Memoir of Emily Elizabeth Parsons. :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dear Mother,—This letter will not go till the
middle of the week. I have the ward all ready for
inspection,—Sunday afternoon being the day for that
interesting ceremony. My surgeon told me this morning
that six hundred wounded men were on their way
here from Washington and the steamer was due to-day.
He also said that this ward would be filled up; they
may arrive any moment, or not till to-morrow. I want
to have the poor men in bed comfortably. Just think
of tossing about on the waves in a crowded steamer

such a day as this, sick and wounded too. It was very
cold here this morning, water froze in my room and I
nearly froze too; we are promised small stoves in our
rooms, some time. In the meantime we shiver.

I suppose there will be some severe cases among the
new arrivals, and I shall probably have some of the
worst in my ward; as the surgeon of it is a very fine
one he has those cases. I wish you would thank the
ladies for the articles they sent me; I was so glad to
have clean pocket-handkerchiefs for the men. Please
tell the ladies if they could only look in upon a ward
and see the comfort these small things give it would
encourage them in all their work. The soldiers were
very much pleased with the handkerchiefs Mrs. Newell's
little daughter hemmed. I told them about her
doing the work: they were much interested, and I saw
them examining the stitches with great interest. My
friends are very kind to remember me in my absence
so well; such kindly thoughts help one on and take
away a little of the lonely feeling that will come at times.
It is an odd life,—living so entirely among men.
Only once in a while when we nurses have time we see
each other for a few minutes. At first, it seemed to
me that I must wake up and find it a dream; now, it
is as if my former life lay away back, out of my reach,
and this was my real life. I felt afraid lately that my
physical strength would not hold out. I was so ill with
influenza that I could hardly sit up, and while in that
condition I had to carry on the affairs of a surgical
ward; no light task at any time, I am not quite well

yet, and when I found myself nearly frozen and not
well this morning my heart misgave me as to the possibility
of my bearing up under it; but I felt a little
better presently, and then came the news of these new
arrivals to be, and I thought I would stay while I could,
and appeared to give satisfaction to the surgeon. If my
health does fail me I can come home then. I think I shall
be helped to stay, one way and another; I have noticed
one thing since I have been here—that no trial has
been permitted to be more than I could bear; it has
always been lightened at what seemed to be the last
moment, or else, I have been taken care of in some
wholly unexpected way; so I remember this and take
courage, and try to go on. You remember, I suppose,
that the day you were here I was taking care of a man
shot in some kind of quarrel with his Captain; I do not
know the circumstances, but the man is one of those
characters you read of among the lower classes; I
should think a regular rough. As he gains a little
strength he does not improve on acquaintance very
much, though he may have some good things that one
would like. I had to reprove him for swearing to-day.
I told him never to use such a word again while in the
ward, for I would not have it. I suppose I shall have
all sorts of characters to deal with. I have had very
nice men thus far. They, for the most part begin the
day by reading their Bibles. The very sick man I was
speaking of was very glad to have me read the Bible to
him. He asked me the other night to read him the
fifteenth chapter of Luke; it treats of the return of the

prodigal son; he seemed to feel it a good deal; he appears
grateful for what I have done for him. I do not
know whether he will recover or not; he has the constant
thirst that accompanies gun-shot wounds, and we
are obliged to feed him with milk or water every few
minutes, night and day. I do not sit up with him
during the night, as the surgeon seemed to think I had
better not, and, till it is necessary I do not mean to, as
my day work is enough for me. Sixteen hours of wakeful
responsibility, and a good deal of the time, if not all
of it, doing work, is enough for a woman, I think. It
is evening now, and the men have not come. Think of
them tossing about another night! How they must
be suffering! My men are quiet around the ward, and
I am by the sick man writing and keeping watch, the
light is dim. I have thought of so many things I
wanted to say to you and had no time for. I have not
heard a word about Thanksgiving,—I believe the family
have forgotten me. If they do not write me a long
letter soon I shall be furious. Tell me all sorts of
little things. I dreamed the other night I was at
home. I believe I was unpacking and putting my
room in order. I should not wonder if it was many
a month before I did the latter. Is it cold with you?
I want to know all about it.

My daughter's health and strength soon after
failed so much that it was apparent both to herself
and to the surgeons of the hospital that she
must leave it at least for a time. She did so, and

visited a friend in the city of New York. We
wrote to her, advising, perhaps urging, her to give
up the idea of being a nurse in a military hospital.
She replied in a letter from which I make the
following extracts.

New York, January 4.

Dear Mother,—Colonel Frank Howe is very desirous
I should be at work among the wounded, so is
Dr. Harris, the inspector of hospitals here, and I
believe in some other places. These two gentlemen
have shown themselves very kind and friendly towards
me. They expressed very earnestly, both to me and
to others, their desire to put me in what they consider
a suitable field of action, or, as they express
it, where I shall be of most use. They really
seem to consider me of some value; they are both
trying together, and I leave the matter in their hands,
as they are two men who can be trusted, with regard
to their integrity, honor and a desire to serve the
soldiers in the best and wisest manner; and they are
very considerate also of me,—so you have reason to
be satisfied. I have good, judicious friends around me
on all sides. They can do what only officials can do
and they spare me contact with red tape, for which I
desire to be thankful.

My life at Fort Schuyler suited me in many respects,
and I hope to lead substantially the same life elsewhere.
To have a ward full of sick men under my
care is all I ask; I should like to live so all the rest

of my life. Do not you be anxious about me, but
wait quietly and patiently.

I am going to send you the report of Colonel Howe's
establishment. He gave me a copy of it the other day
and I am sure it will interest you. He took me all
over his establishment, telling me how he lived there
and about his work; I wish you could have heard him;
the men seemed to love him so, it is beautiful to see
him among them. I wish you to show the reports I
send to the ladies, as I think they will be interested
in them; they are the accounts of most admirable
institutions. In my old ward most of my men began
the day with their Bibles, and these Bibles had been
almost all of them given to them. The good that is
being done now is perfectly beautiful.

I have done my work, and I think I have done it
pretty well too. It is the opinion of most of those
who are now over these things that the ladies who do
them voluntarily do them better than hired nurses,
and they like to secure our services. If I had not succeeded
pretty well at Fort Schuyler, Dr. Bartholomew
would never have said, "that he would do almost anything
rather than have Miss Parsons go." This speech
is not for everybody, for it would seem egotistical, but
I want you should know it. I expect to work for the
soldiers some way or other, soon, I hope. Do not talk
about my plans, but keep quiet and remember one
thing; I am in the army just as Chauncy is, and I must
be held to work just as he is; you would never think of
requesting he might not be sent on picket duty because

it was hard work. This same hard work is the condition
on which I have either mental or bodily health. A
week ago the surgeon in whose ward I was so long at
Fort Schuyler, came to see me and told me about my
old patients. One of them in whom I was much interested
had died, leaving a family.

She remained in New York some three weeks,
when her health seemed to be re-established.
She became acquainted with Mrs. Fremont, who
was endeavoring to supply the personal needs
of the military hospitals in St. Louis, and who
wrote to persons then in charge of those hospitals
concerning my daughter. The reply was an urgent
request that Emily should go there at once. And
I then received from my daughter a letter from
which I make the following extracts. One of
them refers to an agency connected with work for
the army which she could do at home, which
agency was offered to me for her.

New York, January 22.

Dear Father,—I await the answer to a telegram
which I sent you, asking your consent to my going to
St. Louis. I feel bound to accept the position offered
me. Mrs. Fremont and the people in St. Louis are
holding this place open for me. The extreme distance
will be an objection to you, but in the work to
which I have pledged myself there can be no such

limit as time or space. I received your letter relative
to the agency this morning; it is out of the question
my undertaking such a work,—I am not fitted for it.
This St. Louis opportunity gives me what I can do,
and wish to do, and I believe it to be my only chance
for just what I could wish. My journey on will be
cared for in every way. If in your telegraphic answer
you have discouraged my going, or have not decided
at all, I wish you would send me a message by telegraph
at once, granting consent. St. Louis is very
healthy. I am to see Mrs. Fremont this morning
by appointment; she expresses herself to Captain
Nichols as very desirous I should go. She says there
are no experienced, trained nurses there, and there is
a great want of them.

P.S.—Tell mother not to be anxious, but trustful.

I wrote, giving my consent, although reluctantly;
for her experience at Fort Schuyler had rather
confirmed my fears that she was not strong enough
for the work she desired to do. The condition of
affairs at St. Louis was not encouraging. There
had been, and indeed still was, severe fighting all
down the Mississippi, and especially at Vicksburg
and Arkansas Post, whence the sick and wounded
were brought, in great numbers, to be cared for at
St. Louis. Every available building in that city
was converted into a hospital, and supplied with a

medical staff and a corps of nurses, and all other
necessary arrangements were made as rapidly as
possible. But at present these arrangements were
incomplete. The only decided advantage which
St. Louis had over Fort Schuyler was in the
climate. It was the exposure to the sea-winds
which proved to be more than Emily could bear.
But while the failure of her health and strength
at Fort Schuyler had taught her that there were
limits to her capacity of endurance, they had not
changed her belief that in work of this kind she
could best discharge her duty; nor had they weakened
her determination to find such work somewhere.
There was much in the position at St.
Louis which commended itself to her. She doubted
with good reason, whether any opportunity would
be offered to her, open to less objection; and on the
whole decided to go there. Having come to this
conclusion, she yielded to what seemed to be the
urgency of the case, and left New York before she
received my answer to her letter. The next letter
her mother received from her was written in pencil,
at Crestline, on the way to St. Louis. I give it
only to show, that however strong were her desire
and purpose to continue in the use she had chosen
and entered upon, she was neither wilful nor obstinate
about it.