University of Virginia Library

MISS MARY E. SHELTON.

THE various scenes, movements, and charities of our
great civil struggle can be divided into two grand
enterprises, each having a widely separated, yet equally
important object. The moral objective of the war was the
capture of Richmond; the physical objective was to obtain
and secure possession of the magnificent valley and river
that occupy the centre of the revolted region.

Of course a result so important as either was not to be
accomplished without labors, and bloodshed, and sufferings,
whose sum no human method can ever express.

Though Vicksburg and the towns on the Lower Mississippi
were more remote from the centres of supply than the
Virginia towns, yet the directness of water communication
nearly compensated for the difference in miles; and the
western armies, led by Grant and Sherman, were represented
at home by a population as warm in its loyalty, and
as generous in the spirit of sacrifice, as those who stood
behind the forces of McClellan, and Hooker, and Meade.

In the summer of 1863 the labors of Mrs. Anne Wittenmeyer
had become so extensive, the field of her operations
so wide, and her letters so numerous, that she needed a
secretary to relieve her, in a portion at least, of her self-imposed
duties.

It was in this capacity of secretary to Mrs. Wittenmeyer,
in the fall of 1863, soon after the surrender of Vicksburg,
that Miss Mary E. Shelton commenced her hospital
experience.

On the 10th of August she left Keokuk, and on the
way to St. Louis her time was fully occupied in answering
a large number of letters, which Mrs. Wittenmeyer, as
president of the Ladies' Aid Society of Iowa, had received
from various parts of that and the adjacent states. From
the number and tenor of these letters Miss Shelton was
made more fully alive to the extent and the bitter results
of the great war then at its height. Here was one from a
heart broken father, saying, "one of his sons had recently
died in a southern hospital, and the only one remaining was
very low with fever; would Mrs. Wittenmeyer see him,
and ascertain his wants, and let them know?" A wife, with
a family of little ones, almost destitute, wrote that her husband
had consumption, and begged that he might spend his
last days at home. A widowed mother had not heard from
her sick son for many weeks; "would Mrs. Wittenmeyer
inquire about him, and relieve the terrible suspense that
was wearing her life away?" No other employment could
have given her so wide an acquaintance with the sorrows
by which the land was burdened.

At St. Louis they stopped a day or two, and visited the
rooms of the Western Sanitary Commission, where they
were cordially received, and made ample arrangements with
the president, Mr. Yeatman, for receiving future supplies
for their mission to the suffering soldiers down the river.
On the 16th of August, just at sunset, they reached Helena,

Arkansas, and reported immediately to the office of the
medical director, whom they found in great perplexity on
account of the lack of nurses and supplies for the sick and
wounded. He greeted them with the utmost cordiality,
telling Mrs. Wittenmeyer that he had not welcomed any
one half so gladly since the war commenced as he did her,
as he had never before been so sorely in need of help and
supplies. A large number of regiments had been brought
up from Vicksburg and the Yazoo River, and General
Steele's division had moved on to Little Rock, leaving their
sick men behind. So rapid had been the movement that
the sick were left in the streets, with scarcely enough convalescents
to erect tents to protect them from the heat of
the day, or the damp, malarious air of the night. Thirteen
had died the first night they were there, and unless something
was done immediately the mortality would be very
great. More than two thousand were destitute of both
medical and sanitary supplies.

Mrs. Wittenmeyer immediately sent to St. Louis for the
necessary supplies; and, early on Monday morning, she
and Miss Shelton began their labors of love, visiting the
hospitals, and ministering all in their power to the sufferers
there. One poor soldier they found wasted almost to a
skeleton, and wearing the same suit of clothes he had
worn all through the siege of Vicksburg and the fever that
had prostrated him. He seemed past all feeling, and said
he was going to die with no one to care for or relieve him.
But an allusion to his mother called the tears in streams to
his eyes, and convulsed his whole frame with sobs. Before
they left, the hospital steward had promised to clean every

room, and held in his hand an order for every shirt and
pair of drawers in the sanitary rooms. In the afternoon
they visited the hospital tents, speaking words of sympathy
and kindness to the brave sufferers, and from twilight to
midnight they were both busy in writing letters to their
friends at home.

The next day matters were materially improved. The
rooms were thoroughly scrubbed, the men attired in new
and fresh garments, and even the poor Vicksburg soldier, in
his clean shirt and new suit of clothes, talked hopefully of
health and home again. After leaving some lemons, and
such other comforts as could be procured in Helena, they
started for the convalescent camp, about a mile from
Helena, the way thither leading directly across the battlefield
where so many brave men sealed their devotion to the
Union with their blood. As they neared the first tent they
heard the soldiers within singing, —

Then followed something the import of which was that the
northern girls wouldn't marry Copperheads or cowards, but
would wait till the soldiers got home. Thinking they were
doing very well, the two ladies passed on to another tent,
where were four sick men — three on the ground, one, the
sickest of the four, on a cot. There was a pan with ice
water in it by the cot, but no one to apply it to the sick
man's burning brow. Mrs. Wittenmeyer dipped the towel
into the water, wrung it out, and placed it on his head.
Slowly the tears rolled from the closed eyes, and in a feeble
voice, the sufferer said, "O, how like my own mother it
seemed when you put the cold cloth on my aching head!"
That day they saw and talked with hundreds of men from
Iowa and other states, and were received by them as angels
of mercy. One man staggered from his cot to where his
knapsack lay, to give them some peaches; another insisted
on their sharing with him some ginger beer; and, as they
left, they heard a soldier remark to his comrade, "It does
my heart good to see that kind of ladies come to camp;
they care something for the soldiers." In the evening they
visited a hospital in a brick church, where were eighty men,
most of them very sick, and not one bed in the building.
But they were very patient, and praised their steward in
the highest terms — a very humane and kind-hearted man,
who neither by day nor night would allow them to suffer for
the cooling drink, or such other attention as was in his
power to bestow. They talked of him as they would of a
mother, and seemed glad to tell some one how kind he was.
Tenderly he went from one to another, ministering to their
wants; and when a soldier introduced to them "Liberty
Hix," the ladies recognized him as a genuine Samaritan, of
the New Testament type. One of the soldiers called Miss
Shelton to him, and said, "I have something to tell you,
that I want you to repeat when you return to Iowa. You
may have heard of our sufferings at Milliken's Bend. We
were in a hospital tent, and as no supplies could reach us,
we became more and more feeble. Men that might have
grown strong and well with proper nourishment, were daily
sinking into the grave, and in each one that was carried out
we read our fate. You can have little idea how a sick
man loathes the coarse army rations. The only thing we
could eat was bean soup; and this we had morning, noon,
and night, week in and week out. I have seen men refuse
it, saying, `I will die before I will ever eat it again.' But
a day came when unusual depression reigned throughout the
hospital. The nurse came through with the soup; but it
was steadily refused. When he came to me I covered my
head in the bedclothes and wept. I thought of my good
wife, with an abundance about her, and how gladly she
would share with me. When I looked up, other men were
weeping too; and, though it may seem very foolish to you,
hunger and sickness take all the fortitude out of a man.
In my distress I cried to God, and scarcely had the prayer
passed my lips, when our nurse entered, and taking his
stand near the centre of the hospital, where every man
could hear, called out, `Mrs. Wittenmeyer is coming with
two loads of sanitary goods!' Just then we heard the
rattle of the wagons, and my heart gave such a bound of
joy as it never had done before. The men wept aloud for
joy. An hour afterwards, amid laughter and tears, we
greeted Mrs. Wittenmeyer, bringing us chicken, fruit, and
other sanitary supplies, without which we should have died
in a few days."

The two days following were spent in the same way,
going from hospital to hospital, ascertaining what was
needed, and supplying it as far as possible. But one
sad feature of their situation it was beyond the power
of the ladies to mitigate. None of the men hoped
for speedy recovery unless they could be moved from
Helena. The town is situated in what was once a cypress

swamp, and in low places the stumps of the trees were
still standing. Unless the sick could be inspired with
courage and hope, it was useless to anticipate recovery.
The commander of the post said he had no authority to
send them up the river, and the medical director could do
nothing without orders. After thoroughly canvassing the
whole affair, Mrs. Wittenmeyer decided to go to Memphis,
see General Hurlbut, and have arrangements made to
make them, at least, more comfortable. On the morning
of the second day she returned, and as she passed from one
hospital to another, every man that was able raised himself
on his elbow, and watched her till she was out of sight.
Some wept, others laughed, — all were in great agitation,
for she had brought with her orders for the removal of
every man to some northern hospital. That day supplies
came from Memphis, which were distributed among the
men, and which, together with the hope of a speedy removal
to a more salubrious air, diffused great cheerfulness
among them all.

Their labors at Helena thus pleasantly terminated, Miss
Shelton accompanied Mrs. Wittenmeyer to Vicksburg.
Leaving Helena on the morning of August 23, the next
day, about noon, the bluffs of Vicksburg came in sight.
They found that the city presented a much less dilapidated
and more inviting appearance than they had anticipated
there, where for weeks "Death held his carnival." The first
hospital they visited was in the Prentiss mansion, a most
beautiful place. Though the house was large, comparatively
few of the patients could be accommodated in it,
but were in tents, on the surrounding terraces, in the

shade of the magnolia and cypress trees, hedged about with
myrtle and beautiful flowers. The sick were all well cared
for, and were never without sanitary supplies. The City
Hospital they found in the best possible condition. Dr.
Powell, of Chicago, chief surgeon, received them cordially,
as messengers of mercy from the Sanitary Commission,
and expressed himself as having more faith in the efficacy
of nourishing food for the sick soldiers than in the most
skilful practice, or the most potent medicines.

One of the most interesting places they found in the city
was the Soldiers' Home — a fine three-story brick structure,
surrounded by cool verandas, on one of the pleasantest
sites in the city, built by Senator Gwin for his town residence.
This situation was selected by Mrs. Wittenmeyer,
and there the tired soldier could find food and lodging, free
of expense, furnished by the Sanitary Commission.

A few days after their arrival at Vicksburg, Mrs. Wittenmeyer
and Miss Shelton went out to Big Black River, midway
between Vicksburg and Jackson, visiting a number of
hospitals located there.

In the fall of the year, returning to Iowa with Mrs. Wittenmeyer,
Miss Shelton labored, with her voice and pen, in vindicating
the Sanitary Commission, and arousing the people
of Iowa to renewed activity, and more abundant liberality
towards the distant and often suffering soldier. During the
year 1864, and all the early part of 1865, for some time
after the war ended, Miss Shelton was constantly in the
field, acting a portion of the time as secretary to Mrs. Wittenmeyer;
at other times taking charge of special diet
kitchens in the different hospitals.

The summer of 1864 was spent mostly in the Nashville
hospitals. Afterwards she went to Wilmington, and remained
for several months. Of fine sensibilities, and well
cultivated intellect, to see such varied suffering was to sympathize
with it. And she has not allowed these vivid and
often tragic scenes to pass from her memory, and perish
from the recollection of the world.

Many of the more touching incidents she has recorded in
a series of hospital sketches, whose interest and pathos have
not been surpassed by any of the journals of the numerous
hospital nurses and lady superintendents who have made so
noble a page in American history by their heroism and
self-sacrifice. We quote from her journal some of the
most interesting passages.

Little Willie.

One sultry day in June, 1865, as I was passing through
the wards of the Berry House Hospital, in Wilmington, my
attention was attracted by a pair of bright eyes, which followed
me from cot to cot with a hungry eagerness. Supposing
it was the lemonade, which I was distributing
according to the direction of the nurses, which attracted
him, I inquired of the man who had charge of him if he
could have some. He replied in the affirmative, and I
placed the glass to his burning lips. He was a mere boy,
only fifteen. His dark eyes and curly brown hair contrasted
fearfully with his pale cheeks, while the thin white hand,
with which he clasped the glass, told sadly of wasting
disease.

I longed to speak words of cheer to the poor boy, but

could not stop then, as there were many feverish men
waiting for the icy draught I was carrying. The eyes
haunted me; and, as I went from one to another, I could
not help glancing back at Willie's cot; and every time I
met the same entreating look which first attracted my
attention.

My duties called me to another part of the hospital; and,
as I was passing him to go out, he called out, in a faint
voice, "Lady, dear lady, please give me a kiss — just one
kiss before you go. My mother always kissed me." I
kissed him, with tears in my eyes — for who could refuse
such a request from a dying child, far away from every
friend and relative. He closed his eyes, murmuring, "You
are a good woman — thank you. If you will sit down and
hold my hand I think I can sleep; I am so tired." The
nurses were very kind, and the surgeons remarkably so;
but disease had undermined the frail structure, and we
daily watched our Willie sinking to the grave.

One day I entered the ward, and found that the nurse
had placed a chair by his cot for me, as usual; but he was
sleeping, and I requested the nurse not to awaken him.
"O, miss," said the man, "he cries and takes on so dreadfully
when he wakes and finds that you have passed through,
that I have promised always to wake him." To do this was
no easy matter: the eyes opened slowly, and shut again.
I leaned down, and whispered, "Willie! Willie!" "Yes,
yes," he replied, "I was afraid they would not wake me,
and I should not see you." He then began to cry like a
grieved child, and begged me not to go North until he was
well enough to go with me. "Promise," said the nurse,

"for he will not live many days more." "No, Willie, I
will not go until you are better," I said, and with the kiss
he never failed to ask for, left him. The next morning the
doctor came to me and said, "Willie is gone."

The coffin was placed upon two chairs, in the dispensary,
and we stood and gazed long upon the marble face and
folded white hands — white as the Cape Jasmine blossoms
which they clasped. Then I learned his history as he had
told it. A man of wealth had been drafted, and had bought
the boy as a substitute of a heartless step-father. He had
never carried a gun. Once from under his mother's watchful
care, the overgrown boy had sunk beneath the hardships
of camp life, and the spirit, pure as when it first entered
the clay casket, returned to God who gave it. O Willie
those were not tears to be despised which fell upon thy
coffin — soldiers' tears for a comrade lost. And though
upon the well-contested field you never fought in deadly
combat, the good fight of faith has been yours; and now,
while your example lives in our hearts below, you wear an
undying wreath of victory in our Father's kingdom.

Our work in this hospital was more satisfactory than in
any other with which I was connected. There were only
three wards, and we visited and talked with each patient
every afternoon. A surgeon or the ward-master went with
us to assist in giving out the lemonade which we always
took with us. We also carried a portfolio, and took from
the men outlines of the letters they wished us to write.
Some of these were very original and amusing, and I regret
that I did not preserve them.

As we had no "diet lists," we took down on a slip of
paper every afternoon what articles of food each man
thought he could eat. There was very little grumbling,
and many thanks. While at work, the convalescents would
gather in the corners of the kitchen and at the windows, and
relate amusing anecdotes of their journeyings and fights.

I regret to say that sham marriages of the soldiers with
pretty girls belonging to the "poor white trash" were not
uncommon.

Much has been said of the ignorance of these people; but
such miserable, vile, filthy, cringing wretches I never saw.
Half has not been told of them; and truly it would require
the pens of many ready-writers to do it. The "swamp
fever," which carried off many of our soldiers, was even
more fatal among them. While in Wilmington, the death
of Mrs. George, of Fort Wayne, Indiana, made us more
careful of our health. The surgeon advised us to change
every article of dress, and take a thorough bath, before
resting after our visits to the wards. This we did; and
although we were exposed to small pox, and fevers of all
kinds, we returned to the North in as good health as when
we went South.

Wilmington life is with the memories of the past, as is
all our hospital work. But though we "rest from our
labors," "our works do follow us" in occasional letters from
a thankful one, to whom we administered when we and they
were strangers in a strange land.

"I wish you would take bed sixty-four, ward two, under
your especial care," said the surgeon in charge to me.
"We have just amputated his leg, and nothing but the
closest watchfulness and most nourishing food will save
him, and I doubt if they do."

I went at once to my patient. He was a young man,
with what had once been a very strong constitution. As he
lay there, with his pale face, and lips quivering with agony,
I could not help thinking how grand he must appear in the
glory of healthy manhood. I could see that he clinched
his nails into the palm of his hand to keep back the cry
which he deemed unsoldierly. But it would not do; a
groan burst forth in spite of him. He turned his fiercelyblack
eyes upon me, and asked, dropping the words slowly,
one at a time, "Can't — you — do — something — for —
me?" I felt powerless, but prepared a stimulating drink
for him, and then left him to attend to others.

One day I was too busy to carry his dinner to him, and
sent it to him by the nurse, postponing my visit to that
ward until afternoon. Between three and four o'clock I
went to see him, and found him weaker than usual, and his
dinner on the stand beside him, untasted. I carried in
my hand a pretty, delicate fan, which a friend had given
me, and I noticed his eyes follow it backward and forward,
up and down, as I fanned him. At last he asked to
take it. He gave it a few feeble flourishes, and then asked
me to exchange with him. "This palm-leaf is so heavy I
can't lift it. When I get strong I will give it to you
again." I gave it, and asked what he would have for supper.
"Coffee! coffee, with cream in it! Nothing else!"

was his answer. "But we have no cream," said I. "No
cream! Why, my mother has milk pans big enough to
drown me in, and the cream is that thick" — indicating on
his finger its thickness. "Mother! mother! mother!" he
cried.

Wounds and suffering had weakened body and mind
alike; and the strong man was a child again, crying helplessly
for "mother."

A few mornings later a nurse brought my fan to me,
saying, "`Sixty-four' died last night; and when he knew he
was going, he told me to bring your fan to you, and thank
you." The ambulance, bearing him in his coffin, had
scarcely left the gate, when the mother for whom he had
yearned came to the hospital.

Poor woman! She bowed her gray head, murmuring,
beneath the chastening rod, "Thy will, not mine, be done,
O Father."

Hospital Scenes.

The inconvenience, suffering, and unpleasant consequences
of ignorance of military regulations, endured by
women who went to take care of sons, husbands, or brothers,
sick in southern hospitals, might form an interesting,
though sad chapter in the history of our great war, and
I give you some instances.

At the sunset of a sultry day, I sat by my window,
writing to the "friends at home," when my door was thrown
unceremoniously open, and a lady entered, exclaiming,
"What shall I do?" I knew from her face that she was a
quiet, respectable, though uncultivated woman, and that

nothing but the desperateness of her situation could have
forced her to this abrupt entrance and question.

I gave her a chair, and listened to her story. Her husband
had been so severely wounded in the leg as to make
amputation necessary; and she had left home with a hundred
dollars, which she had borrowed from a friend, and
had come all the way to Nashville.

She had never travelled before, and had been troubled so
much in getting passes and transportation, that her nervous
system seemed quite exhausted.

Boarding and lodging were so dear that she found it impossible
to pay for them in the city, while hospital regulations
would not allow her to stay there. The surgeon said
it would be weeks before her husband would be able to go
home. "I cannot stay — and if I go back, he will die!
What shall I do? What shall I do?" she cried, wringing
her hands, and sobbing bitterly.

I proposed to walk into the ward and see her husband,
while I thought what I could do for her. To my surprise
she took me to the cot of one of my "special cases." "Is
it your wife that has come?" I exclaimed. "Yes, it's my
wife," he replied, while his eyes filled with a happy, peaceful
light. "O Hattie, I have dreamed so often of your coming,
that I am afraid I shall wake and find — But no, you are
here — ain't you, Hattie?"

"Yes, Charlie, yes;" and the tears fell fast upon the
clasped hands. The surgeon in charge consented to let
her occupy an empty cot next to her husband, and the
nurses changed him from the centre to one corner of the
ward. For her board she helped us in the "special diet
kitchen."

Eternity only can reveal the good done by her in the
month she was in that large ward, containing a hundred
beds. She remembered that Christ had said, "Inasmuch as
ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done
it unto me;" and day and night occupied her spare time in
administering to her husband's fellow-sufferers.

One day of the fifth week of her stay, I saw a cloud on
her sunny face, and inquired the cause. She said a man had
died in the ward, and the nurses had carried him out head
foremost, and that she and her husband deemed this a bad
sign. She had tried to divert his attention from it, but he
had replied, "It is no use, Hattie; I shall go next." And
he did. I cannot calmly recall that parting scene. You
who have laid a dear one under the sod, near your own
home, while friends and relatives wept with you, can know
a part of her grief. But you who have, like her, left the
dear dust to mingle with that of strangers, can realize the
depth of her woe. As the carriage was announced to take
her to the depot, she shrank back, exclaiming, "How
can I go home to my children! I promised I would
not return without their father; and to leave him in the
cold ground!" Hers was indeed a sad case. Her trip
home would use up the last of the borrowed money, and
she would have to take in washing to support her children
and pay back the borrowed hundred dollars.

One day, a well-dressed, intelligent woman called at the
door of the diet kitchen, and asked to see one of the "Christian
Commission" ladies. The surgeon had sent her to me to
help her find her husband, and the directions were, "Bed

one hundred six, ward two." As we went up the steps, I
noticed that she trembled with excitement. I inquired if
she was tired, and she said, "No," though she had slept none
since leaving her home. We entered the ward, and the
nurse pointed out the bed, but it was empty. I looked at
her, and saw she was deadly pale, and hastened to assure
her that there was some mistake, as she would not have
been sent from the office to look for her husband if he had
been dead. While I had been talking to her, the ward-master
had referred to his book, and told us her husband's
leg had been amputated a few days before, and he was then
moved to ward four. Again her face was in a glow, and I
could hardly keep her from rushing in unannounced. We
could see his face from the door, and I thought him asleep.
As I was holding her by the arm, and beckoning to one of
the men to come to us, he opened his eyes full upon her.
Such a scream as he gave! She bounded from me, and in
a moment had her arms around his neck, both crying and
laughing at the same time. I am sure neither of them
uttered a whole sentence for fifteen minutes, so overpowering
was the joy of their meeting. His recovery was almost
miraculous, and one month from the time she came, she
started home with her husband. The wife remarked, as
she bade us good by, that she was not half so happy the
morning she started on her bridal tour as she was now,
taking her husband, though he left one leg in a southern
grave.

Persons unaccustomed to hospital life can hardly imagine
how absorbing it was. Nor can they conceive how we could

find any enjoyment in life while surrounded by hundreds
of those poor wrecks of humanity, from whom life had
been well nigh driven by southern bullets. Surely God
will forgive us, if — as the long months of untold suffering
rise before us, when we went in and out among the sufferers,
while they wore out life in the vain hope of returning
health, and finally were carried to the grave under the
folds of the dear old flag — a bitterness comes to us that no
words can express, and we cannot help rejoicing that God
has said, "Vengeance is mine, and I will repay."

Peace has come to us at last; and now, when almost a
year has passed since we sat in front of the White House,
and looked upon the great army, "with banners," marching
through the streets of Washington, — and the tears came
more freely than the smiles, as we gazed at the bronzed
faces, torn banners, and thinned ranks, — still those scenes
are too vivid for us to realize that the work of the war is
over, and that the dear, blessed hospital days shall come
back to us no more forever. We call them "blessed days,"
because the joy of ministering to the suffering filled our
hearts with a melody before unknown. But, as "the darkest
day has gleams of light," so our usually dark days were
often illumed with gleams of brightness. One gleam,
especially bright, came to us November 4, 1864. It was a
dull, rainy day; such a day as, glancing at the hospital
windows, you would not fail to see pale faces, full of weary
longing, looking forth. We had been all the morning in
the "diet kitchen," and the dinner for our large family of
over three hundred, on special diet, was well under way.
A rustle at the door, and looking up, we greeted Mrs. E.

P. Smith, the wife of the Christian Commission agent.
She was always the bringer of good tidings, and this time
especially so.

"We have eight boxes of grapes for you," she said; "the
nicest Catawba, Isabella, &c.; and as it is a gloomy day, it
will be pleasant to distribute them at once, and show the
men that they are not forgotten by the friends at home."

We acted upon the suggestion immediately, and, accompanied
by the officer of the day, to tell us who could have grapes,
we were soon passing from cot to cot. It was wonderful
how the men brightened up. They could scarcely have expressed
more gratitude had we given them clusters of gold
instead of grapes. One elderly man sat on the side of his
cot, and seemed very impatient as we paused to say a word
to others near him. He had been long prostrated with a
fever, and we were surprised to find him sitting up; for
only a few days before we had taken him a few grapes, and
they were the first thing he had eaten for days. We knew
nothing would cheer the old man more than a little pleasantry.
So, as I came up, I said, with much solemnity,
laying the grapes on his stand, "To thy shrine, O hero of
the war, I bring my humble offering" — but stopped short
at that, for I discovered that his eyes were full of tears.
He then went on to tell me, that one week before he had
felt sure he must die. He could eat nothing, and felt himself
sinking slowly into the grave. Then the grapes were
brought him. In all his life he had never tasted anything
half so refreshing. The first thing he did was to pray God
to bless the good women that sent them. He took no
more medicine, and his recovery was rapid, dating from the

first grape he ate. "There is a good wife up in Wisconsin,
and a house full of little children, that will bless
the Commission while life lasts," said the old man, with
fervency; and I turned away, lest my own tears should
mingle with the grateful soldier's.

In one corner of one of the wards lay a man thin and pale,
and with eyes sufficiently glittering to represent the Ancient
Mariner. As we came near, we saw he was looking almost
fiercely at the dish piled high with grapes. As we laid an
unusually generous amount on the stand, he smiled grimly,
and began crowding them into his mouth. The officer of
the day came up in haste, and said that man must not have
any; they would injure him. He was not to be so treated,
and clutched them in both hands. The doctor, finding remonstrance
in vain, took the grapes from him by force, as
he was too weak to cope with a strong man. A disappointed
child could not have wept more bitterly than he
did, to be deprived of the only thing he had wanted for
months. My heart ached for him; but the doctor's word
was law, and we could only tell him how sorry we were. We
were very careful, afterwards, to have the doctor go ahead,
and point out any that could not have grapes, so as to avoid
such disappointments in future. Here and there we found
a man that would look longingly at the grapes, but shake
his head, and say there were others so much worse than he
that they should have them. How glad we were to be able
to say, we have enough for every man in the hospital!

We had one case of a soldier that had been wounded, —
shot through the breast, — and were thinking how much he
would enjoy the grapes. To the surprise of all, he shook

his head, and then told us that the discharge from his
wound produced such nausea that he had not been able to
eat anything for some time. He would enjoy the grapes so
much but for that! There came to me a bright thought —
just arrived from the young ladies of Mount Pleasant,
Iowa — one box hospital stores, handkerchiefs, slippers,
pillow-cases, and a few bottles of perfumery. It took but
a moment to go to our room, return, and the soldier
found himself surrounded by far more savory odors than
ever floated from
In a short time our soldier was enjoying the grapes, and
that evening ate his supper.

Not a great while after, as we entered the hospital gates
with a basket of flowers — the last of the season — to
brighten for a few days the wards, we were surprised to see
the same soldier walking slowly towards us. He bowed
politely, and to our "What! you able to be out?" he
replied, —

"Yes, miss, the grapes and cologne saved me."

But it would be impossible to write out one half of the
interesting occurrences connected with that one day's distribution
of grapes.

One bright day in July, as we passed through the wards,
many of the men told us, that they thought if they could
get out into the sunshine, and see the trees and flowers
growing, it would almost cure them. They were worn out
with staring at the bare walls of the Gun Factory Hospital,
and would so like to see something green.

Accordingly there was a "council of war" held in the
diet kitchen, and the result was, that two very demurelooking
women, wearing the badge of the Christian Commission,
started out to steal. With covered hand-baskets
they went directly to the cemetery. But they surely could
not intend making any depredations there, for every few
steps were signs — "Five dollars fine for breaking, or in
any way injuring, the shrubbery." They went all round the
grounds, and soon ascertained that there was only one
grave-digger in the enclosure, and he in a remote part of
the grounds. Whether the Nashville people ever discovered
that day's work this deponent saith not; but one thing
is sure: a table in Number One Hospital was soon covered
with flowers, from two well-filled baskets. The next
question was, What would be done for vases? That question
was soon answered. The cans from which the condensed
milk had been taken for the pudding were just the
thing. Soon every ward was bright and fragrant with
flowers. If the perpetrators of the crime had had any
compunctions of conscience before, they all vanished as
the thanks of the men came to them from every ward.

While the summer lasted, the flowers did their good
work, but no one could tell where they came from.