1831 Adelaide W Smith 1911

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

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.”

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.

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.

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.

MRS. ANNA C. FIELD

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.

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?”

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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:

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.

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.”