 | MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY. Women of the war : |  |
MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY.
THE facts of personal history that led to the enlistment
of the soldier were as various as the circumstances
of human life; and the same variety and blending
of motive were found among those who devoted their
whole time to hospital service in the care of the sick and
suffering.
A pure and mere desire to be useful to the country was
the simple but powerful and all-sufficient motive with
some. Others had sons, or husbands, or lovers in the
army, and entered upon hospital life with a view of being
near the objects of their love when sickness or wounds
should overtake them in the line of duty.
Others, again, were impelled by religious zeal. They
thought that among so many young men, homeless and
suffering, in a life of constant change and perpetual danger,
opportunities would be frequent for making moral and
religious suggestions with happy effect; that when they
saw Death in so many forms, and faced him every day, the
propriety of being fitted for that change would be obvious
to all. They hoped, too, amid so many dying, to do
untold good by whispering the words of supreme hope and
consolation in ears that were growing dull to all human
sounds.
Others, again, sought the activity and self-forgetfulness
of army life and army labor to soothe the pain of bitter
bereavement, to give to the suffering patriot those attentions
which had now no domestic object upon which they
could be lavished. They might use the words of that
Hebrew widow, who was also childless: "Call me not
Naomi — call me Mara, for the Almighty hath dealt very
bitterly with me."
"Death," writes Lord Bacon, "arrives gracious only to
such as sit in darkness, to despairful widows, pensive prisoners,
and deposed kings; to them whose fortune runs
back, and whose spirits mutiny: unto such Death is a
redeemer."
But the interval between the blasting of earthly hopes
and the arrival of death can be passed in no activity so
wholesome or congenial as in labors of public charity.
Thinking thus, in the spring of 1862, when her pleasant
home in Massachusetts had been utterly desolated by the
successive deaths of her husband and her only child, Mrs.
McKay turned the key in the door of the house which was
dear to her now only for the memory of what had been,
and sought oblivion, and at the same time usefulness, in
the army of the Potomac. Her army life began at Frederick
City, in Maryland, on the 24th of March, 1862, where
she arrived and commenced her labors just in time to assist
in the care of a great number of wounded from the battle
of Winchester, which had been fought between Banks and
Stonewall Jackson the day before.
The hospital consisted of two old stone buildings, with
some modern barracks attached, all quite unexceptionable
much the same as in army hospitals everywhere.
"I find," she writes, "much suffering, both physical and
mental, depression, and discontent. In other cases there are
patience, endurance, and gratitude, and the whole is often
mingled and relieved by touches of the grotesque and
ludicrous." The first care was to administer — sometimes
before they were taken from the ambulances — food and some
slightly stimulating drink. Then all those whose wounds
were not very deep and painful, after they had been washed
and combed, and their wounds dressed, their torn and
bloody battle clothes replaced by those which were clean
and wholesome, would sit up in their beds, or walk around
the wards, cheerful, sometimes jolly, and always grateful
that it was no worse with them.
The cases of many of these wounded soldiers became
very interesting to Mrs. McKay, and the hospital diary
which she kept, during the whole time of her labor in the
army, is rich in incidents and recitals, which are written
with uncommon taste and skill. One poor German boy she
speaks of, who interested her as much by his misfortunes
as by the noble spirit in which he bore his sufferings.
His wound had not been dangerous originally. A ball had
pierced his arm; but the hurt had been carefully attended
to, and he was getting on admirably, when, as he was
crossing the ward one day, his foot caught, and as he was
large, he fell with the whole of his heavy weight upon the
wounded arm. The consequence was a terrible fracture,
which was found by the surgeons to be incurable, and the
shattered arm was cut off. For eleven weeks he lingered,
hopelessly. He received the most careful attention from
both physicians and nurses, for he was a noble-looking
fellow, a member of one of the Ohio regiments, and everything
was done to save his life.
Mrs. McKay was his nurse, and her devotion was assiduous;
but the care and skill were bestowed in vain. He
was sinking into a soldier's grave, and as earthly scenes
failed, he desired to have the supreme rites of his church
performed over his dying pillow. He was always glad to
hear portions of the Bible, or any good book, read to him.
Just before he died she saw that he was making an effort to
speak. She bent over him, to catch, if possible, his parting
words. Slowly and with pain he whispered them, one
by one, in her ear: "I want — I want —" said he. "What
do you want, Russell?" "I want to tell you — what —
what I will do — for you — when I get to — another place."
One Sunday, while Mrs. McKay was superintending the
distribution of dinner in her ward, she heard footsteps at
the farther end of the long ward, and, looking up, saw the
chief medical director, and with him, a few steps in advance,
a gentleman in civil dress, whose bearing at once riveted
her attention.
There was nothing peculiar in his brown suit, white
cravat, sallow complexion, heavy gray beard, and the
anxious expression of his face. Yet in all combined there
was something to arrest and fix the attention in the manner
of the quiet and courteous, yet earnest stranger; and she
stood looking at him, as he passed down the long row of
hospital cots, his keen eye seeming to take in everything,
being served out to the patients.
"Do you know who visited our hospital to-day?" asked
Mrs. McKay of a lady friend, whom she met in the grounds
soon after. "O, yes, he is a doctor; he was in the Crimean
war, is very rich, lives in Louisiana, is a good Union man,
and owns a large sugar plantation. He introduced himself
to Dr. W., and asked to look through the hospital."
Not long after she asked the same question of a rebel
soldier in the hospital, and he informed her that this man
was Stonewall Jackson, and that he often penetrated the
Union lines to acquaint himself with positions and movements,
sometimes in one disguise, and sometimes in
another.
The summer of 1862 passed without much novelty at the
hospital in Frederick City, where Mrs. McKay was laboring.
The wounded were mostly from Banks's force, who,
during the greater part of that campaign, was pitted against
Stonewall Jackson. But early in September came the
astounding intelligence that the whole Union force had
been engaged by the combined forces of Lee and Jackson,
at Manassas, and driven in defeat across the Potomac into
Washington City; and that the rebel army, victorious, but
ragged and hungry, was advancing on Frederick City.
Mrs. McKay, notwithstanding the panic that prevailed in
the neighborhood, determined to remain at her self-assigned
post of duty, and take care of those who were too feeble
to flee before the advancing foe. Meanwhile her pen was
not idle, and she has preserved a connected and graphic
account of the rebel occupation.
"As the town could not be defended," she writes, "the
citizens prepared to give Lee as silent a reception as possible.
The Home Guard was sent off, and every patient in
the hospital who could walk hurried to the outskirts of the
town, where teams were seized to carry them to a safe
distance. Immense quantities of government clothing,
blankets, and other stores, were heaped in piles and
burned.
"Blinds were closed on the houses, and anon the streets
became silent and deserted. We waited anxiously for their
coming, quite ignorant as to what policy they might pursue,
and uncertain to what fate they might consign us. At
length, at about ten o'clock, on the morning of the 6th of
September, the glitter of long rows of polished bayonets
was flashing on the top of the hill east of the town, and
soon after the long column began to pour rather lazily
through Main Street. A miserable band, with a few cracked
and battered instruments, attempted to play `Maryland,
my Maryland!' but the effort seemed soon to exhaust itself.
Presently a squad of horsemen from the vanguard dashed
into the hospital yard, and presenting drawn sabres to the
few medical officers who stood leaning on the balcony of
one of the old stone buildings, demanded, in the name of
the Confederate States, the surrender of the post.
"The summons was immediately obeyed, and forthwith
mounted guards were stationed at the door of every ward.
`Our men must have been asleep to let you come into
Maryland,' said one of our hospital stewards to a stern-looking
rebel. `Yes,' replied the haughty Southron, `a
good many of them are sleeping at Bull Run.' Soon a
the hospital ground. As they filed in, we could see that
nearly every soldier had on his shoulder a watermelon,
captured from the neighboring field. They quickly seated
themselves in squads on the ground, and began to eat,
throwing the refuse about our nicely-policed grounds. It
was but the beginning of sorrows in that line; for, before
the week was out, the place, which had been a model of
neatness, was turned into a pen of filth. When I went to
my quarters that night, just outside the hospital enclosure,
I could enter the door only by stepping over the body of a
rebel soldier, who was lying there insensible, either from
fatigue or liquor. Another, in the same condition, was
stowed along on the brick pavement under my window, in
front of which a third stood guard. I passed the night
without fear, though sleep was driven away by the continual
tramp of troops passing along the streets, and
the rumbling of artillery and baggage wagons. This
continued, with little cessation, for the next two or three
days, until the whole rebel army had passed through the
town; and as I sat at my window, watching them hour
after hour, I could almost imagine that all the beggars in
the world had congregated in that mighty host, so ragged
were they, so filthy and squalid in appearance. Yet these
men were by no means ruffians. Seeing me at the window,
they would sometimes stop, and ask politely for food; and
when I gave whatever I had at hand, they received it with
gratitude.
"When I went among them in the wards which they occupied,
they promptly made way for me, and thanked me with
sickness, or wounds. In my own ward, which was constantly
thronged with them, we held long conversations on
the origin, progress, and probable termination of the war;
and many of them I found to be intelligent, thoughtful,
even Christian men, having implicit faith in their cause, in
God as its especial leader, and, next to him, in Stonewall
Jackson.
"On parting with our soldiers, they shook hands cordially,
and hoped it might never be their fortune to meet
on the battle-field. Some of the officers manifested a more
haughty temper. `Are you tired, soldier, after your long
march?' I asked of one. `No; I shall not be tired till I
get to Philadelphia.' `But do you know that many of you
poor fellows will find a grave before you get to Philadelphia?'
`We expected nothing else, madam, when we came
out, and our homes and our little children are as dear to us
as to any others.' `But you are all caught in a nice trap,
and we shall soon see you rushing out of this town much
faster than you came in.' `Perhaps you haven't heard,
madam, how we fight the Yankees down in Virginia.' `No.
How is that?' `We fight with our muskets till the powder
is all gone; then we break our gunstocks over their heads;
then we take the fence rails, and break them all up; and
then fling rocks at them.' `Very well,' I said; `our soldiers
can fight with fence rails and rocks as well as you, and by
the time you get to Philadelphia, you'll have plenty of that
sort of work.'"
A few days wrought an entire change. The rebel force
vacated Frederick City. The Union army pressed forward
Mountain and Antietam, by which the hospitals at Frederick
City, and all others in the vicinity, were crowded with
the bleeding and mangled remnants of the great hosts who
contended on those ever-memorable fields.
For many days the inmates of this hospital were surrounded
by the roar and intense excitement of great
military events.
Perched upon the highest point of the hospital buildings,
Mrs. McKay, and the few who remained in the midst of
scenes so rude, watched the swaying and changing lines.
Now a party of skirmishers are making their way across a
cornfield. "Soon they tear away the fence, and are in the
hospital grounds. We rush to meet them, take them by
the hand, lead them into the house, and set before them
food, whatever we can find. They eat hastily, and hurry
back to their places in the ranks, for there is no time or
place for rest now."
Mrs. McKay remained on duty in this hospital for some
time after Lee, with his decimated army, had fallen back
into Virginia, and established his lines along the south bank
of the Rappahannock.
At the time of Burnside's unfortunate advance and ill-planned
attack at Fredericksburg, she went to Washington
City, and in the hospitals there nursed many of those
who had been brought directly from that disastrous field to
Washington.
Early in January, 1863, she was, after much difficulty,
furnished with a pass which admitted her within the army
lines at Falmouth, where the army was encamped. She
friends in the seventeenth Maine volunteers, and then
sought active employment as a nurse in Third Corps Hospital,
which had just been established. She was so fortunate
as to find quarters in a house near by, and received
permission from the surgeon in charge to work for the
patients. There was need enough of work, and of hospital
supplies for the poor fellows, many of whom, very
sick, were lying in tents, on the cold, wet ground, with no
other bed or covering than an army blanket, and no other
diet than salt pork, navy beans, and hard-tack. For the
establishment of a special diet kitchen there was literally
nothing on hand. She had brought a few utensils from
Washington, and with these and the cans in which preserved
meats and fruits had been brought, and a little iron boiler,
occasionally borrowed from an old negro woman, she was
soon able to send out into the different wards puddings of
corn starch and farina, beef tea, chocolate, tea, soup, and
jelly, which, with good fresh bread and butter, were indeed
luxurious fare for the poor fellows, as compared with army
rations.
By degrees the hospital improved, and assumed a comfortable
and even cheerful appearance. General Birney
sent daily details of men to cut poles in the woods and
make bunks, which, with the help of straw and blankets,
made beds that were quite comfortable. And Mrs. Birney,
who frequently visited the patients, encouraged and cheered
them by her charming presence, and by the gifts of delicacies,
with which she always came abundantly supplied.
Other stores were drawn from the United States Sanitary
showed quite an extensive variety.
About the middle of April the first division, third corps,
moved to Potomac Creek, about ten miles from Falmouth,
and a new hospital was established there. A few days
after, the whole army crossed the Rappahannock, and the
long, bloody, yet indecisive battle of Chancellorsville
ensued. Here Mrs. McKay's wish of being close in the
rear of a great battle was fully realized. With an ambulance
well loaded with supplies, she was able to follow the
army across the pontoon bridge, and established herself at
a large brick house, two or three miles from the front line
of battle. In a few hours, this house, and all the surrounding
grounds, were crowded with men wounded and dying,
and there were exhibited all those various and ghastly
spectacles which are the terrible, though inevitable, consequences
of war. These scenes were soon made still more
distressing for her by terrible reports that came from the
front. She was told that her dear brother had fallen in the
conflict, shot through the heart, and that many other friends
had shared the same fate. After the army — baffled, though
never fully engaged — was withdrawn to the north side of
the river, immense trains of ambulances were busy, day and
night, drawing their loads of wounded over roads indescribably
wretched, while thousands were left suffering and
dying on the field.
"We have lost too much to give up now; we have something
to revenge," said Captain F., her brother's friend and
tent-mate, as he stood one evening in front of her tent, just
ready to mount his horse and ride away. He was very
for he was usually gay, and apparently light-hearted.
A few weeks later, and he lay writhing in pain, and dying
on the bloody field of Gettysburg.
When the Union army left its base at Falmouth and
Acquia Creek, and moved forward to confront the haughty
rebel force on northern soil, the hospitals were broken up,
and the patients sent to Washington, where also Mrs.
McKay went, to remain until it should be known where,
along or within the border, the great blow had been struck.
On the 4th of July the Washington journals contained
accounts of the great engagement on the 1st, 2d, and 3d, at
Gettysburg. On the 6th Mrs. McKay went to Baltimore,
and thence to the point nearest the field accessible by rail.
After some delay and difficulty, travelling the last twenty-five
miles in a huge army wagon, on a pile of forage, she
reached the hospital of her division, about five miles from
Gettysburg; and here, for the remainder of July and the
greater part of August, her labors were such as the vast
accumulation of suffering around her seemed to demand.
Her labors and annoyances in conducting the special diet
department were greatly increased by the absurd and vexatious
red tape-ism of some army officials, who not only
objected to volunteer lady nurses, but threw all obstacles
and impediments in their way.
For almost the whole time of her labor at Gettysburg
she had no facilities for cooking for a thousand or fifteen
hundred sick men but a row of camp kettles, suspended
from a long pole. Her requisition for a stove was brought
back disapproved by the medical director of the post, on
they came, were found entirely unfit for field use.
In the fall of 1863, when those who remained of the
Gettysburg sufferers had been collected in one great hospital,
Mrs. McKay again sought the front. Warrenton, in
Virginia, was now headquarters, and there were much suffering
and destitution in the numerous regimental hospitals.
These, especially those of the third division, she visited
regularly, dispensing such comforts as she could draw from
the Sanitary Commission and other sources.
Very late in that year came the fight at Mine Run, in
which this division suffered severe losses; and soon after
the Army of the Potomac went into winter quarters, and
Brandy Station here became the hospital centre. The
usual routine of well-organized hospital labor filled the
time during that winter and spring, till the order of March
26th removed "all ladies connected with the various associations,
commissions, and agencies, operating within the
army lines."
Imposing as was the sound of this order, its effect was to
banish good and faithful army nurses from the lines barely
for a month. In the early days of May came the great
battles of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania.
All the hospital workers agree that at no time during the
war was there such an accumulation of suffering as during
the months of May and June, 1864. Great battle followed
great battle with appalling frequency. The contest seemed
to have changed its principles. It was now a question
which army could survive the most copious blood-letting.
Hospital accommodations were large, yet sadly inadequate.
that vast numbers suffered from hunger, and many of the
sick and wounded perished for want of suitable and
sufficient food.
In all these fearful scenes and constant labors, Mrs.
McKay took an active and efficient part.
In the hospitals at Fredericksburg, White House, and
City Point, she labored for the sick of the division with
which she had been so long connected. But about the first
of June the army organization was considerably changed.
The old third corps was so reduced by sickness and battle
that it was now made the third division of the second corps.
Most of the old surgeons were dead, or had left the service,
and General Birney, who had long been her friend, was
now transferred; and Mrs. McKay accepted an invitation
from the surgeon-in-chief of the Cavalry Corps Hospital to
attend there and take charge of the special diet department.
Here she labored for nearly a year, till just before the fall
of Richmond, and the close of the war.
Many incidents occurred during her stay which illustrate
the swift vicissitudes and tragic scenery of war, as well as
the kindness and fidelity of Mrs. McKay's labor. One
evening, as she was sitting in her tent, the flap was drawn
aside, and a pleasant-looking soldier boy inquired for Mrs.
S. "She has gone out just now; can I do anything for
you?" "I am her son," was the reply, full of repressed
emotion. She directed him to the place whither his mother
had gone, and soon after saw them united in a tearful embrace.
Mrs. S. had given four sons to the Union army,
and they had enlisted from the noblest and most patriotic
exposure, had gone home to die. Just a year from the day
of his death a second son had died in the hospital. Hearing
of his illness, in her home in the northern part of
Maine, she had hastened to his bedside, to minister the last
offices of maternal affection; but when she reached the
Cavalry Corps Hospital he had been lying five days in the
grave. Her grief was very great; but seeing so many
suffering, whose kindred were far away, she restrained
her emotion, and devoted herself to caring for the sick,
becoming so much interested in the work that she begged to
be put on permanent duty in the hospital. The men were
always glad to see her in the wards, because, as they said to
her, "you seem so much like my mother; your hand feels
so much like my mother's hand." A third son was in service
in Florida; and, after two years of separation, suffering
much from hunger, weariness, and hardship, the fourth
was for a few hours with her again. They speak tearfully
of the past, and not without anxiety of the future. He
tells her of comrades — some of them old playfellows from
the same town — killed in battle; especially of one poor
fellow who was shot on picket after his term of service had
expired, and says of him, "Tell his mother he was a good
soldier." They speak of him who has just passed away to
his eternal home, and after a while go out to visit his grave.
He lies in the little cemetery of the hospital, just in the
edge of the woods, near the bank of the Appomattox.
There sleep more than a hundred soldiers of the cavalry
corps who have died in the hospital. They lie, each one
with his little head-board, giving his name, regiment, and
they lately stood on dress parade, or drawn out in line of
battle. But time is precious, and they cannot stay long to
weep at his grave, for the few hours of the son's furlough
soon pass, and he bids his mother good by, saying, "Do
not fear for me, mother; if I die in battle or in camp I will
surely meet you in heaven." He carries under his arm a
little bundle, which it had been a pleasure to prepare for
him: shirt, drawers, socks, handkerchief, towel, and some
little dainties to tempt his appetite, tied in a large, colored
handkerchief, which he will find it pleasant some cold night
on picket to tie around his throat — little gifts, promptings
of a mother's love, how invaluable to the soldier boy!
One afternoon one of the ward-masters came to Mrs.
McKay, and said, "Jim is dead!" He was a man to whom
her attention was called, when he came to the hospital, as a
brave soldier, and worthy of special attention. It was hoped
that something might be done for him; but all efforts for
his restoration were unavailing, and he sank gradually
away. On the morning before his death, he said, in reply
to Mrs. McKay's inquiries concerning his health, that he
felt quite well, and could eat anything; but his lips were
then stiffening with the frosts of death, and his limbs nearly
cold, and in a few hours he was gone. He was respectably
connected, and the possessor of quite a large property.
While absent in the three months' service, at the commencement
of the war, the young girl to whom he was engaged
to be married was lost to him through the treachery of one
who had supplanted him in her affections. From the time
he arrived home and learned the facts, his sole object in
aware of his intention, immediately left the place, and went
to Washington. Thither he followed, and learning that he
had enlisted in a Pennsylvania regiment, hesitated not to do
the same. Before he could reach the regiment, intelligence
came that the object of his pursuit had been captured while
on picket. Whether this was true, or whether, learning
that the avenger was at hand, he had deserted to the
enemy, was never known; but it is certain that, after
three years of baffled efforts, worn out with hard service
and exposure in camp and field, added to the burden of
mental anguish which he always bore, poor "Jim" came to
the hospital to die, the wreck of a once noble and generous-hearted
man. A few days before his death he transmitted
to his friends a large sum of money, to be used for the poor
girl's benefit, whom, with her child, he had maintained
during his absence, though he had entirely relinquished the
idea of marrying her.
The vigilance required to prevent sanitary stores in
transit from falling into unprincipled hands is fully illustrated
in a mishap which occurred to Mrs. McKay in
the summer of 1863. At Washington she had packed a
box containing a large number of articles, useful for her
own mess and for preparing special diet, and some choice
liquors. Having obtained transportation, it was put on the
same train of cars on which she herself took passage. At
the last station before reaching Sulphur Springs, Virginia,
her destination, she inquired for her box, and was told that
the baggage train had stopped several miles back, at Warrenton
Junction; it had not come, but would be there the
at Sulphur Springs, nine miles from the station, that evening,
in a mail wagon, and soon made herself acquainted
with the wants of the sick in the division; but without her
box — the contents of which would be a complete outfit for
hospital operations — she could do nothing for them. The
need was so great that one of the surgeons rode twelve
miles for a paper of corn starch, and she herself rode sixteen
to procure half a bottle of brandy. After repeated
orders having been sent to have it brought up in a headquarters
wagon, without effect, she started in her ambulance
to hunt it up. She first went to Germantown, where were
the headquarters of the army, thinking it might have gone
to Dr. Letterman, it being consigned to his care. Not
finding it there, she went to Bealton, thence to Warrenton
Junction, and finally to Warrenton, where she had the satisfaction
of finding her box, and bringing it back with her
in the ambulance. After a laborious and vexatious trip of
thirty-five miles, what was her dismay and chagrin, upon
opening it next morning, to find it filled with old chains,
halters, broken harness, and one old horse blanket! The
teamsters at Warrenton, where she found it, had "confiscated"
its contents, and filled it with old trash from their
wagon boxes.
At the time of the battle of Hatcher's Run she was still
engaged in this hospital, and speaks thus of the scenes that
followed that action: —
"Hearing that several had been brought in dead, I went
this morning to the tent used as a receptacle for such, to
see if any of my acquaintances were among them. They
fell in battle. As I drew aside the blue overcoat capes
which had been turned over their faces, what was my surprise
and pain to recognize among these frozen sleepers two
young officers who were in the hospital with wounds only a
few months ago! One had been a special friend, Captain
Harper, of the fourth Pennsylvania cavalry. Only a few
days ago he called at my quarters. He had just returned
from a leave of absence, during which he had visited his
home. Full of life and energy, in splendid uniform, and
mounted on a powerful horse, he was the picture of a gallant
soldier. Now, as I write, he lies stretched in his
rough coffin, his manly features rigid in death, awaiting
burial."
The labors of Mrs. McKay at the Cavalry Corps Hospital
did not fail of being fully appreciated by the gallant
men whose sufferings in wounds and sickness she was able
to palliate. As a Christmas present, on the 25th December,
1864, they had given her a very handsome gold badge and
chain, of exquisite manufacture, with the inscription, —
"Presented to Mrs. Charlotte E. McKay by the soldiers
of the Cavalry Corps Hospital. Army of Potomac, in
front of Petersburg. December 25, 1864."
So, also, a few months before, when nursing the wounded
of the seventeenth Maine volunteers, at Chancellorsville,
she had received a magnificent Kearny Cross, with the front
inscription, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori;" and
on the reverse, "Presented to Mrs. C. E. McKay, by the
officers of the seventeenth regiment Maine volunteers.
May, 1863."
Although her labors as nurse did not continue after
March, 1865, she remained in Virginia for more than a
year, engaged with the freedmen; nursing the sick, taking
care of those who were unable to care for themselves, listening
to many a weird tale of cruelty and injustice in the
old days of bondage, and giving the rudiments of education
to minds that were sitting in darkness.
Although as constant and laborious in hospital labors as
any, she yet found time to record scenes, conversations, and
incidents, many of which are of uncommon interest, and
recited in graphic language, as the following, that are
subjoined to this sketch of her labors, will show: —
The Soldier's Grave.
On the 28th day of October, 1863, the headquarters of
the Army of the Potomac broke camp at Auburn, and
moved to Colonel Murray's farm, about two miles from
Warrenton Junction.
The headquarters moving, though not so grand or striking
a spectacle as you will often see in military life, is still
quite imposing, and by no means destitute of the "pomp
and circumstance of war." Altogether it is about as long a
procession as the eye can take in at once, consisting of the
baggage wagons and private carriages of the generals and
other officers filling the various departments of the army,
accompanied by their battle-flags, a heavy escort of cavalry,
a regiment of infantry, wagons belonging to the subsistence
department, and at this time a large number of rebel
prisoners marching under guard.
We moved along slowly over the hills, through the
Bristoe, where had recently been fought the battle which
gave to Meade, instead of Lee, the coveted heights of Centreville,
and to General Warren the laurels which have
designated him "Hero of Bristoe."
It is a desolate region, and, especially at this season of
the year, affording little to attract or satisfy the eye. Yet,
as we passed along, my attention was arrested by a little
scene, which forms a picture in memory never to be effaced.
Just off to the right, a short distance over the plain, was a
soldier's grave, newly made; and ranged along, side by
side, bowed on reversed muskets over the grave of their
comrade, were four soldiers, apparently engaged in prayer.
They had turned aside from the weary march, and there,
unmindful of the gay procession passing by, with heads
bowed low, and solemn countenances, gave a few moments
to communion with Heaven, and a few tears to the sleeper
below. Did they think, in those moments, of breaking
hearts, far away, yearning with vain desire to kneel by that
lonely grave? Were they recalling the many fearful engagements
in which they and the fallen hero had fought,
side by side, and crying out in their hearts, "Such is the
price we pay for human freedom; so much it costs to
secure to our children the blessings of a good government"?
Or were they anticipating other battles speedily approaching,
and wondering if they would be the next to fall, and
who would be left to pray over their graves? I know not
what were their thoughts; but these and many others
rushed upon my mind, and I, too, gave a tear to the solitary
grave. Yes, this was a solitary grave; but on many
them strewn, "thick as autumn leaves in Vallambrosa's
brooks." There sleep our brothers and our sons — the best
we had to give; the costliest sacrifice we could offer on the
altar of our country. Their last battle is fought, their last
march ended; their last bivouac is made. They sleep well,
in that deep slumber from which no bugle call, or sound of
any kind, shall awake them, until the loud reveille, which
shall "shake, not the earth only, but also heaven." But
who can number the tears that flow, or the hearts that
break with longing for the sight of those who shall return
no more? What eye, save that which comprehends immensity,
can measure a nation's grief, as, like the foot-worn
soldier, she bows over the graves of her fallen sons, and
from the depth of her anguish, cries out, "Such is the price
we pay for human freedom"?
On a Stretcher.
When our colonel's wife came to camp last winter, she
expected to have a good time of it. Our colonel had had
his quarters arranged in the best camp style. A nice plank
pavement all around, wherever she might choose to walk;
trees planted so thickly about the tent that you would think
you were entering a natural forest; a pretty archway, made
of green boughs, at the entrance, with the red badge of the
division in the centre, and everything about the premises
quite au fait. Within all was cosy and comfortable; the
walls splendidly illuminated with pictures from Harpers'
Weekly and Frank Leslie's Magazine; good board floor;
plenty of chairs and boxes, on which the colonel's numerous
upon the ever consuming, but never consumed secesh logs;
or, if of an inquisitive turn, look into the little inner sanctuary,
just big enough for a bed, and to turn around in.
So we were all glad when the colonel's wife came among us,
for the presence of a lady in camp is always welcome; and
though we cannot all have our wives to winter with us, the
sight of one seems to bring home nearer. Camp life is not
always destitute of amusements, and last winter everybody
said it was very gay. There were lots of balls and receptions,
and visiting from one camp to another, riding on
horseback or in ambulances, — for many other officers
besides our colonel had their wives with them; and,
although we were not within the charmed circle, we could
see, as we paced our beat, or stood on guard, or lingered
at the door of our hut, a good deal of what was going on.
We knew when our colonel's wife got her new riding-dress
and hat from Washington, and saw her when she first
mounted her horse for a ride, and often afterwards watched
the gay cavalcade, of which she was one, galloping over
the hills, and vowed that if ever "this cruel war is over,"
our nice little wife should have just such a riding-dress and
hat, and we would have a ride, if two horses were to be
found in the country. So the winter was nearly over, and
our colonel's wife had enjoyed her share of whatever amusement
the Army of the Potomac had to offer. But there
was one experience she little thought to encounter still in
reserve for her, and that was, being carried "on a stretcher."
It was brought about on this wise: she had taken several
rather hard rides on horseback, to which she was not much
horse; and being rather ambitious, and not willing to give
up when prudence might have dictated rest, she all at once,
and quite contrary to her plans, found herself on the sick
list. Being sick in camp is no joke, and least like one to
the lady in question; but pains in the back and head, and
sleepless nights and days, and constant nausea, are stubborn
facts, to which the stoutest heart must cry, "I surrender!"
So, with all the colonel's good nursing, and the doctor's
prescriptions, and visits from sympathizing friends, "she
was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse." And right
upon this, an order came for our division to move camp.
Military orders make no exceptions; and hard as it might
seem in this state of things, the cosy quarters must be
evacuated, and new ones sought in a camp three miles
distant. The lady's illness had reached a point where,
indeed, it might be said, "the spider's most attenuated
thread is cord, is cable, to the slender hold she had on life,"
and the slightest jar might snap the thread, and then all
would be over. Riding in an ambulance over the rough
roads and corduroy bridges was an experiment not in the
least desirable, and the only resort which camp afforded was
a stretcher. Our stretcher-bearers are sufficiently accustomed
to bearing wounded and dead men from the field,
or sick men to and from the hospital; but a lady on a
stretcher is something quite unique. Eight men, making
four reliefs, were detailed to accomplish the delicate task;
and with infinite care and tenderness, our colonel's wife
was laid on the ominous little vehicle, to commence her
new method of transportation. The colonel accompanied
in going ahead as pioneers, to select the smoothest places.
"Is that a dead man?" "O, that is a woman. Is she dead, or
what's the matter with her?" These questions being asked
by stragglers, in the hearing of the lady, were not much
calculated to raise her spirits and facilitate her convalescence.
The removal, however, was accomplished with much less
disadvantage than was feared; and now that she is restored
to health, she looks back upon it as rather a gay adventure,
and declares that she outdoes the colonel in military experience,
since he, in all his three years' term of service, has
never been carried on a stretcher.
Life in the Tented Field.
"They have gone — they have all passed by." Nothing
can be seen of them now but a long line of flashing bayonets,
passing close under the brow of yonder hill. First
went a few miles of cavalry (interspersed with batteries
of artillery), the rattling of whose sabres always announces
their approach before you hear the tramp of their horses.
If you happen to be near them as they pass, you will hear
them jesting in merry tones, or singing snatches of rollicking
songs. They go out ready to do and die; and, whatever
else happens, we may be pretty sure that the cavalry
will not disgrace us.
Next to them went their ambulances, painfully suggestive
of broken limbs, fearful sabre gashes, and bullet holes
through the lungs; worse things than those sometimes,
but we must not think of them now. Then their train of
two, and this is the last we see of the cavalry.
A few hours pass on, and looking far away, over the
hills, we see a long, dark line in motion; and experience
tells us that it is a body of infantry. As they come out of
the shadow of the hill, their bayonets begin to gleam, so
that now, in the sunshine, they look like a line of blazing
light, and come pouring on, officers riding at the head of
their various commands, colors and battle-flags waving on
the air, some of them pierced and torn in many places, but
borne all the more proudly, and guarded the more sacredly,
for that. Presently other columns, from other camps, and
winding around other hills, come on; but they are all
moving in one direction. Where they are going, or what
for, nobody knows at present. As they come nearer, you
see that many of them have attached to their knapsack
straps tin cups, frying pans, tin pails, coffee pots, and also
a loaf of bread on their bayonets. They seem in good
spirits, and, like the cavalry, are amusing themselves with
singing and joking.
"Glorious fellows!" exclaimed an officer of high rank, as
a part of his command was marching by. He was thinking
how gallantly they had behaved on many a hardly-contested
field, and how well he might rely on them to follow
wherever he should lead in future.
"Poor fellows!" said, in the same moment, a woman, in
sympathizing tones. She was thinking of fearful sights in
crowded hospitals, cruel wounds, amputated limbs, pale
faces, and brave, faithful hearts, worn out with excess of
anguish. So they pass along for many hours; and after
wagons, and lastly a drove of beeves, proportioned in numbers
to the rations they are to serve. Now, at last, they
are all gone. The camps are like deserted cities, for they
have left their huts and tents standing, hoping to come back
to them in a short time. A few soldiers, unfit for a march,
are walking around, or lying in their tents; here and there
you may see a smoke lazily ascending, but the atmosphere
is relieved of that dense body of smoke which usually
hangs over camp. The stillness is painful. We sit down
mournfully, and wonder where our friends are going, and
what is on the tapis now; for dear and noble souls have
gone out to-day, and many such we have seen go out to
return no more. In our hearts we pray for them, and then
look out to see what signs of the weather, and hope it will
not rain. At night we think of guerrillas. We know that
our picket line is thin, and that a treacherous and unscrupulous
foe is always going about like a roaring lion, seeking
what he may "gobble." Our sleep — if we get any — is
light, and often broken by anxiety. We dream of battlefields,
rebel cavalry, and journeys to Richmond. In the
morning we hear a distant cannonading; but our ears have
become accustomed to the sound, so that we are not startled
by it: it may be fighting, or it may be only shelling the
woods as they advance. We judge of its distance and
direction by the sound. Sometimes it seems to come from
the right, sometimes from the left, and sometimes from
both directions at once. It continues, at intervals, through
the day, though growing more distant. As the day wears
on, a messenger comes in from the front, and reports our
fighting yet, and are doing better than we anticipated. But
now a new cause of anxiety arises; for the weather, which
was fine when they marched out, is changing, and ominous
gusts of wind, and rain-bearing clouds, force themselves on
our observation. We try to think we are mistaken, and
look earnestly for patches of blue sky, and gleams of sunshine;
but they are not there. Soon a starless, dismal
night sets in, with drizzling rain. O, the pitiless storm!
What can our friends do, with no shelter but their blankets,
and no bed but the soft soil under them? The rain seems
to beat on our naked hearts, and we abandon ourselves to
fearful anxiety; for there is not only the exposure to the
weather, but the danger that, the ground being softened
into mud, their progress will be obstructed, and their plans
defeated, or that the enemy will gain advantage of them.
But all our fears, we know, cannot help them; so we strive
to commit them to the care of that Providence which rules
over all, and to hope for the best.
The next morning, going to the hospital, we observe a
new patient, and are pained to see that it is a case of
extreme suffering. The eyes are partly closed, an expression
of mortal anguish is on his face, and the symptoms
of dissolution already appear. "Whom have you here,
nurse?" "He is a man of our division, ma'am, who went
on the march, but fell out by the way, and they sent him
back in an ambulance. He was very bad when he came in,
and has been growing worse ever since."
The next day, the fourth since the march, is clear and
fine. Our friends return without fighting, and we learn
hospital is dead, and we join the little escort that follows
him to his long home, there on the hill-side, along with
many who went before, and whose graves are marked by
simple head-boards, bearing the inscription of their names
and regiments. His grave is prepared, and the brown
coffin lowered in. "I am the resurrection and the life" is
read over it, a prayer is said, a salute fired, and he adds
one more to the buried soldiers with whom the soil of
Virginia is so thickly strewn. Poor fellow! he was a
recruit, and this was his first and last march.
| MRS. CHARLOTTE E. McKAY. Women of the war : | |