University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
A POSTSCRIPT.

My Dear S.:—As inquiries like your own have come to
me from various friendly readers of the Sketches, I will
answer them en masse, and in printed form, as a sort of
postscript to what has gone before. One of these questions
was, “Are there no services by hospital death-beds, or on
Sundays?”

In most Hospitals I hope there are; in ours, the men died,
and were carried away, with as little ceremony as on a battlefield.
The first event of this kind which I witnessed was so
very brief, and bare of anything like reverence, sorrow, or
pious consolation, that I heartily agreed with the bluntly
expressed opinion of a Maine man lying next his comrade,
who died with no visible help near him, but a compassionate
woman and a tender hearted Irishman, who dropped upon his
knees, and told his beads, with Catholic fervor, for the good
of his Protestant brother's parting soul:

“If, after gettin' all the hard knocks, we are left to die

this way, with nothing but a Paddy's prayers to help us, I
guess Christians are rather scarce round Washington.”

I thought so too; but though Miss Blank, one of my
mates, auxious that souls should be ministered to, as well as
bodies, spoke more than once to the Chaplain, nothing ever
came of it. Unlike another Shepherd, whose earnest piety
weekly purified the Senate Chamber, this man did not feed as
well as fold his flock, nor make himself a human symbol of the
Divine Samaritan, who never passes by on the other side.

I have since learned that our non-commital Chaplain had
been a Professor, in some Southern College; and, though he
maintained that he had no secesh proclivities, I can testify
that he seceded from his ministerial duties, I may say, skedaddled;
for, being one of his own words, it is as appropriate
as inelegant. He read Emerson, quoted Carlyle, and tried to
be a Chaplain; but, judging from his success, I am afraid he
still hankered after the hominy pots of Rebeldom.

Occasionally, on a Sunday afternoon, such of the nurses,
officers, attendants, and patients as could avail themselves of
it, were gathered in the Ball Room, for an hour's service, of
which the singing was the better part. To me it seemed that
if ever strong, wise, and loving words were needed, it was
then; if ever mortal man had living texts before his eyes to
illustrate and illuminate his thought, it was there; and if ever
hearts were prompted to devoutest self-abnegation, it was in
the work which brought us to anything but a Chapel of Ease.
But some spiritual paralysis seemed to have befallen our
pastor; for, though many faces turned toward him, full of the
dumb hunger that often comes to men when suffering or danger
brings them nearer to the heart of things, they were offered
the chaff of divinity, and its wheat was left for less needy
gleaners, who knew where to look. Even the fine old Bible

stories, which may be made as lifelike as any history of our
day, by a vivid fancy and pictorial diction, were robbed of all
their charms by dry explanations and literal applications,
instead of being useful and pleasant lessons to those men,
whom weakness had rendered as docile as children in a father's
hands.

I watched the listless countenances all about me, while a
mild Daniel was moralizing in a den of utterly uninteresting
lions; while Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego were leisurely
passing through the fiery furnace, where, I sadly feared, some
of us sincerely wished they had remained as permanencies;
while the Temple of Solomon was laboriously erected, with
minute descriptions of the process, and any quantity of bells
and pomegranates on the raiment of the priests. Listless they
were at the beginning, and listless at the end; but the instant
some stirring old hymn was given out, sleepy eyes brightened,
lounging figures sat erect, and many a poor lad rose up in his
bed, or stretched an eager hand for the book, while all broke
out with a heartiness that proved that somewhere at the core
of even the most abandoned, there still glowed some remnant
of the native piety that flows in music from the heart of every
little child. Even the big rebel joined, and boomed away in
a thunderous bass, singing —

as energetically as if he felt the need of a speedy execution
of the command.

That was the pleasantest moment of the hour, for then it
seemed a homelike and happy spot; the groups of men looking
over one another's shoulders as they sang; the few silent
figures in the beds; here and there a woman noiselessly performing
some necessary duty, and singing as she worked;

while in the arm chair standing in the midst, I placed, for my
own satisfaction, the imaginary likeness of a certain faithful
pastor, who took all outcasts by the hand, smote the devil in
whatever guise he came, and comforted the indigent in spirit
with the best wisdom of a great and tender heart, which still
speaks to us from its Italian grave. With that addition, my
picture was complete; and I often longed to take a veritable
sketch of a Hospital Sunday, for, despite its drawbacks,
consisting of continued labor, the want of proper books, the
barren preaching that bore no fruit, this day was never like
the other six.

True to their home training, our New England boys did
their best to make it what it should be. With many, there
was much reading of Testaments, humming over of favorite
hymns, and looking at such books as I could cull from a
miscellaneous library. Some lay idle, slept, or gossiped; yet,
when I came to them for a quiet evening chat, they often
talked freely and well of themselves; would blunder out some
timid hope that their troubles might “do 'em good, and keep
'em stiddy;” would choke a little, as they said good night,
and turned their faces to the wall to think of mother, wife, or
home, these human ties seeming to be the most vital religion
which they yet knew. I observed that some of them did not
wear their caps on this day, though at other times they clung
to them like Quakers; wearing them in bed, putting them on
to read the paper, eat an apple, or write a letter, as if, like a
new sort of Samson, their strength lay, not in their hair, but in
their hats. Many read no novels, swore less, were more silent,
orderly, and cheerful, as if the Lord were an invisible Wardmaster,
who went his rounds but once a week, and must find
all things at their best. I liked all this in the poor, rough
boys, and could have found it in my heart to put down sponge

and tea-pot, and preach a little sermon then and there, while
homesickness and pain had made these natures soft, that some
good seed might be cast therein, to blossom and bear fruit
here or hereafter.

Regarding the admission of friends to nurse their sick, I
can only say, it was not allowed at Hurlyburly House; though
one indomitable parent took my ward by storm, and held her
position, in spite of doctors, matron, and Nurse Periwinkle.
Though it was against the rules, though the culprit was an
acid, frost bitten female, though the young man would have
done quite as well without her anxious fussiness, and the whole
room-full been much more comfortable, there was something so
irresistible in this persistent devotion, that no one had the
heart to oust her from her post. She slept on the floor, without
uttering a complaint; bore jokes somewhat of the rudest;
fared scantily, though her basket was daily filled with luxuries
for her boy; and tended that petulant personage with a never-failing
patience beautiful to see.

I feel a glow of moral rectitude in saying this of her; for,
though a perfect pelican to her young, she pecked and cackled
(I don't know that pelicans usually express their emotions in
that manner,) most obsteperously, when others invaded her
premises; and led me a weary life, with “George's tea-rusks,”
“George's foot-bath,” “George's measles,” and “George's
mother;” till, after a sharp passage of arms and tongues with
the matron, she wrathfully packed up her rusks, her son, and
herself, and departed, in an ambulance, scolding to the very
last.

This is the comic side of the matter. The serious one is
harder to describe; for the presence, however brief, of relations
and friends by the bedsides of the dead or dying, is
always a trial to the bystanders. They are not near enough

to know how best to comfort, yet too near to turn their backs
upon the sorrow that finds its only solace in listening to
recitals of last words, breathed into nurse's ears, or receiving
the tender legacies of love and longing bequeathed through
them.

To me, the saddest sight I saw in that sad place, was the
spectacle of a grey-haired father, sitting hour after hour by
his son, dying from the poison of his wound. The old father,
hale and hearty; the young son, past all help, though one
could scarcely believe it; for the subtle fever, burning his
strength away, flushed his cheeks with color, filled his eyes
with lustre, and lent a mournful mockery of health to face and
figure, making the poor lad comelier in death than in life.
His bed was not in my ward; but I was often in and out,
and, for a day or two, the pair were much together, saying
little, but looking much. The old man tried to busy himself
with book or pen, that his presence might not be a burden;
and once, when he sat writing, to the anxious mother at home,
doubtless, I saw the son's eyes fixed upon his face, with a look
of mingled resignation and regret, as if endeavoring to teach
himself to say cheerfully the long good bye. And again,
when the son slept, the father watched him, as he had himself
been watched; and though no feature of his grave countenance
changed, the rough hand, smoothing the lock of hair
upon the pillow, the bowed attitude of the grey head, were
more pathetic than the loudest lamentations. The son died;
and the father took home the pale relie of the life he gave,
offering a little money to the nurse, as the only visible return
it was in his power to make her; for, though very grateful,
he was poor. Of course, she did not take it, but found a
richer compensation in the old man's earnest declaration:

“My boy couldn't have been better cared for if he'd been at
home; and God will reward you for it, though I can't.”

My own experiences of this sort began when my first man
died. He had scarcely been removed, when his wife came in.
Her eye went straight to the well-known bed; it was empty;
and feeling, yet not believing the hard truth, she cried out,
with a look I never shall forget:

“Why, where's Emanuel?”

I had never seen her before, did not know her relationship
to the man whom I had only nursed for a day, and was about
to tell her he was gone, when McGee, the tender-hearted
Irishman before mentioned, brushed by me with a cheerful —
“It's shifted to a better bed he is, Mrs. Connel. Come out,
dear, till I show ye;” and, taking her gently by the arm, he
led her to the matron, who broke the heavy tidings to the
wife, and comforted the widow.

Another day, running up to my room for a breath of fresh
air and a five minutes' rest after a disagreeable task, I found
a stout young woman sitting on my bed, wearing the miserable
look which I had learned to know by that time. Seeing
her, reminded me that I had heard of some one's dying in the
night, and his sister's arriving in the morning. This must be
she, I thought. I pitied her with all my heart. What could
I say or do? Words always seem impertinent at such times;
I did not know the man; the woman was neither interesting
in herself nor graceful in her grief; yet, having known a
sister's sorrow myself, I could not leave her alone with her
trouble in that strange place, without a word. So, feeling
heart-sick, home-sick, and not knowing what else to do, I just
put my arms about her, and began to cry in a very helpless
but hearty way; for, as I seldom indulge in this moist luxury,
I like to enjoy it with all my might, when I do.

It so happened I could not have done a better thing; for,
though not a word was spoken, each felt the other's sympathy;
and, in the silence, our handkerchiefs were more eloquent
than words. She soon sobbed herself quiet; and, leaving her
on my bed, I went back to work, feeling much refreshed by
the shower, though I'd forgotten to rest, and had washed my
face instead of my hands. I mention this successful experiment
as a receipt proved and approved, for the use of any
nurse who may find herself called upon to minister to these
wounds of the heart. They will find it more efficacious than
cups of tea, smelling-bottles, psalms, or sermons; for a friendly
touch and a companionable cry, unite the consolations of all
the rest for womankind; and, if genuine, will be found a
sovereign cure for the first sharp pang so many suffer in these
heavy times.

I am gratified to find that my little Sergeant has found
favor in several quarters, and gladly respond to sundry calls
for news of him, though my personal knowledge ended five
months ago. Next to my good John — I hope the grass is
green above him, far away there in Virginia! — I placed the
Sergeant on my list of worthy boys; and many a jovial chat
have I enjoyed with the merry-hearted lad, who had a fancy
for fun, when his poor arm was dressed. While Dr. P. poked
and strapped, I brushed the remains of the Sergeant's brown
mane — shorn sorely against his will — and gossiped with all
my might, the boy making odd faces, exclamations, and
appeals, when nerves got the better of nonsense, as they
sometimes did:

“I'd rather laugh than cry, when I must sing out anyhow,
so just say that bit from Dickens again, please, and I'll stand
it like a man.” He did; for “Mrs. Cluppins,” “Chadband,”
and “Sam Weller,” always helped him through;

thereby causing me to lay another offering of love and admiration
on the shrine of the god of my idolatry, though he does
wear too much jewelry and talk slang.

The Sergeant also originated, I believe, the fashion of calling
his neighbors by their afflictions instead of their names; and I
was rather taken aback by hearing them bandy remarks of
this sort, with perfect good humor and much enjoyment of the
new game.

“Hallo, old Fits is off again!” “How are you, Rheumatiz?”
“Will you trade apples, Ribs?” “I say, Miss P.,
may I give Typus a drink of this?” “Look here, No Toes,
lend us a stamp, there's a good feller,” etc. He himself was
christened “Baby B.,” because he tended his arm on a little
pillow, and called it his infant.

Very fussy about his grub was Sergeant B., and much
trotting of attendants was necessary when he partook of nourishment.
Anything more irresistably wheedlesome I never
saw, and constantly found myself indulging him, like the most
weak-minded parent, merely for the pleasure of seeing his
brown eyes twinkle, his merry mouth break into a smile, and
his one hand execute a jaunty little salute that was entirely
captivating. I am afraid that Nurse P. damaged her dignity,
frolicking with this persuasive young gentleman, though done
for his well-being. But “boys will be boys,” is perfectly
applicable to the case; for, in spite of years, sex, and the
“prunes-and-prisms” doctrine laid down for our use, I have
a fellow feeling for lads, and always owed Fate a grudge
because I wasn't a lord of creation instead of a lady.

Since I left, I have heard, from a reliable source, that my
Sergeant has gone home; therefore, the small romance that
budded the first day I saw him, has blossomed into its second
chapter; and I now imagine “dearest Jane” filling my place,

tending the wounds I tended, brushing the curly jungle I
brushed, loving the excellent little youth I loved, and eventually
walking altarward, with the Sergeant stumping gallantly
at her side. If she doesn't do all this, and no end more, I'll
never forgive her; and sincerely pray to the guardian saint
of lovers, that “Baby B.” may prosper in his wooing, and
his name be long in the land.

One of the lively episodes of hospital life, is the frequent
marching away of such as are well enough to rejoin their
regiments, or betake themselves to some convalescent camp.
The ward master comes to the door of each room that is to be
thinned, reads off a list of names, bids their owners look
sharp and be ready when called for; and, as he vanishes, the
rooms fall into an indescribable state of topsy-turvyness, as
the boys begin to black their boots, brighten spurs, if they
have them, overhaul knapsacks, make presents; are fitted out
with needfuls, and — well, why not? — kissed sometimes, as
they say, good by; for in all human probability we shall
never meet again, and a woman's heart yearns over anything
that has clung to her for help and comfort. I never liked
these breakings-up of my little household; though my short
stay showed me but three. I was immensely gratified by the
hand shakes I got, for their somewhat painful cordiality assured
me that I had not tried in vain. The big Prussian rumbled
out his unintelligible adieux, with a grateful face and a
premonitory smooth of his yellow moustache, but got no
farther, for some ene else stepped up, with a large brown hand
extended, and this recommendation of our very faulty establishment:

“We're off, ma'am, and I'm powerful sorry, for I'd no idea
a 'orspittle was such a jolly place. Hope I'll git another ball

somewheres easy, so I'll come back, and be took care on
again. Mean, ain't it?”

I didn't think so, but the doctrine of inglorious ease was
not the the right one to preach up, so I tried to look shocked,
failed signally, and consoled myself by giving him the fat
pincushion he had admired as the “cutest little machine
agoin.” Then they fell into line in front of the house, looking
rather wan and feeble some of them, but trying to step out
smartly and march in good order, though half the knapsacks
were carried by the guard, and several leaned on sticks instead
of shouldering guns. All looked up and smiled, or waved
heir hands and touched their caps, as they passed under our
windows down the long street, and so away, some to their
homes in this world, and some to that in the next; and, for
the rest of the day, I felt like Rachel mourning for her
children, when I saw the empty beds and missed the familiar
faces.

You ask if nurses are obliged to witness amputations and
such matters, as a part of their duty? I think not, unless
they wish; for the patient is under the effects of ether, and
needs no care but such as the surgeons can best give. Our
work begins afterward, when the poor soul comes to himself,
sick, faint, and wandering; full of strange pains and confused
visions, of disagreeable sensations and sights. Then we must
sooth and sustain, tend and watch; preaching and practicing
patience, till sleep and time have restored courage and selfcontrol.

I witnessed several operations; for the height of my ambition
was to go to the front after a battle, and feeling that the sooner
I inured myself to trying sights, the more useful I should be.
Several of my mates shrunk from such things; for though the

spirit was wholly willing, the flesh was inconveniently weak.
One funereal lady came to try her powers as a nurse; but, a
brief conversation eliciting the facts that she fainted at the
sight of blood, was afraid to watch alone, couldn't possibly
take care of delirious persons, was nervous about infections,
and unable to bear much fatigue, she was mildly dismissed.
I hope she found her sphere, but fancy a comfortable bandbox
on a high shelf would best meet the requirements of her case.

Dr. Z. suggested that I should witness a dissection; but I
never accepted his invitations, thinking that my nerves belonged
to the living, not to the dead, and I had better finish my education
as a nurse before I began that of a surgeon. But I
never met the little man skipping through the hall, with oddly
shaped cases in his hand, and an absorbed expression of countenance,
without being sure that a select party of surgeons
were at work in the dead house, which idea was a rather trying
one, when I knew the subject was some person whom I had
nursed and cared for.

But this must not lead any one to suppose that the surgeons
were willfully hard or cruel, though one of them remorsefully
confided to me that he feared his profession blunted his sensibilities,
and, perhaps, rendered him indifferent to the sight of
pain.

I am inclined to think that in some cases it does; for, though
a capital surgeon and a kindly man, Dr. P., through long
acquaintance with many of the ills flesh is heir to, had acquired
a somewhat trying habit of regarding a man and his wound as
separate institutions, and seemed rather annoyed that the
former should express any opinion upon the latter, or claim
any right in it, while under his care. He had a way of
twitching off a bandage, and giving a limb a comprehensive
sort of clutch, which, though no doubt entirely scientific, was

rather startling than soothing, and highly objectionable as a
means of preparing nerves for any fresh trial. He also
expected the patient to assist in small operations, as he considered
them, and to restrain all demonstrations during the
process.

“Here, my man, just hold it this way, while I look into it
a bit,” he said one day to Fitz G., putting a wounded arm
into the keeping of a sound one, and proceeding to poke
about among bits of bone and visible muscles, in a red and
black chasm made by some infernal machine of the shot or
shell description. Poor Fitz held on like grim Death, ashamed
to show fear before a woman, till it grew more than he could
bear in silence; and, after a few smothered groans, he looked
at me imploringly, as if he said, “I wouldn't, ma'am, if I
could help it,” and fainted quietly away.

Dr. P. looked up, gave a compassionate sort of cluck, and
poked away more busily than ever, with a nod at me and a
brief — “Never mind; be so good as to hold this till I finish.”

I obeyed, cherishing the while a strong desire to insinuate a
few of his own disagreeable knives and scissors into him, and
see how he liked it. A very disrespectful and ridiculous
faney, of course; for he was doing all that could be done,
and the arm prospered finely in his hands. But the human
mind is prone to prejudice; and, though a personable man,
speaking French like a born “Parley voo,” and whipping off
legs like an animated guillotine, I must confess to a sense of
relief when he was ordered elsewhere; and suspect that several
of the men would have faced a rebel battery with less trepidation
than they did Dr. P., when he came briskly in on his
morning round.

As if to give us the pleasures of contrast, Dr. Z. succeeded
him, who, I think, suffered more in giving pain than did his

patients in enduring it; for he often paused to ask: “Do I
hurt you?” and, seeing his solicitude, the boys invariably
answered: “Not much; go ahead, Doctor,” though the lips
that uttered this amiable fib might be white with pain as they
spoke. Over the dressing of some of the wounds, we used
to carry on conversations upon subjects foreign to the work in
hand, that the patient might forget himself in the eharms of
our discourse. Christmas eve was spent in this way; the
Doctor strapping the little Sergeant's arm, I holding the lamp,
while all three laughed and talked, as if anywhere but in a
hospital ward; except when the chat was broken by a long-drawn
“Oh!” from “Baby B.,” an abrupt request from the
Doctor to “Hold the lamp a little higher, please,” or an
encouraging, “Most through, Sergeant,” from Nurse P.

The chief Surgeon, Dr. O., I was told, refused the higher
salary, greater honor, and less labor, of an appointment to
the Officer's Hospital, round the corner, that he might serve
the poor fellows at Hurlyburly House, or go to the front,
working there day and night, among the horrors that succeed
the glories of a battle. I liked that so much, that the quiet,
brown-eyed Doctor was my especial admiration; and when my
own turn came, had more faith in him than in all the rest
put together, although he did advise me to go home, and
authorize the consumption of blue pills.

Speaking of the surgeons reminds me that, having found all
manner of fault, it becomes me to celebrate the redeeming
feature of Hurlyburly House. I had been prepared by the
accounts of others, to expect much humiliation of spirit from
the surgeons, and to be treated by them like a door-mat, a
worm, or any other meek and lowly article, whose mission it
is to be put down and walked upon; nurses being considered
as mere servants, receiving the lowest pay, and, it's my private

opinion, doing the hardest work of any part of the army,
except the mules. Great, therefore, was my surprise, when I
found myself treated with the utmost courtesy and kindness.
Very soon my carefully prepared meekness was laid upon the
shelf; and, going from one extreme to the other, I more than
once expressed a difference of opinion regarding sundry messes
it was my painful duty to administer.

As eight of us nurses chanced to be off duty at once, we
had an excellent opportunity of trying the virtues of these
gentlemen; and I am bound to say they stood the test admirably,
as far as my personal observation went. Dr. O.'s
stethescope was unremitting in its attentions; Dr. S. brought
his buttons into my room twice a day, with the regularity of a
medical clock; while Dr. Z. filled my table with neat little
bottles, which I never emptied, prescribed Browning, bedewed
me with Cologne, and kept my fire going, as if, like the candles
in St. Peter's, it must never be permitted to die out. Waking,
one cold night, with the certainty that my last spark had pined
away and died, and consequently hours of coughing were in
store for me, I was much amazed to see a ruddy light dancing
on the wall, a jolly blaze roaring up the chimney, and, down
upon his knees before it, Dr. Z., whittling shavings. I ought
to have risen up and thanked him on the spot; but, knowing
that he was one of those who like to do good by stealth, I
only peeped at him as if he were a friendly ghost; till, having
made things as cozy as the most motherly of nurses could
have done, he crept away, leaving me to feel, as somebody
says, “as if angels were a watching of me in my sleep;”
though that species of wild fowl do not usually descend in
broadcloth and glasses. I afterwards discovered that he split
the wood himself on that cool January midnight, and went
about making or mending fires for the poor old ladies in their

dismal dens; thus causing himself to be felt—a bright and
shining light in more ways than one. I never thanked him
as I ought; therefore, I publicly make a note of it, and further
aggravate that modest M. D. by saying that if this was not
being the best of doctors and the gentlest of gentlemen, I shall
be happy to see any improvement upon it.

To such as wish to know where these scenes took place, I
must respectfully decline to answer; for Hurly-burly House
has ceased to exist as a hospital; so let it rest, with all its
sins upon its head,—perhaps I should say chimney top.
When the nurses felt ill, the doctors departed, and the patients
got well, I believe the concern gently faded from existence, or
was merged into some other and better establishment, where I
hope the washing of three hundred sick people is done out of
the house, the food is eatable, and mortal women are not
expected to possess an angelic exemption from all wants, and
the endurance of truck horses.

Since the appearance of these hasty Sketches, I have heard
from several of my comrades at the Hospital; and their
approval assures me that I have not let sympathy and fancy
run away with me, as that lively team is apt to do when
harnessed to a pen. As no two persons see the same thing
with the same eyes, my view of hospital life must be taken
through my glass, and held for what it is worth. Certainly,
nothing was set down in malice, and to the serious-minded
party who objected to a tone of levity in some portions of the
Sketches, I can only say that it is a part of my religion to
look well after the cheerfulnesses of life, and let the dismals
shift for themselves; believing, with good Sir Thomas More,
that it is wise to “be merrie in God.”

The next hospital I enter will, I hope, be one for the
colored regiments, as they seem to be proving their right to

the admiration and kind offices of their white relations, who
owe them so large a debt, a little part of which I shall be so
proud to pay.