Part 3
Then there was the camp of paroled prisoners, where some fifteen hundred were waiting to be exchanged, who demanded not only our sympathy but our supplies; yet they were not as destitute as many at Camp Convalescent, as clothing was issued by the Government soon after their arrival. Neither were they as reduced and emaciated as many who were returned to us from Southern prisons during the latter part of the war. The troops stationed at Fort Lyons were also greatly in need. Upon one of my visits to this fort, among other things wanted, one of the sick--a young, delicate-looking boy--wished to know if I couldn’t bring him a feather-bed; but the nearest I could come to it was a good soft pillow. There was so much needed and so many to be supplied, that the little I could do with the limited means at my disposal seemed like a drop of the ocean.
After one of my visits to these depots of misery, I went out in company with Mrs. May and daughters to General Berry’s Brigade, encamped near Munson’s Hill, a few miles from Alexandria. I found several of my former friends and school-mates, while others, alas! were missing. Where were “Eldred,” and “Birge,” and “Woodward?” Had they, too, gone to swell the ranks of the “Boys in White?” Ah! yes; young Birge, the Christian boy, was sleeping at Fair Oaks; Woodward, only a few weeks before, closed his eyes in death at Fairfax Seminary; and Eldred--the gifted, the pride of his class--at Georgetown. They left their books and college halls for the camp, the bivouac, the battle-field, and a soldier’s grave.
“Let them rest, the fight is over, And the victory bravely won; Softly wrap their banner round them, Lay them low, their work is done.”
One Lord’s Day, while visiting my brother’s grave, I witnessed, for the first time, a soldier’s burial; and a more solemn scene my eyes had never beheld. The lone ambulance, the plain coffin, the sad strains of music, the slow tread of the escort, the salute fired over the grave, the absence of all mourning friends, rendered the scene peculiarly solemn and impressive!
Who would believe that the human heart could ever become so lost to all feelings of humanity as to rejoice and exult over the sufferings and death of even an enemy? And yet I was told by the Rev. Mr. Reid that he had seen those calling themselves ladies dance to the tune of the “Dead March,” and clap their hands and exclaim, “Good, good! there goes another Yankee!” on seeing a soldier’s funeral procession passing slowly to the city of the dead. This seems almost incredible, but Mr. R.’s word is unimpeachable. Rebel women there were exceedingly bitter toward the North--that “Hydra-headed monster,” Secession, being the great object of their worship. All the finer feelings and tender sympathies of woman’s nature seem to have given place to malignant hate and fiend-like cruelty.
I devoted my time evenings to cooking and preparing things for distribution at the hospitals next day. The 24th inst. I went to Camp Convalescent with forty-two pies and several gallons of sauce. The boys seemed to think a piece of dried-apple-pie, however plain, one of the greatest luxuries they ever enjoyed. The moment it was known there were pies in camp our ambulance would be surrounded, and we, the occupants, literally taken prisoners; some begging for themselves, others for a sick comrade who was unable to leave the quarters. At such times how earnestly I have wished that the miracle of the “loaves and fishes” might be repeated.
The last three or four days of the month I spent in going the rounds of the hospitals attending to special cases; and ere its close many a noble heart ceased to beat, many a manly form was cold in death, and many a newly-made grave might have been seen in the Soldier’s Cemetery; yet comparatively few of the Michigan soldiers in the hospitals I visited died--only four, I believe--two of the Eighth, one of the Sixteenth Infantry, and poor William Eaton, of the First Cavalry, who lingered beyond all expectation. He was the first Michigan soldier that died to whom my attention was particularly called, and for whom I had felt a special interest, and his death seemed like taking another from our already broken circle.
“Warrior, rest! thy toils are ended, Life’s last fearful strife is o’er; Clarion-calls with death-notes blended Shall disturb thine ear no more.
“Peaceful is thy dreamless slumber; Peaceful, but how cold and stern; Thou hast joined that silent number, In the land whence none return.”
_CHAPTER IV._
MOUNT VERNON--JOHN DOWNEY--CHAPLAIN HOPKINS--MRS. MUNSELL--COLD WEATHER--NEW ARRIVALS--GEN. BERRY AND DR. BONINE--DEATH OF MASSACHUSETTS SOLDIERS--THANKSGIVING--RED TAPE--KIDNAPPING.
_November 4th._
As a party, consisting of Dr. Bonine and wife, Mrs. May and daughters, and Mrs. Johnson, wife of Adjutant Johnson, of the Second Michigan volunteers, were going to Mount Vernon this forenoon, they insisted upon my going with them, and as I had never been there, and fearing that another opportunity might not present itself during my stay here, I consented to do so, provided they would call at Camp Convalescent on their way, as I had a few quilts to dispose of. My request being granted, we are soon on our way; arriving at camp, we distribute our quilts, and head our horses for Mount Vernon, seven miles from Alexandria. It is nearly noon when we arrive, and a few minutes after we are within the same walls where once had lived and died the “Father of his country.” The mansion is a two-story frame building, made in imitation of marble, with a colonnade fronting the river. We are conducted through the house--that is, the portion of it open to the public--by the gentleman in charge of the estate, whom, I am sorry to learn, is a secessionist. There are but few articles of furniture left--an old harpsichord, table, sofa, a large blue platter, and a bedstead--is about all. The bedstead, said to be a _fac-simile_ of the one on which that great and good man died, stands in the room which witnessed the closing scene of his life--a pleasant room on the second floor, commanding a fine view of the Potomac. As I stood and looked out upon the lovely landscape before me, I could not help thinking how many times Washington had looked from the same window, upon the same scenery--the same pleasant grove, the same sweet flowers, the same grand old Potomac. But now he sleeps peacefully amid all these beauties--he heeds not the tread of the stranger--the sound of the war-drum disturbs not his slumbers.
In one of the rooms is Washington’s knapsack, holsters, and medicine-chest. In the hall hangs the large iron key of the ancient Bastile of France, presented to General Washington by General La Fayette. The ceilings are stuccoed and contain many curious devices, such as flowers, human figures, implements of husbandry, etc.
Having finished our visit here, we repair to the flower-garden, through which we are conducted by a colored man, who claims to have been a slave of General Washington. “I’ve lived here right smart; heap o’ years afore mass’ and missis died,” he tells us. This garden is beautiful, but sadly neglected. The greenhouse[1] contains many choice plants. A variety of evergreens and stately forest trees, including a large and beautiful magnolia--which we are told Washington brought from Florida and planted with his own hands--constitute a fine grove in front of the mansion. We gathered a few stray leaves, which had fallen to the ground, as precious mementoes of the place. But the most sacred spot is yet to be visited--the vault--where are deposited the remains of that noble couple, George and Martha Washington. We approach the sleeping dead with slow and cautious step, for it seems that we are treading upon holy ground. Oh, what memories cluster around this venerated tomb! The past and the present are strangely linked together. The principle of universal liberty, for which he fought, is that for which we are now contending. In the outer apartment of the vault are two large sarcophagi, which can plainly be seen through the iron grating; but the remains are deposited in the inner apartment. On either side of the tomb are monuments erected to the memory of different members of the family. We gather a few pebbles from the vault as sacred relics from a consecrated tomb, and leave the sainted dead to their silent slumbers.
[1] Since burned.
We next direct our steps to the spring-house, which is situated far down the bank; we drink of the crystal waters of the spring, take a peep into the house, and clamber back up the steep hill, return to the mansion, rest for a few moments, drink once more of the sparkling water from the “old oaken bucket that hangs in the well,” bid farewell to Mount Vernon, and are soon safely at home again; and, though tired and hungry, we feel that the trip has not been a lost opportunity. We saw nothing more of the rebel officer whom we met on our way down, when we all so much regretted that none of our party was armed, in which case he would have been halted; for the idea of returning from a pleasure excursion with a captured prisoner was not only romantic, but pleasing, especially as our party consisted--with one exception--entirely of ladies. Mount Vernon has not, like most places of the South, been visited with the ravages of war, it being neutral ground, and held sacred by both armies.
LINES SUGGESTED ON LEAVING THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.
Sleep on, brave warrior, sleep, Thy work on earth is done; Sleep on--thy mission is fulfilled, And thou a golden crown hast won.
Sleep on, brave heart, sleep on, While o’er thy tomb we weep, And bow in humbleness of heart, With holy reverence meet.
Sleep on and take your rest, O noble patriot sire; By old Potomac’s placid wave We leave you sleeping sweetly there.
_November 5th._
Having heard that there was a young man in one of the hospitals at Georgetown, who was with my dear brother while he lay on the battle-field, after he had received his fatal wound, I resolved to see him and learn, if possible, the particulars of those long weary days and nights of suffering, preceding his removal to the hospital. I went, therefore, this morning, and, after searching through five hospitals, found him, and learned from him more of the care my brother received than I had ever known before.
This soldier, John Downey, belonged to the same company with my brother--Co. K, Eighth Michigan Infantry--and though himself wounded, he refused to leave his friend until he saw him removed from the field, each day managing to furnish a little something for him to eat, and a cup of hot coffee, and suffering himself to be taken prisoner rather than forsake his comrade. He tried to get a surgeon to dress his wounds, but could not until it was too late, as each had to wait his turn where there were so many to be cared for.
Brother was wounded late in the afternoon of September 1, and lay on the field until the evening of the 5th, arrived at Alexandria on the morning of the 6th, and died on the 9th. Before leaving the battle-field he seemed to realize that he could not live, and committed to the keeping of young Downey photographs of his family which he had carried with him since first entering the service, saying, “Should I not recover, please send these to my wife.” The request has been granted. He saw him as he was put into the ambulance, after the amputation of his limb, for that painful ride to Alexandria, a distance of twenty miles or more. Noble boy! I shall ever hold him in grateful remembrance for his kindness to my dying brother.
Hundreds of others were brought in that night in the same way. Oh, what untold suffering those long weary miles witnessed! During that tedious journey, at all hours of the night, whenever the train halted for a few moments’ rest, two ministering spirits might have been seen going from ambulance to ambulance with canteens of water, bathing inflamed wounds, adjusting the little cushions under bleeding “stumps,” administering some gentle stimulant to those weak and exhausted from the loss of blood, speaking words of encouragement to the desponding, and commending the dying to the Saviour. These were the Rev. Mr. Hopkins, chaplain of the Mansion House Hospital, and Mrs. Munsell, a lady whose soul seems absorbed in her work for the soldiers--a Southern lady, a native of South Carolina, but loyal and true. They were returning from the battle-field, where they had been working night and day among the wounded and dying.
* * * * *
As the cold weather set in unusually early, and continued for some time, the number of sick increased very rapidly.
The 18th inst., Dr. Cleveland, of the Second Michigan, came in from the front with two hundred sick, one of whom died on the way. Large accessions were also made to our hospitals from the surrounding camps, especially the old Convalescent; and new arrivals always implied increased labor. Of the sick thus brought in, death kindly relieved many of their sufferings; yet I remember but two from Michigan who died that month. These were Henry T. Gilmore of the Eighth, and Daniel Morrell of the Fifth Volunteers. The last named I saw many times. Poor boy! he lingered days after it became apparent that he must die. It was my privilege frequently to administer to his wants, though I met with some opposition from the surgeon-in-charge. He told me his patients were sometimes injured by persons coming in and distributing food indiscriminately to them; and what he would be glad for one patient to have, would be injurious to another. But I still insisted upon taking nourishment to Daniel, as he couldn’t relish anything cooked in the hospital. I finally obtained the doctor’s consent, provided I would bring only such and such articles. Having previously learned from the nurses what he was allowed to eat, I complied with the surgeon’s wishes. I always made it a rule to do so, believing that their judgment was superior to mine, or at least ought to be, though I sometimes saw those whom I thought knew less.
Toward evening of the 10th, after visiting hospitals all day, I called at the Lyceum Hall, where I found Sergeant Colburn, a noble Massachusetts soldier, dying. He had suffered long months from the effects of three fearful wounds, yet he had always appeared hopeful; but those ghastly wounds had made too great a drain upon his system. Nature yielded to the stern mandate of the “king of terrors.” I sat by his bedside some two hours bathing his parched lips and heated brow, and watching the flickering taper of life, slowly yet surely burning out; but as there was a prospect of his lingering some hours longer, and having other duties to attend to, I rose to go, promising to call again in the morning. He extended his cold, bony hand, and bade me “good-by,” while he gave me a look that said, “You will not see me in the morning.” And sure enough, the next morning all that remained of Sergeant Colburn was the clay tenement robed in white. The brother whom he had so anxiously hoped to see ere his departure arrived soon after his death, and returned with the remains of this once noble form to the stricken band at home. And thus one after another sealed his devotion to his country with his life-blood, “all warm from his heart.”
Never more the roar of battle E’er shall break our soldier’s sleep-- Safe the rest they won, and o’er it Angel sentries guardiance keep.
_November 27th._
Thanksgiving day, Miss Jones came on from Philadelphia with a sumptuous dinner for her boys in Lyceum Hospital. She had eight barrels and five boxes filled with good things, consisting of vegetables of all kinds, fruits, roast turkey, nice home-made bread, butter, cheese, pickles, jellies, tea, coffee, sugar, celery, etc. It was a complete surprise, and, as may be imagined, a joyful one. It was my happy privilege to assist in preparing and distributing this beautiful Thanksgiving dinner. After all had eaten until they could eat no more, there still remained several barrels unopened, which Miss Jones took to Camp Convalescent and distributed among the poor, half-fed soldiers belonging to her own State. What a luxury, roast turkey at this camp! When she retires this night, how happy she will be in the thought of having made so many hearts rejoice--while many a “God bless you” will follow her to her home. Truly, it is more blessed to give than to receive.
In all of our hospitals they have had an extra dinner, and, in some, pleasant gatherings in the evening of all who are able to leave their rooms, at which speeches were made, toasts given, and a general good time enjoyed.
* * * * *
Towards the latter part of November, I learned from bitter experience the meaning of the phrase “red tape,” so commonly made use of in the army.
I also fell in with a practice which I had always greatly abhorred, that of kidnapping--not black men however, but white men--soldiers. But in this business I never had--as many kidnappers must have--any remorse of conscience. Perhaps it was because I stole with the free will and consent of the stolen, but somehow I felt that I was bidden “God-speed.” I know I had the benediction of the soldiers and their friends, and God’s approval; what more could I ask? My kidnapping consisted in bringing sick men from Camp Convalescent without permission. My reason for this course will be seen at length. At one of my visits to this--as the boys called it--“confounded old camp,” I found several Michigan soldiers very ill, lying upon the cold damp ground, with no fire, no medical attendance, little or nothing they could eat, with such care only as their comrades, under the circumstances, could give. I resolved to get them admitted, if possible, into some hospital before I slept. So going to the commanding officer--Col. Belknap--I told him there were several sick men in camp whom I wished to take with me to Alexandria. He very politely refers me to Dr. Jacobs, the surgeon-in-charge, who will give permission to remove them. On calling at his office, I found that he had left for Alexandria only a few moments before. Hurrying back to Alexandria, I find the doctor and make my wishes known, and receive the reply, “I will gladly do so, but you must first get a written statement from the surgeon of the hospital where you wish to take them, certifying that he will admit them; then come to me and I will give you a written permit to remove as many as you like.” We drove over to Fairfax street Hospital in full faith that the required certificate would be obtained; but imagine my disappointment on hearing Dr. Robertson--who, by the way, was one of the kindest and best surgeons it was my good fortune to meet while in the army--say, “I wish I had the authority to give you such a statement--you will have to see Dr. Summers.” (I will here state that these hospitals were divided into the First, Second and Third Divisions. Dr. R.’s hospital was in the first division, of which Dr. S. had charge, and, consequently, subject to his orders.) My heart almost failed me as I turned away, for I had but little hope of success left, and was not much disappointed to hear Dr. S. sternly say, “I have no authority to give you any such permission. You will have to go to Washington and see the Medical Director.” It was now dark, and Saturday at that, consequently I could not see the Medical Director before Monday. I returned home well-nigh discouraged, but made up my mind that, if I lived to see another day, I would go on my own responsibility and bring them away. So early the next morning, “it being the first day of the week,” I sent for my ambulance and started for camp, having first been assured by Dr. Robertson that he would assume the responsibility of admitting the boys into the hospital, in case I should succeed in getting them out of camp. An hour later I had the pleasure of seeing six of them safely quartered in Dr. R.’s comfortable hospital, where they were kindly cared for. One, however--Edward Furnam, sick with pneumonia--needed care only a short time. He lingered a few days, and then went to join the army composed of the “boys in white.” Of all the soldiers to whose comfort it was my privilege to administer, there is none whom I remembered with feelings more peculiarly sad. His imploring look for help as I saw him that Saturday evening in his tent--his expressions of gratitude after his removal to the hospital, the feeling experienced upon seeing, so soon, so unexpectedly, his vacant bed, have left an indelible impress on my mind. The others recovered, one of whom I was joyfully surprised to meet at Portland, Michigan, last winter; and who still claims that his timely removal from camp was the means of robbing Death of his prey.
_CHAPTER V._
A CRUEL EXPERIMENT--THE QUARREL--MY BROTHER’S LAST LETTER--THE APOLOGY--SPECIAL CASES OF INTEREST--A HAPPY MEETING--BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG--MCVEY HOSPITAL--REV. J. A. B. STONE--CHRISTMAS--RUMORS--CLOSE OF THE YEAR.
_December 1st._
Quite a change in the weather. Though the first day of winter, it is warm and pleasant. Have been to three hospitals with various articles, both of food and clothing. At the Baptist Church I saw a noble-looking man cold in death, who might have been living still but for the wicked experiment of a surgeon in probing his wound, and then injecting a substance which so irritated the nervous system that it produced convulsions, followed by lockjaw; and death, in a few hours, was the result. He was able to be about the ward at the time the probing was done, but from that moment he suffered the most excruciating pain, till death came to his relief. He leaves a wife and two children to mourn his untimely death. For the truth of this statement, I refer to Dr. Hammond--surgeon-in-charge--in whose absence the operation was performed, and from whom I learned the above facts.
In St. Paul’s Hospital, among the many serious cases, there is one whose pale face and patient endurance of suffering have enlisted all my sympathy. This is a New York soldier, a beautiful young man of perhaps twenty-two summers. He has received a mortal wound in the body; life is slowly ebbing away, and he expects soon to receive a “starry crown, and robe of white.”
_December 3d._
Among the hospitals visited to-day was St. Paul’s, where I had a quarrel with a surgeon. As I entered the hospital I met the doctor in one of the aisles. I saw at once there was something wrong, but not for a moment thinking that I was the “rock of offence,” when in an authoritative manner he demanded to know what I had in that bowl. “Tea, doctor,” was my reply. “Who is it for?” “That New York man over there; he can’t drink the tea made here, so I bring him some occasionally--any objections, doctor?” “I’ve no objections to the tea, but I don’t want _you_ to bring any more here.” Before I had time to reply, he had left the ward. As the poor fellow drank the tea, and returned the bowl--being weak and childish--he burst into tears and begged me to “come again,” while others expressed their regrets, saying, “The doctor is real mean to act so.” “Never you mind, boys,” said I; “I shall surely come again; the doctor and I will have a settlement, and we will find out what all this means.” I left the hospital, feeling deeply grieved at the rude treatment I had received; having given, to my knowledge, no provocation whatever.