*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74812 ***


  [Illustration: 1831                 1911
                     Adelaide W Smith]




  [Illustration:
                REMINISCENCES
                      OF
                AN ARMY NURSE
                    DURING
                THE CIVIL WAR

              ADELAIDE·W·SMITH
                 INDEPENDENT
                  VOLUNTEER]


                     GREAVES PUBLISHING COMPANY
                              NEW YORK
                                MCMXI




                              Dedication


                                To the
                             Boys in Blue
                              1861-1865;

and to those brave women who, with smiling faces and breaking hearts,
sent them forth to save their country and their homes, while they
themselves toiled in fields and elsewhere, waiting to welcome home
too many who never returned; and to that band of heroic devoted
women, many of whom left luxurious homes for the discomforts and
privations of hospital life, and died, self-sacrificing patriots of
the war, this true story is affectionately dedicated.

                                                         A. W. S.




                            COPYRIGHT 1911
                                  BY
                          ADELAIDE W. SMITH




                        YORK PRINTING COMPANY
                              YORK, PA.




                              Contents


        CHAP.                                             PAGE

              Foreword                                       9

           I. A View of the Situation                       11

          II. Long Island College Hospital, Brooklyn        21

         III. Bedloe’s Island, Now Liberty                  33

          IV. The Great Manhattan Fair of the
                United States Sanitary Commission           44

           V. New England Rooms                             53

          VI. Arms and Trophy Department of the
                Sanitary Commission Fair                    59

         VII. Unique Case of William Mudge                  71

        VIII. The Start for the Front                       78

          IX. Some Patients                                 84

           X. Experiences at Point of Rocks                 90

          XI. Depot Field Hospital and State
                Agencies at City Point, Virginia            96

         XII. City Point, Virginia,--A Day in The Army     116

        XIII. Dorothea Dix                                 125

         XIV. An Unexpected Ride                           131

          XV. Two Fiancées                                 139

         XVI. The Story of My Pass                         144

        XVII. Thanksgiving, 1864, Under Fire at
                Dutch Gap, Virginia                        148

       XVIII. Domestic Life in Camp and Other
                Incidents                                  160

         XIX. Love in Camp                                 167

          XX. New York State Agency                        185

         XXI. A House Moving                               191

        XXII. The Last Parade of Confederate Prisoners     197

       XXIII. Our First Sight of Petersburg                200

        XXIV. Preparing for a Visit to Richmond, the
                Capital of the Lost Confederacy            209

         XXV. Recollections of Lincoln                     216

        XXVI. Recent Letter from Dr. Mary Blackmar
                Bruson                                     229

       XXVII. Last of City Point                           234

      XXVIII. Washington and New York State Agency         240

        XXIX. Old Capitol Prison, Washington, D. C.        247

         XXX. The Last Act in My Drama at Washington       253

        XXXI. Transportation Home                          260




                              Foreword


This story, devoid of literary pretensions, is a simple narration
of day by day experiences, as they came to me, during five years of
volunteer work in hospitals of the Civil War.

At the risk of some slight repetition, it has been thought best to
include “Recollections of Lincoln” and “Love in Camp” practically as
they were when published separately.

I wish to express my high appreciation and thanks for the confidence
and encouragement of those friends who thought the book should be
written that the younger generations may know something of the work
done by women during the war.

To the Rev. W. M. Brundage, of Brooklyn, I am especially indebted for
practical suggestions that have made the publication possible.

With some limitations, during two summers, I betook myself to the
unique Seventh-day-Baptist University town of Alfred, New York, where
the story was written on the picturesque campus, in a pure atmosphere
free from all disturbing elements.

It has been a labor of love and pleasure to review the old scenes,
replete though they were with suffering and death, for the thought of
the comfort we were able to give to the “Boys” and the remembrance of
their gratitude remain. In no other benevolent work of my life was
the reward so immediate and so inspiring as in this ministration. I
have given real names and literal words as nearly as possible, except
in cases where there was something unpleasant to relate; and I may
truly add that, even to be young again, I would not have missed those
years of incessant care and anxiety, given in the hope of saving
brave soldiers for their country and their homes.

                                                         A. W. S.




                              CHAPTER I

                       A VIEW OF THE SITUATION

   “Heartstrong South would have his way
    Headstrong North had said him nay,
    They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled;
    Brain rose again ungloved;”
           *       *       *       *       *
                             SIDNEY LANIER, Centennial Poem.


It is not my intention to write history, but it seems advisable to
mention in a few brief notes or extracts, for the benefit of the
present generation, the sentiments held during the Civil War.

When the first Confederate shot was fired upon the United States
flag, then floating over Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor, many
months of unrest, foreboding, and apprehension of a coming terror
were experienced by the people of the North. This fatal shot caused
the separation of hitherto devoted families; fathers and sons were
arrayed against each other, some in hate, some in sorrow; and even
mothers, wives and sisters shared this unholy animosity. All took
pronounced sides with North or South, except the “copperheads,” whom
all loyal Northerners despised.

General Winfield Scott, the hero of many a hard fought Mexican
battle, though quite superannuated, was still in command of
the United States armies. Imperative, supercilious, an austere
disciplinarian, usually adorned with all the ornamentation of his
rank, with chapeau and white plumes, he was, especially when well
mounted, a conspicuous figure, quite justifying his sobriquet of
“Fuss and Feathers.”

  [Illustration: GENERAL WINFIELD SCOTT]

In consequence of the secession of South Carolina, on December 20th,
1860, General Anderson, commander of the forts of the harbor of
Charleston Bay, evacuated Fort Moultrie six days later.

The “Star of the West,” bringing reinforcements, was fired upon by
the Confederates, thus preventing the landing of United States troops.

On April 11th, 1861, General Anderson refused an order to surrender
to General Beauregard, who, during the 12th and 13th, ordered a
furious bombardment from the surrounding forts upon Fort Sumter.
Being unprepared for the attack, General Anderson was compelled to
capitulate and to take refuge, with his garrison, on ships outside
the harbor. On April 14th, 1861, however, he saved the National flag,
which is now carefully preserved in the Museum of the War Department
at Washington, no casualties having occurred.

The fort was held by the Confederates till the evacuation of
Charleston, February 17th, 1865.

On April 14th, 1865, General Anderson had the happiness to raise the
old flag once more, with his own hands, over the demolished fort.

The following extracts from an unpublished letter of John White
Chadwick were selected and kindly given me by Mrs. Chadwick.

               SOME EXTRACTS FROM AN ACCOUNT OF A TRIP
                        TO CHARLESTON AND BACK
              ON THE OCCASION OF THE RAISING OF THE FLAG
                 ON FORT SUMTER AFTER THE CIVIL WAR.

     “Land, ho!”

     When at last it was permitted us to raise this cry, we were
     indeed a happy company. We entered into the experience of
     Columbus and Cabot and Balboa. The pilot came on board. He
     told us, as the pilots always did, to come to anchor, and
     we obeyed him. And lying there on the still water, in the
     perfect air, there came another feeling than that of joy.
     The atmosphere grew heavy with deep thoughts and wonderful
     associations. Our hearts were softened and our eyes were
     dashed with sudden tears. In dark and lurid splendor, all
     the great events of four long, painful years rose up before
     us. And then again we hoisted anchor and steamed slowly up
     toward the city in the deepening twilight...................

     The war ships, lying there like terrible grim monsters,
     manned their rigging as we passed, and cheered us lustily.
     But there was something in our throats forbidding us to
     answer them with equal heartiness.

     Passing under the battered walls of Sumter, we sang with
     trembling voices, “Praise God from whom all blessings
     flow.” And to the left was Wagner and the ditch where
     Colonel Shaw was buried with his dark but trusty men.

     It happened so, that God in His great mercy, permitted us
     to be bearers of great tidings to the city--news of the
     rebellion’s virtual end to this community which saw its mad
     beginning. Once shouted from our deck, it flew from wharf
     to wharf, from ship to ship, and was received with shouts
     of thankful joy. The night shut in over the accursed city
     as a band upon the wharf played the dear strain “America.”
     It was a time never to be forgotten, pregnant with thoughts
     that must remain unspoken. Before I tried to sleep I
     stepped ashore, and, just for a moment, standing there
     under the silent stars, thanked God that He had punished
     awful sin with awful retribution............

     On Friday, just after ten o’clock, we started for the
     fort in the steamer “Golden Gate,” which the Government
     officials kindly placed at our disposal. About the fort
     the scene was at once beautiful and exciting. There were
     thirty ships and steamers in its immediate vicinity, and
     they blossomed all over with flags. And the little boats
     belonging to the war ships were shooting here and there and
     everywhere, obedient to the lusty strokes of their stout
     oarsmen, dressed for the occasion in their very best.

     We were on shore by half past twelve o’clock, and wandering
     at will about the tattered mound that had once been Fort
     Sumter. Indeed they had made “Ossa like a wart.” It had
     no form or comeliness. It was a perfect heap..........
     Anon came General Anderson and Mr. Beecher and the rest.
     The General’s speech was, for so great an hour, the very
     smallest possible affair. But when it came to raising the
     old flag he did hoist away like a good fellow, and it went
     up right handsomely. The people rose up as one man, and
     shouted their hurrahs as if they thought to wake the echoes
     from the St. Lawrence to the Gulf. And the band played
     “The Star Spangled Banner” just as if they meant it,--as
     they did of course. And then from ship and fort the cannon
     thundered away like mad.......... And when they ceased with
     their roar Mr. Beecher took it up and thundered, to good
     purpose, for an hour or more..........

     Saturday saw William Lloyd Garrison preside over an
     assembly of two thousand colored people, if not more, in
     Zion Church, and noble words were spoken which these people
     did not fail to understand.........

     From Charleston wharf to Hampton Roads our voyage was
     pleasant, and the weather very fine........... Going into
     Hampton Roads, on Tuesday, swiftly and silently over the
     still water, we saw a vessel with her colors at half mast.
     Not long after a pilot shouted to us across the waves, from
     a great distance, that the President was dead. Either we
     could not or we would not believe it.

     Another vessel sailed along with drooping colors and told
     us _how he died_. And then the shadow of his death swept
     down and folded from our sight all of those great and rare
     experiences which we had been enjoying. It seemed to us
     that we should never be able to recollect them from that
     shadow. We went ashore at the great fortress, where his
     dear feet had been, scarcely a week before, but we had no
     eyes to see anything.............

     It had been proposed to go to Portsmouth, Norfolk and to
     City Point. But we had no heart for it. And so we came
     together in the cabin and voted that we would go home.

                                        JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

The Government called for seventy-five thousand troops on April 15th
to put down the rebellion “in ninety days,” according to Secretary
Seward’s confident announcement.

On April 19th, the Sixth Regiment of the Massachusetts Brigade, first
to respond to the call, was fired upon by a mob while passing through
Baltimore, and a number were wounded and some killed.

The Ellsworth Zouaves were enlisted chiefly through the enthusiastic
patriotism of young Colonel Ellsworth, who, on arriving at Alexandria
with his regiment, saw a Confederate flag flying above a small hotel,
and at once ordered the flag hauled down. This was refused, and the
indignant boy rashly rushed to the roof, and dared to pull it down
himself, when he was shot dead by the rebel owner. Colonel Ellsworth
was killed May 24th, 1861. Lincoln’s grief at the death of this
daring boy was overwhelming. Ellsworth had studied law with him for
a time in his office, and he loved him as a son; and as a son and
early martyr of the war, he was laid in state at the White House for
funeral services.

War with its untold horrors had begun.

Meanwhile it was becoming evident that President Buchanan had
permitted, or had at least become strangely blind to the introduction
of foreign ammunition into Southern ports, while the traitor
Secretary Floyd, still under oath to the Union, held his office
until the last possible moment, encouraging and assisting the South
in building forts and, in many ways, accumulating almost openly
materials of war.

At last the people awoke to the fact that many southern regiments and
garrisons were well equipped for the conflict, while the unsuspecting
North was almost wholly unprepared. People had become so accustomed
to “fire-eaters’ bluster” and their threats and boastings of the
superior prowess of the South that, if they listened at all, it was
considered mere political bombast which passed unheeded until war was
actually begun.

In November, 1861, General McClellan superceded General Scott, who
then retired from active duty, at the age of seventy-five, and died
later at the good old age of eighty.

General McClellan began a slow thorough system of discipline, which
was very trying to the enthusiasm of volunteer recruits, who soon
discovered that to use the pick and shovel were as essential duties
as carrying a musket, and were now compelled to work in swamps and
trenches throwing up earthworks and entrenchments for many long
months.

The impatient public claimed that egotism and ambition prevented
General McClellan from moving “on to Richmond,” thus prolonging
the war, and his army settled down before the enemy “in masterly
inactivity.” During this time many disgruntled soldiers climbed
hills and trees and saw the city of Richmond practically defenseless
“for three days.” Still he did not move. This large army had lived
and worked in earthworks for many weary months, until malaria and
dysentery had sent hundreds of incapacitated soldiers North to be
cared for. They were among the first bitter fruits of the terrible
struggle scarcely yet begun.

  [Illustration: GENERAL GEORGE B. McCLELLAN]

Not long after the defeat at Bull Run--Manassas,--both sides claimed
the victory,--did we for a moment believe that Southern courage was
equal to Northern valor in an open conflict, or that the rebellion
could not be put down within a few months; and so we stood aghast
when the attack under General McDowell failed to put down the
rebellion in a single battle.

General Horatio C. King, in his address before the thirty-seventh
reunion of the Army of the Potomac, repeated these potent words of
General Grant:

“As I recall the interview General Grant spoke in substance as
follows: ‘I cannot imagine why any one should conceive for a moment
that I would not be glad to work in any capacity with General
McClellan. I have known him but little personally since we served
together in Mexico, but I have always admired him both as a man
and as a soldier, and I am probably under greater obligations to
General McClellan than to any one man now living. General McClellan
was called to a great command, unfortunately for him too early in
the history of the war, when many difficult military and political
questions remained unsettled. He and his acts were the subject of
wide discussion and unjust criticism, but General McClellan was the
man who created the great instrumentality with which I had the honor
of closing out the rebellion. General McClellan organized, trained,
disciplined, led, and inspired the Army of the Potomac. General
McClellan made that army the finest fighting machine of our day, if
not of any time. It was his good work in creating that army which
enabled me in my turn to accomplish the things for which I received
the glory, and for all of which I am grateful to General McClellan.’”




                             CHAPTER II

               LONG ISLAND COLLEGE HOSPITAL, BROOKLYN


In July, 1862, one hundred and twenty-five patients from the Army
of the Potomac were sent to the Long Island College Hospital. No
adequate preparation had been made to provide for these sick men.
Through the press a public call was sent out for volunteers. Many
ladies and gentlemen at once offered to help care for the sick, and
to supply food for their emaciated bodies.

An endorsement of the distinguished physician of Romson Street, Dr.
Burge, made me quite happy by affording me the privilege of helping
to care for the soldiers in our city.

Among the large number of our best Brooklyn people to volunteer their
help and support was our saintly Mrs. Richard Manning, who continued
her ministration throughout the long duration of the war, and for
many years after gave substantial help to the destitute families
of soldiers; and also Mrs. Anna C. Field, chief organizer and
president of the Woman’s Club, as well as of the Woman’s Suffragist
Association. Both of these clubs celebrated, during the spring of
1909, in the new Brooklyn Academy of Music, the fortieth anniversary
of their organization. I believe that, in modern Brooklyn, no
other woman has done so much, in her long life of benevolence and
charity, as this Mother of Brooklyn Clubs, for the elevation and
encouragement of women especially in ethics and literature.

  [Illustration: MRS. ANNA C. FIELD]

Watches of four hours each during the day were assigned to the women,
and at night the same number of hours were allotted to men volunteers.

Owing to the astonishing liberality of the citizens of Brooklyn, the
hospital donations seemed like a great cornucopia overflowing the
larders of the improvised kitchen. Tender, motherly care, combined
with the best of diet, at once restored many a poor, hungry homesick
boy. Most of them recovered and returned to their regiments or were
sent home.

  [Illustration: ALLAN FOOTE]

My first patient was a bright, cheerful young man, Allan Foote, of
Michigan, who had been dangerously wounded by a shot that passed
through the left lung and out at his back. Such wounds were then
supposed to be fatal. He was, however, convalescent, and later
was discharged. When he returned to his home in Michigan he again
enlisted, raised a company, and went out once more to the front
as captain. This time he served till the end of the war, when he
returned to his native State safe and well.

A lady, wishing to say something flattering of him to a visitor,
remarked: “Why, he was shot right in his back.” Seeing the boy wince
at this innocent imputation, I explained that he had received that
shot in the breast while facing the enemy in battle.

Among many incidents of his early army life, Allan Foote told me the
following:

“I shall never forget his expression when my father gave his written
consent to my enlistment in the army in April of ’61, as he handed it
to me and said, while tears were running down his cheeks, ‘My son,
do your duty, die if it must be, but never prove yourself a coward.’
We can hardly imagine at what cost that was given, and it is now a
source of much satisfaction to me to know that God in His mercy so
guided me while in the service that no action of mine has ever caused
a pain to my father’s heart, and when I returned at the close of the
war he seemed as proud of my scars as I was.”

John Sherman was a remarkable case of lost identity. He was
eighteen years of age, six feet in height, with broad shoulders and
a Washingtonian head, and seemed like some great prone statue as
he lay perfectly helpless but for one hand,--a gentle fair-haired
boy to whom we became much attached. He was evidently refined, and
perfectly clear on religious and political subjects. Though without
a wound he had been completely paralyzed by concussion caused by a
cannon. He could take only infants’ food and drank milk, which was
all the nourishment he could retain. The mystery was that he claimed
to come from Cattaraugus County, N. Y., but when I wrote letters to
every possible locality, nothing could be learned of such a boy; nor
could the officers of his regiment trace him during this time. Some
scamp who claimed to come from his town, was admitted through the
carelessness of the hospital attendants, and so deceived the poor
boy that he gave him ninety dollars army pay just received, to send
home to his father. Of course the scamp was never heard of again.
My theory is that he enlisted under an assumed name and town, and
had, after the concussion, forgotten his real name and identity. He
was sent to the Fifty-second Street hospital, where I saw him a year
later, walking alone and quite well,--a finely developed physical
form. Though he knew me, he held to his old statement. Later he was
cruelly persuaded to ask for a discharge which left him homeless,
with no refuge but the poor house.

Soldiers’ homes were then unknown; and I fear that, at least for a
while, he was cared for as a pauper. About this time I went to the
“field work” and lost sight of him, though I have often wondered what
his fate has been.

A miserably thin, gaunt boy, whom we knew as “Say,” came under my
observation. He was never satisfied, though he ate enormously, and
whenever we passed through his ward he invariably shouted: “Say! ye
ain’t got no pie nor cake, nor cheese, nor nuthin’, hev ye?” When he
reached home, his father, a farmer, sent to the hospital the largest
cheese I ever saw. This the men all craved; but it was a luxury
denied them by the doctors. Patients often had it smuggled in. One
poor fellow was found dead, one morning, with a package of cheese
under his pillow.

As the “L. I. C. H.” was a city hospital, emergency and other cases
were often brought in. A pathetic case was that of a little boy about
six years old, who had been run over by a street car. As he lay,
pale and mangled, awaiting the time to have his leg amputated, his
mother, in broken English, crooned and mourned over the unconscious
child, saying, “Ach, mine liddle poy, he will nefer run mit odder
poys in the street and haf not any more good times.” I saw that the
child would not live through the operation, and tried to comfort the
poor mother while it was going on. When the mutilated, stark little
form was returned to her, her grief knew no bounds, though she still
believed he would revive.

In another ward poor Isaac was slowly dying of dysentery, gasping for
a drink of cool water, which the rules of the profession at that day
denied to such patients. Day after day he lay helpless, while a large
water cooler dripped constantly day and night before his feverish
eyes and parched body.

One day he called to me and said: “Won’t you please sit on my cot so
I can rest my knees against your back? They are so tired and I can’t
hold them up,”--poor fleshless bones that had no weight. Somewhat
relieved while I sat there he went on: “Now, Miss Smith, you think I
am dying, don’t you?”

  [Illustration: ADELAIDE W. SMITH, 1863]

“Well, Isaac,” I replied hesitatingly, “we fear you are.”

Then with all the strength of his poor skeleton body, he exclaimed,
“O then, give me a drink of water that I may die easier. You know I
am dying, so it can do no harm.”

Could I refuse a dying man a drink of water, even in the face of
orders? He wanted “just a pint.” Watching my chance I went quickly
to the cooler and brought a glass of cool water. With unnatural
strength he raised himself and, reaching out for the glass, grasped
it and swallowed the water with one great gulp. Then returning the
empty glass he cried: “There, that was just half! O, give me the
other half.” This I did, rather fearfully. After greedily drinking
the water he dropped back with a sigh of relief, saying--“Now I can
die easy.” I arranged quietly with my patients in the ward so that he
could have water as long as he lived; but not many days after I found
his empty cot.

The hospital, at that time, was little known, being quite obscured
under the limitations of two conservative, retrogressive old doctors,
who showed no favor or sympathy for the sick men, and seemed to see
them only as probable “subjects.”

Many just protests from the kindly women workers were utterly
disregarded by these doctors. Dr. Colton, a handsome young man then
an interne, though not of age or yet graduated, found himself often
between the “upper and nether millstones” of the urgency of volunteer
workers, and the immovable, implacable heads of the hospital. Dr.
Colton, now a successful retired physician, occupies a prominent
position in this hospital which, in late years, is ranked among the
very best of Brooklyn’s institutions.

Meanwhile the people grew tired of the continual demand for supplies,
toward which the hospital contributed very little, though it drew
regularly from the government “rations” in the form of thirty-seven
cents per day for each man. Consequently public contributions became
very meagre.

Then in the autumn came ninety-one sick and wounded soldiers, who
stood--or dropped--on the grass plots surrounding the hospital while
waiting to be enrolled. A procession of grey skeletons, they were
ghastly, dirty, famished, with scarcely the semblance of men. One
of them stared at me rather sharply and, seeing that I observed it,
said, “Excuse me, ma’am, I haven’t seen a white woman before in many
months, an’ it seems good to look at you.”

It became difficult to get proper food in the hospital for the men.
Some of the volunteers, like myself, could still give their whole
time and thought gratuitously, and we continued bringing supplies
from our homes for special cases. My mother sent gallons of shell
clam juice,--the most healing of all natural tonics when boiled in
the shell,--which became popular in the hospital. My mother also
invited companies of four or five convalescents at a time to “a good
square meal,” when they always chose for their suppers, coffee,
buckwheat cakes and sausages. Two gallons of batter would become hot
cakes; and it took the combined help of the whole family and the cook
to keep them supplied; but the hungry boys were at last satisfied and
happy. I had no difficulty in obtaining passes for them, as they felt
in honor bound to return promptly to the hospital.

One poor fellow, dying of typhoid, was so irritable and profane to
the ignorant, heartless men-nurses of the hospital, that they would
not care for him during the night. Realizing that the end was near,
and feeling certain that he would otherwise die alone, I decided one
night to remain with him until his last breath. Just before he died,
even while the pallor of death overspread his face, he struck at the
nurse whom I had compelled to stay near to help him. At last the poor
dying man gasped: “Lift me up higher! higher! higher!!” We raised the
poor skeleton as high as we could reach,--and it was all over. His
family refused his body, saying, “He was no good to us in life, why
should we bury him?” It is not difficult to imagine that his home
influences had been unfavorable to the development of moral character.

Clancy, then a fine looking, kindly policeman, had waited to take me
home near morning, as he did on other occasions of this kind.

Some months later, being almost the only young woman still visiting
the hospital, I felt obliged to report to that rarely good man, Mr.
McMullen,--whose benevolence and generosity had at first brought
the patients to the hospital and to the care of the people,--the
neglect of soldiers, who were then treated like charity patients. He
immediately reported these conditions to the medical department, and
the men were removed to the government hospitals, which were by this
time systematized and in good running order.

After the patients had been transferred from the Long Island College
Hospital, I secured a pass on the steamboat Thomas P. Way, to visit
hospitals of the “Department of the East,” in charge of Surgeon
McDougall, a thorough disciplinarian, and a just, kind man.

David’s Island, on the Sound, had a finely conducted hospital, with a
diet kitchen in charge of ladies. There I saw hundreds of well-fed,
happy Confederate patients, so many, indeed, that they could not
be supplied at once with proper clothing, and so made a unique
appearance as they walked about in dressing gowns, white drawers, and
slippers. They were soon to be exchanged for our own poor skeleton
“Boys” who were coming home slowly and painfully, some dying on the
way, to be met by kindly hands and aching hearts eagerly awaiting
them.

Fort Schuyler Hospital, on the East River, was formed like a wheel,
the hub being headquarters and the spokes extending into wards for
patients. One young man of much refinement had been at one of our
home suppers, and afterwards the company made a pact that if we were
alive one year from that date we should hear each from the other.
He exclaimed--“Dead or alive, you shall hear from me!” Being a
spiritualist he believed this possible. He was sent to Fort Schuyler
and one month later died of small-pox. At the appointed date and
hour a year later, I thought of this pact and tried to put myself
in a receptive state. I did not, however, see him nor feel any
manifestation of his spirit.




                             CHAPTER III

                    BEDLOE’S ISLAND (NOW LIBERTY)


A number of influential ladies of New York City had formed a
society named “Park Barracks Association.” By permission of the
Mayor, barracks were put up in the City Hall Park for temporary
accommodation of soldiers. But of that particular work I knew very
little. These ladies had, however, extended their benevolence to
Bedloe’s Island. They had, somehow, heard of my work, and a committee
waited upon me with an invitation to accompany them, by the Thomas P.
Way, on its regular trip to the department hospitals on the river,
including Bedloe’s Island, three and a half miles down New York
Bay, where they wished me to take charge of their “diet kitchen.”
Fort Wood still stands on one side of the island, little changed
since 1862. At that time twenty wards were filled with about eighty
patients.

The first floor of the square brick building on the New York side was
used as a dispensary, and the diet kitchen was also located here.
On the second floor were the quarters of sick officers, occupied
at that time by only one officer who had been wounded at Antietam.
Comfortable rooms on the third floor became my apartments.

  [Illustration: SURGEON CAMPBELL]

Each lady had a different opinion concerning the management of
the kitchen, and urged the wisdom of her particular plan. I soon
discovered, however, that Surgeon Campbell, in charge of the
hospital, had been so annoyed by the irregular work of these ladies,
that he had threatened to close the kitchen. Small wonder, when a
different lady came each week and spent most of her time in undoing
the work of her predecessor! They were extremely anxious to have me
take charge at once, but I asked for twenty-four hours in which to
consider, though my mind was already made up. This being a volunteer
work, I wrote the next day, saying that I would take charge of the
kitchen on one condition--namely, that I should have no interference
or direction from any member of the Association. This they thought
rather severe, but it was my ultimatum. They were glad to accept my
terms, however, in order that they might continue their benevolent
work on the island.

The day after I took charge, Surgeon Campbell came into the kitchen
for inspection and stood aghast at the “confusion worse confounded.”
I was standing on a chair in a closet, throwing in heaps on the
floor endless packages from the shelves. I laughed at his despairing
expression, and said, “Doctor, do not expect any order within three
days, till these incongruous piles are classified.” There were shoes
and cornstarch, “trigger” finger gloves and dried apples, shirts and
beans, “feetings” and comfort bags, and so on ad infinitum.

The clothing supplies I now separated from the food donations, and
had them sent up to my rooms, where, later, the men came with their
demands, or with written orders from the ladies, one or more of whom
came every day. I soon discovered that, owing to a lack of system,
some of the men had succeeded in getting four shirts instead of
one; but I concluded that they were four times colder than their
warmer-hearted comrades.

At last out of confusion came order. With the help of Surgeon
Campbell I planned a printed list, lacking only the addition of the
date, name of surgeon, and number of ward to which were to be added
each day’s orders. I went over this at night, frequently adding
extras, and in the morning it was sent to the different wards when
the ward masters came for breakfast. The doctors then selected the
proper diet for their patients, and the list was returned before ten
o’clock.

Four detailed soldiers acted as cooks and helpers. Andrew, a
practical, kindly Scotchman, became head cook; and altogether we were
much gratified by our good fare. Our success along this line was made
easier by liberal government supplies, and the generous donations of
the Association, which gave me “carte blanche” for special cases.
Our system worked admirably. When the dinner bugle sounded, the ward
masters ran with their trays and pails; the first in order calling
out his ward number as he entered. I read aloud from one of the
twenty lists, which varied slightly each day, and were kept hanging
in a row. For example:

            “ORDER FOR SPECIAL DIET
          U. S. Convalescent Hospital
                   Fort Wood

                         ................1863

  Ward ..............          Dr. ..........
      Dinner, Supper, Breakfast, Remarks
  Tea................
  Cocoa..............
  Coffee.............
  Etc., etc.

  Ward....coffee for 6, tea 5, chicken 7, roast beef 10,
  whisky punches 5, egg nogs, etc.”

The cook served meats and vegetables, one served tea, coffee or milk
in pails, while I managed the jellies, stimulants, etc. We soon
reduced the time of distribution for eighty patients to fifteen
minutes.

When Surgeon McDougall, in charge of the department, came with his
staff to inspect our kitchen, they waited till all was served to
the ward masters, and then he said: “Miss Smith, you have the best
conducted kitchen in the Department.” Having had little experience
in cooking, this was a very pleasant surprise. The inspection was
continued by a member of the staff passing his white-gloved hand over
the range and sides of the iron kettles, etc., which the men kept so
clean that they left no trace. The men were also made happy by the
approval of the inspectors.

In addition to this we made large puddings for the twenty wards, ten
each day being all that our ovens could hold.

At the suggestion of Surgeon Campbell, a courteous Scotch gentleman
and strict disciplinarian, I wore a dress of officers’ blue with
infantry buttons, medical cadet shoulder straps with green bands and
gilt braid in the centre.

The Thomas P. Way came daily at 10 A. M. bringing ladies of the
Association and many other visitors. Andrew had learned to make
“perfect cocoa,” which I had served to the guests in my rooms, where,
from the large windows, they enjoyed the fine view of Long Island,
New Jersey and New York shores.

  [Illustration: “LIBERTY”]

This was before the days of “Liberty Island,” which later was made
immortal by the gift of the French people and the great sculptor
Bartholdi, whose heroic statue was to have been completed for the
great centennial fair of 1876. Failing to accomplish this in time, he
sent to Philadelphia the arm holding the torch which now lights the
bay, and is a well known signal light to incoming vessels. While in
Philadelphia, attending the exposition, with seven friends I climbed
the narrow ladder in the arm, and all were able to sit in the circle
of the great torch, now upheld by “Liberty.”


                            DAILY ROUTINE

Each morning I awoke at George’s call--“Ha’f-a-pas-seex.” Andrew
would send up a good breakfast for two, as there was always some lady
friend or one of my younger sisters to keep me company at night.
No other woman except the wives and friends of the officers at the
fort were allowed to remain on the island. The cooks soon learned to
manage the men’s breakfast without me.

At eight o’clock A. M. a dozen or more men came to my door with
orders from the ladies for underwear and many comforts. George, who
did the work of a chambermaid, having cleared up my reception room
(I did my own sleeping room) I then descended into the kitchen and
immersed myself in the work of making jellies and other delicacies,
while I had four disabled soldiers preparing meats, vegetables, etc.

At ten A. M. came the boat, bringing guests for luncheon, when we had
officers, sisters of charity, clergymen, and friends of the patients
to entertain, all of whom needed advice or a pleasant word. This
caused many interruptions; but was a pleasant break in the monotony
of hospital life.

The visitors left on the four P. M. boat. I then inspected the
various wards and discovered many delinquencies on the part of
the men nurses of which the patients were afraid to complain.
Occasionally there was time for a walk around the sea wall, and then
came the men’s supper at five P. M.

At six dinner was served in my reception room for my friends and
myself, and Andrew insisted upon its being a good one. After that
officers and their ladies sometimes called.

When the wind howled and the waves dashed high against the sea wall,
we could see the twinkling lights of the city while we sat talking
and resting till “taps.” Then came George to attend to his wonderful
coal fires in very large open grates, which never burned low or
dropped ashes on the bright polished hearth. His greatest reward was
a pleasant word about the fires and he would smile in happiness. Then
he brought a bucket of salt water fresh from the bay for my nightly
bath, after which we retired to our comfortable cots, where we slept
restfully till awakened by the usual “Ha’f-a-pas-seex.”

I remember an incident in which human perversity strongly asserted
itself. General Wool, then Commander of the Department of the
East, sent an order that “No one be allowed to leave the island
till further orders.” It was suspected that spies were stealing
information from the forts. No one was permitted to go even aboard
the boat which brought daily supplies.

At once we felt ourselves prisoners, and an irresistible desire to
escape to the city haunted me every hour of the day. I was actually
planning to elude the guards and to be rowed in a little boat to the
city,--three and one-half miles from the island,--when the order was
revoked, and I suddenly discovered that I had no urgent object for
making the trip.

The post chaplain drew very few to his services. One patient remarked
“We can sleep much better in our cots than in the chapel.” One Sunday
afternoon, after considerable effort, I succeeded in raising a
quartette among the non-commissioned officers. I then went to all the
wards, urging the men to come to our services, promising them some
good old-time hymns. The chaplain was much surprised and gratified at
this sudden increase in his congregation, and this improvement was
maintained till most of the patients had left the island.

At last orders were read for all convalescents to report to their
regiments. This quite emptied the wards and took my staff of domestic
helpers. I had a busy time supplying the Boys with necessary articles
and luxuries, and “comfort bags” containing sewing material were
in great demand! In some of these were found letters that led to
correspondence and in many cases to romance.

As the “Way” left the wharf, these grateful men expressed their
thanks by rousing cheers to the surgeons and nurses who had taken
such good care of them. Then came three more cheers for the kind
ladies who had given them so many luxuries and comforting words.
Being the only lady present I waved a hearty good-bye for all these
kindly women.

My work there was practically over, as the few patients who were left
could be supplied from the regular mess hall, so I returned to my
home in Brooklyn.

Some days later I crossed Fulton Ferry and, to my surprise, found
Broadway deserted. The draft riot was spreading. From the 13th to
the 16th of July, 1863, the streets were practically given over to a
crowd of hoodlum boys brandishing clubs and sticks, rushing wildly
and howling “Niggers, niggers! Hang the niggers!” They did hang some
to lamp posts. Negro shanties were fired and occupants driven into
the flames. A colored orphan asylum was attacked and burned. One
poor fellow was chased for miles, and at last he jumped into a pool
of water, preferring to drown rather than to be hanged or beaten to
death. This riot, the most disgraceful and cowardly of all horrible
crimes that ever disgraced modern New York City, resulted in the
death of nearly one thousand people, mostly negroes, and was incited
by two copperheads whose names should be abhorred forever.

A handsome boy patient of about seventeen years attached himself to
me, much to my annoyance, and I found it difficult to give him the
attention he desired. At last, however, to my great relief, he was
ordered to report to his regiment, whence he wrote frequently. About
six months later, to my astonishment, he came to my home, saying, “I
was so homesick I just had to come, and I ran away without asking for
a furlough.” Of course he was liable to arrest as a deserter, and it
cost me much persuasion and insistence at military headquarters, to
convince them that the boy was ignorant of the treachery of his act.
But finally, after much advice, he started for his regiment with a
return pass. About a year later he wrote asking my advice as to his
marrying “a very nice girl,” as he thought “an economical wife could
help him to save money,”--on twelve dollars a month, forsooth!




                             CHAPTER IV

   THE GREAT MANHATTAN FAIR OF THE U. S. SANITARY COMMISSION, 1864

   “Yet Thou wilt hear the prayer we speak,
    The song of praise we sing--
    My children, who Thine Altar seek
    Their grateful gifts to bring.
           *       *       *       *       *
   “Lo! for our wounded brothers’ need,
      We bear the wine and oil;
      For us they faint, for us they bleed,
        For them our gracious toil!”
                            OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.


While the devastations of Civil War were sending thousands of our
brave men to die, and to sleep in distant graves, inadequate relief
for sick and wounded soldiers also caused much unnecessary suffering
and loss of life. Lacking more prompt means of assistance, supplies,
surgeons, nurses, et cetera, could reach them only through the slow
process of military regulations.

With the hope of supplying this most urgent need, the great Manhattan
fair of the United States Sanitary Commission was suggested, and
later organized by the efforts of the Rev. Doctor Bellows of New
York City. He became its president, and, with other gentlemen as
a committee, went to Washington to consult military and hospital
departments as to some feasible manner of supplementing this most
necessary branch of the United States service.

The congregation of All Souls’ Church, of which Dr. Bellows was
pastor, at once voted that the $40,000 that had been appropriated for
a church steeple should be donated to the great Fair. The steepleless
church stands to-day, a monument to their practical benevolence.

Their beneficent intention resulted in the erection of an immense
wooden building at Union Square and Fourteenth Street, New York City,
for a great bazaar. The opening took place on April 14th, 1864, the
Honorable Joseph Choate delivering an address. An original poem by
Oliver Wendell Holmes was sung by a union of many volunteer church
choirs, before a vast multitude. The verses at the head of this
chapter are selected from the poem.

The building was practically overflowing with the number of enormous
donations that had no precedent, nor has any later benevolence in our
country ever equalled this cheerful, spontaneous outpouring of money
and salable goods, from all classes and individuals, merchants and
dealers of every grade. These gifts of every description were piled
high on shelves and in beautifully arranged booths, where charming
young girls and earnest bright-eyed women competed in the selling
of them to hundreds of eager buyers. Wealthy, generous patrons vied
with one another in liberal purchases and donations, while those of
smaller means were also happy in giving their mites to swell the
enormous sums that astonished even the sanguine organizers. Many
others, having no means to spare, volunteered their entire time
and services to any department needing them, however laborious or
unpleasant. And here they worked cheerfully every day until midnight
during the three weeks of the fair, unconscious of weariness.
Probably in no other bazaar were there ever such tireless workers,
generous donors, or enthusiastic buyers. The united beneficence,
patriotism and good will of these people poured into the treasury of
the Sanitary Commission the enormous amount of two million dollars.
This great sum for those days enabled the Commission to perfect an
organization unparalleled in scope and efficiency, with a corps of
faithful, honorable workers.

Like the Red Cross, which came to us later from Switzerland, this
commission was immune from attack after battles. Often following
the army closely, its representatives were able to set up temporary
hospitals more quickly and efficiently with their independent
supplies, army wagons and even transportation for special duty, than
could be done by the regular army routine. Later my opportunity for
knowing their work for soldiers was unusual. Being the only person
in the hospital camp in the field working independently, without pay
for any service, and provided with a pass from United States Army’s
Headquarters, the commission claimed that I was entitled to my living
and any supplies I might require for the sick.

The relation here of an instance of personal experience will give
some idea of the capability and prompt action of the commission
immediately after the close of the war, and at almost the last moment
of its field work, at City Point, Virginia.

The armies of the James and Potomac were ordered to Washington as
speedily as transportation would permit. They were to take part in
the grand review and were to be mustered out of service. The sick
were also carried to Washington hospitals as soon as they were able
to sail on the transports now crowding the docks of City Point. The
headquarters of the United States Armies in the field had some time
previously been transferred to Washington, where, still later, I
often saw General Grant, always silent and smoking, except when in
the presence of ladies.

General Russell, with his colored troops, was left in command at City
Point to finish up the Government work there. Surgeon Thomas Pooley,
later a distinguished oculist, of New York City, had been left in
charge of the almost abandoned field hospital. Barracks and tents
were dismantled, canvas roofs were removed and “turned in” to the
Government, leaving only stockade walls, much useless camp furniture,
and debris of all sorts that it would have been unprofitable to ship
north.

Into these roofless wards swarmed crowds of destitute “contrabands”
from the surrounding country and from Petersburg, eight miles
distant, and settled down like flocks of crows. They found many
things that were treasures to them among the abandoned supplies and
rations upon which they subsisted until the government could devise
some plan to save these helpless wandering creatures from starvation.

  [Illustration: SURGEON THOMAS POOLEY]

The word contraband as applied to negroes was first used May 23d,
1861, by General Ben Butler, soon after taking command of Fortress
Monroe, when three slaves escaped from work on a Confederate fort,
near by, and came across the river in a boat asking protection. The
owner sent for them by flag of truce. General Butler decided that
tho not strictly legal that as a war measure he was justified as
they were property to their owners and that with all other property
used against the Union they were “contraband of war,” and refused to
give them up. The number of runaway slaves to the fort “increased
to $60,000 worth of negroes,” who were put to work for the Union
army,--many of whom enlisted and served faithfully till the end of
the war.

At that time I was the only white woman in camp, waiting for orders
to report to the New York State agency in Washington. A kind motherly
old colored “auntie” seemed to consider me merely a child, and
constantly followed me about, watched over me, and became my general
guardian. General Russell kept a guard of four colored soldiers, with
stacked arms, night and day, about my quarters for my safety.

I was about to start for Washington when we were surprised by a
belated regiment,--of the 6th corps, I think,--of sick men toiling
wearily into the deserted hospital camp, now in confusion as if a
raid had torn everything asunder. There was not a furnished bed or
bunk for these poor sick discouraged men to lie upon, nor was there
any food for their famished bodies as they dropped upon the bare
ground exhausted, almost fainting.

I still had the use of an ambulance, and in this emergency hastily
ordered the driver to take me to City Point, one-half mile distant,
for help. Fortunately the Sanitary Commission barge, loaded with
surplus supplies, had not started, but was just about to cut loose,
when I informed them of the destitution and helplessness of the sick
stranded soldiers.

  [Illustration: J. YATES PEEK]

Mr. J. Yates Peek, formerly of the 147th New York Infantry, at once
reversed orders, unpacked supplies, and put his men to work. By night
the barracks were covered with canvas roofs; comfortable beds were
made of fresh hay, and the men were fed. The “contrabands” cheerfully
assisted me in preparing food and caring for the famished men. I
think Doctor Pooley was the only surgeon in camp. Contrabands helped,
in their rude way, to nurse the helpless, and a little camp sprang up
and remained until the men were able to travel and get transportation
to Washington. There was probably no better work done by this great
organization than that by the belated company of agents of the United
States Commission in that emergency. Without their help and supplies
these men must have suffered keenly, and perhaps have died before
relief could have been sent back from Washington on an unprecedented
requisition, and the necessary “red tape” regulations complied with.

Another personal experience comes to mind. Months after the war,
at their New York City Headquarters, when all liabilities of the
Sanitary Commission had been met and field work disbanded, there was
still a considerable balance in the treasury. The money had been
collected for a specific purpose, namely--for the benefit of sick
soldiers. This need was now supplied by the Government in various
hospitals and in temporary homes, but the surplus money could not
legally or honorably be applied to any other benevolence. Finally
it was agreed that soldiers’ families were the legitimate heirs to
this soldiers’ fund. Therefore Mrs. Baldwin, a woman of great tact
and capability, with myself, was asked to visit their families and
judiciously assist the needy. Through that unusual bitterly cold
winter of ’65 and ’66 we visited and assisted many of them. With the
advent of warm weather the last dollar was expended, and the official
life of this great beneficent work ended. Through it thousands of
lives were saved, and many cheered and made comfortable.

At the Brooklyn Sanitary Fair over $400,000 were raised, and in
Chicago and the West, that had led in this great movement, chiefly
through the efforts of women, the amounts were astonishing. Through
the great heart of the people, from all sources over $25,000,000 came
into the treasury of the Sanitary Commission.




                              CHAPTER V

                          NEW ENGLAND ROOMS


Colonel Frank Howe, of the New England Rooms, on Broadway near Fulton
Street, New York City, was the director of that Rest for stranded and
sick soldiers, as well as for many helplessly wounded. Here I found
many of the most interesting cases of my experience. Colonel Howe
felt that their contribution of wounded to the Sanitary Fair would
be a more effective object-lesson and incentive, than inanimate war
emblems and relics displayed in the Arms and Trophy Department. Some
of these crippled men were now waiting for Government to provide
homes for those incapable of self-support.

Colonel Howe thereupon secured free passes for a number of
convalescents, and I consented to take charge of them during the
fair. Consequently, one bright day, the New England ambulance was
crowded with the following passengers, namely: one man without legs,
two men without arms, one blind from a shot passing through his head,
a one-legged boy, the famous John Burns of Gettysburg, and a colored
woman to assist. I sat on the front seat with the driver. We drove up
Broadway to the fair grounds, quite regardless of the curious crowd
that followed.

These brave martyrs were received with outstretched hands and cordial
sympathy, and given the freedom of every department in the wonderful
exhibition. In a splendid restaurant I volunteered to act as waiter,
that I might be certain that the Boys had good meals and attention,
for which the Sanitary Commission made no charge.

A crowd followed armless Berry who carried on his strong back legless
Smith,--who in turn dressed and fed Berry. These two had become
great friends and, like the Siamese twins, were inseparable. Always
cheerful, they seemed to enjoy life. Smith was a good penman and
wrote me interesting letters, of which I still have some, generally
signed “Berry and Smith.” Berry often carried the legless man about
the large building to see the wonders which they greatly enjoyed.

Another armless soldier, a sergeant always in uniform, travelled
about alone, and when in cars or boats was rarely asked for fare, or
if so, he would say: “Help yourself from my pockets.” Few had the
heart to do this, so he usually travelled free.

McNulty, a refined young man, who had lost an arm in an early
engagement, but was now quite well, was also of our party, though he
was quite independent and asked no help, having already learned, like
General Howard, to use his left arm for writing and to serve double
duty.

Famous John Burns was included with those mentioned above in the
freedom of the whole building, and at seventy years of age called
himself one of my “Boys.” The following is copied from a card which
he had printed to “save so much talk,” and which he claimed was a
true history of his experience and help in the renowned battle of
Gettysburg. This card he gave me personally.

  [Illustration: McNULTY]


                  JOHN L. BURNS’ ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF

     “I was born in Burlington, New Jersey, on the 5th day of
     September, 1793. I served in the war of 1812. At the
     outbreak of the Rebellion, I went with Captain McPherson to
     Camp Wayne, Westchester, where I enlisted, but was
     discharged at the end of a fortnight on account of my age. I
     returned to Gettysburg (my home at that time), then went to
     Hagerstown and served as assistant in the wagon camp for two
     weeks, after which, as a teamster, I joined the three
     months’ boys under Patterson, with whom I remained a month.
     I then went to Frederick, and obtained the position of
     police officer in General Banks’ division. I was present at
     the battle of Edward’s Ferry, and saw Colonel Baker carried
     across the river. I remained with Colonel Banks for six
     months, and then returned home, where I was at the time of
     the battle of Gettysburg. On the first day of the fight I
     met General Reynolds, who had been out reconnoitering, and
     was asked to show him the Emmettsburg road. After doing
     this, I obtained a musket from a soldier who had been
     wounded while on guard, and went off to the army ‘to shoot
     some of the damned rebels’. I fell in with a Wisconsin
     regiment, and fought sometimes in line, and sometimes on my
     own hook. About one P. M., during an intermission, while
     lying in the woods, I saw a Missouri man fall from the shot
     of a rebel concealed in the bushes. I stepped behind a tree,
     and seeing the rebel about to reload, I shot him. I also
     shot a tremendous great rebel who would not get out of my
     way. I myself received seven balls on the first day of the
     fight, the last of which wounded me severely in the leg. I
     lay on the field all night, and a rebel surgeon gave me
     water and a blanket. In the morning I crawled to a house
     near by, and about two P. M. succeeded in being taken to my
     own house, which I found occupied by the rebels as a
     hospital. Their doctor dressed my wound. On Friday, at two
     P. M. I was closely questioned by two rebel officers as to
     where I got my musket.”

  [Illustration: JOHN BURNS]

I have also his photograph which he gave me, and from which, I
believe, the life size figure of his statue was made. I saw him many
times at my home in Brooklyn, and elsewhere, always wearing proudly
the shabby old coat with bullet holes in the front corners. This is
not given in the life size figure of the old hero on his monument at
Gettysburg Cemetery, where he stands without a coat with bared head,
musket in hand, as if starting for the field of action.

   “And as they gazed, there crept an awe
    Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw,
    In the antique garments and long white hair,
    The past of the nation, in battle there.”




                             CHAPTER VI

     ARMS AND TROPHY DEPARTMENT OF THE SANITARY COMMISSION FAIR


This department was beautifully draped with bunting, Revolutionary,
Mexican and other old war flags, and also a few Confederate flags,
captured by regiments, still in the field, that had yet many a
bloody battle to fight. A number of distinguished, elegantly-gowned
women toiled here indefatigably, brimming over with excitement and
patriotism, quite regardless of the unusual fatigue of standing and
working so many hours daily, in their anxiety to allow no one to pass
without contributing in some way to the fund, now reaching thousands
of dollars.

Here was to be decided the “sword test,” that would indicate the most
popular general, by the number of votes cast at one dollar each.
The sword was to be presented to the winner of the largest number
of votes. How these attractive ladies worked for their favorites!
A magnetic thrill pervaded this room, where men of fashion and
reputation crowded, ostensibly to learn how the vote was going.

Mrs. Grant, a noble-looking woman, accepted graciously, but without
solicitation, all who offered votes for General Grant, of whom she
invariably spoke as “Mr. Grant.” Mrs. McClellan, with elegant
society manner, lost no opportunity in gaining a vote for General
McClellan; her vivacity, personal charm, and courteous flattery won
many a vote for her husband. I think if her son, our ex-mayor, could
have seen his mother at the height of her matured beauty he would
have been justly proud.

  [Illustration: MAJOR-GENERAL AND MRS. GEORGE B. McCLELLAN]

The polls were to close at midnight on the last day of the fair.
Excitement ran high as the hour approached. At ten minutes before
the hour the McClellan vote was far ahead, and that party was already
exulting, confident of success; but at five minutes before the final
closing of the polls, the Union League, of Philadelphia, telegraphed,
ordering “five hundred votes for Grant,” and the sword was his.

  [Illustration: UNION LEAGUE HOUSE]

Indignant Democrats pronounced this an act of treachery; an ominous
dissent spread over the restless crowd, and for a time it seemed as
if there might be some dangerous demonstration. Only the general
refinement and restraint of the surging, self-respecting crowd
prevented an outbreak.

Mrs. McClellan was pitifully disappointed, as her vision of the White
House grew dim; and after the popular election of Grant, and the
defeat of McClellan, she indignantly declared that she would not
live in such an ungrateful country. She actually lived abroad for
some years but, like all good Americans, she was happy to return to
enjoy the freedom of her own native land.

In the month of February, 1909, I had the pleasure of seeing again,
in the Smithsonian Museum at Washington, the veritable sword of that
memorable contest, which had been presented in April, 1863. Other
swords and equipments of General Grant were preserved in a large
glass case. A silver head of Liberty formed the handle, set with
diamonds, garnets and turquoises, the hilt and shield in bas-relief
of a helmeted knight, the blade and scabbard highly wrought in
oxidized silver and gold. The Chattanooga is the largest and finest
of six or eight swords, all highly wrought and jewelled, which were
presented by admiring friends at different dates to General Grant.

At the beginning of the Fair I had obtained permission for the three
men, Smith, Berry and Mudge, to remain in the trophy department,
where, each day, many greenbacks were crowded into their pockets. I
had asked Mesdames Grant and McClellan to head subscription lists
and to solicit money for the three helpless soldiers. Both ladies
cheerfully and effectively urged people to subscribe at one dollar
each, and at the close of the last evening they were happy to hand
over to me, to be divided among these living martyrs of our cruel
war, the sum of about five hundred dollars.

A citizen, employed by the New England Rooms, had charge of the
finances and of the safe. He came every night with the ambulance
to take me and the mutilated men back to the New England Rooms to
sleep. On this last night I handed him the great roll of five hundred
one-dollar bills to carry home and put into the safe. Instantly,
however, an impulse came to me, and I said: “Just let me look at
that money to see if it is all right.” Grasping it firmly, I did not
return it to the man, but carried it safely to the Rest, and kept it
during the night. Before morning the scamp had robbed the safe and
vanished, and of course was never more heard of. Was it telepathy or
a finer psychic perception that saved the boys their money?

A unique incident occurred at this Rest, to the great amusement of
the Boys. I frequently stayed here all night with the capable matron,
Mrs. Russell, in her apartments on the top floor of this former
store-house. One evening we were startled by unusual hilarity among
the patients on the floor below. A great “well” was open through the
middle of the building for the purpose of raising merchandise to the
upper floors, and now it served as a fine ventilator. On stepping
forward to the railing we saw to our astonishment three boys, each
having lost a leg. They were great chums, always together, and
sometimes the group was called “Three Legs.” Each was on a crutch,
carrying in one hand an artificial government leg, and they were
having a grotesque dance with these limbs and crutches. To the men
it seemed very funny and caused roars of laughter, but I failed to
find amusement in the gruesome antics of these boys, scarcely of age,
crippled for life.

  [Illustration: “THREE LEGS”]

Colonel Mrs. Daily, whom I met at the New England Rooms, enjoyed
the unique honor of having been appointed adjutant on the staff of
Governor Sprague, of Rhode Island. Colonel Daily had just returned
from a tour of inspection of Rhode Island regiments stationed near
the front and had also visited sick soldiers in different hospitals.
She had prepared and published a general and statistical report of
the condition of the men to present officially to Governor Sprague.

  [Illustration: COLONEL MRS. DAILY]

After my success in collecting funds for Mudge, Smith and Berry at
the Sanitary Fair, I concluded to take them to the great exposition
then being held at Philadelphia, but for some unexplained reason
my efforts to secure financial aid for them met with comparative
failure.

A handsome ambulance of the Wicacoe fire engine company had met us
at Camden boat landing, Philadelphia, whence we were driven to the
famous Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon and Hospital, where a few
cots for special cases had been set up in the private offices. Here
these three men were warmly welcomed and made comfortable during
their visit.

Mrs. Lincoln called there one day, and, after a pleasant talk, gave
twenty dollars to each of the “Twins.” They seemed to appreciate her
kindly words even more than her practical gift.

When troops were approaching the city of Philadelphia, the great
“Liberty Bell” rang out a welcome to coming regiments. Hundreds
of kindly women, laden with good things, hastened to this large
building, which was a cooper’s shop, quickly set up rough tables,
and spread their generous supplies ready for the hungry men. During
the war thousands of men and many regiments halted here for “a
good square meal,” while passing through the city to the front.
When the hungry Boys were rested and satisfied, they fell into
line and marched away to the music of the jolly fife and drum,
cheering and shouting their thanks, only exceeded in sound by the
deafening applause of the patriotic people waiting to see them off.
This “shop,” by the generosity of its owners, and the unflagging
patriotism of the women, became historical. Many full regiments
remembered the good things freely given by those who had not always
an abundant living for themselves.

  [Illustration]

The following is a verbatim copy of a letter written by one of the
“Twins” from the Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon and Hospital,
generally known as the Cooper Rest Hall, referred to above:


                         “Philadelphia, June 22d, 1864.
     Miss Adelaide Smith:

     Dear Madam:--

     I have just received your kind and welcome letter and now
     hasten to reply. I am glad to hear of your safe arrival
     in New York, and regret that friend Mudge cannot exercise
     sufficient control over himself to prevent so much useless
     trouble to his friends but I anticipated as much. I hope
     the air of the Astor House will be congenial to him. Berry
     has been seeking the paper you refer to but has not yet
     gotten it. He will go out to-day and get it, if he can, and
     send it to you.

     Shortly after Berry went out with you, the day you left,
     Mrs. Lincoln visited the Saloon and had a little talk with
     me (Smith) and a $20.00 bill was slipped into my hand. I
     believe there is $20.00 expected for Berry from the same
     source.

     With regard to pecuniary matters Philadelphia is looking
     up. In addition to the above donation I have received
     $25.00, and Berry about $20.00. Berry is out occasionally,
     hence the difference between us, but Berry will stay in
     the Saloon alongside of me and no doubt we will both share
     alike.

     Berry was walking along Chestnut Street on Monday when a
     man standing at a doorway stopped him, questioned him,
     did he know Miss Furness? Yes. Well Miss Furness has been
     everywhere trying to find us, wishing very much to see us.
     Miss Furness was then in the house. Berry was invited in to
     see her. She commenced the old story about the artificial
     arms and legs. We expect she will go to the fair and peddle
     out the rest of her old jewelry which will, she expects,
     enable her to give us some fifteen or twenty thousand
     dollars each. In fact our expectations are raised to such
     a pitch and we are so sanguine of Miss Furness that we
     shall probably have a surplus of a few thousand, dear Madam
     for you, as a ‘slight testimonial of our esteem and mark
     of our gratitude’; etc., etc. She has also a box full of
     artificial arms and legs.

     Will you please tell Price to forward all letters there may
     be in the hospital for Berry and me. Mr. Redner has not yet
     called.

     I hope Mr. D. will get my furlough extended, at any rate I
     shall stay here some time longer. We are getting along very
     comfortably. There is nothing particular in the way of
     news. Berry and I went out sailing a day or two ago.

     All the good folks here beg to be remembered to you, Mr.
     Wade in particular. Our best regards to all our friends,
     Mr. D. especially, and believe us, dear Madam,

                          Yours very gratefully,
                     ALBERT A. SMITH and JOHN H. BERRY.

     P. S. If you have time, in case you pass through
     Philadelphia, to call and see us, it will afford us much
     pleasure.”

On our return to New York, as in going to Philadelphia, every
one wished to lend a helping hand, but Smith clung to Berry, who
carried him with ease, while the crowd cheered the courageous,
independent fellows. On returning them safely to the New England
Rooms, I longed to rest for a few days at my home in Bedford Avenue,
Brooklyn, but I found at the Rooms a slowly dying woman who greatly
excited my sympathy. She had been brought from Washington, where
she had contracted dysentery while nursing her son, who died soon
after she reached him. She was on her way to her home in Worcester,
Massachusetts. There was no proper place for the poor soul, and
Colonel Howe was anxious to have her reach her home before she
died, so I took charge of her, and we went by the Fall River Line.
I sat beside her stretcher all night in the ladies’ cabin, watching
her pulse and constantly giving her stimulants or nourishment. At
daybreak we reached Worcester. The man sent to assist me found an
express wagon on which the stretcher was placed, and we all drove
to a plain comfortable-looking house. Finding no responsible person
about the place I took possession of the parlor on the second floor,
ordering a bed from another room. The feeble woman was then carried
up and placed comfortably at rest in her own home. The doctor came
and, against my earnest protest, insisted on stopping the stimulants
at once, saying he knew her constitution better than I. When her
husband appeared he showed no particular interest save to take
possession of her pocketbook, and I did not see him again.

A Mr. and Mrs. Green showed much interest for the woman. They kindly
took me to their home for rest. Later in the day I went back to
see the fast failing woman, who died two days later, a victim to
the conceit of an ignorant doctor. I enjoyed for a day or two the
hospitality of the Greens, and I shall never forget their home-grown
strawberries and cream.




                            CHAPTER VII

      THE UNIQUE CASE OF WILLIAM MUDGE OF LYNN, MASSACHUSETTS.


This narrow-breasted, delicate boy of about twenty-one years,
enlisted in the Thirty-third Massachusetts Infantry, and, with his
regiment, went into the battle of Chancellorsville on Sunday morning,
May 2d, 1863. After once regaining the field they were defeated with
considerable loss in prisoners and many wounded. Mudge fell by a
shot passing entirely through his head, cutting both optic nerves.
A friend in the regiment from his city, tied a handkerchief about
his head and left him to die, then ran to join his regiment, fearing
capture by the enemy. As soon as a chance offered he wrote to Mudge’s
father, who was president of a Lynn bank, telling him that his son
had been left dying on the battlefield.

Mr. Mudge started at once to find the dead body of his son, and
succeeded in reaching the Confederate lines, where they began to
search for the body, which could not be found on the battlefield. The
boy was at last discovered alive, lying neglected in the Confederate
field hospital.

It was often impossible for the surgeons and detailed nurses to care
for all the wounded, and so they gave their time to those having
a chance of living, which poor Mudge certainly did not seem to
have. The gunshot wound had caused his face to turn quite black, so
that his father, in hunting among the hopelessly wounded, did not
recognize him; but the boy knew his father’s voice and called out,
and so was rescued from a slow death. Mudge told his story to me
essentially as follows:

  [Illustration: WILLIAM MUDGE]

“I lay all night on the field, drenched by a shower (which often
happens after a battle). In the morning Confederate soldiers were
detailed to bury the dead, and were preparing to carry me to the
open trench near by. When I spoke to them feebly they gave me water
from a canteen, and left me, feeling sure I would die before morning.
Imagine what a night that must have been! The brushwood near where I
was lying took fire, and I narrowly escaped being burned to death.
When the men came on the third day to bury the dead, I had become so
weak I could only move my little finger to show life. The Johnnies
then said--‘This fellow is good stuff, let’s take him in.’”

It was easy for the father to get permission to take away this
apparently dying prisoner. Going by easy stages to Washington, it
was found on examination that the boy was permanently blind and had
lost an eye. His skull was said to have been fractured so that there
were not two inches of solid cranium, the jaw bones and teeth were
destroyed.

Surgeons with much skill trepanned a hole in the skull with a silver
plate, and with the assistance of skilled dentists, they manufactured
jaw bones and teeth. They had fitted him with a glass eye, and
green glasses to cover the defects, so that some months after, when
I met him at the New England Rooms, he had the appearance of a
well-dressed, refined, though rather frail blind man.

During the fair I had taken care of him and walked him about the
great halls explaining many things that he could not, of course, see
or understand, and he came to consider my opinions final. He carried
to his home in Lynn about three hundred dollars from the fair
subscription and other benevolent sources.

A few weeks later his mother wrote me, saying that William had
become so unhappy and irritable that they could not manage him, and
he had so often said that if Miss Smith were there, she would know
what would make him more contented. Mrs. Mudge begged me to come, if
only for a short visit. This I could not well refuse; and I found
a pleasant refined family in a comfortable home of their own. Mr.
Mudge, William’s father, was a gentleman and a bank president. I will
digress here for a few words on an observation, quite surprising
to me. Early on Sunday morning I saw Mr. Mudge and several other
gentlemen coming up the street, each carrying a newspaper and two
large bundles. This seemed quite strange, but was explained at
breakfast by the inevitable down-east baked beans in a crock, and a
loaf of hot brown bread which had been at the bake shop all night. It
was the custom for gentlemen to bring them home on Sunday morning.
Certainly they were delicious. Being of New York blood, I was not “au
fait” on the customs regarding baked beans and brown bread.

William’s mother told me that he was almost transformed when under
my influence. His was a restless nervous temperament, and this,
added to his blindness, made life miserable. His fastidious tastes
and conventionality continued. One Sunday, in church, he whispered,
“Is my back hair parted straight?”--this being the style for men at
that time. And again, “Am I holding my prayer-book right side up?” He
needed occupation; but what could the blind boy do?

Accidentally I saw in a newspaper an advertisement for young men to
sell a book of the early history of the war, and I proposed to Mudge
that he could sell this book. But his aristocratic ideas were hard to
overcome, until I insinuated that he might have a valet to carry the
books and take care of him. This modified his ideas on my suggestion.

His memory of locality was surprising. When he escorted me to Boston
“to see the town” he would say, “Now over there is the bird-cage (a
shop) and there is the flat-iron sign, so we must go this way.” Only
once he failed, and then he said we must go back to the bird-cage,
after which we started again all right.

I went with him to Boston, and had an interview with the agent, who
was greatly pleased to have a martyr of the war to sell the book.
I imperatively urged Mudge to start at once, which he did with his
valet the next day; when I also left Lynn. He wrote from memory
in a good clear hand, with a little slat to guide his pen, of his
phenomenal success, which was such as we expected. During his tour
about Massachusetts he called at the home of the poet Longfellow, who
sent me a much prized photograph with his autograph.

Many bought of the poor boy, out of sympathy and patriotism, this
very imperfect book, which, doubtless, they never read. In the course
of a year he again wrote that he had opened a stationery store in
Lynn, and was doing a good business; and later he employed four
clerks. Still later I was dumbfounded on receiving an announcement of
his marriage.

  [Illustration: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW]

Three years after, when I visited their pretty cottage on Lynn
Beach, near that of Fanny Davenport the actress, William was not at
home, but I saw his charming wife and their handsome, healthy boy of
sixteen months.




                            CHAPTER VIII

                      THE START FOR THE FRONT

    “Woman should take to her soul a strong purpose, and then
     make circumstances conform to that purpose.”
                                           SUSAN B. ANTHONY.


My work for sick soldiers began early in 1862, in the “Department
of the East,” which included Long Island Hospital, Willett’s Point,
David’s Island, Fort Schuyler and Bedloe’s Island (now Liberty); all
of these hospitals being in charge of Surgeon McDougall.

This extensive experience prepared me for work at the front, which,
after many futile efforts, I could now reach through a society known
as “Masonic Mission,” by which a pass was secured from General Ben
Butler for myself and three assistant nurses, and which gave me the
anxiously desired privilege and authority of going to the “front,”
with these nurses, who were quite unknown to me.

We sailed July 24th, 1864, on the Patapsco, a government transport
that had carried sick soldiers to New York, and was returning to City
Point for orders, and were the only passengers on board.

Fatigue and the odor of bilge water induced intense “mal de mer,”
which, added to insubordination on the part of two of my assistants,
caused the usual distress and despair.

The atmosphere of my state room was intolerable, and the captain
kindly ordered a mattress placed on deck for me, where I was
comparatively comfortable until I was obliged to stagger below
on hearing of unseemly conduct on the part of the two nurses. I
threatened, with good effect, to have the captain put them ashore at
the first island we came to. Fortunately they did not know that we
would sight no island on that short voyage. The third assistant, good
Mrs. Dunbar, in her kindly, motherly way, was my only comfort.

The captain had tried, in vain, to arouse me by an alarm that the
Alabama was chasing us. But sea-sickness knows not even the law of
self-preservation, and I replied, “I’d as lief as not go down by the
Alabama or in any other way.”

At night I refused to go below to my stateroom and bilge water odor,
quite regardless of the captain’s perplexity. After some hesitancy,
however, he gave me the only stateroom on deck. This was filled with
the accoutrements of a Confederate officer whom, as a prisoner of
war, the captain had just delivered over to the government prison at
Fort Lafayette, in the narrows of New York Bay. I awoke at night in
such perfect peace and comfort that for a time I imagined the Alabama
had really run us down, and that I was now happy in heaven.

My stateroom door had been left open for air, and, stepping out on
deck, I found there was no motion or sound, save a soft ripple of
water against the bow. A full perfect moon cast a broad silvery path
across the quiet waters, so intense that it seemed quite possible
that Jesus had indeed walked upon the Sea of Galilee. There was no
one in sight, nor was there a sound of anything living or moving,
though the “watch” probably saw me leaning over the railing. We had
anchored at the mouth of the James River, waiting for the pilot.

On the morning of July 29th, we again anchored, this time before City
Point, Virginia, at the junction of the James and Appomatox Rivers,
headquarters of the United States armies in the field under command
of General Grant.

I went ashore in a little boat with the captain, and reported to
the Provost Marshall at headquarters, to show my pass from General
Butler. The camp appeared rather shabby. There were only a few wooden
buildings, used by army officers, a number of large tents and negro
cabins, with guards and officers running from one tent to another.
City Point was a barren, almost treeless country of untilled land.
The United States flag floated over a small house used by General
Grant as headquarters.

A small narrow, cigar-shaped, back-wheel boat, the “Gazelle,”
returned with me to the “Patapsco,” and taking on board the three
nurses we steamed up the narrow Appomatox River, a monotonous sail
of six miles between low bluffs and sparse foliage, to the hospital
tents at Point of Rocks, which were pitched on the very brink of
this malarious stream. This was General Butler’s Hospital Department
of the James.

For the first time I realized my strange position, and felt, when
the “Patapsco” was out of sight, as if “I had burned my bridges
behind me.” There were only half a dozen men and officers aboard.
Feeling impelled to speak to a refined-looking man, wearing major’s
shoulder-straps, I found him very courteous. I remarked on my
apprehension of the strangeness of the situation, and said if I could
feel assured that the surgeon in charge of Point of Rocks Hospital
was a gentleman, I should have nothing to fear. I asked the Major if
he knew that officer; he replied that he did, and thought I would
find him a gentleman.

On reaching Point of Rocks Hospital, the Major offered to go ashore
and send an ambulance for us, and this took us a short distance to
the hospital tent wards, and to a small frame house near to the
Hospital Headquarters.

I called a passing orderly and reported at once with my Butler pass,
to the officer in charge, and found, to my consternation, while the
color rose to the roots of my hair, that this man was the very Major
to whom I had spoken on the boat. Rising and bowing politely he said,
“Miss Smith, I trust you will always find me a gentleman.”

It was well for me that he was a gentleman, for I found myself in
a very anomalous position, having been sent by the Masonic Mission
to take the place of Clara Barton, who was already in charge of
this work, but away at the time. I soon discovered that the Masonic
Mission had taken advantage of Miss Barton’s absence and--quite
without authority--had sent me to take her place. The Major, Surgeon
Porter, however, courteously invited me to remain until her return.

Meanwhile he had ordered a large tent put up for my assistants and,
as a compliment, assigned me to a room at headquarters. But sleeping
with a strange fat woman on a feather-bed, with windows closed on a
hot July night was too much honor; so the next morning I asked to be
allowed to go with the nurses in their large new tent, where, with
a cot in each corner, we were quite comfortable. A small tent was
attached for my mess-room, while the nurses ate at the “patients’
mess.”

General Butler’s army headquarters of the Department of the James,
was across the Appomattox, at Bermuda Hundreds, whence the rumbling
of wagons and tramping of troops over pontoon bridges could be heard
through the silence and darkness of the night. Of course I slept
little on my first night in camp.

The next night I was greatly distressed by groans and cries in the
distance and, much excited, I went directly to Surgeon Porter, as
early as allowable the next morning, to ask if I could do something
for the suffering soldiers. Seeming surprised at my question he
replied that he was not aware of such suffering in camp. He asked
where the sounds came from, and as I indicated the direction he said
with a curious expression: “Well, Miss Smith, you may try if you
wish, but the cries come from the mules in the corral, and I fear you
will not succeed.” That joke followed me wherever I went.

Surgeon Porter gave me charge of the officers’ ward, of perhaps forty
or more patients. Each officer having his own orderly in attendance,
and the hospital being in very good running order, there was no
unpleasant work for me to do. So at first I saw only the romantic
side of “bathing feverish brows,” and giving comforting words, with
some specially prepared diet.

Not caring for society, or mere sentiment, I soon resolved to ask for
a ward of private soldiers, who did not presume upon equality, though
many of them were as truly gentlemen as were their officers.

Meanwhile the three nurses, though untrained, like most nurses of
that time, did good work in the wards of the regular soldiers.




                             CHAPTER IX

                            SOME PATIENTS


Point of Rocks Hospital consisted of about a dozen tents, each
perhaps fifty feet long, pinned as usual to the ground with wooden
pegs. These contained bunks and cots on either side, for about forty
or more patients to each tent, and sometimes, when crowded, patients
had only straw or hay bags with a blanket on the bare ground, all
of which the men nurses were expected to keep in perfect order and
cleanliness.

To enter at one end of these tents and see the rows of sick and
suffering, despondent men, at once aroused an earnest desire to help
them to a little comfort and cheer.

One day, passing through a long ward, I was startled by the sight of
a little pinched face with great dark eyes, that looked as if its
owner might be about ten or twelve years old. Stepping quickly to the
cot I said, “Why, who are you, and where did you come from?”

A feeble voice replied, “I’m Willie, I was here yesterday when you
passed, but you didn’t look at me.”

“But where did you come from?”

“I belong to the 37th New Jersey Infantry, in camp a few miles off,
and I got sick and they brought me here.”

“How could you be enlisted? How old are you?”

“I’m fifteen. I lied, and swore I was eighteen, and my parents
wouldn’t let me go, so I ran away, an’--an’ I guess, I’ll never see
mother any more.”

The soldier nurse said he was a typhoid case, with a chance of
living, if he could have good care, but that he would not be
persuaded to eat. I returned to him at once, saying, “Willie, I hear
that you don’t eat anything.”

“I can’t eat.”

“O, but you must. Now, Willie, can’t you think of something you’d
like?”

“Well,” with a suppressed sob, “if I could get anything like mother
used to make, perhaps I could.”

“Now tell me, Willie, what it was, what did it look like, and how did
it taste?”

The sick boy’s description was not very clear, but I said cheerfully,
“O, I can make that,” and ran off to my tent and soon prepared
something which, with a silver cup, spoon, and a tidy serviette,
at least looked inviting in contrast with the battered tin cups
and plates of camp life. He showed some interest as I said, “Here,
Willie, is just what mother used to make.” And he took a few
spoonfuls quite cheerfully as I fed him. I asked if it did not taste
something like mother made. He thought it did.

Feeling sure that only the greatest care would save him, I went at
once to Surgeon Porter, saying, “Doctor, I’d like to have that boy,
Willie, for an orderly.”

“What, another?” he replied, laughing. “You have more orderlies now
than General Grant himself.”

“This is true, doctor,” I said, for I had four who had been assigned
to me by the doctor that they might have special care, “and not one
of them can stand alone for one hour.”

“Well, you may have him, and I wish you success.”

I then asked Willie if he would like to be my orderly, and he seemed
quite delighted. I directed the nurse to dress him early next
morning, and to let him lie down till I came for him. The poor boy
staggered to his feet, but we almost carried him to my tent, where
I removed his army shoes and put a pair of my slippers on his poor,
little thin feet. I then laid him on my cot, bathed his hot head,
neck and hands, gave him nourishment, and told him to try to sleep
while I was away caring for other patients. All this was repeated for
several days, and thus he escaped the sight of dying and suffering
men. Each night I took him back to his tent, where he slept soundly
until morning. He improved slowly.

One day, while taking my dinner alone in my little mess tent, I was
surprised to see him standing at “attention” beside me. “Miss Smith,”
he said, while the fever burned his cheeks and brightened his dark
eyes, “I’ve been here five days, and it’s time I did something for
you.” The fever had burned out for the time, and, turning quickly I
caught his falling, emaciated form. Realizing his own helplessness,
the poor child wept bitterly.

Meanwhile his youthful officers had come to see him, which greatly
pleased the poor boy. He improved very slowly, but evidently would
not quite recover in these surroundings. I decided to make an effort
to send him home as soon as possible. With permission of Surgeon
Porter, and with his ambulance and an orderly, I rode a few miles
to a camp of the 37th New Jersey Infantry, in the woods, which was
composed entirely of boys and officers of not more than twenty or
twenty-four years of age.

The little “dog” or A tents allowed only one to crawl in on either
side of the tent pole, and lie on his blankets on the bare ground
with knapsacks for pillows. No wonder malaria made havoc in their
ranks!

While I was there, an order came to send forward a small detachment
of men for picket duty. All clamored to go, shouting in a most
informal manner, quite regardless of discipline. “Say, Cap, let me
go.” “I say, Maj, you know me.” “Cap, let me go, won’t you?” etc.,
etc. A dozen men were selected, not one fully grown, and these boys
staggered off in high spirits, each carrying a knapsack weighing
sixty pounds, a gun and an overcoat.

The colonel and captain of this regiment very cheerfully made the
necessary application for a sick furlough, and on my return to camp
Surgeon Porter at once endorsed it. Then, having waited a few days
for some one to take charge of Willie, I had the satisfaction of
seeing him start in an ambulance for the boat at City Point, supplied
with brandy and nourishment. His head lay on the knee of an officer
who was going to Fortress Monroe, and there was a happy boyish smile
on his face as they drove away.

In a few weeks came the good news that he had reached home and mother
and was fast recovering.

In the same ward with Willie were a number of Ohio “ninety days
selected men,” chiefly farmers, nearly every man six feet or more in
height. They were typhoid cases, who were really suffering more from
nostalgia than from fever. They had already served half their term,
yet nothing could arouse them from despair and homesickness, from
which many of them actually died, while the wiry, irrepressible city
boys generally recovered.

One day, while I was trying to bathe away the fever from the head and
hands of a young officer, General Butler entered the tent with some
of his staff, and thanked me for my care of this favorite, asking
that I would do all in my power to make him comfortable.

Another patient, Chaplain Eaton, of a Connecticut regiment, was
recovering from typhoid, and, though not very ill at this time, still
claimed a good deal of my attention. I felt, however, that it was a
waste of time to spend many minutes talking with him, or in reading
the Bible to him, while so many others were really suffering and
needing special care. But I wrote to his wife and did what I could.
He was very grateful, and wished to prove it by presenting to me a
handsome black horse, that his orderly brought daily to the tent for
inspection and petting. The animal was so intelligent that he seemed
really to recognize me. The chaplain’s insistence upon my accepting
the horse was quite annoying; and at last I said to him that “it
would be a great pity to turn such a beautiful creature into an
‘elephant’, which he would certainly become on my hands.”




                             CHAPTER X

                 EXPERIENCES AT POINT OF ROCKS


On Miss Barton’s return I found myself very much “de trop,” though
she treated me kindly. I saw very little of her work, but her extreme
deliberation, when one day I had run to her quite breathless from the
operating tent for bandages, etc., for the surgeons who were waiting,
was very irritating. She asked about my health, urged me to take a
seat, and very slowly rummaged about for the necessary supplies. The
only time I saw her actively engaged was on a day when there had
been a skirmish at the front, and she started for the field with the
ambulance and an orderly, and a small box of bandages, condensed
milk, etc.

One bright moonlight night, I was startled by strange sounds of
melodious singing in the distance, and, with an orderly, I went to
ascertain its meaning. We soon came upon a large fire surrounded
by a circle of perhaps forty negroes, men and women, crooning and
singing. They were often led by a high falsetto, then sinking to a
low monotone, when suddenly another voice would rise changing to a
new refrain, while not one lost the time or pitch or made discords.
They danced hand in hand in a slow rythmic circle, while one, more
excited than the rest, would spring up to a remarkable height
shouting, “Glory! bress de Lawd!” “I’s a-comin’ Lawd!” etc. All
“eyes in a fine frenzy rolling,” shone like great black beads in
the firelight, while their white teeth gleamed brightly. All were in
solemn seriousness as they sang simple couplets like the following:

   “If I’d a died when I was young,
    I wouldn’t a had dis risk to run.”

   “Some folks is bery good on de sing,
    But dey don’t know nuffin ’bout de hebbenly King.”

   “Some folks is bery good on de talk,
    But dey don’t know nuffin ’bout de hebbenly walk.”

They continued on in childish simplicity till their ecstasy broke
into shouts of “Cum down Lawd!”--“I’s a comin’ Lawd! Look out for
me!”--“I’s a-waitin’ Lawd!”--while the circle whirled in dizzy speed
until they sometimes fell exhausted to the ground. All feared the
“Voodou-Cunger” woman, and were anxious to propitiate her with a
rabbit’s foot and various incantations.

Eloquence, rhythm, oratory and harmony seem inborn among this strange
people, who have given to the whole South the soft voice and accent
so many of us like to hear.

Under existing conditions it was a relief when Mrs. E---- came from
the Masonic Mission in New York and claimed that a mistake had been
made in sending me to Point of Rocks, and informed me that I would
find work to my liking at City Point.

The following day Mrs. E----, with an ambulance, took me for a day’s
rough travel over corduroy roads and ditches and through woods to
General Burnside’s 9th Corps headquarters in a clump of trees before
Petersburg. The General came out of an inner tent, putting on his
coat and apologizing, saying he had been sleeping.

“Why, General, how can you sleep with the shells screaming and
exploding so near?”

“Oh,” he replied, laughingly, “this is when I can sleep comfortably.
It’s only when I hear musketry that I fear there is mischief brewing.”

A very courteous, handsome, soldierly gentleman was General Burnside.

We then drove a short distance to General O. B. Wilcox’s
headquarters, so near Petersburg that, with the General’s glasses, I
could distinctly see the people in their houses at their daily work,
though the cannons on both sides were replying with a formality as
if war was a matter of etiquette. There seemed to be only women in
the town, going about their home duties, quite unconscious of shells
falling into their doomed city. The General was quite elated at
having that day moved his lines forward three-quarters of a mile.

Seeing a number of barrels piled before his tent, I asked why they
were there. He smiled and said, “I was sitting here awhile ago
when a bullet passed over my shoulder, and the boys were afraid a
sharpshooter might pick me off, so they piled these barrels up for
protection.”

General Burnside commanded the 9th Army Corps and General Wilcox the
second division of that Corps. Both were gentlemen of refinement
and great kindness to the men, who were very proud and fond of their
commanders. I observed that both Generals treated me with more
courtesy than they showed to Mrs. E----, although she was a much
older woman.

  [Illustration: GENERAL BURNSIDE]

The next day on leaving the hospital at Point of Rocks, after
thanking Surgeon Porter for his friendliness and attention that had
made my stay possible and pleasant, and bidding Miss Barton good-bye,
I went with Mrs. E---- on board the “Gazelle,” (then well known in
New York Bay),--and returned to City Point.

We went directly to the tent of a Miss Nye, on the Agency Row, whom
I recognized as having seen in the office of the Masonic Mission in
New York City. Miss Nye at once took me aside saying, “You had better
take off that badge,”--the badge of the Masonic Mission, which I had
worn for protection,--“it is not respected here, and you may stay
with me as long as you wish, but that woman cannot stay another night
in my tent.”

About midnight a terrific storm arose and threatened to sweep Miss
Nye’s tent into the ravine quite nearby. She called for help from the
next tent, where slept some Christian Commission agents. While Miss
Nye held on to one side of the tent, I threw myself across my cot
and, with all my strength, held on to the other side. Mrs. E---- in
a short gown and petticoat of the olden time, held the tent flaps as
the wind rushed through, nearly carrying us all away with the tents.
However, the men soon hammered down the tent pins securely, and all
was quiet again. Altogether we made a comical picture and would have
been a fine group for the present day kodak.

Mrs. E---- left City Point the next day, and so passed out of my life.

While I was yet with Miss Nye, another night of alarm ended rather
amusingly. We were sleeping soundly on opposite sides of the tent
when Miss Nye screamed out that some one had reached under the tent
and touched her hand. We got up and, after talking loudly for a
while, thought the intruder was scared off. Then we fell asleep.
He came back again, however, evidently trying to reach a pocket
book under Miss Nye’s pillow. This time, not wishing to disturb the
sleepers in the near tents, we concluded to “arm ourselves for the
fray.” Miss Nye found a hatchet which she would have used bravely.
I could find no defensive weapon but a big long-necked bottle. We
knew that the thief could hear our threatening talk as he was hiding
in the ravine close by, so we lay down again, Miss Nye clasping the
hatchet on her breast, and I embracing in like manner my big bottle.
We soon slept soundly again, when suddenly a terrific crash caused us
to spring up in alarm. What could it be? Then I realized that I had
relaxed my hold on the big bottle, which had rolled across the rough
floor and crashed against the tent pole. After indulging in a good
laugh over our fright, we slept soundly once more until morning.

Still another incident regarding Miss Nye comes to mind. Years after
the war I succeeded in finding her, then a graduate of homœopathy
in New York City,--Doctor Frances M. Nye. She had met a Confederate
soldier, also a graduate of this school of medicine, and also bearing
the name of Francis M. Nye. The identity of names, perhaps, induced
a lasting friendship, and when they married Miss Nye changed only
one letter in her name. They continued to practise together for many
years and seemed very happy.




                             CHAPTER XI

   DEPOT FIELD HOSPITAL AND STATE AGENCIES AT CITY POINT, VIRGINIA


The hospital was situated half a mile from General Grant’s
headquarters at City Point, at the junction of the James and
Appomatox Rivers, and about eight miles from Petersburg front. The
hospital camp, then under the charge of Surgeon Edward Dalton and
medical staff, was laid out with great precision. This field hospital
was divided into the 9th, 2d, 6th, 5th corps, and corps d’Afric,
and these again into divisions, avenues, and streets at right
angles,--numbered and lettered. There were many thousands of sick and
wounded in these wards, nine thousand or more at a time, I believe.

Convalescent soldiers did police, ward, nurse and kitchen duty.
There were hundreds of wards with stockade sides, covered with
canvas roofs upheld in the usual manner by ridge and tent poles,
each containing probably fifty or more bunks or cots. A perfect
system of order and policing by convalescent men was enforced, and
not a particle of refuse or any scrap was allowed to lie for a
moment upon the immaculate streets or avenues of the “Sacred Soil,”
which was generally beaten hard and dry, though in wet weather this
was a problem to try men’s souls and women’s soles too. At such
times we were obliged to wade through nearly a foot of liquid mud,
occasionally sticking fast till pulled out somehow, perhaps with the
loss of a high rubber boot.

The wards were wonders of cleanliness, considering the disadvantages
of field life, and even at that time sanitation was of a high order
and, to a great degree, prevented local diseases. Men nurses,
soldiers unfit for active duty, took pleasure in fixing up their
wards with an attempt at ornamentation, when allowed. These men well
deserved their pay, as they worked cheerfully for the government
and for their sick comrades, doing their part faithfully during the
devastations of war. They were as much needed and as necessary as
their heroic comrades in the field. I never knew of one of these
faithful, hard-working amateur nurses being guilty of neglect or
unkindness, though chronic growlers and irritable sick men were
often exasperating to the nurse’s unfailing care and patience. They
frequently conveyed some interdicted luxuries from the sutler, or
extra rations, to make life more endurable and comfortable for the
invalids. This was usually winked at by their officers. They were
generally appreciated, and little dissatisfaction or complaint could
have been expressed. Perfect discipline and sympathy seemed to
prevail.

  [Illustration: SANITARY COMMISSION TENT AT CITY POINT]

During my year in this Field Hospital I did not hear of any
enforcement of severe punishment, but I remember, one day, while
riding outside of hospital lines, past a post or camp in the woods,
seeing in the distance a poor fellow hanging by his thumbs to the
branch of a tree. It was said by the men of his regiment that “the
fellow ought to have been hanged.”

Just across the road on one side of the hospital was a row of
State Agency tents. Larger tents of the Sanitary Commission,--that
magnanimous gift of the people that so often, even in the far South,
so nobly supplemented the regular hospital work and supplies,
sometimes even with its own transports and its own official corps of
workers,--headed this row. In the middle of the Agency row were the
tents of the Christian Commission, supported chiefly by churches from
all over the Northern States. They had built a large rough wooden
structure where regular services were held on Sundays and on many
evenings during the week, to the great relief and enjoyment of weary
men seeking to find a word of hope and comfort, and a change from the
monotony of ward life. Many ministers and other speakers came to look
over the work, and many of them were very interesting and earnest.

Along this extensive row of tents were the Agencies, supported by
the liberality of their several States, which also supplemented
the government in giving special care to their own individual men.
Capable men and refined women workers toiled uncomplainingly to make
hospital life more endurable for the sick.

From Petersburg front sick and wounded were daily sent to the
hospital, often on rough flat sand cars, over badly laid shaking
tracks, being brought as hastily as possible that they might receive
proper care and help. The sight of these cars, loaded with sufferers
as they lay piled like logs, waiting their turn to be carried to
the wards,--powder-stained, dust-begrimed, in ragged torn and
blood-stained uniforms, with here and there a half-severed limb
dangling from a mutilated body,--was a gruesome, sickening one, never
to be forgotten, and one which I tried not to see when unable to
render assistance.

Not only were the sick and wounded from near by brought there, but
large numbers came from more southerly points of the army of the
Potomac. Many seriously or permanently injured were sent here to
wait until able to be forwarded to Washington. Some came en route on
sick furloughs, or to be discharged, or when fit returned to their
regiments in the field. Every grade of suffering or weariness found
temporary shelter and care here. All incurable cases were hurried
forward as soon as possible to make room for the multitude still
coming.

One day while I was passing through a large ward, a number of sick
and wounded men were brought in. Suddenly one of them,--a boy of
about eighteen,--stood before me at “attention.” Signs of typhoid
were only too evident, as quite wildly, he struggled to express
himself, much like the following:

“Oh, Miss, won’t you just take my name? It’s John C. Guffin; and
write to my parents and tell them about me?” Controlling himself with
an effort he continued: “And Oh, do write to my employer, Mr. Gibson,
in Albany, and now, now be quick, won’t you?”--always prepared for
such emergencies, I quickly took down these addresses,--“for in a
minute I won’t know anything, just like I was when they brought me
in.”

  [Illustration: JOHN C. GUFFIN]

With a painful struggle he controlled his mind, saying: “Just
take these” (small articles) “and this little watch and wear it
until I get well.” This intense strain exhausted the last gleam of
intelligence, and he fell unconscious on a cot near by. Many weeks
he lay, raving and incoherent, till the fever had spent its malign
power. During these weeks I had many times stopped to glance at the
poor fellow, with burning fever and his eyes rolling wildly; but I
could do little for him. The soldier nurses, always kind to their
sick comrades, did all that was necessary or possible.

At this crisis Dr. O’Maugher came to me in the Maine State Agency
saying, “Do you remember the boy Guffin? Well the fever has spent
itself, and he is now lying in a critical state of exhaustion,
refusing all nourishment. I know you are over-worked, but he is at a
point when only a woman’s care can pull him through. Can you make a
place for him on your list?”

I went as soon as possible to the emaciated patient, whose mind was
not yet quite clear, though he seemed at once to have confidence in
me and wished me to stay by his side. Losing no time, I said: “Why,
John, I hear you will not eat anything, and now if you will not eat
you will certainly relapse and die.”

“I can’t eat, I can’t eat,” he continued to repeat.

“Why not?” I asked. “Why can’t you eat?”

“Why,” he said, “these ain’t John C. Guffin’s teeth, and I can’t eat,
I can’t eat.”

Here was a problem. The boy must not be forced against his own will.
“Why, my boy, that’s nonsense, because you have had a bad fever.”

He repeated, “Can’t eat, can’t eat; these ain’t my teeth, and I can’t
eat with another man’s teeth.”

Experience had taught us many devices while in our daily care of
irresponsible patients, so I replied quickly, “O, that makes no
difference, don’t you know you can eat just as well with another
man’s teeth as with your own?”--a fact painfully true to many. He
turned and looked at me very doubtfully while I repeated and urged
him to try. “Now, John, I’m going to make something real nice for
you, and you are going to eat it.”

Very soon I brought my little tray, with silver cup and spoon and a
pretty doily, in which for refined patients I had much confidence,
and which at once diverted their attention. When I sat down beside
him he said once more to me rather quietly, “Can’t eat, can’t eat.”

“Now, John, I made this just for you; it’s awfully good, taste it.”

Taking advantage of an open-mouthed objection, I slipped in a
spoonful which he was obliged to swallow, greatly to his surprise;
and so I quickly followed it with two or three more spoonfuls, and
left the little tray for him to look at, and to help him to reason
out why he could eat with another man’s teeth.

Daily I fed him until he was able to take the regular hospital
diet. While convalescent, and when quite himself, we had almost a
quarrel. I wished to return the little silver watch, and he insisted
upon my keeping it, this I refused until he declared that it was not
good enough, and if I would not keep it he would send me a handsome
gold one when he reached home. At last I consented to accept it as
a keepsake from a boy friend, saying I would rather have it than a
gold one. To my great regret, while galloping with a party through
Petersburg, just after the capture, I lost it from my belt, with a
bunch of rings made from buttons, and little tokens made by the boys
from the bones of the meat in their rations.

Meanwhile I had written to his family and to his employer, Mr.
Gibson, who wrote that if the boy could be taken home he would come
for him. Immediately I wrote and explained to him what was necessary
to procure a discharge or sick furlough. The former was soon
obtained, as he was even then but a boy. Mr. Gibson came at once, and
took the lad home in a most generous manner.

When, later, I went to Albany for an interview with Governor Fenton,
I was entertained by his family; but John was not at home, and I have
never seen him since.

During this period of the great Rebellion the most terrible battles
of any recorded in modern history, were fought. After one of them,
during which the same ground had been fought over repeatedly, now
with success on the Southern side, now on the Northern, a flag of
truce was sent in from the Confederate Army, asking for a cessation
of hostilities that its soldiers might be allowed to bury their dead.
The following poem, written by Amanda T. Jones, author of “A Psychic
Autobiography,” commemorates the heart-breaking incident. It will be
found among her collected works entitled “Poems: 1854-1906.”


            A REBEL FLAG OF TRUCE

            Let us bury our dead:
    Since we may not of vantage or victory prate;
    And our army, so grand in onslaught of late,
    All crippled has shrunk to its trenches instead--
            For the carnage was great:
            Let us bury our dead.

            Let us bury our dead.
    Oh, we thought to surprise you, as panting and flushed,
    From our works to assault you we valiantly rushed:
    But you fought like the gods, till we faltered and fled,
            And the earth, how it hushed!
            Let us bury our dead.

            So, we bury our dead--
    From the field, from the range and the crash of the gun,
    From the kisses of love, from the face of the sun!
    Oh, the silence they keep while we dig their last bed!
            Lay them in, one by one:
            So we bury our dead.

            Fast we bury our dead.
    All too scanty the time let us work as we may,
    For the foe burns for strife, and our ranks are at bay:
    On the graves we are digging what legions will tread,
            Swift and eager to slay--
            Though we bury our dead.

            See we bury our dead!
    Oh, they fought as the young and the dauntless will fight,
    Who fancy their war is a war for the right!
    Right or wrong, it was precious--this blood they have shed:
            Surely God will requite,
            And we bury our dead.

            Yes, we bury our dead.
    If they erred as they fought will He charge them with blame?
    When their hearts beat aright and the truth was their aim?
    Nay, never in vain has such offering bled!--
            North or South, ’tis the same--
            Fast we bury our dead.

            Thus we bury our dead,
    O, ye men of the North, with your banner that waves
    Far and wide o’er our Southland, made rugged with graves,
    Are ye verily right that so well ye have sped?
            Were we wronging our slaves?
            Well, we bury our dead!

            Ah, we bury our dead!
    And granting you all you have claimed on the whole,
    Are we spoiled of our birthright and stricken in soul,
    To be spurned at Heaven’s court when its records are read?
            Nay, expound not the scroll,
            Till we bury our dead!

            Haste and bury our dead.
    No time for revolving of right and of wrong
    We must venture our souls with the rest of the throng
    And our God must be Judge as He sits overhead,
            Of the weak and the strong,
            While we bury our dead.

            Now peace to our dead;
    Fair grow the sweet blossoms of Spring where they lie;
    Hark! the musketry roars and the rifles reply.
    Oh, the fight will be close and the carnage be dread!
            To the ranks let us hie:
            We have buried our dead.

I found plenty of work to do, and attached myself to the Ninth Corps
especially, though visiting all the wards and corps. I was invited
by Mrs. Mayhew to work with her for some weeks in the Maine State
Agency. While there I was asked later, in the absence of Miss Gilson,
of Lynn, Massachusetts, to take charge of the Corps d’Afric, but I
soon found that the work was chiefly to look after refugee negroes,
and to give them employment in laundry work, etc. Doctor Thomas
Pooley was then in charge of that corps, and is now a distinguished
oculist of Manhattan. I still see him, a very young man, resplendent
in a new uniform with bright buttons, red sash, etc., as officer of
the day.

  [Illustration: HELEN LOUISE GILSON]

Miss Gilson had come with Mr. Fay, General Superintendent of the
Sanitary Commission, in the field, and formerly Mayor of Chelsea,
Massachusetts, and she chose to work for the Corps d’Afric. That was
quite as well conducted as any other corps. Miss Gilson was a dainty
young woman, and, while in camp, wore a short pretty dress of grey
cloth and a white kerchief tastily arranged over her dark hair and
one about her neck. She had a pure soprano voice, and frequently
sang army songs and hymns to the men, making them quite happy, and
with a sort of reverence, they seemed to find her an angel of peace.
In her earnest devotion, Miss Gilson remained too long ministering to
typhoid patients from whom she contracted the fever, and at last was
compelled to leave her chosen work and go to her home, still hoping
to recover and to return to the patients of her corps. Her strength
was not equal to the waste of that burning fever, however, and she
died in her early womanhood, a sacrifice to her benevolence and
patriotism as truly and honorably as the men who died on the field of
battle.

I returned to the Maine State Agency, and found more special cases in
the hospital than could be cared for by all the ladies. The United
States Sanitary Commission was under the direction of the late J.
Yates Peek, of Brooklyn, New York. The absence of sectarianism in
their work gave them greater freedom than was found in the work
of the “Christian Commission,” which was conducted on “religious”
principles. The latter, however, did a very large work under the
direction of the late Mr. Henry Houghton, a distinguished oculist of
Manhattan.

The large wooden chapel accommodated many hundreds, and here came
preachers from all over the country, whose churches had contributed
supplies and were anxious to know how their contributions were
applied. Some ministers, from remote localities, were a great
annoyance, having to be entertained by the Christian Commission, and
wanting to regulate their donations according to the ideas of their
own little parishes.

In the Maine State Agency the “mess” was at that time composed of
Mrs. Mayhew and her lady assistants, with two or three convalescent
officers. This pleasant party I was invited to join.

  [Illustration: LIEUTENANT STANWOOD]

Surgeon William O’Maugher, of the 69th New York Infantry, late
coroner of New York City, a jolly Irish gentleman, and Lieutenant
Stanwood, of Maine, with their wit and jolly talk were a great help
to us, when we sometimes actually staggered to our tents, completely
discouraged and exhausted. It was impossible to help all the sick
“Boys,” who were happy if we could give them only a pleasant word
of cheer in passing. We frequently sat on the rough seats, leaning
wearily on the plank tables supported on empty barrels; but their
Yankee and Irish jokes, after a good meal, soon raised our spirits
and we were ready to start again on the endless round among the sick.

One day at dinner, when I was particularly depressed, Doctor
O’Maugher began with an extra brogue--“Yees all think a deal of Miss
Smith, don’t yees?”

“Well, I guess we do,” said Lieutenant Stanwood, “and no one had
better say anything against her.”

“Well, if yees knew what I know about her y’d change yer mind.” I was
too tired to raise my head, and he went on: “Yees know about that
Guffin boy she tuk care of? Well, she saved his life to be sure, but
if ye knew the rist of it.”

At last I said, “What’s the matter with you, O’Maugher?”

“Well,” he went on, “do ye know whin I wanted to put a fly blisther
on the back of the boy’s head, she wouldn’t allow it, and for why do
ye think? Well, she said it would spoil his looks for a corpse.” This
of course was followed with a shout of laughter which happily relaxed
the tension of fatigue, and gave us courage to go on.

One morning when Doctor O’Maugher came to his “mess” he looked a
picture of misery. “Why, Doctor, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, it’s a poor miserable cuss of a biped I am onyway.”

“What makes you so unhappy?”

“Oh, it’s just a miserable toothache that I have.”

“Is that all? Well then, Doctor, you are only a bicusped after all.”

“Be garry, it’s right ye are,” he laughed.

Mrs. Mayhew, a lady of much refinement, possessed a sweet soprano
voice, and a few of us formed a chapel quartette. The singing was
greatly enjoyed by the convalescents, especially as we took care to
select good old time choruses in which they joined heartily. Planed
planks on logs made tolerable seats, and a rough platform and a desk,
lighted at night with lamps or candles, completed the arrangements
of the great square room of unplaned boards, where, as Miss Nye
remarked, we sometimes literally “sat under the drippings of the
sanctuary.”

Many evenings while resting from the fatigue of the day we sat
outside the Maine Agency tent and sang army and other patriotic
songs. Mrs. Mayhew with her rare sweet voice led the singing, and
the chorus followed in our favorite songs of “Picking the Lint,”
“Tenting To-night,” “We Shall Meet but We Shall Miss Him,” “Star
Spangled Banner,” “Home, Sweet Home.” The latter, however, caused
many stealthy tears among the listening patients, so we often closed
with something cheerful like “Yankee Doodle” or “John Brown’s Body,”
etc. Owing to the quiet of the great hospital after dark the singing
could be heard all over camp.

I was urged to take charge of the 2nd corps’ diet kitchen in the
absence of Miss Hancock, which meant to direct the soldier cooks,
see to supplies, regulate hours and kitchen diet, etc., for four
hundred convalescents.

Late one morning the head cook came to me saying, “It’s time to begin
dinner, and we have nothing but one little shoulder of lamb. The
Commissary has not sent any meat or vegetables. What shall we do?”

This was a dilemma certainly. Four hundred hungry men must somehow
be fed. All through the army at every camp, I believe, a temporary
oven was set up during the halts, and excellent fresh bread was
served daily. The government also supplied the very best of coffee,
but this was not dinner. One must be equal to any emergency in the
army. Telling the cook to get out his large cauldron and put into
it the little allowance of meat to boil, I took an orderly with a
wheelbarrow, and started on a forage among the agencies.

At Maine I begged some fresh vegetables. Ohio gave some canned meat,
Indiana onions, New Jersey more canned goods. I sent the orderly
with these to the cook, directing that everything be put into
the cauldrons. We got another barrow load from the Pennsylvania,
the Christian and the Sanitary Commissions. This miscellaneous
collection, when cooked and well seasoned, made “the best stew we
ever ate,” said the satisfied four hundred.

While at this diet kitchen some one stole my journal, money, and
pass,--the latter the most serious loss, as no one could remain in
camp without written authority. Happily, and to my surprise, when I
applied to Surgeon Dalton as to what I must do, he said, “As I know
of your good work in New York, Miss Smith, I will be happy to have
you remain, but hope you will get a pass as soon as possible. The
Provost Marshall, General Patrick, has authority higher than mine.”
The General was a strict disciplinarian, and had he known that my
pass was lost he could have ordered me to “report to Washington at
once.”

Many strange things occurred in our daily work. While I was helping
at the Pennsylvania Agency, a wild-eyed, simple-minded woman found
her way to our tents. Twice before she had somehow either eluded the
guards or had worried officers into giving her a temporary pass.
She had come for “the bones of her son” who had died at White House
Landing and was supposed to have been buried there in the early
skirmishes of the war. Hoping to satisfy this persistent woman, Mrs.
Painter, whose pass gave her authority, ordered a transport to take
her with a detachment of men to the golgotha of her hopes.

We took the short sail and landed at White House Point, where it was
thought the boy might possibly have been buried, as the men had been
in a skirmish there. They tried to locate the body by driving down in
many places a long slender iron bar, but no trace of it was found.
The half-demented woman continued to declare that she would “yet
hold those dear bones in her arms.” She was finally persuaded to go
home and come another time, which was the only way of relieving the
hospital of her presence.

According to army usage everything movable might be taken from a
deserted point. The White House was still standing in good order,
with green lattice shutters, and Mrs. Painter directed the men to
take them off and bring them to our tents, and a small summer house
was added to our army property.




                            CHAPTER XII

          CITY POINT, VIRGINIA--A DAY IN THE ARMY

             From a letter written Nov. 8, 1864


November 8th (Election Day) dawned upon a cloudy sky and misty
atmosphere as peculiar to Virginia as is also the renowned and
“Sacred Soil,” after a few days’ rain. This however, we observed
after we had risen from our narrow hospital bed, which stood close
by the side of the tent, that flapped in the face of the sleeper
(or waker) as the wind rose or fell. The rain descended in torrents
during the night, and all was damp as usual in our rag houses. Our
sleeping apartment, or tent, the second one of the Maine Agency,
was well stored with boxes of goods and delicacies for the sick,
leaving little moving space. Late as was the season our tents were
made comfortably warm with army fireplaces, and stoves, though the
floors, made of broken boxes, were sometimes covered with mud. “Oh,
were you ever into an Irishman’s shanty?” I can not here describe
our excellent agency which did more for the relief of soldiers, and
more fully realized the idea of an army home, than any agency or
commission on the field.

I accepted a pressing invitation from the New Jersey State Agent,
Doctor Hettie K. Painter, to join a pleasure excursion. She, by the
by, was a living example of the usefulness of a lady in the army,
who can frequently effect more good by personal influence than would
be allowed through regular channels.

  [Illustration: DR. HETTIE K. PAINTER]

Our pass being sufficient, we started in an ambulance with a clever
driver, who drove around the camp and gave us an opportunity to
see the extent of our hospital, having a capacity of over 9,000,
and covering an area of twenty-five acres. We then crossed the
Petersburg railroad, to which had been added a branch running
directly into the middle of our camp for the more direct and
comfortable conveyance of the sick and wounded.

We splashed on in the mud, through an opening in the fortification
which protected the base. This defense extended about fifteen miles
from the Appomatox River to the James River, and was a high, heavy
earthwork, further protected by a deep ditch; earthworks having been
found to be superior to stone fortification. How little did those at
home know of the immense amount of labor here necessary! The pick and
spade still played an important part in the warfare of our country.

Virginia was stripped of her artificial culture and bore on her bosom
the scourge of war in the form of burned and felled woods, torn and
altered roads, plantations deserted and laid waste, deeply furrowed
fields turned into stony roughness and corduroy unevenness, which
resisted even the indentation of wheels, and threatened frequent
overturns. With all these marks of desolation, waste and destruction,
Virginia was still beautiful in her woods and varied trees, now
gorgeous in the oriental splendor of fall,--crimson, orange and pale
yellow, with a background of the darkest green, fading into tan or
sere and yellow,--with blended colorings indescribable, and hills
receding in the distance. Near us--beyond the winding river and
bayous, the dells and ravines and bluffs, which give to the quiet
and beautiful scenery of this section its greatest variety and
charm--was the Point of Rocks.

On we jogged in our springless ambulance, here passing an army
train of supplies, or a load of logs for building winter quarters.
Further on we ran our wheels into a loaded army wagon, drawn by six
mules, but a dexterous turn brought us upon an evergreen bank, and
we rode safely along, following a cavalry force. After riding about
four miles, we came to Broadway Landing, (why so called I can not
surmise), a depot at which General Butler’s supplies were received
and forwarded. Here we crossed the pontoon bridge, formed by placing
flat-bottomed boats sidewise about ten feet apart, and fastening
these by ropes and beams laid across from one boat to another, and
heavy planks laid transversely across the beams. This makes a very
simple, portable and strong bridge. The river at this point is less
than a quarter of a mile in width, having a steep bank on either side.

On the eminence of the James River side of the Appomattox we came
upon the marine artillery performing their drill. The rapidity with
which they dismounted, and took to pieces and reconstructed their
cannon seemed wonderful to an ordinary spectator. To the left we
passed the spot said to be the veritable and memorable site of
the historical incident of the saving of Captain Smith’s life by
Pocahontas. Her direct descendants, the Rolfs, give this as the
locality, and the stump of a large oak tree at the extreme end of the
Point of Rocks as the identical one,--now felled and lying down the
bank,--under whose shade might have perished John Smith. And what
then would the world have done for a scapegoat?

Still further to the left of us was the 18th Army Corps Hospital, and
in the background, on the river bank, rose one of General Butler’s
great signal stations, 125 feet in height, to which were communicated
from the smaller and hidden stations, the results of their
observations, and whence they were transmitted to General Butler’s
headquarters. While at one of these smaller stations, we saw through
glasses a train of nine empty cars, passing on the rebel road, which
fact was immediately conveyed by a singular numerical motion of a
signal flag. The flagman who gave this communication was remarkably
expert in his motions.

After riding some three miles further we reached General Butler’s
provisional camp, then in command of General Graham. Only a part
of the supplies were now forwarded to this point, the rest being
conveyed by way of the James River. Here we stopped at the Hatcher
farm. Judging from the number of barns and small houses scattered
about, this must have been quite an extensive plantation. The owner
and present occupant had taken the Oath of Allegiance, and having
sent his slaves farther south, lived here quietly with his wife and
three pretty children. But General Butler’s vigilance would not allow
him to leave his house or to speak to any one without the immediate
attendance of a guard, who constantly walked before his door. Our
cook supplied this rusty cavalier and family with the necessities of
life, as if he were a northern “mud sill.”

On the farm was quite a large negro cabin, built of logs, consisting
of two rooms, one above the other. This was the telegraph station
of this section and was under the supervision of the son of Doctor
Hettie K. Painter, a lad of less than seventeen summers, who
conducted the business as thoroughly as if it had been under the
guidance or experience of grey locks. What strange stories passed
over the lines from that mysterious little instrument, quietly
working away on a side table as if only an ornament! These boy
employees,--for our young friend Painter had assistance,--were all
able to read by sounds which, to unpractised ears, seemed all alike.

In a large fireplace, over a log fire, Mrs. Painter made a camp
kettle of cornstarch pudding, and George Washington, the contraband,
boiled potatoes and fried the mutton chops; and with the addition of
a few delicacies and good Java coffee, which we had carried with us,
we had as good a dinner as hungry mortals could wish.

Dinner over, we gathered some of the beautiful autumn leaves, and
rode on our way until we reached the renowned original “Crow’s
Nest” signal station. This was a huge tree seventy-five feet high,
surmounting which was the “Crow’s Nest,” reached by rude ladders
from one platform to another. This “Nest” resembled a thatched
bird’s nest on a large scale, about four feet square, and it was
almost hidden by surrounding trees. A new skeleton station erected
on the opposite side of the road left unused the “Old Nest.” Several
gunboats were lying in the river, below the banks of the James, ready
for action.

Entering the ambulance, we continued our ride over hills and through
ravines, at the risk of an upset, until we safely reached Dutch Gap,
General Butler’s famous canal. This was nearly completed at the cost
of much time and labor, and only waited the blasting of a rock at the
other end, to complete the work which would form an island of the
narrow peninsula dividing the River James into two branches, to be
connected by the canal.

Along both shores were heavy guns and strong fortifications, quite
formidable, showing much labor and ingenuity. Despite the almost
constant courtesy of interchanging shells passing overhead, the
“Johnny Rebs,” on one side of the river, and the Yanks on the other
bank, had many quiet talks across the narrow stream. Talks like this
were quite usual, and were even winked at by officers.

“Hello Yank, hev u’uns got any good coffee?”

“Well I guess! It can’t be beat. Say, Johnny, how are you off for
tobac?”

“O, we’ve got heaps of that. I reckon u’uns had better just float
some of that coffee across.”

“All right, Johnny, you get your tobac ready!”

By a little practice in watching the current, they became quite
expert in floating across many exchanges besides the tobacco and
coffee. They even risked being shot from their own side as deserters,
and swam across after dark to enjoy a supper of “hot pone” on the
“Reb” side, or hot coffee and some luxuries on the “Yank” side, where
the sutler often consumed a month’s pay at a time in selling good
things to some “Boy in Blue.”

Returning, we stopped only at the embalmer’s, where many bodies were
daily prepared to be sent to friends at home. The morbid fancy which
is manifested by so many to possess dead bodies, especially those
which have long laid buried, seems one of the most barbarous customs
permitted in a civilized country.

We reached our hospital just as “night drew on her sable mantle and
pinned it with a star.” The camp fires and chimneys were throwing
over the scene a bright and cheering glow. A good supper was prepared
by our contraband Hannah, who, with a broad smile, declared in her
own peculiar vernacular: “I’s jes goin’ gib you alls up; t’o’t de
rebs done got you dis time shoo nuff--I’se so glad.”

We pressed our collection of leaves, and, after a short visit to
headquarters and the ladies’ tent where our stores were kept, we
returned to “Maine” and laid away our weary bones, nearly shattered
after a day’s shaking over the corduroy roads. We were soon lulled
to sleep by the 6th Army Corps singing “The Girl I Left Behind Me”
and the humming of the singing mice which infected our tent.




                            CHAPTER XIII

                            DOROTHEA DIX


About this time I met Dorothea Dix, that masterful woman by whose
persevering energies insane women were provided with suitable
hospitals, instead of being confined with criminals, as was usual
in the old days. She devoted her time, thought and influence to
compelling the opening of decent asylums for these often refined,
unfortunate women patients. Her good work, begun in this country,
reached England and other countries, and was the beginning of that
civilizing influence that no longer considered these unfortunates as
subjects of divine punishment.

Miss Dix, a dignified lady, was then organizing a trained nurse
corps. There were no trained nurses, or “Red Cross” at that time, but
later we followed the Swiss movement. Miss Dix asked me to join her
corps, but I declined, preferring to do independent work. I was glad,
however, to turn over to her nurse corps, my three assistant nurses,
knowing that with her they would receive pay for their services,
which the Masonic Mission had falsely promised to us. Several young
girls had been sent, with directions not to take money or clothing,
as everything would be furnished. I had insisted on taking both.
Some girls were stranded at Fortress Monroe, two or three of whom
I succeeded in sending home safely. Three others, stranded and
penniless, fell under the protection (?) of young officers. I then
resigned my secretaryship of the Masonic Mission, with a threat
to expose and have them arrested for false pretenses, but they
disappeared in a night, and were never more heard of.

On the return of Miss Hancock to the second corps’ kitchen, some
red tape became tangled up, and, as I was invited to assist in the
New Jersey and Pennsylvania Agency with Doctor Hettie K. Painter, I
gladly accepted, and worked for the men of those states, though, each
of the Agencies desiring my help, we all worked in the same spirit
for all the “Boys.”

A most interesting Pennsylvania case was that of a young captain
who had received a thigh fracture while at the front at Petersburg.
The leg had to be amputated so high that the artery could not be
taken up, and it was impossible to close it in the usual manner.
Consequently men were detailed to hold or press their thumbs
ceaselessly upon the open artery, each man serving four hours at a
time, although another was always ready to take his place in case the
strain of holding so long in a cramped position should cause him to
relax or faint. This was continued for weeks till the artery actually
healed. I believe only one other such case occurred during the Civil
war. While hastily passing through his ward one day, Lieutenant
Stanwood called my attention to this officer.

Contrary to my intention of caring only for young boys, I felt it my
duty to do what I could for this sufferer, whom I found in a very
critical state, needing the utmost care to bring him through. Being
a blonde, he was transparently white from loss of blood, and so weak
that he scarcely tried to live. He had no interest in anything and no
appetite. There was no time to be lost here, so I said--“Captain, you
do not eat, I hear, and I want to make you something that you would
like.”

“I have no appetite,” he replied feebly.

“Can you think of something you could relish?”

After a pause he said, “I think it’s hardly worth your time. I shall
not recover, but perhaps I could eat some barley broth if it is
possible to get it.”

Always strong on the optimistic side, I answered, “I think we can
find some, Captain.”

But where? Perhaps not nearer than Washington and forty or more hours
away. Here was possibly a life to save. Beginning at the Sanitary
Commission, at the head of the agency row, I went to each State
agency in a faint hope of at least securing some substitute, but
nothing could I find. Barley was such a simple thing; and now might
save a life! I racked my brain to find some palatable substitute.
As a last hope I went to the Christian Commission with my anxious
inquiry, “Can’t you remember if on your list of supplies some
thoughtful man or woman has sent this now invaluable donation?”

Mr. Houghten said, “I seem to remember that about six months ago
there was sent a little package marked barley, but how can we find it
in this great store of supplies?”

“Oh,” I exclaimed, “put on all your men to hunt for it; it may save a
life worth saving.”

To my delight, after a long search, a package of about four by three
inches was discovered. Losing no time, I ran to my tent and started
a few spoonfuls boiling. The surgeon had said not even salt could be
allowed the patient, lest it should increase circulation and thus
break open the artery scarcely healed.

At last with my special attractive little array of silver cup, dainty
doiley, etc., I went to the poor captain. His refined face at once
showed his appreciation of the neat service.

“Here’s your barley, Captain,” I said cheeringly; “let me feed you
a few spoonfuls now, and I’ll come back and give you a little more
bye and bye. And, Captain, I shall leave it all here on this little
table; don’t let any one carry it off.”

The poor, feeble cripple, who had not been allowed to change his
position for many days, said--“They’d better not touch it!” and
he fixed his great blue eyes on the tray with an air of defiance,
pathetic to see. So his mind had something to guard, and this
somewhat diverted his attention from the dying and suffering men
about him. Next day the surgeon allowed a little salt, then a
little butter, and at last a little meat. By this time his digestion
would allow stronger food, and this was fortunate, for, though I had
guarded every grain of the precious little package, it was almost
exhausted.

I have often pictured to myself a kindly, country old lady in white
cap and kerchief, whose prescience in sending this precious barley
probably saved a life, and I wished that she could know it.

The captain lived, and went to Washington quite recovered, where
he received a government leg (gratis) which fitted so well that he
could jump off a moving car. He then went home quite well, having
sacrificed a leg to his country. His temperate clean manner of living
served him in an emergency and carried him over the crisis.

The mistaken idea of so many men, especially military men of that
time, that liquor gives strength and courage, cost many an otherwise
pure character his life in such an exigency.

By contrast with the above I will cite the case of Colonel Murphy,
Sixty-ninth New York Infantry, second corps, a brave officer,
worshipped by his men. He was a man of fine physique and robust
appearance when I saw him, despite his fatal wound, a fracture of
the thigh, similar to that of the Pennsylvania captain. To perform
the amputation and carry him over successfully it was necessary
to stimulate him and this was impossible, his body being already
over-stimulated by the drinking habit to the last degree. I never
before begrudged anything to a wounded man, but I knew that my choice
brandy could not help him. He died without even a chance of being
saved, mourned and regretted by his whole corps.




                            CHAPTER XIV

                        AN UNEXPECTED RIDE


On a beautiful clear night, while still in the Corps d’Afric, a party
of ladies and officers walked a short distance to a cabin where a
negro preacher drew a large crowd. This man, though uneducated, was a
wonder of natural oratory and eloquence. In addressing his admiring
audience his vocabulary was remarkable, as he used some extraordinary
sentences such as--“All the englomerated hosts of heaven.”

While at this meeting an orderly came for me saying that a couple of
officers from the front desired to see me at my tent. I found there
two uniformed, mounted officers awaiting me, one of whom proved to be
my old friend Captain Frank Dexter of the Engineer Corps.

The night was perfect in a mild atmosphere and a full orbed moon, and
I was reminded of James’ old time “Solitary Horseman,” though here
were _two_ rarely handsome men of fine physique; and as they stood,
holding their fiery steeds, they formed a romantic picture.

After a pleasant talk of home and friends they remounted, and with
raised sombreros, their spurred horses dashed away to the clinking
of sword and hoofs, while the bright moon rays glinted uniforms and
accoutrements, till they passed under the shadow of the distant woods.

  [Illustration: CAPTAIN B. F. DEXTER]

Captain Dexter had raised Company L of the Fiftieth Volunteer
Engineer Corps early in the war, and still commanded that company
at Petersburg front, and during many battles. After the close of
the war, he became a successful physician, and in addition to his
practice in New York City he held for many years the position of
Police Surgeon.

As some patients needed fresh milk, I started out boldly one
afternoon, with an orderly carrying an empty pail and a basket of
extracts and small supplies. We rode through the woods beyond our
lines to a secesh house quite near. On the piazza were a pretty young
girl and a young Confederate officer in full grey uniform. With them
were two or three ladies. At first they were suspicious lest it was
a ruse on our part to capture the young “reb,” but a pleasant talk
followed, and they were glad to exchange some quarts of milk for the
small luxuries that they had been so long unable to secure, and to
arrange an exchange of milk for such articles in the future.

We gave the sick rebel prisoners the same attention as our own boys.
One asked why we were so kind to them, and I replied--“Why, don’t you
know we’re feeding you up to make you well and then send you back so
we can fight you over again.” This greatly amused them.

A rumor spread through the camp that the rebel gunboats were coming
down the James to capture the hospital. Much excitement followed
as to what we women would do; should we try to escape or should we
remain with the sick? We promptly decided to remain with our boys;
but happily the gunboats did not come.

My only recreation was an occasional horseback ride, accompanied by
a mounted orderly. As there was only one lady’s saddle in camp, it
was difficult to secure it. Two or three high cavalry saddles were
altered so that women could ride, uncomfortably, on them. I once
rode a horse from General Russell’s headquarters at the Point, and
found the animal quite unmanageable. He at once started for a run
and it was impossible to check or hold him. I barely managed to hold
on, winding the reins about my hands, and bracing myself in the too
small saddle. We passed a hotel on the road where many officers
were sitting, then General Grant’s tent, and then dashed down the
road over a pile of logs, nearly upsetting some soldiers at work
there. With a sudden stop that nearly sent me over the horse’s head
the animal stood quietly in front of General Russell’s open office
window, where the General and his staff were consulting. They sprang
up at the clatter and, gasping for breath, I said, “General, I didn’t
come to see you because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t help it.”
And there was a general laugh. The check rein had been forgotten.

Another horse took me back very quietly, but for many days the
strained muscles stood out like those of an athlete, and there was
pain enough through my entire body to make me sympathize with a
chronic “rheumatic.”

We sometimes rode to U. S. Headquarters to see the drill and
inspection of General Russell’s colored brigade. General Grant often
stood beside his magnificent black horse at these inspections, and
was very proud of the perfect drill of the negro infantry, whom he
complimented, to their great happiness. These were the first colored
troops I had seen.

According to General Butler’s autobiography “The first regiment of
colored soldiers was mustered in at New Orleans on August 22d, 1862.
Better soldiers never shouldered a musket. They learned to handle
arms and to march more readily than white men.”

How little thought and justice has been given to the fact that, when
enlistments began, and as the demand for Confederate troops became
more imperative, even old men and boys were drafted into the Southern
army,--for light duty perhaps. In some cases there was not a white
man within many miles, and to the care and honor of these negroes,
plantations of hundreds of acres were left that they might continue
to raise food and supplies for their army. Despite the fact that
thousands of these negroes had practically no restraint to fear, they
cheerfully labored against a cause that even at that early day they
felt was for their emancipation, and yet I never heard of an uprising
that could not have been checked by helpless women. There was not a
case of robbery, destruction of property or rapine among the faithful
workers who became the protectors of Southern women and children.

  [Illustration: GENERAL CHARLES HALPIN]

In a sketch of the life of General Charles Halpin, (Private Miles
O’Reilly) occur the following verses. “Sambo’s Right to Get Kilt”
was written to accustom the Northern soldiers to the presence of the
negro. They had so strong a prejudice against the negro that they did
not like him even to be killed in the company of white soldiers. Its
effect was astonishing and its argument was unanswerable, and negro
soldiers were ever after held in the respect due to their orderly
conduct. General Butler considered them a necessity of Northern
success, mainly due to the wonderfully skilled pen of General
Halpin, who died at the early age of thirty-seven, at the height of
literary honor.


         SAMBO’S RIGHT TO BE KILT

    Some tell us ’tis a burnin’ shame
        To make the naygars fight;
    An’ that the thrade of bein’ kilt
        Belongs but to the white.
    But as for me, upon me sowl!
        So liberal are we here
    I’ll let Sambo be murthered instead of myself,
        On every day in the year.
    On every day in the year.
        And in every hour in the day,
    The right to be kilt I’ll divide wid him,
        An’ divil a word I’ll say.

    In battie’s wild commotion,
        I shouldn’t at all object
    If Sambo’s body should stop a ball
        That was comin’ for me direct;
    And the prod of a Southern bagnet,
        So ginerous are we here,
    I’ll resign and let Sambo take it
        On every day in the year.
    On every day in the year, boys,
        And wid none of your nasty pride,
    All my right in a Southern bagnet prod
        Wid Sambo I’ll divide.

    The men who object to Sambo
        Should take his place and fight;
    And it’s better to have a nayger’s hue
        Than a liver that’s wake and white.
    Though Sambo’s black as the ace of spades,
        His finger a thrigger can pull,
    And his eye runs sthraight on the barrel-sights
        From under its thatch of wool.
    So hear me all boys darlin’,
        Don’t think I’m tippin’ you chaff,
    The right to be kilt we’ll divide wid him
        And give him the larger half.

                            CHARLES GRAHAM HALPIN.
                              (Miles O’Reilly.)




                            CHAPTER XV

                           TWO FIANCÉES


We were all much interested in the case of a young lieutenant who had
lost a leg and was slowly recovering. He had written to his fiancée
that he was disabled, and would give her up if she so desired. He was
now awaiting anxiously her reply.

Quite coincidently, at the other end of the ward was Major Hemlock,
of the Forty-seventh New York Infantry, who had lost a leg and
he, too, had written his fiancée offering to release her from her
promise. As time went by without bringing a reply the lieutenant
became very despondent. One day in passing I saw an unopened letter
lying upon his breast and exclaimed: “Oh, lieutenant, your letter has
come after all; but it is not opened! Shall I open it for you?”

“No,” he answered in a despairing voice. “I know what it says.”

Unable to persuade him to read his letter, and feeling quite sure
that it must be favorable, I ran quickly to Mrs. Mayhew, of his State
agency, telling her of the letter. She went at once to him, and in
her sweet sisterly way at last induced him to consent to open the
letter. His intuitions proved only too true. “Perhaps,” the girl had
written, “it would be best; we could still be friends.”

Our indignation knew no bounds. The poor fellow sank rapidly and died
a few days later of a broken heart. He was carried by his comrades,
led by the funeral march of the shrill fife and the drum, to his
soldier’s grave in the woods, over which they fired the farewell
salute.

During this time I was greatly surprised one day on visiting this
ward to find Major Hemlock dressed and sitting up, looking happy
and like another man. After a second glance I saw the cause of this
change, for beside him sat a charming young girl who, in reply to his
letter offering her a release, had started at once and succeeded in
reaching him safely. The Major was soon able to travel and the happy
pair returned to their home in Philadelphia where they were married.

My friend Mary Blackmar, a medical student, enlisted as nurse, that
she might serve her year in the field work with its wider experience,
instead of in some regular city hospital. A year after the war she
graduated from the Woman’s Medical College, in Philadelphia, and
assisted for a year in the dispensary with those wonderful pioneer
women doctors Mary and Elizabeth Blackwell, in New York City. Miss
Blackmar married, and finally, owing to ill health, was obliged to
live in Florida, where she still practises medicine as Doctor Mary
Blackmar Bruson.

In the winter of 1909 I found a little notice in the newspaper
stating that Doctor Elizabeth Blackwell was still living near London
at ninety years of age. About the same time I met a gentleman of my
native city whose father (this name has escaped me) was the first
reputable doctor to hold consultation with these remarkable women.
This required courage, for at that time women doctors were considered
bold intruders, “unsexed”--whatever that may mean--and why? Because
they thought that it was time for women to know something about their
own bodies and diseases.

  [Illustration: MARY BLACKMAR]

One morning Miss Blackmar, quite excited, her dark eyes dancing with
pleasure, ran into my tent exclaiming, “O, Colonel” (meaning me)
“such a beautiful girl is in camp, you must see her! I don’t know
how she got here; but I can’t stop a moment, I must run back to my
patients.”

Soon after, a graceful blonde was sent to us from headquarters to be
entertained. She stated that, though English, she was in Edinboro
when the news reached her that her brother was wounded at City Point,
and she lost no time in sailing on the first vessel to America,
where, perhaps owing to her good looks and persistence she succeeded
in reaching our hospital. Meanwhile the brother had returned to his
regiment, the Thirty-seventh Wisconsin, before Petersburg. I found
means, however, to communicate with him, and in a few hours he pulled
rein at our tent, having ridden many miles without a halt.

It soon developed that he was something more than a brother; though
the girl claimed that this dashing, handsome young Englishman,
Captain Robert Eden, was an adopted brother. He often got leave of
absence that he might spend an hour with his fiancée, Miss Annie
Bain, who became our friend and companion and, though taking no part
in our work, remained with us during some months.

About this time our hospitality was taxed still further. An orderly
brought a pleasant-looking woman and presented a note from Hospital
Headquarters which read--“Please entertain Miss Mason, who is on her
way South by ‘flag of truce’…. She is secesh. Watch her.”

Miss Mason remained a few days, and went South by first detachment of
paroled rebel patients without any incident of interest.




                            CHAPTER XVI

                       THE STORY OF MY PASS


We were often annoyed by the calls of officers who, having little
to occupy their time, could not understand how it was possible for
us to be too tired to entertain them. They frequently called on me
when I had many letters to write, and I would say to them: “Well,
gentlemen, if it’s any satisfaction to you to sit here while I write
letters, I’ve no objection, but these home letters for the Boys are
my first duty.” They thought I should feel complimented by the calls
of headquarters’ officers, but I assured them I was quite aware that
they had come to me only to kill time, when they had exhausted all
other amusements.

It was really too much honor, and too much of a good thing when
forty-five officers called on me in one week, some coming in from the
front on short leave when all was quiet on the James, others from
Grant’s Headquarters, and from our Hospital Headquarters.

One evening I was very tired and three of these officers, fine
looking men in full uniform, but slightly under the influence of
liquor, annoyed me greatly. At “taps” I said significantly--“It’s
taps, gentlemen!”

“That does not concern us,” one replied, “we can stay as long as we
wish.”

“General Grant himself could not stay in my tent after taps,” I
retorted indignantly.

They made no move to go, however. I arose and simply pointed to the
tent opening, declining any reply to their remarks. They at last
passed out in great indignation, and immediately one of these doctors
began a petty persecution. Knowing that I had lost my pass he tried
to have me sent to Washington. This soon became known in camp, and my
friends set themselves to work to circumvent his unmanly spite.

He obtained an order from the Provost Marshall, General Patrick, by
which all persons in camp not having passes should report at once
to Washington. It was necessary, however, that he should notify
personally any one so unfortunate as to have no pass. When he
called at my tent I was never to be found, for whenever the doctor
approached some one would say “Here comes C!” and I began a system of
remarkable evolutions from one tent to another in the row, gliding
back and forth, until he had to give up the search for the day.

Fortunately my good friend, Mrs. Doctor Painter, had made such a
favorable report of me to General Grant’s Headquarters that a pass
was promised. The utmost diplomacy was necessary to gain time, but at
last the pass was handed to me, secretly, on Thanksgiving eve, as we
were decorating the mess hall for the coming feast.

The next day I was at home when Doctor C. called. I received him
with much courtesy and said: “I hear, doctor, that you have called
several times when I was not in. To what am I indebted for so much
attention? Be seated.”

The florid face grew redder, but I gave him no chance to speak, and
in my most agreeable manner I talked and talked of everything I could
think of, despite his many efforts to get in a word. Finally I grew
tired of the fun, as were also some friends and listeners in the
adjoining tent. Then, as if just remembering his attempts to speak, I
said, “O, doctor, had you something to say to me?”

Growing still redder, if possible, and sitting uncomfortably on
the edge of the barrel chair that I had insisted on his taking, he
said, “O, only that an order is received that all persons not having
authority must report to Washington. Er-- er--have you a pass?”

“Doctor, you know that my pass was stolen.” And I asked demurely what
I should do.

With an air of exultation he sprang up and said--“Unfortunately, Miss
Smith, you will have to report to Washington to-morrow.”

Then slowly taking the pass from my pocket, I said hesitatingly,
“Well, Doctor, here is a paper that perhaps will help me,” and I
handed him the Grant pass.


                       “Headquarters Armies United States,
                        City Point, Virginia, March 16, 1865.

     Miss Smith will be afforded all facilities that Army
     Commanders afford to other State Agents.

     Free transportation will be given her on all Government
     steamers and Military Railroads. Guards and pickets will
     pass her accordingly.

                                   By command of
                               LIEUTENANT GENERAL GRANT
                                T. S. Bowers, A. A. G.”

I watched him in silence till he finished reading. His face was
crimson and he said with a nervous giggle, “O, yes, er--I’ll fix you
up at medical headquarters all right!”

“Will you, indeed?” I replied, “I think I have fixed you. Now you may
go,” and he lost no time in going.

The laughter in the next tent must have reached him as he darted out
and across the road to the hospital headquarters, where he exclaimed
breathlessly: “D---- that Miss Smith. When I thought I had her all
right she kept me on nettles for an hour, and then showed me an order
from General Grant ranking me.”

This soon became camp gossip, and he was jeered from one side to the
other of the hospital.




                            CHAPTER XVII

                         THANKSGIVING, 1864

                UNDER FIRE AT DUTCH GAP, VIRGINIA


Greatly needing a day’s rest from hospital work, I ordered an
ambulance, good government horses and driver, and invited my guest,
Miss Bain, and two reliable officers of the Corps d’ Afric, stationed
at General Grant’s headquarters, City Point, to accompany us, and
accept an invitation to dinner.

We started for the renowned “Dutch Gap,” which had been excavated
under the supervision of General Benjamin Butler, then in command of
the Army of the James, and it was intended to compel the enemy to
make a complete change of base.

A ride of seven or eight miles, through woods and over bumping
corduroy roads and ditches, brought us to the James River, where we
had been invited to a Thanksgiving dinner of goose (save the mark) on
a commissary barge then anchored opposite the Gap. To my annoyance
and Miss Bain’s consternation, as she was interested only in Captain
Eden, then at the front, we found ten or twelve officers in full
dress waiting to receive us formally on the barge, when we arrived.
It took a great deal of courage and not a little tact to get through
that dinner creditably, while every man craved special attention.

After dinner we rowed on the narrow river to the monitor Onondaga
and another war vessel near by. On board the Onondaga we encountered
another crowd of naval officers, and were urgently invited to inspect
these wonderfully constructed vessels which were stationed here to
protect the Gap, and to prevent the rebel gunboats coming down the
river.

  [Illustration: GENERAL BENJAMIN BUTLER]

We landed near this great excavation called “Dutch Gap,” which was
to be Butler’s chef d’œuvre, viz., a channel cut across a long
peninsula dividing the river at the end into two branches running
almost parallel; in front of which the formidable Confederate mortars
were continually sending shells all about this locality. A shell had
dropped directly into the dredging machine, shattering it completely
and it now lay on one side like a huge black mastodon. The channel
lacked about twenty-five feet of successful completion, but owing to
“orders” no further work was accomplished, and thus ended the great
Dutch Gap strategy of Ben Butler.

The small row boat landed us on the muddy shore where little
foliage remained to cover the denuded ground of the rough camp of
an engineering corps and its guard. Despite the almost constant war
courtesy of interchanging shots and shells, roaring on either side
from the forts, and generally passing safely above the heads of
“Yank” and “Johnnie” alike on each side of the river, they enjoyed
many friendly talks across. Thus they broke the monotony of picket
duty and gopher holes, while telling camp stories, true or otherwise,
as the occasion suggested.

A story was told me that bears out on its face the imprint of
possibility during the last days of the rebellion. A daring young
“Reb,” tired of life in the swamp and woods, with insufficient
rations, while waiting for orders to advance, one dark night swam
boldly across the narrow stream and was cordially received.

After enjoying a jolly evening around the camp fire, and especially,
a good “square meal,” he said to the Yankee boys, “You uns have
plenty of good grub any way, and I’m about starved out. I say, Yanks,
suppose you uns just surround me and capture me and march me up to
headquarters as a deserter? I’d rather stay on this side and have
good rations than to starve in the swamp on the other side.”

This the “Yanks” did very cheerfully, and so another deserter was
added to the Union army.

Our party started to walk around what was to have been Ferry Island,
where the tortuous river made a sharp turn at the end, almost
doubling on itself. An officer walking with me constantly changed
from one side to the other. This surprised me and on my asking why
he did this he replied “O nothing!” ignoring the question, though he
continued changing sides as we walked on the uneven path. I insisted
at last upon an explanation. He replied: “Well, you know the rebs are
just across this narrow water in the woods, and it wouldn’t look well
if a lady should get a stray shot!”

“So you’re making a target of yourself, Major, to gratify my
curiosity!” I was insisting on going back, when a “Johnny Reb” called
across the stream in a pleasant tone, “Better take those ladies away!”

Mounting the great hill to look into the abandoned ditch where so
much time and labor had been lost, we made a strikingly conspicuous
group with the officers in uniforms, bright with the sun’s
reflections. Suddenly in the midst of witty talk and badinage a shell
from the Rebel mortar shrieked over our heads, followed quickly by a
second one with a deafening frightful explosion, and for a second we
were stunned and almost paralyzed.

  [Illustration: GENERAL BUTLER’S CANAL AT DUTCH GAP.

(By kind permission of Harper’s Weekly: Appeared Febr. 5, 1864.)]

But not a moment was lost. An officer on either side grabbed the
hands of Miss Bain and myself and “sans ceremonie,” ran us quickly
down the hill until we were safe in a large bomb-proof gopher
hole, where we stopped for breath. These gallant officers carried
a quantity of “Sacred Soil” on their spotless white trousers and
polished boots. Here we waited while the shells continued to fall at
some distance.

A large hole had been dug in the side of the hill where a plank floor
and roof had been made to prevent falling in. This served as a mess
room, while around the side of the high bluff, in small gopher holes,
men hived like ants in their earth hills.

Hospitality suggested that a supper be prepared for us, and it was
spread on planks with newspaper tablecloth, tin cups and plates, and
two-tined forks. An old aunty cook waited on us, and served some
rather weighty biscuit. The “pièce de résistance” at this supper and
also at the barge dinner, was a rather opaque tumbler filled with
peppermint sticks, which had been procured from the sutler.

The firing continued, and shells struck the water in the only channel
by which we could return. Night was coming on, and I was at a loss to
know what to do. Not wishing to alarm Miss Bain, I took an officer
aside and consulted him.

They would do the best they could for us with only gophers for
shelter, if we wished to pass the night there. If we attempted to
cross the river it must be at our own risk, as the firing would
probably continue until nightfall.

I decided at once for myself, but Miss Bain was my guest and must be
given a choice. The agency people had always been careful to avoid
even an appearance of evil. “Should we brave the comment of staying
all night in a strange camp, or must we risk our lives in attempting
to escape the shells falling on our route?” Without a moment’s
hesitation the courageous girl said firmly and briefly, “I’d rather
risk the shells and drowning.”

A boat was ordered at a pistol’s point, and the poor pallid rower was
so frightened that he could scarcely hold the oars. We got in with
only our two escorts; the others were evidently not at all eager to
accompany us back, but stood behind the hill anxiously watching our
dangerous passage.

As we passed close by the Onondaga and her companion nothing living
could be seen on these fully manned monitors. They had closed down
their steel decks while the shells struck, ricocheted and fell
harmlessly into the water like great marbles, as we passed by. A few
feet farther on was the barge where we had dined with our military
escort and where busy hands had helped us into the boat. It was now
as deserted as if never occupied, the men had fled for safety to the
woods. As we neared the muddy bank one shell struck a few feet astern
of our boat, sending up a column of water like a geyser; another
passed close overhead with its uncanny blood-curdling shriek, and
struck the shore just ahead of us, where it exploded, driving pieces
of shell and mud in every direction.

On reaching the mud shore, it was almost impossible to mount the
rough improvised dock or float. However, our escorts pushed and we
climbed up, with no formalities, and without loss of time. At first
I could not see my ambulance, but soon it came out of the woods with
the frightened horses dashing down the hill. The driver as he turned,
shouted, “I can’t stop, you must get in somehow!” Certainly it was
“somehow” that our officers tumbled us into the rocking ambulance as
it turned and dashed wildly back into the woods.

No word was spoken until the driver checked his mad race and we were
out of range of the still falling shells, and could congratulate
ourselves on our narrow escape. We reached camp at twilight, a little
excited by our adventure, but quite the heroes of the day; and we
resolved that it would be a long time before we again wandered out of
camp.

Since writing the above experience I have found in General Butler’s
autobiography, the only historical statement of that strategical
attempt on the James River, and it confirms my memory. This work
was considered of the greatest military importance then, and if
accomplished as designed, it would, without doubt, have given to our
navy and land forces the control of the river almost directly in
front of Richmond. This would have shortened by several months the
acute warfare by which hundreds of lives were sacrificed.

That it failed when all was prepared to blow out the bulk head, and
admit our monitors through the canal, was due to the fact that the
original Commander (Smith) was ordered elsewhere, and that the new
Commander begged Commodore Ludlow not to open Dutch Gap because he
feared that the enemies’ fleet would come down, and he did not know
that he could sustain the attack, etc. This Commander was dismissed
for cowardice later, when he took fright while the enemies’ fleet
attempted to come down the river, and, without any attempt at
defense, ordered the Potomac to make all speed, and only stopped when
he knew that an accident to the Confederate vessels had prevented an
assault on the United States Headquarters at City Point, which might
have destroyed the camp and involved an entire change of base.

That one finds little allusion to this engineering attempt is
doubtless due to the fact that most histories of that time were
written by West Point officers, who gave few details outside their
own personal experiences; and regard for the gallant volunteer
service was seldom admitted and too often entirely ignored.

General Butler often fell under this ban, and he lost no opportunity,
when possible, of publicly showing the superior education in tactics
of the volunteer officers and men under his command during the war.

In this personal sketch I do not attempt to write history; but give
only a few selections regarding the expectations then known to
many in that locality of the James River. I have given only a few
selections from “Butler.” These any one may verify, and in doing so
will come across many other details of interest.

“Captain Melantha Smith, of the navy, assured me that it was
impossible for his monitors, drawing sixteen feet of water, to get up
further than Trent’s Reach. We made a reconnaissance to devise a plan
by which he might ascend the James with his vessels, then lying at a
point called Dutch Gap.

“Here is a peculiar formation, the river running up by Trent’s Reach,
bends very sharply to the right and returns again, in an elongated
horseshoe, so directly that while it has passed over a distance of
over seven miles, the waters of the river at a depth of twenty-five
feet, approach so nearly, that there is only about four hundred and
twenty-five feet from the water on the other side across the neck at
Dutch Gap to twenty-five feet of water on the lower side, so a canal
wide and deep enough for our gunboats to get through, would require a
cut less than four hundred feet long, sixteen feet deep, sixty feet
wide at the bottom and ninety feet at the top.

“After having made a reconnaissance with Captain Smith, then in
command of the naval forces of the James River, I went down to City
Point and asked General Grant and Chief Engineer Barnard to come up
with us to examine the premises. This they did and made a careful
examination of the point. This was known as Dutch Gap for the reason
that some enterprising German had cut quite a gap in undertaking
to build a waterway through, many years before. We came to the
conclusion that it was a desirable thing to do, and General Grant
directed me to undertake it.

“Exploration proved it to be of very hard limestone and gravel; in
it was imbedded petrified wood, whole trees being turned into a very
friable stone, easily broken.[1]

“The enemy, appreciating the importance of this strategic
undertaking, and finding that we could not be reached by direct fire
of their artillery, erected some mortar batteries on the other side
of the James River. At a mile and a half distance it is not easy to
drop a shell with any certainty into a space three hundred feet long
by ninety feet wide.

“The first thing to do was to station a couple of well instructed men
at points from which every shell could be watched during its wild
flight. These observers after a little practice could tell almost
precisely where the missile would land--whether it would come into
our excavation. While the men were at work, these men were on the
watch, and if a shell was likely to fall in our way, the watchmen
would call out “Holes,” whereupon the men would rush into the
bomb-proofs, and come out again and resume work as soon as the shell
had struck or exploded without harm.”

Dutch Gap has since been dredged out and is a main channel for
commerce between Richmond and the outer world. The waters of the
James River being directed by the canal, no longer flow around
through any depth at Trench Reach, and that which was the former
channel of the river will soon become marsh land. Dutch Gap is the
only military construction of all that was done by our army, which
remains of use to the country in time of peace;--a monument to its
projector and constructor,--one of “Butler’s failures.”

My army friend of 1864, Mr. J. Yates Peek and his wife, within a few
years, have sailed through Butler’s Gap, remembering the days of its
intended strategy and the great disappointment when the navy caused
its failure.


FOOTNOTES:

    [1] I still have a piece of this black stone picked up at
        this point, at the time of my visit there in the year
        1864. I have also an excellent cut of the gap at this
        time, better in some details, I think, than the pictures
        in the Butler Autobiography.




                           CHAPTER XVIII

             DOMESTIC LIFE IN CAMP AND OTHER INCIDENTS


In Pennsylvania and New Jersey State quarters combined, we had three
good-sized connecting tents; and later the little New York house was
added.

Our kitchen was generally run by Hannah, a rather incompetent
contraband, with great wondering eyes and slipshod feet. There
were many such about camp, girls and women as well as men and
boys--anxious to work for shelter and food, but without knowledge of
the value of money, which they generally squandered at the sutler’s
for some trifle such as candy, or something to eat. Sufficient for
the day was their evil tempter.

A good cooking stove was a great comfort, and Doctor Painter, an
excellent cook, made our mess appetizing. The agents were expected
to get their sustenance from State supplies, and we could buy from
the Commissary Department good bread and coffee. Our table was made
of boards resting on barrels, and sometimes we were quite stylish,
having a white tablecloth instead of newspapers. Our dishes, mostly
of tin, served quite well for hungry, hurried appetites.

Our reception tent, which was the largest, had at first a bunk in one
corner where the rain sometimes percolated through the canvas walls,
and one morning,--my pillow touching the wet wall of the tent,--I
found my head in a little puddle of water. But I was in better
health, if possible, than before. We laughed at these happenings,
also when the rain ran in streams over our ground floor and at night
we were obliged to sit resting, or writing by the light of candles
stuck in bottles, with our feet on logs to keep them dry. Meanwhile a
log fire burned cheerfully in the rough mud and log chimney. A barrel
was placed on top for draught. It sometimes caught fire, but some one
always managed to discover it, and knocked it off without setting
fire to the canvas roofs. Our barrel chairs were not luxurious, but,
like everything in camp, they served their purpose.

Though our tents were not transparent, the candle distinctly
silhouetted our forms on the walls as we sat talking with friends,
so that passers could recognize visitors and perhaps wait for a more
favorable time to call. During the day our tent flaps were always
open hospitably. Agents and officers often visited and talked of
home, friends, comforts, etc., while each was always ready to assist
in an emergency. Convalescents often got leave to come for some
luxury or necessity; they craved fruit and vegetables, especially
onions, and one so craved this luxury that he offered me fifty cents
for one. Of course it became a gift, and one that was greatly enjoyed.

The wife of the Ohio agent, a pretty brunette with long black
curls and black eyes, became very ill. Their small tents were
not comfortable. All the ladies helped in many ways to make her
limitations less trying. We were fearful of a sad ending as she lay
helplessly weak for many days, but youth and courage, with good care,
at last put her upon her feet again quite well.

An extremely annoying encounter occurred while I was with Mrs.
Painter in my little house attached to another tent. One evening,
with considerable clatter, an officer, followed by his orderly,
halted at my door and knocked for admission. I saw at once that this
otherwise fine young man, from Brooklyn, was under the influence
of liquor. There was no escape and I must, if possible, get along
peaceably with him.

My friends in the next tent could hear every word and could have
helped me to get rid of him, but they thought it a good joke to get
me cornered, while they laughed and quietly enjoyed the interview.

“Miss Smith,” mumbled the visitor, “I’m so glad to see you. I told
the fer-rers I’d give fifty dollars for an introduction to you, when
I saw you on the ch-cha-chapel platform singing just as if you didn’t
care fu-fur any body.”

I could think of no plan to get rid of him, and still hoped my
friends would come to my rescue.

“Oh, Miss Smith,” he went on, “I wish I had a ba-ba-badge like yours.
Couldn’t you give it to me?”

Thinking to escape his effusions and to hasten his exit, I took off
my precious Lincoln mourning badge and handed it to him. But he grew
more persistent, saying:

“Wouldn’t you just pin-pin it on?”

In silent indignation and protest I did so, to his great
satisfaction. Then as his speech grew more indistinct, he added:
“W-w-when I tell the ferrers that M-Miss Smith put-put that on,
they’ll all be ravin’ jealous!”

I do not remember how at last I got him out of the little house. I
saw his orderly help him to mount a superb horse that had impatiently
pawed the ground since he entered.

My indignation passed for little above the shouts of laughter at my
discomfiture that for once I was caught in a dilemma.

But this recalcitrant young officer received a startling
communication on the following day which, doubtless, caused a
permanent revulsion of admiration.

The wife of an officer, with her four year old girl, was very
anxious to join her husband at the front. Knowing that I held a
pass, she persuaded me to take her to the camp, which might have
made me considerable trouble, as she could not get permission from
Headquarters. Being willing to help her, if possible, I sent for
an ambulance and driver, and we started over the corduroy roads,
ditches, ruts and mud,--a foot deep in some places,--occasionally in
danger of being overturned, as we rode at times partly on one wheel
or two, rarely on four. In a sudden lurch this mother so lost her
head with fright that she raised her feet and shot out on one side
into the “Sacred Soil” of Virginia, quite up to her knees. I grasped
the child and flung myself with her on the opposite side, thus
righting the ambulance, and feeling little sympathy for the mother
who forgot her child, though her feet were completely covered with
mud. We found her husband in camp, and I left them quite happy in
their tent before Petersburg.

One of our surgeons owned a superb black horse that was so
intelligent, one could not pass him without petting him. This he
greatly enjoyed, and he showed that he remembered me. His handsome
owner remarked, “I’m soon going to take you for a ride on him.”

“O, you are, indeed. I believe it takes two to make an engagement,
and I have reasons for not wishing to ride with you,” I replied.
“Good morning!” and so I left him greatly incensed.

Officers were constantly riding about our camp, and among them was
Doctor Weir Mitchell of the cavalry, now the distinguished nerve
specialist of Philadelphia, and author of many scientific works as
well as novels. He often dashed down our row on a spirited horse, his
long hair floating back, while his yellow-lined cape, thrown over his
shoulder, made him a conspicuous figure.

Doctor Olmstead, of the 69th Regiment, a Brooklyn man, had received a
wound in his foot from a spent ball, and for some time limped quite
comfortably about camp. We much enjoyed his occasional calls and his
kindly courtesy. I wear, on occasion, a silver trefoil of the 2d
Division, 2d Corps, to which he belonged, made from a silver quarter
(scarce in those days) and urged upon me by a grateful boy patient.
Doctor Olmstead was kind enough to send it to Washington and have it
made. It is now a much valued relic.

On Christmas Day, 1864, Mrs. Painter, wishing to make a pleasant
surprise with home-made cheer for her son, Hettie K. Painter, who was
still in charge of the telegraph at Hatch’s Run, again invited me to
accompany her.

After the usual bumping over corduroy and other bad roads near the
point, we found him in his little improvised office and living room.
Doctor Painter with the assistance of a cheerful contraband helper
soon prepared a surprisingly comfortable Christmas dinner, which was
greatly enjoyed by our little party.

During this homely visit, Hettie Painter remarked to me, “Miss Smith
you are always looking up some souvenir of the war, here is something
that you may appreciate. This is a telegram from General Sherman,
received here this morning en route, and I immediately forwarded a
copy to President Lincoln in Washington. It is therefore a copy of
the message before it was despatched to the President.”

Much pleased with this souvenir, now a relic of that wonderful
conquest, I have preserved it carefully. Some months since I
presented it to the U. S. Grant Post of Brooklyn, and by them it was
neatly framed and is now in the fine military museum of that post’s
relics. The following is a verbatim copy:


                      “The United States Military Telegraph
                            Savannah, Ga., 23, 1864
                            Via Fortress Monroe, 25.

     To his Excellency, President Lincoln:

     I beg leave to present you as a Christmas gift the City of
     Savannah, 150 guns and plenty of ammunition; also about
     twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.

                                        W. T. SHERMAN,
                                           Major General.”

I mailed it to my home, writing on the back, “This despatch was just
received by a telegraph reporter. It is the first reliable original
telegram.”




                            CHAPTER XIX

                            LOVE IN CAMP


Miss Annie Bain was still with us, and had become my friend, and my
companion, when time permitted. She made a restful change in the
monotony of daily incessant hard work when, except for letter writing
or in some extreme case when a dying soldier called us out, we
remained during the evening in our tents.

Impossible as it seemed for a woman without pass or authority, Miss
Bain succeeded, with little difficulty, in reaching City Point.
A little tearful entreaty from a beautiful young woman has often
moved the heart of the strictest disciplinarian. Upon reporting at
City Point to that ogre of the department to all stragglers and
irregulars, General Patrick, he gave her protection and permission to
remain until her brother should receive his furlough.

Meanwhile Captain Robert Eden, of the 37th Wisconsin Regiment, whose
wound was but slight, had returned to his post, and was at the front.
There Miss Bain was not allowed to follow. But word soon reached the
Captain, and in a day or two after Miss Bain’s arrival he dashed into
camp on his fine bay horse, well dusted after his long ride. He was a
six-foot, broad-shouldered, ruddy young Englishman, and was brimming
over with anticipation and happiness.

  [Illustration: MRS. R. C. EDEN]

The first meeting, however, betrayed the secret that “Bob” was the
lover for whom this courageous girl had braved the perils of the
ocean, and the dangers and uncertainties of a country at war. Miss
Bain explained that “Bob” was her adopted brother, and she feared
that he might die of his wounds if left to strangers, and so she had
come hoping to take care of him.

  [Illustration: COL. R. C. EDEN]

Captain Eden was promised a furlough and promotion but it was long
deferred. It was decided that when the promised furlough came they
would go at once to Washington for the marriage ceremony and for
a honeymoon trip. Bob managed to get an occasional pass from his
regiment, then in camp before Petersburg always ready for orders to
advance for action.

It was well that Annie had succeeded in gaining from the department
of the Provost Marshal General, the privilege of remaining till
Captain “Bob” should receive his furlough. And well it was that the
words took that form, for three months passed and yet no furlough
came, while “Bob” stormed and laughed, impatient, though happy
in anticipation, while he continued to make flying visits to our
quarters.

At last envy, loving a lofty mark, and not knowing the goodness
and purity that were her guide, sought some explanation of Annie’s
quiet reserve which ungratified curiosity magnified into many vague
surmises, and which were now taking the form of unpleasant rumor.
Annie at last became conscious of the false position in which she
appeared, and which was chiefly due to the presence in camp of a
handsome young lady having no ostensible object for her stay.

Thanksgiving and Christmas passed with good dinners sent to the
soldiers by the liberality of citizens, who also sent agents to
assist in the distribution. Some accessories were supplied by the
Hospital Department, and the ladies in camp, with much taste and
ingenuity in arrangement and decoration of the stockade dining
barracks or “mess hall,” produced a really fine display, and gave to
the ever unsatisfied convalescent soldier “a good square meal.”

Meanwhile, though with womanly tact Annie endeavored to hide her
anxiety, my sympathy soon discovered “the worm in the bud” that
saddened the eye and paled the cheek of the fair girl. Something
must be done, and that quickly. A bold thought came to me; but
extreme cases require heroic treatment, and after all we can but fail.

With assumed indifference, breaking in upon one of her reveries, I
said, “Annie, you are unhappy.”

“Why no, Miss Smith, I am very happy,” she answered trying to believe
herself sincere.

“Well, never mind, I know all about it, Annie, and am very sorry too,
but mean to help you if you will allow me.”

With an expectant yet alarmed glance she exclaimed: “Why, what can
you do?”

“No matter; but will you answer truly one question? In the first
place you know it is necessary for me to start for Albany at once to
see Governor Fenton, and Mrs. Painter is called home on business; and
you cannot be left here alone. You are distressed and unhappy, and
with reason; Bob cannot go to Washington, as you well know, and now
please answer without reserve. If Bob should wish to marry you here,
in camp, will you consent?”

“Why, we could not be married here,” she exclaimed.

“That can be managed if you will give your answer.”

“Well, yes, I would,” she replied reluctantly.

But womanly delicacy instantly repented and she added, “O, I would
not for the world have Bob think I am in the least bit of a hurry.”

“Don’t think of that! He shall never know of this conversation unless
you are willing; and you will have nothing more to do about it.”

In the course of the next hour a letter was written to Bob, in which
her real position was plainly set forth, adding the very unpleasant
suggestion, that should he fall in the expected battle, the poor girl
would be doubly miserable. And further, if, after calm deliberation,
he wished to place her rightly in camp, and marry her here in the
Field Hospital, it was only necessary to telegraph at once and come
to City Point at five P. M. to-morrow, and it should be done with
every arrangement made.

A rare chance had brought to our tent that day an officer of Captain
Eden’s regiment, by whom the letter was at once dispatched. Little
suspecting its importance, he delivered it at midnight to his
comrade, as he dreamed by his camp fire of the long deferred day when
Annie should be all his own. Astonishment and indignation, at the
thought of an injustice to the brave girl who had dared all in her
devotion to him, at once cleared away the mists of romance that had
surrounded his bright visions of the future.

By the first trembling of the morning wires came the telegram, “All
right, on the way to City Point on horseback.” This was shown to
Annie, who trembled with anxiety and mortification lest he should
think her deficient in maidenly reserve; but we laughed away her
fears and said nothing. Still I would not take any decisive action
in this emergency until he came and assured me of his earnest
wish. So the morning wore slowly on until nearly noon, when Hannah
“the great-eyed” stumbled into the tent,--her usual manner of
entering,--saying, “Lor, Miss Smith, Mass Bob dun come ridin’ way
down de road, ready to broke him neck.”

I slipped quietly out of the tent as he dashed up on his fine horse,
well flecked with foam, and pulled rein for the first time in fifteen
miles of Virginia road! Covered with dust, but without a thought of
fatigue, he sprang to the ground and, with a hearty grasp of my hand,
exclaimed, “Colonel, you’re a trump! Never would have thought it
possible!” and with a significant gesture he whispered, “Do you mean
it?”

“Certainly!” was the suppressed reply, for tents are all ears.

Laughingly he continued, “Couldn’t get a pass so came without it. Ha,
ha! must be back to-night!”

“Well, there’s no time to lose; go and persuade Annie, and be ready
at five P. M. sharp. It is now nearly noon, and all is yet to be
done.”

With a bound, Bob was by Annie’s side, while she, half alarmed, was
yet too happy in his presence to speak the thoughts that caused her
heart to leap with a strange emotion.

It must have been like some wild dream when I said “Annie, Bob
has something to say to you alone; so for once he may enter our
sanctum.” And unpinning the flap of the little tent attached to a
larger one, they disappeared within.

Gathering my scattered thoughts, I ejaculated, “Let’s see, what
first? Ah, here comes Mary Blackmar. I want you to put on your other
dress and be here at five P. M.”

Her fine hazel eyes dilating in wonder, she exclaimed, “What ails
you, Colonel?”

“Nothing, only we are going to have a wedding in camp, and you’re to
be second bridesmaid for Annie.”

“Impossible!”

“Can’t be helped. Manage your work somehow. You must come just the
same, and Mr. Peek is to stand with you. Good-bye,--we’re off for
the clergyman. Remember, five P. M., and, one moment,--not a word in
camp.”

Meanwhile Sister Painter had sent for her orderly and ambulance, into
which I quickly sprang while she called out with cheery significance,
“Good luck! Good luck!” and the impatient pair of grey horses
dashed off through camp to the Cavalry Corps Hospital nearly a mile
distant, to secure the services of Chaplain Mines, the only Episcopal
clergyman in that department.

An unusually cold air chilled us as we drove up to the tasteful
little office of the Chaplain. His orderly saluted, and awaited my
order. “Please ask the Chaplain to step here as quickly as possible.”

To my consternation he replied “Chaplain Mines went North this
morning!”

Dumbfounded at this news, and greatly distressed, I hardly knew what
to do next. The driver was shivering, and evidently in doubt too, as
he asked “Where shall I drive now?”

“To--to--O, I don’t know--that is, drive back.”

What could be done? Away we sped and my perplexity increased, for
I well knew that none but the Church of England service could give
sanction to this pair in matrimony. “O, I have it, drive to the
Christian Commission.”

In fifteen minutes we found Mr. Houghton, head of this commission.
“Do you know,” I cried breathlessly, “you are to be best man
at a wedding this afternoon, and I’m to be first bridesmaid,
and--well--there is no Episcopalian clergyman in this camp? You must
help us out of this dilemma. Will you not ask one of your ministers
to perform the service by the Episcopal form?”

With a twinkle in his keen gray eye he remarked “I think I shall
order a straight jacket, and--”

“Never mind! Order what you like, but not a word in camp, or we
shall have more assistance than we desire. Though this must not be
done in a corner, yet one from each post will suffice. If it gets
out we might have hundreds. We ladies will represent the States, Mr.
Peek the Sanitary Commission, and you, Mr. Houghton, the Christian
Commission, and--at five P. M. you’ll know the rest, for there is
yet much to do. I’m off now for General Patrick.”

Again we dashed off over the rough frozen roads, this time in the
direction of General Grant’s Headquarters, near the James side of
the Point. The day was intensely cold, and only a guard was visible,
marking his frozen beat. As we approached he called an orderly, who
immediately appeared and received the message “Ask General Patrick if
he can be seen.”

“General Patrick went North yesterday!”

“How long will he remain?”

“Till to-morrow night.”

Match-making was becoming a doubtful experiment. “Has everybody gone
North?” I dubiously inquired.

The orderly suggested “The General’s adjutant, Captain Beckwith is
here.”

“Oh, indeed, I don’t know _him_ except by sight; a young man and
good-looking. If only he wasn’t. Wonder what General Grant would
say if he were asked!” But a consideration of the cares of that
overworked public servant saved _him_.

At last, in desperation, I said, “Ask the Adjutant if he will please
step here for a moment,” inwardly adding “If we do not perish with
cold in this attempt, we might hereafter make our headquarters at the
North Pole!”

Captain Beckwith came out of the office and politely waited my
request. A poor attempt at indifference was not helped by my
hesitating words--“Captain, I--er--I wish to speak to you privately.
Is your office occupied?”

He replied gravely and politely, “There are officers now in my tent.”

“Well then, will you please step into the ambulance, as it is
necessary to have your advice and assistance.”

Apparently anticipating a torpedo, when only a flag of truce was
offered,--rather dimly to be sure,--he cautiously took his seat
without a word.

How shall I quickly explain? Why doesn’t he say something--not a
word--one or the other must drop preliminary caution, or the words
will freeze on our lips. So I blundered out “Are you engaged at five
P. M.?”

He replied that he thought he was. Whereupon I told him the whole
story, and he soon changed his plans.

“As General Patrick is away,” I said, “will you come and witness the
ceremony?”

“But I’m afraid it----”

“Nonsense, Miss Bain has remained by permission of General Patrick.
We wish you, as his representative, to give your countenance and
endorsement to the affair.”

Now he was interested, and finally agreed to be on hand. Away we
hurried back to the Christian Commission, and found we had only two
hours left.

After returning from the Cavalry Corps Hospital I found Bob within
the tent standing alone with a gloomy and discontented expression
upon his face. I took the alarm and said quickly: “There is
something wrong, Bob. If you are intending to marry Annie because
you think you must, don’t do it, she’s too good a girl to be forced
upon any man in that manner. Now is your time to retreat. What is the
matter?”

With a merry laugh, Bob said soothingly: “There, there, Colonel, you
are wasting ammunition. Why, don’t you know that nothing in the world
could make me so happy as to marry the dear girl, and if we succeed I
can never repay this great kindness, so don’t waste time or thought
on that point!”

But the cloud once more passed over his face. What did it mean? Half
repenting the new role, I was hurrying away, when a neglected message
came to my mind, and I called out, “O, Bob! Major Baker, before going
North, requested me to say he had left forty dollars for you with the
sutler at the Point!”

The cloud vanished, as he sprang up and exclaimed: “Did he? Bless his
old heart! I must run down and get it.”

“Why, how delighted you seem; one would think it was a fortune.”

“O no,--but you see--er well, it is--all right now.”

The cloud was explained! How mortal we are! The poor fellow was “dead
broke” and of course had no fee for the clergyman. This seemed a
small matter, but for several months that ever-welcome individual,
the Pay-master, had not reported to the consequently bankrupt
“front,” so there was nothing to borrow, for as long as a dollar
remained in camp, it was the common property of the “Boys.”

On the road shortly after, we met Bob beaming as a sunflower, radiant
in a brand new pair of yellow buckskin gauntlets, high cavalry boots,
freshly blacked, hair and beard barbered, dust swept off his faded
uniform, and with a clean paper collar. The owner of this elegant
wedding attire called out merrily--“How are you progressing, Colonel?”

“Finely,” was the brief though hardly conscientious reply, which
was scarcely verified on reaching the Christian Commission again,
when Mr. Houghton said: “I can find no one willing to perform that
ceremony!”

Descending from the ambulance and passing into the quarters occupied
by Rev. Mr. and Mrs. A., I asked the former to assist in giving away
the bride, which he at once consented to do. But the most important
character was still wanting.

“Ah, Rev. G., will you not as a home friend kindly perform this
service?”

“With pleasure by the Methodist form, but I have conscientious
scruples about using another service!”

“Well, please send some one else.”

This one had scruples too. This seemed an absurd prejudice to stand
in the way of so much happiness. The fourth or fifth minister was
“perfectly willing” but hadn’t the least idea of an Episcopal
service. Verily this was the pursuit of happiness under difficulties.
But I rejoiced then that all obstacles seemed to be at last overcome.
Grateful to this liberal Methodist minister I thanked him and said:
“If you are willing, please wait a moment.”

Running quickly to Mr. Houghton, he soon found a prayer book and a
key,--not of the book but of the chapel door. How the time flew!
Four hours and thirty minutes gone; only twenty-five minutes left!
The minister and I entered the chapel, where I explained to him the
form of the Episcopal service, and to save time enacted the part
of the groom, the bride and the other necessary characters. Much
delighted with this service, he was proceeding finely when we came
to the giving of the ring. “Oh, how about the ring,” he asked. Here
was another dilemma. Shades of the Goddess of Matrimony! A ring! and
in camp, where jewelry was conspicuous only by its absence! My only
ring, a garnet cluster, would not serve for a wedding ring, yet a
ring must be had. Leaving the reverend absorbed in his part I ran
to the tent again and rushed in upon Bob and Annie, happy and quite
oblivious of time, forgetting almost my presence, and that it was for
_their_ marriage, that I had stirred up every department in the great
hospital and the U. S. Headquarters.

In a tone of dismay I exclaimed: “What shall we do for a ring? It is
impossible to find one in this last moment.”

But to my intense amazement and great relief Miss Bain in a most
matter of fact manner replied, “Why, I have a plain ring in my
valise.” This she placed in my hand, and I gave it to Bob, who
deposited it safely for the auspicious moment. So I sped happily
away, calling back, “Be ready in five minutes!”

And now we must marshal our forces and prepare for the silent wedding
march, for which no Mendelssohn or Lohengrin could give sweet music,
and which must be under cover to avoid attracting attention. At this
moment an orderly hastily entered saying, “Mr. A. is very sorry, but
a telegram has ordered him directly to the Point, and Mr. Peek is
nowhere to be found!”

“Perhaps he has taken a telegraphic shock, too!”

“All the rest here?”

“Yes; but now, Captain Beckwith, you must be promoted to second
groomsman.”

Ignoring his objections in this latest emergency, I turned to Mrs.
Painter, asking: “Will you give away the bride, thus standing for her
mother?”

Equal to any emergency she replied: “We Friends do not understand thy
services, but what will thee have me to do?”

“There is no time now to study up, but when the Pastor asks ‘Who
giveth this woman to be married to this man?’ just step forward and
say, ‘I do’.”

There was no danger of failure there. “Now wait until I run again to
the chapel, to see if our minister is sufficiently coached, and then
let the conquering victims come!”

The good man was ready, and quite delighted with the beautiful
service. When we disagreed about the positions to be taken, he
good-naturedly allowed himself to be backed against the rough little
pulpit, and with an expression of amused curiosity prepared for the
now waiting couple.

Perhaps a dozen camp friends had quietly entered and seated
themselves to witness the ceremony, and all was ready. Hastily
returning once more to our tent, and finding every one ready, and
fearing that our little secret might be discovered, we ordered
“Double quick.” Bob and I went first together, the two groomsmen
and bridesmaid entered from different directions. Sister Painter
came next with the bride, and even in her well worn, patched brown
‘every day’, with travelling hat and pretty collar, she seemed quite
beautiful. Hannah covered the retreat.

As we arranged our little wedding procession, the solemnity of the
occasion became impressive, while the shades of evening struggled
through the bare windows of the large chapel, and the gleam of half a
dozen candles cast a glow over the Pastor’s form as he stood, book in
hand, awaiting the first sight of the twain, now slowly approaching.
All fell, quietly and orderly, into position. And there, far from
home and dear friends, in the roughly boarded, unplaned, unpainted
structure where “the Boys in Blue” so often gathered to hear the
words of love and truth, was solemnly performed the beautiful
ceremony, without a pause or interruption, which joined two loving
hearts as one in holy bonds, never to be severed on earth. “Whom God
hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

More than one silent tear of thankfulness fell as the last prayer
died away on the lips of the good man, who had so beautifully
solemnized this institution.

Night had now fallen as all joyfully congratulated the noble looking,
happy pair. They walked arm in arm, man and wife, back to our tents,
where we quietly followed, no rumor having reached the alert ears
of the poor weary fellows, anxious for a break in the monotony of
hospital life.

The guests at the reception in our large tent consisted only of our
own little party, and the refreshments were composed of a couple of
bottles of Sister Painter’s home-made wine, and a “wolverine” cake,
hastily made by Mary Blackmar’s willing hands.

Rev. ---- wrote the certificate, and we had a merry time in
witnessing it; while our tent was illuminated with two extra candles
in bottles, and the wind made sweet music above our laughter on the
swaying canvas roof. The great black log blazed brightly, now and
then snapping out a sharp shout of joy, and all went merrily as the
traditional marriage bell.

Bob, of course, was obliged to return at once to his regiment;
leaving his bride for a day or two while he cleaned up his
regimental quarters, and obtained permission to go to housekeeping
where bullets rained and shells stormed, and thither he took his
happy bride.

About two weeks later came the furlough, and the Major’s commission.
On my return from my interview with Governor Fenton in Albany, I met
the wedded pair in Washington, going North, where their festivities
were continued among their friends with suitable formalities.




                            CHAPTER XX

                      NEW YORK STATE AGENCY


Quite unknown to me, the State Agents and the two Commissions had
formulated an appeal to have me supersede Mrs. Spencer, then New York
State Agent in the field, and urged that I go at once to Governor
Fenton at Albany to have it confirmed. So the day after the wedding I
started for New York on a government transport.

Mr. Houghton was also going North. The rumor of a wedding had already
spread over camp, and Mr. Houghton and I were congratulated as
the happy couple on our wedding trip. This caused a great deal of
merriment.

Captain Blackman of the transport, was very kind and made the trip
on the shabby boat quite pleasant. My little cabin was suffocating
at night, and I left my door open with a light burning in the narrow
passage-way, while the engineer and his wife slept opposite. Quite
exhausted with preparations for the wedding and for my trip North, I
fell into a heavy sleep. Some time during the night I was awakened by
heavy hands passing up and down my body. I awoke in total darkness,
and was too dazed at first to comprehend the situation, but at last I
managed to exclaim “Who are you, and what do you want?”

A coarse voice, in broken English, said, “I want a place to sleep!”

I called for a light and help, when in a very calm manner the
intruder said: “O, don’t put yourself in a stew!” On his hastily
retreating footsteps I quickly closed and locked the door. The
engineer had doubtless extinguished the light in the passage before
he closed their door.

The next day we stopped at Fortress Monroe, and were allowed to
examine the interior of the Fort, and that great mounted black gun
called “The Swamp Angel” which was reputed to throw a shot of four
hundred pounds!

In Washington we met our old friend Major Baker; and when we walked
up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol we saw the effect of an
unusual freak of the wind. A large flag was flying at the top from
either wing of the great building and both flags blew in towards
each other, standing out immovable without a fold as if held by some
material background. The effect was peculiar.

But I spent little time sight-seeing, and took the afternoon train
for New York.

Upon arriving at my home in Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn, there were
many matters to attend to, and I had little time to spend with my
family. I then started for Albany. At Troy we crossed the river in
a sleigh on thick ice. I had been invited to stop at the home of my
former patient John C. Guffin, where I met his father, mother and
brother. The parents reminded me of Abraham and Sarah. They seemed
to have dropped out of the Old Testament, as they talked in Scripture
language quite difficult for me to understand.

The hilly streets of Albany were covered with ice, and although a
natural climber, I could not keep my footing, and so I simply sat
down and slid to the bottom of those hills. Governor Fenton was away
when I arrived, and I was obliged to remain three days waiting for
him. During this time these hospitable patriarchs gave me, three
times a day, only buckwheat cakes and tea, which peculiar diet caused
a severe headache. I was very glad when I could get away. I never
experienced such cold as during that visit.

Governor Fenton was very courteous, and, after examining the
appeal made by all the State Agencies, the Sanitary and Christian
Commissions, he soon granted the request and gave me the Commission
of New York State agent, with directions to report to Mr. Morgan,
head of New York State Agency in Washington.

On my return to Washington I met Mr. Morgan, and received from him
the following commission:


                         “New York State Agency,
                            181 Pennsylvania Avenue,
                       Washington, D. C., February 22, 1865.

     Colonel T. S. Bowers,
        A. A. G. Armies, United States.

     Sir:

     Miss Ada W. Smith has been appointed agent of the State of
     New York for the relief of her soldiers.

     I respectfully commend her to your kind consideration,
     assuring you that every facility given her for carrying out
     the object of her mission will be appreciated.

                                 Very truly,
                                        D. G. MORGAN,
                              Supt. N. Y. S. Military Agency.”

Mr. Morgan directed me to report to City Point and to relieve Mrs.
Spencer.

On my return to City Point I met Major and Mrs. Eden. Having
received his promotion and a furlough, they were on their wedding
trip North. I was glad to return to City Point camp life and duty,
with congratulations on all sides. The next day, with an ambulance
and a friend, I went to Mrs. Spencer’s quarters and showed her my
commission, saying, “I would like to take possession in a few days.”

Mrs. Spencer had been charged with partiality to McClellan men, and
refusing Republican soldiers tobacco, etc. Politics, even in the
army, caused many somersaults, and were quite beyond my management;
and through some strategy my commission was revoked at City Point,
though I retained the commission as New York agent in general!

There were then some indications of the collapse of the Confederacy,
and that when this frightful war was over the agencies would also
collapse. However, I kept on working in the old way, while my
indignant Republican friends threatened, and tried to storm the
New York State Agency. Politics ran high and many lost their heads
politically. Many convalescent copperheads and Democrats, enlisted
men, were allowed to go home to vote for president.

Doctor Painter, a strong Republican, incurred the displeasure of
General Patrick, a Democrat, by some manipulations which enabled her
to get enough passes for Jersey soldiers to go home to vote and so
balance the Democratic vote.

Many one-armed and one-legged men were moving about camp, waiting
orders to report to Washington, where the Government would supply
them with artificial limbs and discharge them. It was surprising how
many were well fitted with these limbs, and that many could walk so
well that only a slight limp betrayed them; while others with neatly
gloved hands, which they could sometimes use quite well, were seldom
observed in passing.

A young lieutenant from Maine, had lost a leg, and was lying, weary
and helpless, on his hospital cot. He had written, as had many
another poor fellow crippled for life, to his fiancée, offering to
resign his claim, and he was now feverishly awaiting her reply. Day
after day passed, and still no answer, while we tried every device to
encourage him. He said “I know how it will be!” He became bitter and
scornful and made no effort to live. While it was scarcely possible
in any case that he could recover from this usually fatal thigh
fracture, we still hoped that he might at least receive some word of
comfort before he died.

I seldom went into the wards after nightfall, but the dying boy sent
for me quite late one night. Hoping that some kind word had come at
last, I hastened to his side. None had come and, conscious that his
life was fast ebbing away, he had only bitterness for his former
sweetheart and died with these cruel thoughts.

I wrote his friend, simply announcing his death; but a few days
later came her reply, full of grief. She had received no letter, nor
knew anything of his wounds. They had been friends from childhood
and she could not believe she would never see him again. “Had he
not mentioned her or left some word?” My reply was the saddest and
most difficult of all sad letters, for--“It might have been.” I
tried to think of some word which he had dropped which might be
happily construed, and I certainly strained a point to give this poor
heart-stricken girl some little comfort to remember from the boy
lover of her childhood.

A few days later his comrades carried him to a mournful tune of fife
and drum, and fired a last salute over his lonely grave.

   “Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
    The saddest are these, it might have been.”




                            CHAPTER XXI

                           A HOUSE MOVING


General Collis, then in command of the colored brigade at the Point,
on abandoning his adjutant’s little frame house or office about
fifteen feet by ten, kindly gave it to me. A large army wagon on
which it was raised, for removal, supported by a squad of soldiers on
either side, and hauled by six mules, made quite an impression coming
up Agency Row, especially as it carried away the telegraph wires over
the road. One of our large tents was moved to give it space, and the
real door and little glass window in it made us quite the envy of the
Row. It was divided into two rooms, having a tent roof. The front
room was for business purposes. The smaller, which had a window about
a foot square, was large enough only for a bunk with a straw bed, a
packing box for a dresser, a hand glass and a barrel chair, and so
New York was added to Pennsylvania and New Jersey Agencies.

This recalls a night incident somewhat later, when Mrs. Painter and I
were sleeping in the bunk. I was startled by Mrs. Painter springing
up on to the dresser and screaming loudly, “Murder! Thieves! Help!”
almost in the face of a scamp at the window, who was evidently trying
to reach the wines hidden under the dresser. Mrs. Painter was a very
small woman of the old time Quaker stamp, and she wore a little white
night cap, and the proverbial short gown and petticoat. As the poor
fellow took to his heels and the neighbouring tents were aroused,
I could only lie still and laugh at the ludicrous scene. He lost a
great army shoe which rested conspicuously on a rise of ground, quite
distant.

Another amusing incident comes to my mind in connection with my
little house. One night there came a thundering knock on the door,
on which remained the word “Adjutant.” On opening I found a soldier
standing at attention and more than “half-seas-over,” so that he
could not distinguish a woman from an officer. He had been on
furlough, and insisted on my taking his pass, but at last I succeeded
in starting him for the proper office.

An incident occurs to me of a New York newspaper reporter who was
invited to the mess of General Grant and staff. While drinking was
more common than now, no one so far forgot himself as to become
intoxicated in the presence of the General, whose self-control and
rigid discipline all respected. But this man so demeaned himself
as to “get under the table,” and the officers present were excited
to the utmost contempt and indignation at this breach of etiquette
in the presence of the commander of the United States Armies. If
intoxication had been common at Headquarters, camp gossip would
certainly have travelled the half mile to the state agencies and
brought us news of it. General Grant, however, was unhappily
addicted to the excessive use of tobacco, which eventually caused
him much suffering, and, later, his life.


                    MISS JONES, OF PHILADELPHIA

How few, even of the army veterans, remember the sacrifices of the
“Women of the War” in hospitals, homes and elsewhere! In the many
G. A. R. annual Memorial services held since the war, when they are
received in churches to hear their heroic deeds extolled, never have
I heard a chaplain or minister give a thought of the women workers,
by whose faithful care many of these brave soldiers were nursed back
to life, and restored to their anxious families and to the country.

Miss Jones, of Philadelphia, was one of these rare, forgotten
workers. Accomplished, refined, though delicate, she left her
luxurious home with its order and comforts, to give her time,
strength and means to the principles of national liberty, inbred
into the life of every citizen of Philadelphia by the frequent sight
of the old cradle of the American flag, the little home of Betsey
Ross, where, under the direction of General Washington, Lafayette and
others--she sewed into the bunting the thirteen stars and stripes of
our national emblem. A million subscribers, at ten cents each, have
enabled the Association to make it a national or State reservation
in the densest business section of the city, where it has become a
national Mecca to thousands yearly visiting the City of Brotherly
Love.

Miss Jones, on arriving at City Point Hospital, at once took up the
rough camp life in an army tent with earth floor,--often damp and
wet,--a little cot, an apology for a table, barrel chairs, the usual
chimney built roughly of logs and mud with barrel top, the plain and
sometimes distasteful food, and the atmosphere of the sick wards.
Here, however, she worked for many weeks in that enthusiastic ardor
which inspired her kindly heart, feeling that she was giving help,
comfort, and perhaps life, to the sick who came under her care.

Thoughtless of self, and with failing strength, she continued to work
ceaselessly, till, contracting typhoid fever, she collapsed quite
suddenly, but still hoped that rest in the bare lonely tent might
restore her to her hospital work.

I had been too much occupied with my sick Boys even to see Miss
Jones, though much interested in her, having lived near her in
Philadelphia some years before the war; and the sad news came with a
shock that this frail, devoted soul had sacrificed her life to her
country and died in the field, like many a true soldier and patriot,
far from friends and the home where every tender luxury was awaiting
her.

Doctor Painter and I volunteered to sit beside her slight form
during the night, which was intensely cold, while a full moon shed
its silvery rays over the phantom of midnight silence in camp, and
glittered like rare crystals on the pure white snow that seemed
to reach the distant horizon, whence the brilliant stars looked
down in love and pity. Mrs. Painter and I sat on rough chairs with
our feet on logs, while the fire logs in the crude chimney burned
brightly. Mrs. Painter, who had been among the first women to reach
the front, meanwhile told me many a tale of her strange experiences
when system had not reached the improvised temporary hospital tents,
where many suffered for help and nourishment then unattainable. So
the night passed, while the moaning wind sang “Rest, sweet soul,”
often slightly swaying the white sheet that covered the pallid body.
More than once we started quickly to the seeming motion of life,
hoping it might be real, but the pure spirit had passed on, while the
frail body rested with a pleasant smile, calmly, as if tended by the
friends of home and the formalities of a last funeral service for the
dead.

Her brother, Horatio, came for the body, and at last it was laid away
among her ancestors in the family lot near Philadelphia.

Recognition of her services has been given in Philadelphia by the
naming of one of the G. A. R. Posts “the Hetty Jones Post.”

The only other post that I have ever heard of named after a woman is
the Betsey Ross Post, also of Philadelphia.

                         From Harper’s Weekly
                      Saturday April 30th, 1864
                     (By Private Miles O’Reilly)
                          Gen. Chas. Halpin.

    Three years ago to-day
        We raised our hands to heaven,
    And on the rolls of muster
        Our names were thirty-seven;
    There were just a thousand bayonets,
        And the swords were thirty-seven,
    As we took the oath of service
        With our right hands raised to heaven.
    Oh, ’twas a gallant day,
        In memory still adored,
    That day of our sun-bright nuptials
        With the musket and the sword!
    Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,
        And beneath a cloudless heaven
    Twinkled a thousand bayonets,
        And the swords were thirty-seven.
    Of the thousand stalwart bayonets
        Two hundred march to-day;
    Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,
        And hundreds in Maryland clay;
    And other hundreds, less happy, drag
        Their shattered limbs around,
    And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep
        Of the battle-field’s holy ground.
    For the swords--one night, a week ago,
        The remnant, just eleven,
    Gathered around a banqueting board
        With seats for thirty-seven;
    There were two limped in on crutches,
        And two had each but a hand
    To pour the wine and raise the cup
        As we toasted “Our flag and land!”
    And the room seemed filled with whispers
        As we looked at the vacant seats,
    And, with choking throats, we pushed aside
        The rich but untasted meats;
    Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,
        As we rose up--just eleven,
    And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead
        Who had made us thirty-seven!




                            CHAPTER XXII

          THE LAST PARADE OF CONFEDERATE PRISONERS

    “I am quite confident that Love was the only rope
     thrown out to us by Heaven when we fell overboard into
     life.”--Sidney Lanier.[2]


General Grant had ordered a grand attack all along the lines from
Appomattox to Hatches Run. This was the fateful move that crushed the
Confederate Army, and opened the way to Petersburg and Richmond on
April 3d.

The paroled and surrendered Confederate prisoners were at once
marched forward from Petersburg on the road beside the hospital. It
was a strange, sad sight, this long line of Confederate prisoners,
3,000 strong, officers and men without arms,--some by habit reaching
for the forfeited sword, belt, or gun,--worn, tired, begrimed figures
of despair. They were clothed in every degree of shabbiness, from
the dulled tinsel of the uniformed officers, to the worn, faded,
ragged grey that they had so confidently donned at the beginning of
the war. They were on their way to City Point under guard, many to be
forwarded to some Northern camp, where at least their starving bodies
would be fed and made comfortable.

There was no sound of exultation over the conquered enemy among
the Northern men and women standing quietly near to see them pass.
Some even saluted the defeated Confederate officers. None showed
the slightest disrespect to those unfortunates who had not only
lost, in a futile war against their own nation, the “Flower of their
Chivalry,” but their broad acres were devastated and had become
battle fields of frightful carnage and struggle, and their homes
were also wrecked, leaving many without shelter, and thus depriving
hundreds of any present means of support. As they marched slowly
by, in painful silent dejection, did they realize the folly of an
ill-advised rebellion, to which they had sacrificed lives, homes and
sustenance to an illogical, unethical romantic ideal?

Crowds of barefoot, ragged negroes, nearly nude, who had been shut up
for years in Petersburg, now crowded by hundreds along the road. One
excited old woman, her head covered with a faded bandana, exclaimed:
“Lor, dere goes ole Mars, I knows him shore. Can’t tech me now. I’se
a free nigger.” Another shouted to us, “I knows you alls Yankee
ladies, de Lord bress you.”

It seemed like a funeral procession, without fife and drum, as
it wound slowly past the hospital to City Point United States
Headquarters, there to take their parole.

About this time, at City Point, I saw General Custer, who lost his
life soon after in the Indian raids. He was a small, spare, nervous
man, wearing a scarlet-lined cape thrown over his shoulder, and
his long light hair floated back, making a striking picture of a
cavalryman as his spirited horse dashed from one headquarters to
another.


FOOTNOTES:

     [2] Sidney Lanier, later musician, poet, writer, on
         the secession of Georgia at once enlisted in the
         Confederate infantry and served through the war except
         while a prisoner at Point Lookout. He afterwards
         rejoiced in the overthrow of slavery; and knew that
         it was belief in the soundness and greatness of the
         American Union, among the millions of the North
         and the great North West that really conquered the
         South. He said “As soon as Lee invaded the North and
         arrayed the sentiment against us our swift destruction
         followed.”--Edward Mims.




                           CHAPTER XXIII

                 OUR FIRST SIGHT OF PETERSBURG


The advance on Petersburg occurred on April 2d, 1865. It was about
3.30 A. M. when our troops entered the city, and all were anxious to
see the city so long besieged and coveted.

Two days later, on the 4th, a party of about twenty-five officers
and ladies of the hospital, some well mounted, some in ambulances,
started in high exultation for the conquered city. I was happy in
being mounted on a beautiful white horse, with a crimson saddle
cloth, loaned from United States Headquarters. I wore a dark blue
habit with infantry buttons, a fatigue cap with chin strap, riding
gloves, and carried a small whip. The horse acted as if trained for
a circus, full of antics as a pet dog. In defiance of rein and whip
he walked on every stray log, into ditches, or puddles of water in
the road, first raising his haunches to feel if I were firm in the
saddle, and travelled with a “lope” as easy as a rocking chair, so
that after twenty-five miles I was not in the least tired.

We rode over the fields of the last skirmish, torn ground, destroyed
entrenchments, the “Cheveaux de frieze,” broken and scattered among
clothing, canteens and the general debris of a battle-field. At the
outskirts of the city we saw great “gopher holes” dug in the sides
of hills, where the inhabitants crowded daily to escape the shells
that were constantly falling into the doomed city. In these holes
they were safe until nightfall, when firing usually ceased and the
weary women and children returned to their homes to sleep until
another day. Shots passed through many houses but it was surprising
that so little had been destroyed.

  [Illustration: GENERAL O. B. WILCOX]

Having previously met General O. B. Wilcox, who was then in command
of the city, we rode to his headquarters, where I introduced our
party. He received us courteously, giving us a mounted escort, that
no trouble might ensue while we made a tour of the almost deserted
city. The windows were all closed, as for some national mourning.
There was only one foolish demonstration, by some young women on
a piazza, who made grimaces at our handsome officers, and gyrated
their fingers at them in a most remarkable manner. I was sorry and
indignant for this petty spite, but our brave men merely smiled
without comment.

The houses were generally detached, small and shabby, showing little
to interest beside occasional marks made by stray shot. While riding
through the town we saw an old gentleman weeding his garden, and I
made the excuse of asking for a glass of water, which was politely
given. I said to him, “You appear to be taking things very quietly.”

In his strong Southern accent, he replied: “Oh yes; you uns have us
beaten, and we might as well make the best of it and go to work.”

During this memorable day in Petersburg we had visited our old friend
Bob Eden, who became editor of the Petersburg Progress, a Confederate
paper, immediately after the occupation of the city; and he, like
his comrades, was wild with joy at the turn of things, political and
national.

The following from “Grant’s” Petersburg Progress appeared the day
after our visit. The paper is still in my possession, but it has
nearly fallen in pieces. There was no supply of printer’s blank
paper, and the Confederates had been obliged to use one side of wall
paper, or anything else that would hold print.


                        “Grant’s Petersburg Progress,
                           Petersburg, Va., 1865, April 4th.
     Vol. 1                                                No. 2

     Proprietors: Major R. C. Eden, Captain C. H. McCreary.

     Eternal vigilance is the price of peace, (and ten cents for
     our paper.)”


I copy from one column the following significant advertisements:

                               “NOTICE”

     “All persons destitute of provision will apply as follows:
     In West Ward, to W. L. Lancaster, East Ward, to W. L.
     Lancaster, Central Ward, to W. L. Lancaster, South Ward, to
     W. L. Lancaster.”

Surely there was little animosity when our troops cheerfully offered
food and sustenance to the destitute, starving whites, as well as to
the helpless negroes.


                           “AUCTION SALES”

     “To be sold cheap (if not badly sold already) all that
     singularly ineligible worthless property, known as the
     Southern Confederacy; for particulars apply to Jefferson
     Davis. N. B. Liberal terms to agents of Maximilian, Louis
     Napoleon or Victoria.”

In this same crude issue appears the following, probably the last
notice of a sale of slaves that ever disgraced our nominally free
country; now happily the home of freedom in very truth, though so
long permitting, in the face of our boasted freedom, the sale of
human beings.

     “I will sell to the highest bidder, for cash, at Notoway
     Court House, on Thursday, the sixth day of April, next
     Court day, ten negroes belonging to the estate of Uriah
     Lipscomb, deceased.
                                    P. A. Lipscomb,
                                 Com. Co. Court Notoway.”

     “Editorial Comment--The above sale is postponed
     indefinitely; a different disposition of the property
     having been made by Mr. A. Lincoln, of the White House,
     Washington, D. C.”

     “Lady visitors: Our sanctum was yesterday graced by
     several ladies, and all of them loyal and of strong Union
     principles. The party composed of Miss H. P. (high private)
     Smith, Agent from New York State, Mrs. Colonel Logan, Mrs.
     Sample, Delaware Agent, and Mrs. Huron, Indiana Agent.
     Their presence was very acceptable, and did much to soothe
     and comfort us in our labor. They were under escort of
     Messers. Clark, Peek and Brown, of the Sanitary Commission.”


                        “THE TWO MINNIES”

                        By A Rebel Soldier

(Suggested by a letter from Minnie, saying that she prayed daily that
the “Minnie” balls might spare me.)

   “There is a Minnie that I love,
    And a “Minnie” that I fear,
    But the former is now absent,
    And the latter oft too near.
    But the Minnie prays for me each day
    That to “Minnie” I’ll not fall a prey.

   “The voice of one is soft and sweet
    The other harsh and shrill--
    One only speaks to bless mankind
    The other but to kill.
    And while Minnie prays for me each day
    Yankee “Minnie” seek me for a prey.

   “And when this sad war is over,
    Our independence won,
    I’ll bid adieu to Yankee “Minn”
    And seek the other one.
    And together render thanks each day
    That to Yankee “Minns” I never fell a prey.”

To see the victorious veterans of the Army returning and marching
through Petersburg was a never-to-be-forgotten sight. As we sat,
mounted, at the corner of a street, they marched by with easy
swinging tramp, by hundreds and thousands, dust-begrimed, in faded
threadbare blue uniforms that they had worn through many a bloody
battle, and in which they had slept many nights, often in swamps, and
mud on the battle-fields. The shabby knapsacks, battered canteens,
ragged blankets, their well-polished old guns, the only fresh clean
emblem in sight; and these for the most part were shouldered as if
for a holiday, which in very truth it was, probably the happiest they
ever enjoyed. Discipline of the tired host was quite forgotten, while
the worn, faded, torn flags floated out proudly.

The Eighth Wisconsin Infantry had some time before sent home their
mascot “Old Abe,” the hero of twenty battles and many skirmishes.
This eagle was taken from its nest by an Indian and presented to
Company C., where it became the pet of the regiment. During attacks
he was carried at the front on a standard, near the flag,--sometimes
held by a long cord or chain,--he would rise up flapping his great
wings, and screeching defiance at the enemy loudly enough to be
heard along the line. His reputation made thousands of dollars at
fairs and elsewhere. His portrait was painted, and hangs in the Old
South Church, Boston. The State pensioned Old Abe and supported an
attendant to care for him. He died at last of old age, and his skin
is stuffed and safely preserved in the state archives at Madison,
Wisconsin.

As these men tramped to the music of the shrill fife and drum, that
knew no rest that day, they sometimes joined in a great chorus,
meanwhile cheering themselves hoarse, to the tunes of “Johnny Came
Marching Home,” “Yankee Doodle,” and many an army song.

When some former patients recognized us, surgeons and nurses who
had cared for them, they broke all bounds, and, with uncovered
heads, dipped their tattered flags and fairly roared their thanks in
grateful cheers, while we waved our caps and handkerchiefs in return
and also cheered. The magnetism of a home-going victorious army
spread like a prairie fire, not only from regiment to regiment, but
extended to every individual in their presence, while a roar as if of
ocean waves spread over the sea of happy men and women.

This was a day of great rejoicing and enthusiasm among soldiers
and Northerners, never to be forgotten. Taking leave of our polite
escort, and thanking General Wilcox for his kindness, the mounted
party took a spirited gallop back to hospital camp.

Strict hospital discipline was relaxed and the men were singing
“Home, Sweet Home,” “Yankee Doodle,” “John Brown’s Body,” “Marching
Through Georgia,” and many other patriotic songs, enjoying them
equally, until taps ordered “Lights out,” when the whole camp soon
fell into peaceful dreams of home.


                    TAPS

   “Night draws her sable mantle on
        And pins it with a star.”
    Darkness has come, and rest is won
    By those who thro’ the dusty way,
    Have marched their long and weary day.
    And now the bugler from his tent
        Across the prairies far,
        Comes forth to blow the call.
    By him ’tis sent. The regiment
    Will hear and know the hour has come
    For sleep, until the rising sun
        Shall summon one and all.
    Lights out! Lights out! The bugle’s clear
        Notes falling on the air,
    Sound to the ear now far, now near;
    Now almost ceasing, now enhanced
    By echoes o’er that wide expanse
        Of prairies bleak and bare.
    Lights out! Lights out! From every lamp
        The light is seen to die.
    With measured tramp around the camp
    The sentries guard against their foes;
    The rest are wrapped in sweet repose
        Beneath the starry sky.
    “Taps” falls far sweeter on the air
        Than any other sound.
    Like opiate rare, it soothes all care--
    To weary men a blessing seems--
    And pleasant are the soldier’s dreams
    Tho’ stretched upon the ground.
    Ah, Taps, thy mournful signal call
        Floats o’er a new-made grave,
    Thy soft notes fall where one from all
    Life’s weary march forever rests--
    Asleep. Where wild birds build their nests,
        Unmindful of the brave.
                                        John P. Force.

There were yet many patients, so that our work at the hospital went
on as before, while waiting for further orders; while all soon became
conscious of a general relaxation of the imperative discipline that
had made our hospital a model of general courtesy, neatness, and
order.




                            CHAPTER XXIV

                PREPARING FOR A VISIT TO RICHMOND,
               THE CAPITAL OF THE LOST CONFEDERACY

    “In giving freedom to the slave we assure freedom to the
     free.”--Abraham Lincoln.


A few days after the evacuation and capture of Richmond, a small
party led by Mr. J. Yates Peek, of Brooklyn, still superintendent
of the Sanitary Commission at City Point, arranged to make an
early start on the morning of April 11th, to see the smoking city.
Everything must be arranged over night, and I planned so as to jump
quickly into my clothing, placing my only pair of good boots on a
near-by chair, to lose no time. But in the morning, almost at the
last moment, the boots were missing. When all had joined in the
search, to no effect, the mystery increased.

We had a boy orderly, named Jack, who was more officious than
useful, and often much in the way, and he volunteered in the
search. Returning to my little room after a moment’s absence, to
my astonishment I beheld the boy on the floor with his head in my
trunk, which he had had the temerity to unlock. He was rummaging and
disarranging everything as if with a pudding stick. I exclaimed:
“Jack, what are you doing?” in no pleasant tone of voice.

“I thought the shoes might be in the trunk,” he quite coolly
replied, “but I’ve been through every darned thing in it and they
ain’t there.”

Words were, at that hurried moment, quite inadequate. An explanation
of the loss of the shoes came later. We had removed a small stove and
left the pipe hole open on the side between two tents, and during the
night some ambitious contraband probably had squeezed into the small
space between the tents, and with a long stick had “gobbled” my only
pair of decent shoes.

What could I do? I must go somewhere, as the party were not willing
to go without me. Fortunately, Miss Dupee, assistant in the Maine
State Agency, had a pair which fitted quite well and she very kindly
loaned them to me. One of the pleasant associations of agency life
in camp was the camaraderie that made all things in common, just as
the soldier shared his last ration or his last dollar with another
comrade in the field.

Owing to this delay, we were barely able to catch the boat as it was
pushing off at City Point Dock. A pleasant sail on the James River
brought us to the dock of the Seven-Hilled City, directly into the
burned and still smoking district.

The fleeing citizens in their short-sighted frenzy, had determined
to destroy the whole city. But thanks to the efforts of the Federal
soldiers, chiefly colored, the greater part of the city was saved for
them, while the factories and warehouses continued to smoke and burn
for many weeks.

It was this same obstructed wharf and destroyed dock over which
the President climbed, holding little Tad by the hand. They passed
through the burned district, against the protest of a small escort,
while jostled by a rough crowd.

Blessed by the grateful negroes crowding around the great
Emancipator, some kneeling and kissing the hem of his coat, he strode
fearlessly on among enemies and friends.

A significant fact to be forever cherished by the freed race is that
General Weitzel, with the 25th Corps d’ Afric, took possession of
the conquered city; and further that a colored soldier carried the
President’s United States flag before him into the heart of Richmond,
where it was raised over the Capitol, and Richmond was once more and
forever in the Union.

The Capitol, a modest building with white columns and dome, was
uninjured. There were many comfortable-looking detached houses, with
yards or gardens pleasant to see after the bare tent life at City
Point Hospital.

We dined at Spotswood Hotel, still managed by a Confederate host,
where we greatly enjoyed fresh peas and corn. We were rather
disappointed by the plainness of the gray mastic front of the
three-storied double medium house of Jefferson Davis, both inside and
out, with only a door yard in front, where I gathered some leaves
which are still in my possession.

We saw the entrance to the tunnel that was dug by starving, desperate
Yankee prisoners, almost in full view of the guards, quite near
Libby prison, and by which many had escaped to freedom, thus bringing
more deprivation and abuse upon the despairing prisoners left behind.

All was now changed in the city. The inhabitants finding they were
not pursued or in any way molested, were gradually returning to their
homes and buildings that they had not succeeded in destroying.

  [Illustration: LIBBY PRISON]

Libby Prison remained; a weather-stained brick tobacco storehouse,
the former scene of so much suffering and indignity. But the tables
were now turned. The brutal turnkey, Captain Richard Turner, by name,
I think, was now himself a prisoner. He was a stocky, brutal-looking
fellow. All people were allowed to pass and look through a small
open window at the miserable wretch, while he defiantly mounted a
stool in the middle of the room to show himself more conspicuously.
That morning a former prisoner had cajoled him into coming close to
the small window, where the man struck through and felled him to the
ground as he said: “Take that for the pail of filth you threw over me
while I was a helpless prisoner.”

  [Illustration: GENERAL ULYSSES GRANT]

It was a fine commentary upon the discipline and forbearance of many
liberated victims, that they did not kill or shoot this monster for
his atrocities, instead of merely gazing and glaring at him silently
through the small opening.

  [Illustration: GENERAL LEE]


                               PEACE

When the formal announcement of the final surrender of General Lee
to General Grant, at Appomattox, on the 9th of April, 1865, was
confirmed in the camp, all knew that at last the “cruel war” was
over. There was great rejoicing in the hospital, and all began to
prepare to go North, or home again, after so many weary years of
struggle. Some wept for joy as they wrote to the weary waiting
watchers at home; some were to carry to their friends and neighbors
the last words and deeds of the many who slept beneath the soil of
Virginia, or further south, while their comrades “went marching on.”
The workers of the Agencies and the Commissions had so long labored
in the same spirit that we were much like a large united family; and
until we departed one by one for our homes, we did not realize how
close was the bond of sympathy and affection, that could never be
forgotten.




                            CHAPTER XXV

                    RECOLLECTIONS OF LINCOLN

    “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies.
     Though passion may have strained, it must not break our
     bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory stretching
     from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living
     heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will
     yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched,
     as surely they will be by the better angels of our
     nature.”--Abraham Lincoln.


During the last year of the war I was still working for the “Boys”
at City Point Depot Field Hospital, Virginia, half a mile from
the headquarters of the United States Armies in the field, at
the junction of the Appomattox and James Rivers, when the day of
the second inaugural drew near. This caused a welcome ripple of
excitement to spread over the daily monotony of discipline in
hospital camp life. The fearless President was to stand once more
before the people to take the oath to uphold the institutions and
principles of his country, despite the state policy as well as
humanity that had compelled the passing of the Emancipation Act, that
had cut the last thread of hope for the return of “the good old days”
of the South.

  [Illustration:
   THE PERRY PICTURES. 125.      COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY M. P. RICE.
   BOSTON EDITION.
                         ABRAHAM LINCOLN.]

When Abraham Lincoln, with superhuman courage, made that moral stroke
of the pen that gave freedom to millions of slaves, then was born at
last a free country, not only in name, but in the glorious fact
that had blotted out from our country’s escutcheon the shame of human
slavery that had so long branded our vaunted freedom as a disgrace.
The people, the great middle class, the saviours of freedom who in
great crises rise to a national emergency like a towering Gibraltar,
had risen to uphold the weary hands of him who loved his country more
than life, though so often it had seemed as if the waves of care and
sorrow would engulf his tired soul.

Many officers, and others able to secure leave of absence or passes,
hastened to witness this greatest of our national events. With other
State Agency ladies, I was anxious to break the long strain of caring
for sick and wounded patients amid scenes of the horrors of war
and bloodshed. Nine thousand men, at different times, filled this
well-organized camp. Mangled bodies were brought directly in from the
battle-fields where they had fallen, by means of temporary rails, on
rough bare sand cars, on which they were piled like so many logs,
one upon another, so great was the need of haste to get them to the
hospital. All of these were covered with dirt, powder, blood, torn
uniforms, and seemed an almost indistinguishable mass; while many a
half-severed limb dangled from a shattered human trunk.

I was fortunate in being able to go to Washington quite independently,
without fear of detention, having a pass from General Grant that
ordered all guards, pickets, steamboats and government roads to pass
“Miss Ada W. Smith,” and which practically would have allowed me to
travel free without question over the entire Northern States, as all
roads were then under government control. Thus was I enabled to accept
the invitation of Dr. Hettie K. Painter, Pennsylvania State Agent, and
her husband, to join their party going to Washington. On arriving in
that city we went to a small hotel, where we met some Western friends,
and found there also a former patient from City Point, Lieutenant
Gosper, who had lost a leg in the skirmish before Petersburg, and was
now convalescent. He manifested the usual cheerfulness of wounded men,
while waiting to have an artificial limb adjusted,--a free gift from
the government.

We had secured tickets and good places to see the official ceremony;
but the surging mass of humanity crowded us quite beyond hearing. On
this eventful morning a raw, threatening gale blew dust and loose
debris into our eyes and faces, nearly blinding us.

“And men looked up with mad disquietude upon the dull sky,” as we
awaited the signal of the President’s coming. At last the tall, gaunt
form of Mr. Lincoln came forward on to the portico of the Capitol,
surrounded by officials and attendants. Chief Justice Chase opened
the great Bible, and President Lincoln stepped forward, placing
his hand upon the book to take, for the second time, his oath of
office. At this moment, the leaden sky, that had not lifted during
the day, suddenly opened a small rift, while a strong bright ray
of sunshine shot through and rested upon the noble head of the
soon-to-be-glorified martyr. A silence of awe seemed for a moment
to overspread the startled multitude, and then the darkening gloom
closed down again as with an ominous foreboding. But not a word of
that memorable address could we hear above the soughing, cold, gusty
wind.

While planning for the reception, our young lieutenant, sensitive and
refined, positively declined to accompany us, repeating only: “It is
no place for a cripple.”

After we had exhausted all other arguments, a happy thought came to
me: “Well, Lieutenant, if you will not go with us I suppose I shall
have to stay away also; each of the other ladies has an escort, and,
as every lady must be attended, I can not go alone.”

“Would you go to a reception with a cripple on a crutch?” he replied,
sadly.

My answer came quickly and sincerely: “I would be proud of such an
escort!”

At last he consented, rather reluctantly, to accompany us. At the
appointed hour we started for the evening reception. Soon, however,
we found ourselves in a frightful crush of people, crowding up the
White House steps, and we quickly closed around the lieutenant,
fearing he might get under foot. Our party was carried up bodily to
the landing, where I found that my arm was quite badly bruised by the
crutch.

After getting breath and composing ourselves, we fell into the long
procession of couples approaching the President, where the ushers
went through the form of taking our names and introducing us. In
passing we saw a group of cabinet officers and a number of ladies
with Mrs. Lincoln, who was gowned in white satin with a deep black
thread lace flounce over an expansive skirt, in the style of that
day; and she wore her favorite head dress, a wreath of natural pink
roses entirely around her plainly dressed hair.

The President’s band played stirring airs in an adjoining room, while
crowds of every grade passed on, some in dashing uniforms, some in
evidently fresh “store clothes,” others in gorgeous costumes, and
the good women from the country in sensible black,--with ill-fitting
gloves. It was a motley democratic crowd, such as could be seen in no
royal country, and of which we are justly proud. Following the almost
endless procession we saw the unmistakable form of Mr. Lincoln, his
long arm and white-gloved hand reaching out to shake hands, and
bowing in a mechanical manner, plainly showing that he wished this
demand of the people was well over.

Suddenly straightening up his tall form, while continuing the
handshaking, he looked eagerly down the line and, to my surprise,
as the lieutenant and I approached, he stepped out before us
and, grasping the hand of the crippled soldier, he said in an
unforgettable tone of deep sympathy: “God bless you, my boy! God
bless you!” Owing to the lieutenant’s crutch I was obliged to take
his left arm which brought me on the outside away from the President.
I attempted to pass with a bow, but he stood in my way, still
holding out his large hand, until I released mine and gave it to
him, receiving a warm, sympathetic grasp. Then I saw that wonderful
lighting of his kindly beneficent grey eyes, that for a moment often
beautified as with a halo that otherwise plain, sad face. As we moved
on, the lieutenant exclaimed in happy exultation, “Oh! I’d lose
another leg for a man like that!”

Such was the magnetic tone and touch of that rare spirit that carried
hope and trust to the hopeless sorrowing, the great heart that could
with truth and sincerity enfold not only his own country, but the
whole human brotherhood of the world, and caused him to reply in
effect to those who wished him to subscribe to some special creed:
“When I can find a church broad enough to take in the whole human
race, then I will join it.”

Once again I saw President Lincoln, after the inaugural, early in
April--that fateful month in which occurred the last battle of the
rebellion, the surrender of heroic Lee, the act of the magnanimous
Grant, the imprisonment of the Confederate leader, the conference of
those great men of war and state.

When Abraham Lincoln had come, in his own boat the River Queen,
to meet Grant and Sherman at City Point, he was so secure in the
conclusion of peace at last, that he had brought Mrs. Lincoln and
“little Tad” to share in the general rejoicing.

I did not see Mrs. Lincoln at that time, and I had also missed seeing
her in 1863, when I had taken to the famous Soldier’s Rest and
Hospital in Philadelphia one soldier blinded by a bullet that passed
through his head, cutting both optic nerves, one who had lost both
legs, and another who had lost both arms.

During the war, when the troops were en route to the front and halted
in Philadelphia, the great Liberty Bell announced their coming, and
hundreds of women and many men hastened with bountiful supplies to
this great Rest, where they set up rough wooden tables. Here many
passing regiments had a generous meal, and almost lifted the roof
with their grateful shouts, exceeded only by those of the outside
crowd as they marched away to the jolly tune of the fife and drum.

At City Point the three Titans of war and state--Lincoln, Grant and
Sherman--met with navy and state officers to conclude the terms of
surrender and peace. There was no desire to confirm the battle cry,
“Hang Jeff Davis,” as in most countries would have been inevitable,
and even sympathy and mercy inspired the closing acts of this
national tragedy that had cost the lives of thousands of brave
Southerners, and of those of the invincible North.

During this mighty conclave at City Point, Abraham Lincoln was
occasionally seen riding to the front and about camp and hospital,
and to visit the tents, in his sombre black suit and high hat
towering above many striking uniforms about him. It was a singular
fact that while many ministers had come down to “overlook the field”
dressed in the same fashion, except that there was always somehow
a ministerial dip of the front corners of their long frock coats
that at once betrayed their profession, they were often ridiculed
and guyed by the rough soldiers. Yet the thought of ridicule was
never suggested for this unique man who seemed to dignify and honor
everything he touched, even when, in the same style, he rode his
horse in an ungainly manner. He could have ridden bareback without
loss of dignity.

On one of these occasions Mr. Lincoln had ridden up from the Point
to visit our hospital, and was, as usual, accompanied by crowds of
devoted friends as he walked through the divisions and avenues of
the different camps. There were gathered the sick and wounded of
the Ninth, Sixth, Fifth, Second Corps, and the Corps d’ Afric, who
were frequently visited by their regimental surgeons and officers of
regiments that were encamped before Petersburg.

I shall always regret not speaking to Mr. Lincoln at that time. It
would have been very easy to do, but I could not see the coming
catastrophe, and I hesitated to push forward into the surrounding
crowd to be presented. As he passed from tent to tent, with many
a cheerful word to the suffering men, a young man connected with
the Sanitary Commission, now Doctor Jerome Walker, a successful
physician of Brooklyn, said, pointing to some tents near-by, “Mr.
President, you do not want to go in there!”

“Why not, my boy?” he asked.

“Why, sir, they are sick rebel prisoners.”

With a hasty movement he said, “That is just where I do want to
go,” and he strode within the tent, shaking hands and speaking such
words of comfort as only his magnanimous spirit could prompt, to the
grateful surprise and pleasure of the Confederate patients.


           ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN

On the morning of April 15th, 1865, as the sun rose over our quiet
hospital camp, I was startled by the sound of galloping hoofs, that
stopped suddenly before our tent. Scratching on the canvas indicated
the usual sign for admission. Hastily untying the tent flaps, I found
Major William Baker, of the Tenth Colored Troops, still mounted, and
betraying much agitation and haste, when he said: “I have just ridden
up to tell you, the first person in the hospital, the sad news of the
reported death of the President. All officers were assembled at 2 A.
M. to a conference, when the reported assassination by Wilkes Booth
was read, but not yet officially confirmed.” With a sad expression
and a salute he put spurs to his horse and dashed back to City Point.

Telegrams were slow in those days, so it was not till the afternoon
that the terrible, cruel tragedy was announced at the hospital camp.
The shock was paralyzing, and a sombre silence spread over the wards
containing the men who had learned to love this great soul. Men and
women as well as soldiers wept together as for a loved, indulgent
father, who had borne his crushing responsibilities without a murmur
or a cry for help. A few copperhead patients dared to approve of
the murderous act, but they were soon beaten into silence with the
crutches of the indignant crippled convalescents.

  [Illustration: MAJOR WILLIAM BAKER]

  [Illustration: J. WILKES BOOTH]

With a vague desire to express in some way their grief, men came and
begged for a bit of black to fasten over their tents, and if any were
so luckless as to have a black suit they saw it speedily reduced
to shreds and flying from the entrances of the wards or tents. But
other men still begged so earnestly for some black emblem, that I at
last gave to them a full train black skirt that I could illy spare.
This soon became floating ribbons over many a tent, to the great
satisfaction of the loyal boys, having so little by which they could
express their sorrow. In a few days some of us were so fortunate as
to receive from home or from Washington, mourning badges of suitable
designs, which we wore as a mark of respect to our dead President.

In making the rounds among my scattered patients I stopped to speak
to Major Prentiss, of a New York regiment, who had captured his
wayward young brother--a Captain in the Sixth Maryland Confederate
Infantry--now lying in the same ward quite near, having lost a
leg. The Captain, a handsome, cheerful youth, whose happy jokes
and stories kept his neighbours quite diverted from the tedium of
convalescence, was recovering slowly; but the Major had been shot
through the lung, and one could hear the air passing through the
unhealed wound. He looked so longingly at the badge I was wearing,
that another brother, who had come South to take the patients home
if possible, said: “He would be so happy if he could have a badge.”
It was impossible to ignore the wish of a dying soldier, so I took
off the one I was wearing and pinned it over his heart. He could not
speak his thanks, but a rare smile of intense satisfaction spread
over the sufferer’s countenance.

As in most great catastrophes, it seemed for a time as if the world
must stand still; but many patients still needed care, and we were
obliged to go on with our work till all the sick were sent home or to
Northern hospitals, and each resumed his daily duty, while the spirit
of sadness hovered over the hospital campus.

    Lincoln was not a type,
    No ancestors, no fellows, no successors.
                                         Ingersoll.


                   O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

    O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
    The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
        But O heart! heart! heart!
          O the bleeding drops of red,
            Where on the deck my Captain lies,
              Fallen cold and dead.

    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
    Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
    For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores
      a-crowding,
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
        Here Captain! dear father!
          This arm beneath your head!
            It is some dream that on the deck
              You’ve fallen cold and dead.

    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
    The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
        Exult O shores, and ring O bells
          But I, with mournful tread,
            Walk the deck, my Captain lies,
              Fallen cold and dead.
                                                      Walt Whitman.




                            CHAPTER XXVI

          A RECENT LETTER FROM DOCTOR MARY BLACKMAR BRUSON


                                     “Jacksonville, Florida,
                                                    April, 1910.

MY DEAR ADA:

At your request I send some incidents of camp life as they come to
mind.

After one of the fearful onslaughts at Petersburg, the wounded came
pouring into my tent, which was nearest to the firing line, so that a
drummer-lad had named it ‘The Half Way House’. One lad dropped from
the wagon in which he was being transported, as they passed my tent.
I ran and cried out to the driver. He coolly replied ‘He is dead,
what does it matter!’

I knelt by the boy’s side and found a remote evidence of life, but
hemorrhage was so profuse it seemed he could not survive. I called
the attention of surgeons, but all said ‘We must go on’. So with my
knowledge that life was not extinct, and that he was so young and had
the force of youth, (moreover the hardships of the Confederates had
toughened him), I remained on the ground at his side not daring to
leave him, but compelled to use my fingers as a tampon.

I remained with him twenty-four hours before I felt safe in having
him carried to a ward. Cramped and exhausted from such a strain,
in addition to weakness induced by loss of sleep through nights and
days previous, I could hardly crawl into my tent. Being cold I heated
a brick, put it in my cot and was soon so deeply sunk in oblivion,
it seemed I would have remained so forever, but for my companions,
Misses V. and M., who came in at midnight. Soon after they retired
they discovered a dense smoke filling the tent and were aware of
burning wool. They called me again and again, but getting no reply
they jumped up and pulled me from the burning cot and finally roused
me, so that I calmly dressed.

Morning found my limbs, from ankles to knees, one solid blister, but
this I was at first too stupid to realize, or even the danger which I
had escaped through my faithful friends. No one knew of the accident
but ourselves, and I went about my work as usual. Nature alone was
the healer.

One day I asked a poor exhausted soldier--so feeble from disease
and exposure that he could only whisper--if there was anything he
wished, and said that if so I would try to get it for him. With tears
and sighs he replied, “O, Miss, if you would only get me some fried
bacon with molasses poured over it, I would get well!” It was a novel
dish to me but was easily attained, and the man’s appetite was so
quickened by the relishable food that he began to recover forthwith.
In later years I learned that very many looked upon it as a special
delicacy.

I was finally placed in charge of the Confederate wards, and there
saw that grandest of men, President Lincoln. This was after the
last assault on Petersburg, and men horribly wounded and sick, from
both armies, were rushed into our camp hospital at City Point.
I was given especial care of the private Confederates, and my
companion, that fine, grand woman, Miss Vance, took charge of the
Confederate officers. I had only an orderly to assist me--a boy about
sixteen,--and what with the cleaning and caring for each sick, torn
body, our powers were strained to the utmost limit of endurance. Our
patients’ cots were so close together that we could just squeeze
between, and our ward so long that it required from three to four
tents.

General Grant was at City Point, and President Lincoln came down at
this time, before our army marched into Richmond. One day both of
them were coming slowly down my avenue. The orderly rushed in and
cried out--‘President Lincoln’s coming!’ I was at the extreme end of
the hospital tent, but, girl-like, started forward that I might see
him. At that instant, oh, such a puny, helpless wail, as of sick and
dying infants, issued from every throat: ‘Oh, don’t leave us, Miss!
He is a beast! He will kill us!’

I replied: ‘Oh, no! He is a grand good man!’ Again and again came
forth that puny wail, ‘Don’t leave us, Miss!’ till I finally said,
‘Well, I’ll not leave you, don’t fear!’ but by that time I had got
to the front of the tent and the orderly had pulled back a flap on
my request so that I peered out. Within about fifteen or twenty feet
were both men. General Grant with the inevitable cigar, and President
Lincoln, so tall, so lank, giving evidence of much sorrow, looming
over him. I heard General Grant say distinctly, ‘These are the
Confederate quarters’. President Lincoln immediately said, ‘I wish to
go in here alone!’

I drew myself up into the corner as close as possible, and he bent
under the open flap and came in. He went at once to a bedside, and
reverently leaned over almost double so low were the cots, and
stroked the soldier’s head, and with tears streaming down his face he
said in a sort of sweet anguish, “Oh, my man, why did you do it?” The
boy in gray said, or rather stammered weakly, almost in a whisper,
‘I went because my State went’. On that ground floor, so quiet was
the whole ward, a pin could almost have been heard to fall. President
Lincoln went from one bedside to another and touched each forehead
gently, and with tears streaming asked again the question, and again
heard the same reply. When he finally passed out from those boys,
some grey and grizzled, but many of them children, there came as from
one voice, ‘Oh, we didn’t know he was such a good man! We thought he
was a beast!’

At the close of hostilities, I, with many others, went with the army
to Richmond and Washington, and there saw the final parade of 60,000
troops before the White House. I afterward returned to my college
and hospital and completed my studies, and since then have led a
strenuous life as a practising physician in Florida.

  As ever,
                         Your old Comrade,
                                                           MARY.”




                           CHAPTER XXVII

                         LAST OF CITY POINT


In some early chapters on the good work of the Sanitary Commission I
wrote of the denuded hospital camp, belated sick soldiers, etc. After
the departure of the Second Corps hospital officers, I was the only
white woman in camp, and I took possession of their headquarters, in
a rustic cottage of one story built by the engineer corps in pretty
artistic style with boughs and branches cut from the woods near by.

Four rooms, with central entrance, made a comfortable homelike
shelter where “Aunty” also stayed and looked after my interests. The
colored guard detailed by General Russell marched their steady beat
daily and nightly, while a stack of muskets stood before my little
door. A circular lawn was often occupied by negroes anxious for a
word with “De bressed white Yankee lady,” while their picanninies,
rolling on the grass, made the place quite lively, despite the
warnings of Auntie to “Dem black niggers dat ain’t got no manners
no-how.”

This kind-hearted old mammy always, somehow, managed to have a
bright bandanna turban and a fresh white apron. She took that rare
possession of me, known only to house servants of southern families.

  [Illustration: MY QUARTERS AT THE CLOSE OF THE WAR]

Mrs. Russell remained in her husband’s headquarters at the Point, and
afforded me many pleasant social courtesies. General Russell invited
me for a buggy ride to Petersburg, still under command of General
Willcox.

As we rode by the deserted earthworks and former lines in front of
Petersburg,--the field of the last battle being still strewn with
empty canteens, broken muskets, etc., its earthworks upturned and
great chasms torn as if by an earthquake,--General Russell pointed
to a wrecked fort saying “That was the Burnside mine, the ‘Crater’
where I lost three hundred of the bravest soldiers that ever went
into battle. They were the negro hero martyrs of the Burnside mine
explosion, where many a brave Yankee white boy also gave up his life.”

General Russell’s brigade included a number of regiments, among them
the Tenth Colored Regiment, with Major William Baker, of Maine,
commanding. At the close of the war it was ordered to Texas to subdue
the turbulent element and to protect helpless citizens. We met many
destitute negroes still flocking to City Point.

As soon as the front lines were abandoned, hundreds of negroes ran
from Petersburg to beg our chaplains to marry them. Some were very
young; and a grey-haired old man said, “Me and Belinda has just stood
by each other ever since we was a’most boy and gall; our chillun
is sol’ away, and we wants to get married like white folks, so we
can’t be separated no mo’.” This seemed the ultimatum of their
understanding of freedom.

Conversions and immersions filled most of their time. These ragged
homeless freedmen were gaining some glimmering of morality and
religion; but it was a motley crowd that assembled on the shore of
the James River, shouting and singing in their childish way, as they
were immersed one by one, by their own preacher or leader,--then
rising and shouting hallelujahs as they sprang up and down in the
water in a frenzied manner, quite ludicrous to observe.

Contrabands were spying out the desolate land, and looking for jobs.
Surgeon Thomas Pooley was put in charge of this denuded hospital, and
joined my mess in the little cottage where Auntie made some palatable
southern dishes with our remaining supplies.

The Christian Commission and State Agencies had “struck their tents”
and vanished almost in a night. Happily the Sanitary Commission,
with their larger work and supplies, had been detained until the
arrival of the stranded regiment, (of which I wrote earlier) when
with a detail from General Russell’s brigade, still in command
of the deserted United States quarters at the Point, they were
enabled to reconstruct a sheltered ward into a degree of comfort
for the exhausted men. Lack of discipline and policing soon
resulted in disorder and untidiness in these formerly perfectly
systematized camps. Quantities of unportable home-made furniture,
etc., and general debris were left, to the delight of the destitute
contrabands. All government tents and property had been “turned in”
and strictly registered.

I well remember my farewell glance at the demolished hospital, as
I rode for the last time to City Point to take the transport for
Washington. Tent roofs gone, only stockade sides remained intact;
bunks stripped and bare, much was abandoned that would now be useless
to the army. Negroes swarmed like bees around these treasures, and
some improvised roofs and shelter from abundant material lying about,
and seemed happy in this temporary home with little thought of the
future, or knowledge of the Freedmen Bureau then under General
Howard’s management, devising means to save them from starvation.

I took leave of my faithful, tearful old Auntie, evidently a leader
among the irresponsible bewildered contrabands, who felt perfectly
happy and safe as long as the Yankees were there to protect them.

At City Point, where little remained to show the old site of General
Grant’s Headquarters of the United States Armies, as I went aboard a
government transport bound for New York, I showed for the last time
my pass, that had given me protection and much independence, and as
I look back I am surprised as I think of my perfect freedom from
restraint in choosing my patients and my work in the hospital and
State Agencies.

As the shore receded, leaving a broken outline of the hospital and
Point, a feeling of homesickness, followed by thoughts of trials,
discomforts, pleasures, and hopes in our active life among the
sick and dying,--as well as the thought of the many recovered and
sent home to their friends by army women,--all these passed in
kaleidoscopic changes, as, almost alone on board the transport,
I turned my face toward Washington, and the months of hospital
work waiting for me there. The very last object that attracted my
attention, as I looked back, was on a hill just outside the hospital
grounds. A great leather army shoe that, on the horizon, looked about
the size of a small row boat or canoe, stood out in bold relief. This
set me laughing as I remembered the night attempt of the owner to
steal from our little house, and the fact that in his flight, months
before, he had lost his shoe, not daring to return for it lest he be
captured and punished. This monument of his failure remained.




                           CHAPTER XXVIII

              WASHINGTON AND NEW YORK STATE AGENCY


Arrived in Washington I went directly to the home of my army friend,
Doctor Hettie K. Painter, to remain until I decided upon my next
move. The following day I reported to Colonel Goodrich, head of
New York State Agency in Washington, and found that he wished me
to remain and assist him in the closing up of the Washington work.
This meant the visiting of the several hospitals scattered at long
distances over the city and suburbs. Army Square, Douglas and
Harewood Hospitals sheltered most of the New York men. I listened
to their many complaints at being so long detained when they seemed
quite able to travel, but were delayed for various reasons. The work
was chiefly of a clerical form, viz.: to find out what difficulties
detained the men, and why, when they were entitled to a discharge, it
could not be obtained. Some could not get their pay, some had lost
their descriptive lists, a few were waiting for their friends to take
them home, while still other disabilities interfered.

Owing to the great distances between hospitals which involved a
great deal of walking, considerable time was lost and much fatigue
followed. I therefore determined to go to Medical Headquarters
and ask for an ambulance on the strength of the pass that I still
held from General Grant. This authority, of course, was good only
during the war, but after some explanations the medical authorities
courteously offered to give me the use of a medical headquarters
ambulance, though all ambulances had been “called in.”

The next morning one came for me, and I was driven to the New York
Agency, greatly to the surprise of Colonel Goodrich, who gave me
a list of hospital soldiers to visit. At the close of the day I
was able to make a complete report. The time saved in driving was
considerable, and I was able to accomplish much more than those who
had to walk long distances from hospital to hospital, as other agents
had then to do.

The following day, on calling at the agency for my list, the Colonel
said: “Miss Smith, you may visit the near by hospitals to-day, and I
will use the ambulance for other work.”

“I beg pardon, Colonel,” I replied, “I am responsible for the
ambulance and no one can use it except by my invitation. If any agent
would like to be dropped at any hospital I shall be very happy to
accommodate him.”

The New York Agency ambulance had been called in, which was rather
irritating. The Colonel never quite forgave me this independence, and
some time later he remarked, regarding the failure to put through a
troublesome case: “Perhaps Miss Smith, with her usual pertinacity,
might accomplish it.”

“If you can not succeed, Colonel, it is no reason why I should not,”
I replied quickly. “Please give me the case.”

Putting my whole interest and energy into the work, I soon had the
satisfaction of reporting the case as settled satisfactorily.

  [Illustration: SERGEANT BOSTON CORBETT]

During a visit to Harewood Hospital, I observed a very sleek-looking
young man, apparently absorbed in reading the Bible. This man I found
was the notorious Boston Corbett who had disobeyed orders to capture
Booth alive. He had shot him in the barn, then burning, and which
was surrounded by a cordon of troops. For this disobedience Corbett
had been imprisoned, but ill-health had brought him to the hospital.
I asked him why he had disobeyed orders, and he replied that Booth
was about to get away, and he thought it better to shoot him than
to run the chance of having him escape. I then asked how he came to
have such a remarkable name. He replied: “When I was born my father
could not decide upon a name for me, so being a very religious man,
he asked the Lord, and the Lord said ‘Call him Boston’.” I still have
the photograph he gave me in his favorite Bible-reading pose.

The piazza of Mrs. Painter’s house was separated from that of the
adjoining house only by a railing. Here lived a Southern family
consisting of father, mother and a beautiful daughter. The father had
been secretary to Jefferson Davis, and from a social point of view,
was an elegant courteous gentleman. I greatly enjoyed his Southern
accent and refined conversation. He had been obliged, through
poverty, to rent a part of his house to some Northern politicians.

One day I saw going up the steps, a fine-looking man, Colonel
Forney, a prominent politician of that day. He asked politely of
this Southern gentleman, then seated on the piazza, if he could
see Mr. B., whereupon the owner of the house flew into a rage, as
if insulted, and said: “I don’t know, suh, ring the bell for the
servant!” As the servant opened the door for the Colonel to pass,
the irate gentleman said to him, quite childishly,--but in fierce
tones,--“Bring me my cut glass carafe of cold water instantly.”

A few days later, as we were again sitting on the piazza, having a
pleasant chat, this same gentleman told me, with great indignation,
of the insults they were now compelled to take from free niggers. He
said that a servant maid had become so independent that she would not
answer her mistress’ bell. “I determined to stop such presumption and
ordered my wife to continue ringing while I went down and hid myself
behind the kitchen door. The bell rang and rang again while the wench
laughed and said to another servant: ‘She can just keep on a ringin’,
an’ when I gets good and ready I’ll come!’ This was too much,” he
said. “I went quickly forward into the kitchen and slapped her black
face twice! The insolent hussy had the temerity to have me hauled to
court and bound over to keep the peace!” This was the saddest effect
I had yet seen of the influence of slave-holding.

While boarding with Mrs. Painter I met that eccentric yet anomalous
woman, Doctor Mary Walker, pleasant, refined and interesting, despite
the semi-masculine garb she had then adopted. Her husband, an army
surgeon, was, I think, then living, but died soon after the war.

In speaking of her dress, her arguments and logic were unanswerable.
She wore loose, long trousers to boot tops, a skirt below her knees,
a close-fitting jacket and cape, much like an officer’s, high collar
and soft hat, all rather becoming for her petite style.

“You,” she said, “with long skirts, sweep up and carry home with you
samples of all sorts of filth from the streets, and besides you are
not modest, for when you must lift your skirts there is always a
suggestive display of hosiery, while I go home free from extraneous
matter and never have to expose my ankles.” This was perfect hygiene
and logical; and many times in my army work I wished I could go about
without drabbled skirts.

Doctor Walker was, I think, a graduate physician and did much good
among sick soldiers. But she gradually grew more pronounced in her
mannish attire, and was many times arrested for that infringement
of the law. She always pleaded her own case so logically that she
was generally dismissed with a reprimand, and cautioned not to do
so again. But to this warning she paid no regard; and at one time
entered the court-room bearing the United States flag and claiming
her rights as an American citizen.

The last I heard of Doctor Mary Walker was from a friend who, in
1908, saw her,--then grown old,--in a Brooklyn car. She was dressed
in full male costume,--trousers, collar, tie, dress coat, high silk
hat, and held a gaudy little cane.

It was reported that, at a recent Suffrage Convention in Albany,
Doctor Walker claimed that New Jersey’s early constitution included
Women’s Suffrage,--that this part of the constitution was never
finally repealed, though abrogated in some way, and that therefore
New Jersey is a Suffrage State.




                            CHAPTER XXIX

             OLD CAPITOL PRISON, WASHINGTON D. C., 1865


Among the unusual cases that often fell to me, was that of an elderly
man, who had at one time been a judge in New Jersey, but drink had
been his undoing. He was now serving a Civil Service sentence for
petty larceny in Old Capitol Prison. I saw at once that he was a
“bummer,” but that he had been a gentleman while sober. I did not
feel much interest in this man personally, but he showed me a letter
from his son, evidently educated, in which he begged his father to
come home, saying he would take care of him and they might live
together and be happy. The man had been a soldier for a short time,
but had been degraded and discharged, and was now a prisoner of Civil
Law. It was a difficult case, but for the sake of his faithful son I
undertook it. I went to Judge Carter, of that district, urging him to
let the man go.

“It is of no use, Miss Smith. The old fellow is a scamp and not to be
trusted for a moment,” was the reply. “He will steal anything, and if
I should let him go to-day he would be back here to-morrow on another
charge. He was arrested on the charge of stealing a wheel-barrow.”

“Why, Judge,” I said, laughing, “he did not know what he was doing.
He might as well have stolen a grindstone!”

This seemed greatly to amuse the judge, and he said directly: “Well,
that settles it; if you will see that he goes out of the city on the
train to his son, he may go. If he gets free he will be back here in
a week on another charge.”

Quite pleased with my success, I went to the Sanitary Commission,
still in Washington, secured a ticket to his home, and wrote to his
son to meet him; then I notified the old man to be ready at a certain
hour the next day when I would call for him.

When I went to the prison for him he began a round of deliberate
lying, and tried every subterfuge to evade me and get away, so that
he might remain in Washington. Finally I said: “You will go with me
to the train where I will put you in charge of the conductor, who
will deliver you to your son, and if you will not agree to this you
may remain where you are.”

At last we started on our way down Pennsylvania Avenue. He insisted
that the Government owed him money, so I took him to General Brice’s
office, where his clerks soon found a record of desertion, fraud,
and bounty-jumping. I lost no time in getting him to the train,
threatening to have him arrested if he attempted to give me the slip.
The conductor took him in charge and promised to deliver him to his
son, and I was glad to get the old sinner off my hands. A few days
after, I received a grateful letter from the faithful son.

Some months later I chanced to see a Jersey paper which stated that
my old scamp had been arrested for stealing photograph albums, and
that he had formerly been a reputable judge.

  [Illustration: GENERAL WINFIELD SCOTT HANCOCK]

On returning from the train I stopped at the War Department for
advice in some other cases. There I chanced to meet General Winfield
Hancock, who gave me his autograph, and, chatting easily, we walked
up Pennsylvania Avenue. And so it happened that I had walked down
Pennsylvania Avenue with a miserable old “prison bird” and had
walked up the Avenue with “the handsomest man in the army,” whose
appearance was greatly enhanced by a spotless, brilliant uniform.

At Army Square Hospital I met again my former patient of City Point,
who had captured his young rebel brother, the Captain. Their faithful
brother had, with much care and difficulty, succeeded in bringing
them to this hospital, but the cheerful young captain had died there
from gangrene,--perhaps due to carelessness. The Major, weaker than
when at City Point, unable to speak, motioned his brother to say that
he had not forgotten the Lincoln badge I had given him, and that he
would always cherish it. His devoted brother had struggled heroically
to reach their city, and the Major had at least his wish to die
at home. Thus ended another of the many tragedies of our unholy,
unnecessary war.

During my last weeks in Washington, I attended a session of the trial
of Wirz, a Swiss, formerly turnkey of Andersonville prison, who was
later found guilty of barbarous treatment of prisoners of war and
condemned to be hanged, with eight conspirators against the life of
President Lincoln, including Mrs. Surette. I believe, however, that
only four, including Mrs. Surette, were executed. These were the only
traitors that suffered ignominious death. Can any other victorious
nation show such Christian clemency?

Assisted by the Agency and Government Departments, I had great
success in difficult cases. After much travelling about from one
department to another in the interest of a convalescent soldier, I
collected for him fifty dollars,--which was long due, and which at
once enabled him to start for his home, greatly elated by his freedom.

  [Illustration: CORDELIA ANDERSON]

An erratic, wild Irishman was made almost delirious by getting his
long delayed three hundred dollars, and insisted upon giving me fifty
dollars of it, but I informed him that I did not work for pay. He
wrote me from New York later, on a double sheet of cap, in letters
an inch long, with “God bless you!” scrawled all over the page.

Having left Doctor Painter’s hospitable home, I was now boarding on
K Street, where I met a most charming blonde Scotch girl--Cordelia
Anderson, holding a responsible position in the Treasury Department.
She made my evenings delightful, as had my friend Annie Bain in our
field tent at City Point, after the strain, the work and indignation
of almost every day. A few years later, this rare young woman,
still in Washington in July of ’67, sent for me to come to her on
my way north on my vacation from Norfolk, Virginia, where I was
Superintendent of Colored Schools. She was very ill with typhoid. I
nursed her till the doctor insisted that for my own health I must
leave her, when a kindly old Auntie took charge until her recovery.

The intolerable heat of Washington at that season was unusual. The
streets were not paved, and a fine impalpable dust, continually
rising, was suffocating. At the boarding house where we were, I saw
the most astonishing rats, as large as small cats; and at night when
I went down-stairs to get ice for the sick girl, they ran up-stairs
ahead of me, and coolly sat upon their haunches, blinking at me with
their vicious black eyes.




                            CHAPTER XXX

            THE LAST ACT IN MY DRAMA AT WASHINGTON


While still working at high tension I suddenly became aware that
even my great vitality and good health demanded a rest, and I was
preparing to leave for home, when Mr. Huron, of the Indiana State
Agency, who had nearly lost his pretty wife by typhoid at City
Point, came urging me to undertake an unusually difficult case, an
application for discharge. I insisted that I had not enough energy
left to win another case. His discharge had been repeatedly blocked,
even though urged by the Secretary of the State of Indiana, and there
seemed to be no hope of sending this brave soldier home. However, Mr.
Huron’s statement of injustice was so exasperating that, in righteous
indignation, I determined to remain and make one more effort at this
last moment. This man, who had served his full term of four years
honorably, and had lost a leg, was, without consent, placed on the
roll of the Invalid Corps, which indignity old soldiers considered a
stain on their army escutcheon. Many appeals had failed to accomplish
his discharge. The case was always “referred back” to the hospital
where it was duly “pigeon-holed.” The man’s sister had come to
Washington expecting to take him home to Indiana, but for weeks
all their efforts had failed, and now some legal complications had
culminated which required his presence at home to save their little
property and farm.

The next day I went to the hospital, and after listening to the man’s
statement I went directly to the surgeon in charge, and stated the
case,--to which he replied with some discourtesy. Having received the
utmost courtesy and respect and attention from all the departments
when I had asked for help, my temper rose to the occasion when he
said: “The man has no descriptive list, and I will attend to it when
I think best!”

“That will not answer my purpose,” I replied warmly. “I wish the man
to go at once!” and I made some strong statements of the urgency of
the situation. He assumed a dignified silence; on which I stated
emphatically “The man is going! If you do not help me in the matter,
he will go just the same!” My indignation was then sufficient to put
through a half dozen cases.

Going directly to the Medical Department, I made known to Surgeons
Middletown and Abbott the unjust detention of this loyal soldier.
They had always promptly aided me in other cases; and upon hearing
my statement they also became indignant, and offered me every help.
I had “turned in” my ambulance with many thanks, when I intended to
leave for home; but Doctor Middletown said “You had better have our
headquarters’ ambulance, for you have many miles to travel over the
city to put this matter through, and I will go ‘over the head’ of
this surgeon and order him to order a descriptive list.”

With this document I was much encouraged, and went next morning to
the hospital and my aristocratic surgeon, who tried not to appear
surprised as he said loftily: “I will attend to it.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “I came directly from Headquarters to get your
signature, and to deliver the paper to the Medical Department myself.”

He dared not refuse this order, and sent for the steward and gave
him the paper to fill out the order. I followed closely on the heels
of this man to his office, where he coolly thrust the paper into a
pigeon-hole and sat down. Surmising that his intention was to make me
wait until after office hours, I at last said to him: “Steward, if
you do not intend to make out that paper at once I shall report you
to Medical Headquarters.” He soon found time and made out the paper,
and I rode away to unravel more red tape. At the Medical Department
the doctors signed the paper, and directed me to take it to the War
Department. Distances were great and office hours short, and so
another day passed. But at the earliest moment on the following day,
we drove to the War Department, where I found Captain Sam Breck, now
a retired General, a handsome thoroughbred gentleman who had done me
many army favors.

“Why, Miss Smith,” he exclaimed cheerfully, “are you here yet? I
thought you were through with us.”

“Well, Captain, you haven’t got rid of me yet, and though I am
completely tired out, I have taken another most distressing case, and
I’m going to sit right down here and talk until you help me out.”

Jokingly, he said, “Oh, I can’t stand that, so let us see if I can
save your breath.”

I stated the case as briefly as possible, and his sense of justice
was aroused as he said emphatically, “I will help you with this case.”

“How long does it take to put through a descriptive list?” I asked.

“Well,” he replied, “about three weeks usually!”

“Oh,” I exclaimed, “that won’t do. I can’t stay so long, and if I
leave the papers they’ll be pigeon-holed again.”

He thought a moment, and said, “Let me have the papers,” and he left
me waiting in his office.

On returning the paper he said, “There, Miss Smith, that has never
before been done in this Department. The descriptive list has been
put through in fifteen minutes. Take it to your doctor, and he will
be obliged to sign it; and then your man will be free.”

Too delighted and relieved to properly express my thanks, I
said--“Good-bye for good this time, Captain. I promise not to trouble
you any more!”

Again in the ambulance I said to the driver, who was very much
interested, “Now, Orderly, your horses can not go too fast for me!”
and soon we dashed up to the hospital grounds.

Meanwhile the case had become hospital gossip, and every “Boy” knew
of my work. The doctor gave me the slip, but I followed him up
through the wards till I found him at last in his office. In passing
through the wards I waved the paper saying--“Boys, I have it, I have
it!” A low cheer passed round as the good news spread from ward to
ward.

On presenting this order I said, “Doctor, will you please sign this?”

With an effort he controlled his expression, and said quite blandly,
“Er, er--when would you like to have this man go?”

“Immediately, if you please!”--with extreme politeness.

“Oh! then I will order the ambulance.”

“Thank you,” I replied, “I have the Medical Headquarters’ Ambulance
waiting and will take the man with me just as soon as he can be made
ready.” I then bowed myself out politely.

In half an hour the happy cripple was placed beside me in the
ambulance, and we drove directly to Mr. Huron’s home, where the now
rejoicing sister was waiting. She started at once to take her brother
home by easy stages, and we heard that they had reached their little
farm in safety. A letter of appreciation from the Secretary of the
State of Indiana was a satisfactory ending to this almost impossible
case.

In my many visits to this hospital I had discovered some
“irregularities,” for instance, that a number of soldiers were
detained on various pretexts in order that the requisite number might
be maintained, with their “rations” (thirty-seven cents per diem) to
keep open this hospital. So many men begged me, almost upon their
knees, to help them. As this was quite beyond my strength I resolved
to report the matter to General Grant’s headquarters. During my call
he listened politely and silently, laid away his cigar, gave me his
attention, and referred me to Adjutant Bowers, who exclaimed: “Why,
that is impossible! Here is an order sent some weeks ago directing
all convalescents to be discharged at once!”

“Nevertheless, Colonel,” I replied, “the men remain.”

With some excitement he replied, “If you can get me the names of
these men, and I find that orders have not been followed, I will
close that hospital, at once.”

This decision and the fact that General Grant had given me his
autograph during my visit, made me very happy. I diplomatically
secured a list of about twenty men who were being wrongfully
detained, and this was at once conveyed to Colonel Bowers. This was
my “Coup d’ état” in Washington; and I thought it a good time to
retire from hospital work and to return to my home for rest. Two
weeks later I saw by a Washington paper that all patients at this
hospital able to travel had been sent home, and a small remainder of
those still sick had been carried to Harewood Hospital, the former
hospital having ended its career.

I had hoped to meet General Grant’s Military Secretary, General Eli
Parker, who wrote the draft of the surrender of Appomattox. He was
said to have been of imposing appearance. He was chief of the Senecas
and of the Six Nations, and his Indian name was Donehogawa. When at
home on their reservation with their father, his sisters, who, when
in Washington, were among the cultured society of the Capitol, wore
the rich costumes of princesses of the tribe and were treated with
the homage due to their rank.

Thus ended my work in Washington for the “Boys in Blue.”




                            CHAPTER XXXI

                        TRANSPORTATION HOME


The war was over, and government passes and government roads were of
the past, only regular army transportation was now allowed, except
to the Medical Department for the purpose of sending home delayed
patients. My “Grant Pass,” that had made me so independent, became
at once only a relic. Therefore, being entitled to transportation
to my home, I went to Surgeon General Barnes, U. S. A., to receive
that privilege. After a pleasant conversation with the General, he
remarked, “Your name is not on the pay roll, and you are entitled to
pay for army service. If you will make out your claim I will endorse
it.”

To this I replied,--with more sentiment, as I now see it, than
judgment,--“General, I thank you, but I do not wish pay for my
services in hospital work. If I had been a man I would have enlisted
as a soldier. But being only a woman it was all I could do, and I
wish to give that service to my country.”

Often, since then, I have thought of the quizzical expression of the
General’s eyes, though he said not a word about an impractical girl
who did not think far enough to see what good she might have done
with that accumulated wage of several years.

At that time, however, I was receiving (during several months) sixty
dollars per month as New York State Agent,--the only pay I ever
received. But that seemed different. The war was over.

The General then asked how far I wanted transportation. I replied
that I lived in Brooklyn, but would take transportation as far as
he would give it. But as I used it only to my home I still have the
following form of transportation:

     “Boston & Maine R. R.
                                     This Order not Transferable.
     D. No. 51978
                                                   Oct. 20, 1865.
                 Transport Miss Ada W. Smith
     From Boston, Mass., to Portland, Me. En Route from
     Washington to Augusta, Me. Signature of officer issuing the
     order,
                                                   IRA G. PAYNE,
                                                   Capt. A. Q. M.
     By order of the Quarter Master General,
                  LEWIS B. PARSONS,
                  Col. & Chief of Rail and River Transportation.”

Resting only a few days after my return to my home, I was urged by
friends on the Sanitary Commission to assist, with another, a lady of
remarkable ability, a Miss Baldwin, in dispensing some surplus funds
for the Sanitary Commission, with Headquarters in New York City. This
surplus could not, according to their organization, be used for other
purposes than for the benefit of soldiers. After much discussion it
seemed that the soldiers’ families should be the natural recipients.
So during most of that unusually severe winter, 1865-6, I went daily
from my home in Brooklyn to New York, and with my companion found
many families in need of help, who might otherwise have perished
with cold. When spring brought relief, the last dollar of that grand
life-saving organization was expended.

  [Illustration: ADELAIDE W. SMITH, 1867]

This was, of course, before the day of pensions. We continued this
work until the funds were exhausted. Then I retired finally from
the engrossing activity of hospital life and caring for soldiers’
families, in which I was engaged from 1862 through 1866.

I had been very happy in this ministration that daily brought its
reward in the gratitude and appreciation of my “Boys in Blue,” and
in the thought that I had done at least what I could in that fearful
struggle to save our Union and glorious country.

No one really desires to grow old, but I would not have missed that
call for every heart and hand to respond to its duty, even to be
young again.

    And the star spangled banner
    In triumph shall wave,
    O’er the land of the free
    And the home of the brave.
                          Francis Scott Key.

  [Illustration:

      Adjutant,        Commander,         Quartermaster,
   WM. J. HARDING.   E. A. CRUIKSHANK.   HENRY A. COZZENS.

        Headquarters    U. S. Grant    Post No. 327
    Department of New York. Grand Army of the Republic.
                 489 WASHINGTON AVENUE.
    Telephone:
    Prospect 546.      Brooklyn,      July 15th,      1909.

  MISS ADELAIDE W. SMITH gave her lecture, “HOSPITAL EXPERIENCE
  DURING THE WAR,” before the U. S. Grant Post of Brooklyn, on
  Tuesday evening, March 9th last, under the auspices of the
  Entertainment Committee. A large audience was present to greet
  Miss Smith. The subject, itself one of absorbing interest, was
  skilfully presented by the lecturer and was received with
  marked attention and interest.

  I take very great pleasure in commending Miss Smith’s lecture
  to the G. A. R. Posts of New York and vicinity also to Church
  Societies, Clubs, Schools, and other organizations that go to
  make up the social and intellectual life of a community. Miss
  Smith’s services to our sick and wounded soldiers from 1861 to
  1865 entitle her to the generous recognition of our comrades,
  and the men and women of America.

                    (Signed) ANDREW JACOBS,
               _Chairman Entertainment Committee_,
                                      U. S. GRANT POST,
                                            BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.]




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Transcriber’s Note:

Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged, as were
jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. Four misspelled
words were corrected. Extended ellipses within quoted text were left
intact.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the chapter. Punctuation at ends of quotations and sentences
was standardized.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74812 ***