Part 2

In the autumn of 1863 I received a telegram that my husband was very ill with pneumonia, in camp near Culpeper, Va. Major-General Meade happened to be in Philadelphia at the time, and I took the telegram to him and begged him to give me a pass to visit the army at once. There existed at that time a positive order against ladies going to the front, but General Meade, whom I had known intimately for many years, made an exception in my case, and with his autograph passport I started at once, leaving my baby to the tender care of devoted friends (the Misses C----), whose kindness in this emergency I shall never forget. But my troubles only commenced when I reached Alexandria. Such a place as it was there--a perfect Bedlam; all confusion; no hotel (the one where Col. Ellsworth had been shot being then used as a hospital or storehouse); the muddy streets thronged with lazy negroes and affrighted cattle; wounded soldiers staring with amazement at the young woman in civilized attire who seemed to have dropped among them from the clouds, I suppose; and drunken recruits and conscripts singing ribald songs. But for the ever-present call of duty which impelled me to go to the bedside of my suffering husband, I would have turned back, as Gen. Meade told me I would; but my eyes and my heart were looking southerly, and to the south I was determined to go at any risk. My life has not been without adventure: I have crossed the Atlantic a dozen times; have been in a collision in mid-ocean, and will carry to my grave the recollection of the agonizing cries of the drowning victims; have stood upon the crater of Vesuvius during an eruption; have lived in a railroad construction camp on the Rocky Mountains, with its ruffians, its gamblers, and its Chinamen; have made an ascent in a balloon; have seen a Cinnamon bear shot within fifty yards of me; have for nights slept upon the bare floor of an isolated log-hut amidst the geysers of the Yellowstone; have had a volley of rifle-balls whistle around my ears; yet never in my experience did my heart throb as nervously as when I stood alone in the streets of Alexandria waiting to be lifted into a cattle-train which was soon to start for the army at Brandy Station, near Culpeper. The officers who had charge of the train remonstrated with me, and endeavored to detain me with the promise that, if I waited an hour or so, I should have a special car. Little did they know the woman they were dealing with. I was even then very decisive and quite skeptical, traits which were not so well developed as they are to-day. In the first place, I knew the necessity for my immediate presence in camp, and, in the second, I didn’t believe a word in their promise that I would be any better off by waiting. So, armed with Gen. Meade’s pass and a determined and perhaps petulant will, I was lifted into a dirty cattle-car, and sat, not on a lounge, but on the head of a barrel amidst the soldiers, who were drinking, smoking, and singing. They were not in any way rude, but their guns were all loaded and while they slept and snored at my feet, I feared a sudden movement would set off a gun, and that of course _I_ would be the victim. I didn’t sleep a wink; the night was very cold but I was warmly wrapped up and cared less for my discomfort than I did for the snail’s pace at which we were travelling. It was the gray of the dawn when we reached Brandy Station, where a staff-officer with an ambulance met me and took me a long ride to the house of Mr. Yancey, where I found my husband in a comfortable room, being well cared for. For the second time in twelve months I became an army nurse, but it took all my skill and watching to counteract the blunders of the so-called army surgeons. The day after my arrival one of these incompetents blistered his patient’s chest until it was raw, and then made a plaster of cold cream, which he carried in the open air from his tent to the sick chamber, a distance of several hundred yards, on a freezing cold night, and clapped it on the patient’s burning and lacerated flesh. It must have been like the shock of an electric battery, for the air was instantly blue with language which never before or since have I heard pass my husband’s lips, and he himself was in the middle of the floor, sick as he was, hurling the plaster into the doctor’s face. What part I took in the scene it becomes me better to leave to the imagination of those who know me, than to set down in print. Let it suffice that his services were dispensed with, and General French sent us the medical director of the corps, who soon had his patient fit for duty, and I returned to Philadelphia. Yancey, by the by, was an awful rebel. He prided himself that he had never been to Washington or Richmond and had barely heard of New York and Philadelphia. “I’ve allas lived right ’round Culpeppa Sah” was his daily boast, and his only religion seemed to be a hatred for the Yankees. It was therefore very unfortunate that, upon the execution of the order that all persons within the lines of the army should be vaccinated, some impure vaccine matter, by an unforeseen accident, found its way into Yancey’s blood, or else that he caught cold, for he had a terrible arm and was laid up for weeks, thoroughly convinced that he had been purposely poisoned; and if he is living to-day I don’t doubt that he often tells the story of the Yankee effort to take his life.

[Illustration: CAMP OF 114TH PENNA. VOLS. (COLLIS ZOUAVES) NEAR CULPEPER, VA., 1863-4.]

I next joined the army on January 1, 1864. It was still at Brandy Station, but instead of Yancey’s house I found awaiting my arrival the most picturesque home I have ever lived in; it will ever be remembered as one of the brightest surprises of my life. Imagine two ordinary army tents, set close together, one of them for a parlor and dining-room, the other for a bedroom; both having chimneys of mud and stone, presenting fine open fireplaces with _real_ mantel-pieces on the inside; the bedstead was of plain pine timber, and the bedding delicious, sweet, clean straw sewed up in sacks, the whole covered with a layer of several brown woollen army blankets; there were, of course, no pillows or pillow-cases, a couple of saddles answered for the one, and I presume imagination had to do service for the other; yet we were supremely happy. I was a soldier, and these were war times, and I prided myself that I could dispense with luxuries and yet be comfortable. [There is no woman who can, better than I, enjoy beautiful surroundings, and who absolutely craves all the exquisite _luxe_ that is obtainable, or can sleep more deliciously under the light, warm, silken eider-down, but it is a great satisfaction that these war experiences have fitted me to climb a mountain, sleep upon a bare floor, or ride twenty miles in a rain storm, and overcome situations which, without them, I never would have surmounted.] But it was bitterly cold sometimes that winter in these canvas houses, and I did not dare leave my bed in the mornings until our man, who was maid-of-all-work, built a great big log fire and literally drove us out of bed with the heat. And, oh! what a grandiose parlor did I step into for breakfast the first morning I was there, with its works of art cut from the illustrated newspapers of the day, framed with strips of red flannel, while on my mantel were spread varieties of bonbons imported expressly from Washington to celebrate my arrival. Our table service was of pure tin, washed and burnished with sand and water after every meal, and because our spoons were of the same material our soup was not a jot the less savory; as we seldom indulged in French peas our two-pronged forks answered every purpose, and as I occasionally managed to borrow a table-cloth and sometimes a napkin from our neighbor Yancey, our little _tête-à-tête_ dinners were quite _recherché_, considering the surroundings. But my habitation was a gem, worthy a place in any collection of “Happy Homes.” When, however, my baby daughter and her nurse joined me I gave up my “open-air” life and returned to the Yancey mansion, where I remained until General Grant, fresh from his marvellous victories in the West, came among us and made preparations for his advance to Richmond.

During this winter the different head-quarters were very gay, and we wives who were so fortunate as to be with our husbands, instead of spending our time alone and anxious at home, had plenty of enjoyment. Of course, the officers were constantly inventing new schemes of _divertissement_. What with dinners, balls, reviews, races, and cavalcades, we had few idle moments. I was an excellent and fearless rider, owning my own saddle and _borrowing_ my mount. It was no uncommon thing for me to ride from our camp to the head-quarters of General Meade, a distance of twenty miles, and return home to dinner in the evening; and more than once I came to grief, always, of course, through the fault of my horse and not of his rider (?). I pleasantly remember one or two visits to Hon. John Minor Botts and his family, whose residence was within our camp.

[Illustration: AN OFFICERS’ MESS, COOK, AND CHAMBERMAID--COLLIS ZOUAVES, 1863-4.]

It was during this winter that the Fifth Corps, commanded by Major-General Warren, gave a magnificent ball, quite unique as to decorations, etc. The ballroom consisted of several hospital tents, and the banquet hall of another. These were all smoothly floored; there were several bands, so that the music was continuous; highly polished rifles in ornamental groups; bright brass cannon, lots of drums, and a sea of bunting; the whole illuminated with clusters of wax candles and Chinese lanterns. The handsome uniforms of the officers, to say nothing of their handsome faces and figures; the clashing of their sabres, the jingle of their spurs, and the universal expression upon every face and in every gesture to “be merry while we may,” made it a scene of enchantment which was to me so novel and so suited to my years and my tastes that I consider it a great privilege to have been a part of it.

Of course I received a great deal of attention. I expected it, and I was not disappointed, and I confess that during those exhilarating hours I don’t believe a thought ever entered my mind that many of these splendid fellows were dancing their last waltz, and I am very sure such gloomy forebodings never entered theirs; no, it was

“A very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and _unthinking_ time.”

Indeed, it was “unthinking.” Well do I remember expressing my sympathy to a very distinguished cavalry general for the loss of his only son; to which the gallant sabreur responded: “Yes, madame, very sad! very sad! he was the last of his race! Do you waltz?” and away he went to the exhilarating music of a dashing galop, leaving all melancholy far behind him. The very superb supper and the waiters, I remember, came from Washington, and an express-train brought an immense number of fashionable people from the North. The costumes of the women were superb, quite as elegant and elaborate as displayed at any similar entertainment in city life. The beautiful Miss Kate Chase was the acknowledged belle of the occasion. The ball did not break up until near morning, and then we poor, tired women, in all our finery, were distributed to our respective tented homes in ambulances and army wagons, and as we meandered through the little canvas villages, with their smouldering fires and “fixed sentinels,” the serious aspect of the epoch chased away the merry memory of mirth.

The winter of 1864-5 I passed at City Point, Va., the head-quarters of General Grant. At first we lived in tents, but later, when my husband became commander of the post, I lived most comfortably in a house. These were the months immediately preceding the close of the war, and were the most interesting, full of excitement and stirring events. I had my little daughter with me, and we occupied a very cosy farm-house, where for the first time in my army life I had female servants, one of whom was an old colored woman I found on the premises, and she did most excellent service as cook and maid-of-all-work. In real Southern style we called her “Aunty” Miranda. Being a particularly crisp, dry winter, I was constantly in the saddle, galloping to the different head-quarters, and stopping on the way now and then to visit Generals Meade, Burnside, Hancock, and other conspicuous men of that day, all of whom I knew well, but, alas! nothing of whom now remains but their fame. The army was then lying in the trenches around Petersburg. General Meade’s camp was beautifully situated some miles from City Point upon a knoll which had once been a pine grove, but the timber had been cut down and up for firewood, leaving nothing but a barren array of tents. Upon his staff were the hard-working Seth Williams; General Hunt, who I saw recently at Gettysburg, very little changed in appearance, and not at all changed in genial manner and urbanity, yet who has since joined his departed comrades; Colonel Biddle, of Philadelphia, ever in good spirits; the gallant Captain Cadwalader, of the same city, and young George Meade then a mere lad. General Burnside was encamped in quite a picturesque ever-green enclosure, and was surrounded by a staff carefully selected from the choicest of Rhode-Island’s sons, all of whom had distinguished themselves on many hard-fought fields; and the superb Hancock, still suffering occasionally from his Gettysburg wound, had possession of a farm-house, where, from what I could see, he was well cared for by two young Philadelphians, Bingham and Parker, of his staff. When my husband’s duties prevented his accompanying me I frequently took these long rides with an orderly, well mounted and armed, and more than once lost my way and got outside the lines. In those days, however, I had no fear, for I had a notion that if captured, being a Southern woman, I would have found myself among friends. On one particular road I was several times stopped by a Union picket, who demanded the countersign, which I, of course, did not possess, but I paid little heed to the demand, excepting to make some laughing remark to the effect that “I commanded a brigade,” or was “Commander of the Post,” and always dashed on. My orderly, however (David Smith, of the 114th Pennsylvania Volunteers), took alarm and admonished me that I was running the risk of being shot by some stupid sentinel, who might take me for a female spy, and as he peached on me also to my commanding officer, I got a gentle reprimand, which compelled me to abandon my favorite turnpike in the future. Our _cuisine_ at City Point was superb. Being the rendezvous of the sutlers and caterers of the army, we naturally had the best the Northern markets could supply, and, of course, an abundance of turtle, fish, and oysters from the James River. Mr. Maltby, now the proprietor of the Lafayette Hotel in Philadelphia, was enterprising enough to erect a hotel, which was well kept and well patronized, and the camp was full of restaurants and oyster-houses, but the selling of intoxicating beverages was under such strict surveillance that there was rarely a case of drunkenness, and when there was, the punishment of one night in the “bull pen,” presided over by Captain Savage, was worse than a month in a house of correction.

[Illustration: GENL. GEORGE G. MEADE, COMMANDING ARMY OF THE POTOMAC. TAKEN IN THE FIELD, 1863-4.]

Speaking of the “bull pen,” that was a horrid place. Originally the “precincts of the jail” had been confined to the four walls of a church, but as the number of prisoners increased, it became necessary to make a large enclosure with a high board fence, but with only the sky (and frequently a very damp sky) for a roof. In this pigpen, _I_ call it, in rain and snow and frost I have seen hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men huddled together without a particle of shelter or protection from the elements--perhaps there was no help for it,--at all events its horror and its odor sicken me to think of, even a quarter of a century later, and as I don’t like to write about it I will turn to something pleasanter.

Returning one evening, just at dusk, from one of our long horseback rides, Mr. Collis and myself were both very hungry, and a life among soldiers having made me somewhat indifferent to conventionalities, I threw a dozen James-River oysters on the embers of my wood fire, and threw myself on the floor; got Aunty Miranda to furnish us with butter, pepper, and salt; rolled up the sleeves of my riding habit, and was in the act of devouring, while my husband in similar pose, was in the act of opening, the succulent bivalves when I heard a knock at the door, and in response to my “come in,” who _should_ come in but General and Mrs. Grant, just to make a social call. Consternation is hardly the word to express it. Just to think of it! this was the first time in my grown-up life that I had ever eaten a meal in that position (picnics excepted), and why on earth should General and Mrs. Grant come just at that moment. How I got up and what I did with the oysters I do not know and never shall, but I _do_ know that our guests enjoyed the situation heartily, and were good enough to say they envied us, and when we apologized for the tin teapot and pewter spoons which adorned the table for our evening meal, the General said that we were just as well off as he was, which we later found to be the fact when we visited his famous log-cabin (now in Fairmount Park), though before the winter closed we got to be quite luxurious with our white china plates, table-cloths, and even napkins on swell occasions.

My husband was this winter kept busy every day as President of a court-martial which was trying spies and deserters, the latter being in those days, I remember, called “bounty-jumpers,” that is, they made it a business to enlist in the North, receive the heavy bounties--which, if I remember rightly, at that time amounted to upwards of a thousand dollars,--and then, when they came to the army, they deserted to the enemy, changed their clothing, and came back as rebels, were sent North, again escaped, reënlisted and received another bounty, and so on. It was a regular business, and General Grant became so incensed when he discovered it that he determined to end it. As the result of the trials the leaders were all shot, and the others sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, and I believe the demoralization ceased. Still it was terrible to see these poor wretches day after day manacled with ball-and-chain, going in and out of the court-room; my heart bled for them, it is true, yet I was told that the safety of the army depended upon their summary punishment. There were some executions by hanging, also, that winter, for crimes of a more heinous character, in several instances of negro teamsters, and although, in my many rides, I tried to avoid the sight of the gallows, they _would_ occasionally loom up. After each execution they were kept standing, I suppose, as a warning to other malefactors. Among the deserters who were tried were many young foreigners who could not speak a word of English, but as they were merely the tools of the leaders, who robbed them of their bounties, they were more leniently dealt with.

One of the incidents of this winter was a visit I made to Dutch-Gap Canal, which was nearly completed; and while looking across the river at the enemy, our party was vigorously fired at by the Southern artillery, forcing us (there were one or two other ladies in the party) to huddle ourselves with the soldiers in a bomb-proof until the firing ceased. We then scampered at a lively gait for our horses, and were out of reach as fast as their hoofs would carry us. I was quite used, however, to artillery-firing by this time, though I had never until then been in any danger. Frequently, when I heard cannonading, I rode out beyond the Avery House to an eminence overlooking the town of Petersburg, and within perhaps two miles of it, and for hours watched the “bombs bursting in air,” and saw wagon-loads of earth literally ploughed up by cannon-balls. Upon another momentous occasion, all the ladies in camp were peremptorily ordered on board a steamboat, which immediately steamed down the river out of harm’s way, among the number being Mrs. Grant herself. A rebel gunboat or ram, or something of the kind, had forced its way down the river, and was throwing shells right and left at a great rate, creating much alarm. The firing lasted all day, and when we returned we found that General Grant’s head-quarters, on the bank of the river, had been turned into a fortress, and was mounted with heavy guns. It appeared that one of our monitors had retreated upon the approach of the enemy’s vessel, and I have often heard my husband relate that he had never seen General Grant lose his temper excepting upon that occasion, when he soundly berated the naval officer for not blowing up his ship or scuttling her in the channel in preference to endangering the lives and valuable stores at City Point.

In the midst of these stirring events a terrible anxiety overcame me--my child commenced ailing, and her disease rapidly developed into scarlet-fever. What, however, with the skilful treatment of Dr. Dalton, of Boston, then a medical director in the army, and of an excellent army nurse, in a few weeks she was out of danger, but remained in delicate health until I returned to Philadelphia. I mention this circumstance because it prolonged my stay in the army long after all other ladies had departed for home, hence my unexpected experiences at the renewal of hostilities in the spring of 1865.

[Illustration: GENL. GRANT AND STAFF--CITY POINT, 1864-5. TAKEN IN THE FIELD.]