,” as she calls them. She is indeed an angel of mercy to those poor sufferers. Mrs. May, wife of Chaplain May, of the Second Michigan, called on us this afternoon. She is one of those who has a heart to sympathize with the afflicted everywhere.

During the day we have had some business to attend to concerning my deceased brother’s effects and back pay. But now, as the shades of another night draw around us, and all is hushed and still, what thronging memories come! How keen, how intense the agony of mind under God’s afflictive dispensations, and how hard at such times, without large supplies of grace, to say from the heart, “Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight!”

_Sept. 17th._

This morning we took leave of our kind host and lady, the dear Miss Jones, and other friends, and, with one long, lingering look at that hospital, around which, to us, a sacred solemnity still lingers, hastened to the wharf and took the first boat to Washington. We had scarcely landed, when a fine-looking officer approached us, and extended his hand to my sister, inquiring at the same time, “Did you find your husband?” She could make no reply; there was no need of words, he understood it all. We soon recognized the countenance of Lieutenant Stevenson, of the Second Michigan Volunteers, with whom we fell in company on our way to Washington. In a moment he is gone, and we see him no more; but the earnest solicitude of the stranger to know whether our fond hopes were realized, and his kind sympathy in our affliction, will long be cherished as one of the pleasant remembrances of this sad journey. And we will pray God to watch over and protect him and return him in safety to his dear family. But should he fall amid the din of battle, or become a victim to disease, may kind hands administer to his wants, and loving, sympathizing friends comfort the bereaved widow and orphans. We engage a room for the night at Mr. Treadway’s, a family formerly from Detroit, now residing at No. 541 H Street (which has since become noted as the place where that dark assassination plot was concocted which robbed the nation of its chosen leader), and then call to see Hon. J. M. Edmunds, President of the Michigan Soldiers’ Relief Association, to learn what was necessary to be done in order to secure a pension for my sister. He received us kindly, and gave us the desired information.

My mind is at length made up to remain, and engage in the work of caring for the sick and wounded, as my desire to do so has increased with every day and almost every hour since our arrival. I am also encouraged to do so by Mrs. Brainard, an agent of the Michigan Association, boarding at this place.

_Sept. 18th._

Sister Anna and Mrs. Peck started for Michigan this morning. One week ago to-day, we left home for this city. Oh! what bitter experiences, what anxious fears, what terrible suspense, what dreadful realities have been ours in this one short week! As I bade my sister “good-by” at the cars, she exclaimed, “Oh, Julia! How can I return to my children without their father? Their injunction, ‘Be sure and bring papa home with you,’ still rings in my ears.” My heart was too heavily burdened to reply; the train moved on; I retraced my steps, and have spent the remainder of the day in my room lonely and sad, reflecting upon the past and trying to penetrate the future.

A few days after my sister’s arrival home, instead of joy and gladness, the friends meet with bowed heads and stricken hearts to observe the solemn services of a soldier’s funeral. Rev. Isaac Errett officiated. His sermon being extemporaneous, not even a synopsis of it was preserved. The following appropriate hymn was sung:

“Servant of God, well done! Rest from thy loved employ. The battle fought, the victory won-- Enter thy Master’s joy.

“At midnight comes the cry, ‘To meet thy God prepare!’ He woke and caught his Captain’s eye, Then, strong in faith and prayer,

“His spirit, with a bound, Left its encumbering clay; His tent, at sunrise, on the ground A darkened ruin lay.

“Soldier of Christ, well done! Praise be thy new employ; And, while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour’s joy.”

* * * * *

I remained at Mr. Treadway’s until the 31st, and, while awaiting an opening for work, visited hospitals with Mrs. Brainard. The 25th, I saw for the first time the wounded as they came from the battle-field--the bloody field of Antietam. They were taken to the Patent Office Hospital. Oh! those bloody, mangled forms will long be fresh in memory. Some were able, with the help of a comrade, to crawl up the stairs, while others were carried up on stretchers. A few moans were heard, but no complaining, and no loud groaning, as I expected to hear. Mrs. B. had a basket filled with cakes and crackers, which we handed them as they were carried past us. How eagerly they were caught by those who had an arm to raise.

The sight was too much for me; I was completely unnerved, and found it impossible to conceal the emotions so deeply stirred in my inmost soul. I returned to my room to weep over the sufferings I was powerless to alleviate. Oh, cruel, cruel war!

_Sept. 29th._

This morning I received an appointment from Judge Edmunds, as visiting agent for the society of which he is the President. Alexandria is to be my field of labor for the present--the very place I had wished and prayed for, since there the object of my hopes, only two weeks ago so bright, lies buried. How rejoiced I am in the prospect of work. I trust I shall be enabled to do some little good--to alleviate some poor sufferer, and to encourage the desponding.

During my short stay in Washington I have seen but little--speaking of the city itself--to attract notice. The public buildings are very fine, the Capitol magnificent; remove these, and Washington is shorn of its beauty.

_Sept. 30th._

I came over to Alexandria this morning, in company with Mrs. Brainard, Mrs. Colonel Fenton, and Miss Moor. I have engaged board at Mrs. May’s, at five dollars per week. Soon after arriving, an ambulance, which Mrs. M. had ordered, reported, and we all went out to Fairfax Seminary Hospital, a distance of about three miles from the city. This is a large hospital, and will accommodate several hundred patients. It is situated in a delightful place, standing on a high eminence, and commanding a fine view of the country for miles around. It was formerly a theological seminary; hence Seminary Hospital. The patients appeared comfortable, and, as a general thing, cheerful. The hospital wore an air of neatness, which made it seem quite home-like. On our way back we called at the hospital of the First Michigan Cavalry, which we found much more comfortable than I expected; in fact, I think those large airy tents are much better for hospital purposes than close rooms. The country, before the war, must have been beautiful; but now, so desolate! Fences gone, buildings in ruins, shrubbery destroyed, fields uncultivated--all showing the sad effects of desolating war--while in every direction may be seen the “canvas home” of the soldier. Frequently we passed squads of men under drill--recruits, I suppose--their glistening bayonets and gleaming swords sparkling and flashing in the sunlight, innocent of the destructive work they will soon aid in executing. Every now and then we caught sight of the stars and stripes proudly floating from some strongly-fortified place, with its big guns bidding defiance to the enemy. At almost every step I was reminded of that dear brother, who only three weeks ago closed his eyes in death, and now lies buried in yonder cemetery. He no more rallies at the bugle’s call, or starts at the tap of the drum, but he sleeps with his comrades in arms, in the sacred soil “of historic old Virginia” where, through the branches of the tall cedars over his head, the sighing winds of autumn sing his requiem, and the placid waters of the Potomac murmur at his feet.

“Sleep, brother, sleep, for your last march is ended, Thy bright morning star has in midnight descended-- Sleep ’neath the flag which your valor defended, War’s battle-drum shall awake you no more.

“Rest from life’s wearisome troubles and sorrows. Rest from the griefs which assail us each morrow, Yours is the peace that we gladly would borrow, Yours is a joy of a battle safe o’er.”

_Oct. 1st._

To-day, the date at which my journal begins, I have spent nearly all my time in the hospitals; in fact this has been my first hospital work, though having been to them before, but simply as a visitor. Now I have something to do, and I am happy in the hope of being able to do some good. The experience of this day teaches me that no one--especially a lady--who is in sympathy with our cause can visit these hospitals without doing good. Her very presence is cheering to the soldier. A kind, cheerful look, a smile of recognition, one word of encouragement, enables him to bear his sufferings more bravely.

I am now, where I have earnestly prayed to be ever since the war began, among the sick and wounded, that I might in some degree supply personal wants and relieve present necessities; yet I have never seen an opening before. But that mysterious Providence “whose ways are past finding out” has appointed me a field of labor, the path hereto passing through the deep waters of affliction. I sometimes feel like exclaiming,

O God! I dare not pray, Thou answerest in so strange a way.

_CHAPTER III._

MICHIGAN RELIEF ASSOCIATION--ALEXANDRIA HOSPITALS--CONVALESCENT CAMP--FORT LYON--GENERAL BERRY’S BRIGADE--SOLDIER’S BURIAL--REBEL WOMEN--EVENING WORK--DEATH OF MICHIGAN SOLDIERS.

Perhaps I ought here to give a brief account of the Society with which I was connected. This Association was organized in the autumn of 1861, but was not, according to the report of one of its officers, called into full activity until the spring of 1862. “This was the first organization of the kind upon the Atlantic slope, and the last to leave it.” Its officers at the time I became a member were: Hon. J. M. Edmunds, of Detroit, President; S. York Atlee, of Kalamazoo, and Mr. F. Myers, Vice-Presidents; Dr. H. J. Alvord, of Detroit, Secretary; and Z. Moses, of Grand Rapids, Treasurer.

Mrs. Brainard and myself were at this time the only regularly employed visiting agents, and were the only agents who remained with the Association year after year. Others were employed for a few weeks or months, as the exigencies of the times demanded. Our time and labor were gratuitously bestowed, as were also the services of the officers; hence it will be seen that it cost comparatively little to keep the “institution” running--a large proportion of all the funds received going to the direct relief of our needy soldiers. The above-named officers, with the exception of one of the Vice-Presidents and the Secretary, remained with the Association during the entire period of its existence, and were earnest and efficient laborers. I will now give a condensed report of my work for the month of October, 1862:

This was my initiation month. I spent my time in preparing and distributing supplies to the hospitals in the city--of which there were fourteen, including some twenty different buildings--and the surrounding camps. These hospitals would accommodate from two to fifteen hundred patients each. All of the largest and finest private residences, the churches--with two exceptions--school buildings, and hotels, were converted into hospitals. The largest of these was the “Mansion House,” formerly known as the old “Braddock House,” in one of the rooms of which--at this time used for an office--General George Washington held his Councils of War. The same old furniture was still in use.

Our Michigan soldiers were scattered through all these hospitals, and to find out and visit every one was no small task, it being almost a day’s work to go through one of the largest. After having gone the rounds once, and obtained a list of the names of those I was to visit, the number of their ward, and what each one needed, the work of supplying these wants would have been comparatively light, were it not for the changes which were constantly taking place by death, discharges, transfers, furloughs, new arrivals, and returns to duty, which were of almost daily occurrence.

In my visits to these hospitals I seldom went empty-handed; sometimes taking cooked tomatoes or stewed fruit, at others, chicken broth, pickles, butter, cheese, jelly, tea hot from the stove, and, in addition to these, I would frequently buy oranges, lemons, and fresh fruit, according as the appetite seemed to crave. Besides, I gave out clothing to those most in need--such as shirts, drawers, socks, slippers, dressing-gowns, towels and handkerchiefs, also stationery and reading-matter. During this month I received a nice box of goods from Ionia. Could the donors have known how much good that one box did, they would have felt amply repaid for all they ever did for the soldiers, and encouraged to renewed efforts in the good work.

I made several visits to old “Camp Convalescent”--very properly called “Camp Misery”--which was about a mile and a half from the city. Pen would fail to describe one-half its wretchedness. Here were from ten to fifteen thousand soldiers--not simply the convalescent, but the sick and dying--many of them destitute, with not even a blanket or an overcoat, having little or no wood, their rations consisting of salt pork and “hard tack,” whatever else might have been issued they had no fire with which to do the cooking, consequently much of the time they were obliged to eat their pork raw. Oh! how many times my heart was wrung with pity, and indignation too, on seeing those shivering forms with their thin, pale faces, cold and hunger-pinched, sitting upon the sunny side of their tents, eating their scanty meal.

While our hearts were justly filled with indignation toward the rebel government for its inhuman treatment of their prisoners, should they not also have been toward our own, for thus shamefully neglecting those within its reach? I do not pretend to say that this camp equalled Southern prison-pens in degradation and wretchedness; but _they_ were beyond our control, while over _this_ floated the flag of our country. Think of men sick with fever, pneumonia, or chronic diarrhœa, eating raw pork and lying upon the cold, damp ground, with only one blanket, and, it may be, none, and the wonder will be, not that they died, but that any recovered. I would not be understood to say that all in this camp were thus feeble and destitute, but there were many such; while, at the same time, there were others, who, had they possessed a spirit of true manliness and patriotism, would have been ashamed to have been seen hanging around the Convalescents’ Camp, but would have been found at the front, at their posts of duty.

There were, at this time, some two hundred Michigan men in this camp. Their tents were pitched on a side-hill, so that, when it rained, the water would run through them like a river, in spite of the little trench surrounding each one. I was frequently told that when there was a drenching rain they were obliged to stand up all night to keep their clothing from being completely saturated, and, wrapping their blankets around them, they like true soldiers submitted to their fate.

During the cold, chilly nights, those not fortunate enough to possess a blanket were compelled to walk to and fro the entire night to keep warm, thus pacing off the long, weary hours while waiting for the dawn, and, when the sun was up, lie down and sleep beneath his cheering rays, and so prepare themselves for another night’s tramp. Methinks there will be a fearful account for some one to settle when the “final statements” are forwarded to the Court of Heaven.

In going to “Camp Misery” I always filled my ambulance--when I had one--with quilts, under-clothing, towels, handkerchiefs, pies, stewed fruits, and whatever else I happened to have on hand. Mrs. May and daughters usually accompanied me, and assisted in distributing the goods. This was always a pleasant task; pleasant, because some hearts were made happier, and a few shivering forms more comfortable. And yet there was sadness mingled with all the pleasure experienced in this blessed work. To have so many cups presented as the last spoonful of sauce was dished out, and after the supply of clothing had been exhausted, to hear the appeals--“Say, got any more socks there?” “Drawers all gone?” “Can’t you let me have a flannel shirt?” “I’ve the rheumatis awful.” “Haven’t another of those quilts, have you?” “Pretty cold nights,”--and not satisfied until they had taken a peep into the ambulance to be sure there was not something held in reserve for some one more highly favored than themselves, would produce a sadness of heart which could be relieved only by a continued distribution of the articles needed. We could only tell them to keep up good courage--that we would come again soon, and leave them, a little comforted, with the hope of being served the next time.

I have sometimes been told that soldiers were not half as destitute as they often pretended to be, and that we were frequently imposed upon. Be that as it may, the fact that imposition was practised upon us by unprincipled men rendered the needy no less deserving, and would not have justified us in ceasing our efforts in their behalf. The soldier had my confidence. I looked upon him as good and true, consequently I might not have detected frauds as readily as some; neither do I believe I was imposed upon as frequently as I would have been had I always doubted his word and suspected he was trying to deceive me.