Part 11
Among the gallant Union officers who distinguished themselves for wisdom and bravery was Captain Walke, commander of the _Carondelet_. I knew him personally as a benevolent Christian gentleman. No one who knew him doubted his profession of faith in the Divine Redeemer.
While his gunboat was lying at Cairo, just before the battle of Fort Donelson, he came into the church one Sabbath morning and quietly took a seat. The minister who was expected disappointed the audience.
As soon as that was made known, Captain Walke arose and went into the pulpit, opened the Bible, and saying, “Let us worship God,” read the One Hundred and Third Psalm. Closing the book, he talked most impressively of our duty to God and to man, and of the boundless, measureless love of Christ, and, offering an earnest prayer, dismissed the congregation with the long-metre doxology.
The people, who had been held with almost breathless interest by the eloquent, forceful words of the stranger, began to ask, “Who is he?” And great was their surprise when they learned that the man who filled the pulpit that day was Captain Walke, commander of the _Carondelet_, an iron-clad that with bristling cannon was lying at anchor near the town.
It was at Cairo that I first met Captain Walke. As he was often at the chief ports where the army was protected by gunboats, I had the privilege of meeting him occasionally.
Two days before the running of the blockade at Vicksburg, a little company of us went over from the Sanitary boat to bid Captain Walke godspeed and farewell.
He had just completed the task of pouring two barrels of coal-oil over his gunboat, and whitewashing the lower deck, where the guns were to be loaded by the light of the whitewash.
The oil was to prevent solid shot from adhering; striking a smooth oiled surface they would be more likely to fly off on a tangent, he explained by way of apology, as the gangway was reached, and the dresses of the ladies were besmeared with coal-oil. The sides of the _Carondelet_ were more than three feet thick, and consisted of alternate layers of wood and iron.
In answer to the question,--
“Is not the eve of a battle a season of great anxiety?” he said,--
“No; the time of anxiety with me is when I am putting the ship in order. When I have done all that I can do, then I can serenely trust in God.”
In the course of the conversation, he said that the most beautiful sight he had ever seen was the bursting of shells against the side of his ship, sending out volumes of fire, and scintillations of light like a cloud of glory.
Our godspeeds and good wishes were earnest and heartfelt. We all felt that it might be a last farewell.
He went through the fiery channel in safety, but I never saw his face again.
His death occurred not a great while thereafter.
A grand, true Christian gentleman, and a brave soldier, was Captain Walke.
HOSPITAL ABUSES--PUTTING LOGWOOD IN THE COFFEE.
There was a very large hospital at Madison, Ind., which was very much crowded in 1864-1865 with the sick and wounded. I established a special-diet kitchen there for the preparation of food for the very sick and the severely wounded, and placed one of my lady helpers in charge. She had scarcely assumed the supervision of the cookery till she began complaining of the quality of the food, especially of the coffee. As she put it: “There is nothing in this hospital fit for a well man to eat, much less these sick and wounded and dying men.”
I was in Washington at the time; but I telegraphed to Miss Louisa Vance, one of the shrewdest and most careful workers of the Christian Commission, to report at the hospital at Madison, Ind., and await instructions. I met her there with carefully written instructions: “Go on with the work, and don’t complain, but watch. There is something wrong in that hospital; _find out what it is_. The government furnishes good supplies and good coffee; find out what becomes of them, but don’t, for the life of these men, let the surgeon and hospital steward know that they are suspected. Make frequent errands to the room of the commissary,” etc. She was not long in finding out as to the cheating and adulteration. The first clew was obtained because of the rule in that hospital, that a barrel be placed beside the kitchen door, and all the coffee-grounds emptied into it. “Boys,” she said to some of the men who did the cooking, “why do you put the coffee-grounds there? They have been used; they are no account.”
“It’s the surgeon’s orders.”
“He has them hauled away and emptied, I suppose?”
“No; he has them dried on the commissary floor.”
“Gives them to poor people, I suppose?”
“I don’t know,” answered one; but there was a general laugh among the men in the kitchen.
She made an excuse to go to the commissary-room; and there, sure enough, on the floor, was a large pile of old coffee-grounds. The men employed there were busy stirring and turning it over to hasten the drying process. She asked for something in a careless way, and then said as she was leaving,--
“You have a good lot of coffee, boys. What in the world are you going to do with so much coffee?”
“The surgeon in charge is going to sell it, I guess;” and then they all laughed. She felt sure from their manner that these men knew all the secrets of that commissary department, and it must be her business to get it from them. But I was urging her to be careful; for if false charges were brought against the surgeon in charge of a large hospital, it would injure the diet-kitchen service all along the line. We were in daily correspondence. She had tested the coffee every way she could think of, but could not decide as to how it was adulterated. She had a new white-pine sink put in the kitchen, and poured out some coffee on that. It stained the boards logwood color. She knew now at least _one_ article of adulteration. She looked the men of the commissary well over, and picked out one, an innocent young fellow, that she thought she might surprise into a confession. Waiting her chance, when no one was near, she faced him with the terrible question:--
“Why do you men in the commissary-room put logwood and every other vile stuff in the coffee for our poor sick and wounded men to drink? Have you no conscience? Do you want to kill them?”
The poor boy turned pale, and staggered back as though he would fall, as he stammered,--
“We have to do it; it’s the surgeon’s orders. Indeed, Miss Vance, we can’t help it;” and he dashed away as fast as he could go, to tell the others.
“O boys! Miss Vance knows all about the cheating here, and the logwood and everything in the coffee.”
As they wanted to set themselves right with Miss Vance, the others, as soon as they could, went to her to apologize, and to assure her that it was orders. She assumed not to believe that a surgeon would give such orders, and said she could not believe till she saw the orders. They brought them, and also the surgeon’s instructions for mixing, and various other devices for cheating.
“Now, boys, don’t say a word about this till I can see what I can do.”
Of course I got all these facts as quick as the mail could bring them. I wrote her “to be careful, to make copies of all the papers and records of the false entries in the books, and take these men one by one to a justice of the peace or notary public, and have them swear to everything;” for, if the surgeon should suspect what she was doing, he would at once relieve them, and order them to join their regiments, and she would be left to stand alone. I started for Louisville, Ky., the headquarters of Assistant Surgeon-General R. C. Wood, at once, and requested Miss Vance to send to me there all the papers in the case, which she did.
As I read over the villanous record of cheatery, and the disgusting compounds he had put into the old coffee-grounds for the poor sick and wounded men to drink, my soul was hot within me with righteous indignation. When I went into the office of General Wood the next morning I was in a mood for strong talk. He gave me his usual cordial greeting.
“General Wood, if you please, I would like to see you alone,” I said.
He looked surprised, as I had never made such a request before.
“Certainly,” he said, and nodded to the two or three clerks in the room to withdraw. As soon as the door was closed behind them I began:--
“I came to report Dr. R----, of the Madison Hospital.”
“Dr. R----? Why, he is one of my best surgeons! What has he done?”
“You may think he is one of your best surgeons, but my opinion of him is that _he ought to be hung higher than Haman_.”
The general looked greatly surprised, as he had never heard me use any such emphatic terms about any one before. “Please, madam, explain,” he said.
“He is cheating and starving the soldiers, and selling their good coffee, and giving them a little coffee mixed with logwood and other vile adulteration.”
“Impossible! That is entirely impossible.”
“Nevertheless, it is true; and he is _cheating you_ in making up his hospital returns. I have the proof here in my hands.”
He turned pale. “Can such a thing be possible?” he gasped.
“It is possible,” I said. “See for yourself;” and I handed him the true returns, with the affidavits.
He brought out the official returns which had been sent by the surgeon, and we compared them.
“He’s a villain, a heartless villain,” the general would mutter at each new exhibition of the surgeon’s rascality.
When we had gone through with the papers, he said in a most emphatic way,--
“I will punish that man to the full extent of the law.”
“No, general: he will elude you; he will find some way to escape. If dealt with by military law he will escape; but I have a plan that will reach him.”
“What is your plan?”
“To go to Governor Morton of Indiana, and lay the facts and these papers before him, and put the whole case in his hands. The hospital is in his State, and I don’t think he can get out of the clutches of Governor Morton.” My words were like the shock of an electric battery. He sprang to his feet, and walked the floor in a most excited state of mind. At last he calmed himself enough to speak, and facing me, he said,--
“Madam, do you wish to kill me? Do you wish to kill me? Do you wish to stab me to the heart?”
“Certainly not. I have the highest respect for you. I believe you are innocent in this matter; but I do not want that villain to escape.”
“_He shall not escape._”
“What will you do?”
“I will send up Inspector Allen right away.”
“No; that won’t do. Inspector Allen has been going up month after month, and has not seen a thing wrong. No; I am sorry to say it, but I do not believe you can bring this man to justice. Governor Morton is my only chance to secure that.”
I shall never forget with what majesty he stood before me. He looked like a patriarch,--tall, straight, commanding, with his crown of gray hair, his fair and kindly face. _A perfect Christian gentleman_ of the old school, too honest and true himself to suspect others as frauds.
“Mrs. Wittenmyer,” he said, “you could not possibly do me a greater injury; such a thing would likely lead to my removal. You certainly do not desire that. Have I not co-operated with you in all your great plans, removing from one hospital to another surgeons at your suggestion? Have I not placed steamers and trains to carry your goods, and extended to you the hearty co-operation and aid of this office? Why should you wish to injure me?”
“I do not wish to injure you. I only want to bring this rogue to justice. You have done _all_ that any one could do for me, and the influence of your high office has helped me all along the lines. I shall ever hold you in grateful remembrance for your kindness and co-operation; but I cannot stand by and see our sick and wounded men treated in this way, and not do my utmost to bring such a rascal to justice.”
“He shall be brought to justice. I will make this proposition to you: I will appoint a commission to investigate, bring charges against and court-martial him, and you may select the commission.”
“But he will resign as soon as he knows they are going to bring charges.”
“I will not accept his resignation.”
And so this plan was agreed to; as over the opposition of the assistant surgeon-general, who had been my ablest helper, I saw it would not do to go, as I wished to do, to Governor Morton.
I selected Dr. Clendening, medical director of that department, as the president of the court. I knew him to be a true gentleman, of sterling integrity, who would do his duty without fear or favor. The others were among the best medical men of the army.
The last I heard of Dr. Clendening he was in the regular army, and stationed at St. Louis. I think he is still living, as are most of those who are familiar with the facts here recorded. The commission received the documents, went to Madison, and verified all Miss Vance’s statements, and sat down together to formulate the charges. But as soon as the committee came on the ground, Surgeon R---- telegraphed his resignation to Surgeon-General Barnes at Washington. It was accepted by telegraph, and he was on a train far away. The commission was greatly disappointed, and General Wood was very much humiliated over the affair. Shortly afterwards, returning to Washington, I spoke to the surgeon-general about the case, and gave him my views about Dr. R----’s rascality. But the hospital was soon cleaned up; the old coffee-grounds and logwood were dumped out upon the “common,” and good food and plenty of it was served to the men.
I was not known to Dr. R---- in the case; but Dr. Clendening and the other members of the commission, and Miss Vance, will know how the reform was brought about. I do not give the full name of the surgeon, as he may have repented in sackcloth and ashes for aught I know; but there is little danger of my forgetting his name. Miss Vance is now living in California.
REMINISCENCE OF GENERAL GRANT.
One of the strongest evidences of General Grant’s nobility of character was his respectful treatment of the men in the ranks. They were all men, and were treated as men. He did not toady to the officers, or bully the privates. His attitude to all was respectful and considerate.
He was more approachable to the men in the ranks than were many of his inferior officers.
An ambulance driver at City Point told me this story:--
“The road was narrow, and I was allowing the horses to jog on at a slow pace, when an officer rode up and said, ‘Drive your ambulance to one side, please, and allow my staff to pass.’
“I was paralyzed when I looked up and saw it was General Grant who was talking to me so nice and polite. I looked back and saw a lot of officers coming, and you may be sure I got out of their way as quick as I could. Most officers would have sworn a blue streak because I was in the road, but that isn’t General Grant’s way; he is a mighty nice man.”
I had occasion to call at an officer’s headquarters to report that there were supplies at the landing for his regiment. He was very much pleased that I had taken the trouble to call on him personally, as he was from my own State. As we sat in his tent talking socially, a private soldier came to the tent-door, made the military salute, and was about to speak, when the colonel thundered his words of command:--
“Begone; what business have you coming to my headquarters?”
“The lieutenant sent me to”--
“Begone, I tell you.”
The soldier turned away deeply humiliated, and no doubt indignant. I, as indignant as the soldier, arose, and without ceremony left the tent. I have never thought of that officer since, that I did not want to go back to that lost opportunity, and tell him how mean and ignoble he was.
FRED D. GRANT--THE BRAVE ORDERLY AT VICKSBURG.
Nearly every day during the siege of Vicksburg, General Grant rode around the fiery line of the besieged city on his little black horse; and his son Fred, about thirteen years old, who acted as his orderly, followed about fifty yards in the rear.
It was a wild ride over the rough, roadless fields and bluffs in the rear of our batteries, where the enemy’s guns were ploughing the ground here and there, over which they were riding.
Almost every day, as I drove about the lines, at some point or other I would see General Grant and his brave little orderly riding at full speed in the face of the long lines of the enemy’s batteries, and within range of their murderous fire. But most of all to be feared was the surer fire of the Confederate sharpshooters.
They were never within speaking distance, being much nearer the batteries than was the roadway along which I drove.
There was great anxiety for General Grant during the siege. Personally he was beloved by officers and men, but there were deeper reasons. His life was so important to the Union cause, that his death would have been the greatest calamity that the army could have suffered. Officers and civilians warned and entreated him, but as far as I could see he made no change in his course.
Fred Grant shared his father’s dangers; and although he was one of the nicest boys I ever saw, few knew his real merits and bravery. Like his distinguished father, he was free from bombast, and was quiet and reserved, so his heroic services during the siege were not paraded before the public, as the deeds of many who did not show half the courage he did.
We did not meet very often; but when we did, I always had some kindly words and an approving smile for him. It was fortunate that his devoted mother was not there at that time to see his danger as he went out under the guns daily.
Her anxiety would have been unbearable, as she was a most devoted wife and mother, and the dangers were appalling.
Fred D. Grant ought in some marked way to receive public honor for his wonderful heroism at Vicksburg.
THE SAD FATE OF JENNIE WADE.
One of the many sad incidents of the battle of Gettysburg was the tragic death of Jennie Wade. The family remained in their house, as they could not well leave a married daughter lying on her bed with a new-born infant by her side. Jennie and her mother remained with her, as there seemed to be no way of removing Mrs. McClelland and her baby to a place of safety when the coming of the two armies disturbed the quiet of the quaint old Pennsylvania town of Gettysburg. Amid the clash of arms, when the boom of cannon shook the rock-rimmed hills and echoed among the mountains, and the shock of battle sent a throb of agony along the lines of two armies, they were there in the midst of it all. Mrs. McClelland lay there helpless amid its thunders, while Jennie made bread for the soldiers who crawled to the door begging for something to eat.
A shell came crashing through the house, and cut off one of the posts of the bedstead on which Mrs. McClelland and her infant were lying, but neither was injured.
The mother and sister took a big rocking-chair down into the cellar, and carried her down and placed her in it with her baby, and Jennie went on making bread for the famishing soldiers.
Another shell came screaming into the house; and Jennie, with her hands just out of the dough, lay dead. The mother, bending over her, searched in vain for some token of life, but the pulse had ceased to beat; her loyal heart was forever still.
The battle was now raging in all its wild fury; but the heroic mother, instead of flying to the cellar for safety, took up Jennie’s work, and with Jennie lying dead at her feet, went on with the bread-making till the battle closed.
Jennie Wade had always been planning for her burial. A complete burial-suit was in the house. But after the battle was over, the safety of the army made it imperative that the dead, lying bloated on the battle-field under a scorching July sun, should be buried at once. A squad of stalwart men, grim with the dust and smoke of battle, took Jennie Wade up tenderly, wrapped a flag about her, completely covering her soiled calico gown and her hands all covered with dough, and carried her uncoffined to her grave. But many a soldier who was fed at her hands, and all who have heard the pathetic story, will pause where Jennie Wade lies sleeping to pay her the honor due a heroine of the war.
The mother still lives in Gettysburg; but the surviving daughter, Mrs. McClelland, with her soldier husband, who was on another battle-field at the time of her peril at Gettysburg, is now living near Tacoma, Wash. She has from the first been an active and valuable worker of the Woman’s Relief Corps.
THE HOSPITAL AT POINT OF ROCKS, VA.
When the Union army was massed at City Point in the desperate struggle to capture Petersburg and Richmond, it became necessary to establish a large hospital at Point of Rocks, a few miles above City Point.
Log cabins, put up from timber green from the forest, and tents, served as quarters for the sick and wounded; and three or four thousand of the worst cases were quartered there almost immediately, being soon increased to five thousand. The army operating against Richmond was only a few miles away, and the thunder of their guns could be heard all day long, and the night sky was often illuminated by bursting shells; for two armies were facing each other between Point of Rocks and Richmond, and occasionally a shell would come screaming over to remind us that we were in range of the enemy’s guns. The cooking arrangements, when I reached Point of Rocks, were of the most primitive character. Two log cabins without floors or chimneys, with openings in the roof to allow the smoke to escape, and big kettles hanging over smoking, crackling log fires, were used for cooking purposes. There were great black iron kettles for coffee, tea, soups, meat, beans, and rice.
When I saw the messes served to the sick and wounded men in the wards, as each cabin was called, I did not wonder that the men turned away in disgust.