Part 12

The tin cups, in which the patients received their tea and coffee, were black and battered; the platters had been used in many a march, and were rusty and greasy. Into each one of these platters was dished out rice, beans, or mixed vegetables, as the men preferred. My mental comment was, “There is not one thing here fit for a well man to eat, much less a sick or wounded man.” The surgeon in charge seemed not to know that things were not up to the proper standard; and I was silent--silent till I was out of the hearing of these men, and until I had a chance to say all that was in my heart to say. The office of the surgeon in charge was in a frame dwelling on the grounds. When I had seated myself in his office, he turned suddenly upon me and questioned, “Well, what do you think of my hospital?”

“Perhaps you would not like to hear; you may wish only flattery,” I answered very kindly.

“Yes; I want to know the truth. If you see anything that can be improved just say so frankly; but you must remember we are under the enemy’s guns, and can’t have the conveniences and luxuries that they have in the big cities.”

“I will not suggest anything that cannot be accomplished here within a week, and yet it would be a great change for the men. I would begin with the kitchen. I would build a kitchen with a chimney; there are plenty of rocks here.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Then, I would have a floor in it, and two of the largest ranges the market affords.”

“That is impossible; the government would not supply ranges.”

“I will supply the ranges. The Christian Commission is ready at an hour’s notice to honor any order that I am likely to give.”

“The men couldn’t manage them.”

“No, perhaps not; but I would put in two first-class women to do the managing, and the men you have could do the work.”

After very much more talk, he suggested that I might make the attempt.

I wrote immediately to George H. Stuart of Philadelphia, President of the Christian Commission, stating the condition of affairs at the Point of Rocks Hospital, requesting lumber for kitchen, lime for chimney, two first-class ranges, a thousand tin cups and platters, and all the necessary supplies to start a kitchen.

My letter was promptly received, and Mr. Stuart answered by telegram:--

“Everything ordered will be sent this afternoon. Also crates of dishes. Go ahead. You shall have all you need.”

I had already telegraphed to Mrs. E. W. Jones, one of my most reliable workers, to come to me immediately, and Miss Hattie Noyes, another superior worker.

They both came as fast as steam could bring them, reaching there before the kitchen was completed. A cabin had been prepared for them; but as shingles were not at hand, it was covered with canvas. As the ladies were entirely competent to complete the arrangements, I left them for another point. In less than a week a most remarkable change had been wrought in that hospital. When the first meals were issued from that well-regulated kitchen in the nice white dishes and bright tinware, the sick men, many of them, cried and kissed the dishes, and said it seemed most like getting home. Instead of the slops dished out of vessels that looked like swill-buckets, there came to the beds of the very sick and severely wounded, baked potatoes, baked apples, beef-tea, broiled beefsteak (when allowed), and especially to the wounded, toasts, jellies, good soup, and everything in the best home-like preparation.

The surgeon looked on in utter surprise. But the patients fared better than my heroic women. There came a beating, driving rain, and their canvas roof leaked like a sieve. They wrapped rubber blankets about their clothing, put rubber blankets on their bed, raised their umbrellas, and slept. Of this trial Mrs. Jones wrote me. I quote from her letter:--

“This has been a trying day. All night and all day the rain has come down in torrents in our quarters and the kitchen, as well as out-of-doors. Quarts of water ran off our bed while we slept. Almost everything had to be dried, even to bed and bedding, and in the kitchen it was even worse. But to-night finds us in good spirits, and our zeal undampened, though our work has been most thoroughly soaked.

Affectionately, E. W. J.”

The putting on of new roofs was only a question of a day or two, and they had no more trouble from rain after that.

This hospital became so large that another kitchen had to be established, and three other ladies were added to the force.

These kitchens were the most important in the entire service, except, possibly, the great kitchen at Cumberland Hospital, Nashville, Tenn. The fame of the cookery there extended all along the line. Surgeons came long distances to see for themselves if the reports were true about them. To many it seemed incredible that the cooking for the very sick could be so well managed right along the front lines in these field hospitals.

At my request. General Grant, commanding the United States forces with headquarters at City Point, visited these famous kitchens.

Himself and two of his staff went in disguise.

With his slouch hat drawn down, and coming in citizen’s clothing, no one noticed him. They stood by the door of the largest kitchen, while the dinner was issued. He asked, when the food had been sent out, a few questions and looked at the bill of fare, then followed to the wards to see the patients receive it.

He said, when I next came down from Washington and called at headquarters, that he thought it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. He was unusually enthusiastic.

“Why,” said he, “those men live better than I do; and so many of them too. How they manage to cook such a variety for so many hundreds is what puzzles me.”

Then he told me about his going through the wards while they were taking their dinner, and noticing how greatly they enjoyed the food. And when _told_ THAT THE MOST OF THIS FOOD CAME FROM THE COMMUTATION OF GOVERNMENT RATIONS, he was still more surprised.

When he was passing through one of the wards, a convalescing soldier, taking him to be a delegate of the Christian Commission, called out, “Say, Christian, won’t you bring me a pair of socks?”

“I’ll see that you get a pair,” the general responded, and passed out; but he arranged to have the man get a pair of socks.

But where are the noble women who labored there with so much energy and zeal years ago?

Mrs. Jones, a most saintly woman, the widow of a Presbyterian minister, sits serene in the evening of life--her work done and well-done--at Wellesley, Mass., where her daughter is the attending physician of the college.

All the years of her life have been given to benevolent and reform work, and now she waits and listens for the heavenly voice and the rustle of the angel’s wings.

Miss Noyes is in Canton, China, where she has been in mission work ever since the close of the war. A few years ago a beautiful poem written by her, entitled, “Toiling All Night,” was extensively published in this country. She has several times returned on a visit to her native land, and was, when she came to us, the same bright, cheerful, earnest-hearted woman, as when, amid the thunders of battle, she ministered to the sick and wounded soldiers of the Republic.

Fortune has not dealt generously with some of the others who labored there. One, a competent worker, is now poor. She lives in Illinois.

Another married and settled on a land claim. Her husband died from overwork and exposure, leaving her in the wilderness, without help to bury him, for days. After he was laid away, she struggled on, determined to hold the claim; but a fearful snowstorm one winter came, and buried her and her two little girls under the snow, till the top of the house was level with the plain.

They remained buried for many days before being dug out. Some men thought about her, and travelled miles to ascertain if she was all right.

They searched long before they could find her shanty, and when they did, had to dig tons of snow away before they could get her out. She now lives in Colorado.

These years have wrought great changes; but all the workers will look back, no matter how bright or how dark the hours that may come to them, with great satisfaction on their heroic work at Point of Rocks, Va.

THE SWEET SINGER OF THE HOSPITALS.

In the fall of 1864, when the Union army was massing against Richmond, Va., the hospitals in and around Washington were very much overcrowded.

Under special orders from Mr. Stanton, Secretary of War, and with the hearty co-operation of President Lincoln, I had previously assumed the general supervision of the special-diet kitchens of the United States army hospitals all along the lines.

It also devolved upon me to select the lady superintendents for that important service, two for each kitchen. The food for the very sick and the severely wounded, on orders of the ward surgeons, was prepared under their supervision.

In some of these special-diet kitchens as many as 1,000, and in some 1,500 patients, were supplied with carefully prepared food in great variety three times a day.

It will be readily seen that competent women were needed to take the management of this important work. They had not only to command a force of twenty or thirty men in these kitchens, and maintain discipline and good order, but they had, under hospital authority, the entire responsibility of supplying the proper preparation of food, on time and without the least delay or confusion.

Their high position also demanded that they should be ladies of culture and social standing, who could command the respect and confidence of officers and surgeons in charge. It is greatly to the honor of the patriotic women of the North, that scores of accomplished ladies of high social position volunteered to fill these important places.

Great care had to be taken in their selection, and none were accepted unless highly indorsed.

One day there came to my headquarters in Washington a young lady from Pawtucket, R.I. She was twenty-two years old, as I afterwards learned; but she was so childlike in appearance that she seemed much younger.

“I am Lizzie B----,” she said by way of introduction. “I was ready and waiting, and just as soon as I received your letter containing pass and orders to come, I started.”

My heart sank within me. I was expecting Lizzie B----, but I had anticipated meeting a very different-looking person.

Every letter of recommendation had said: “Although Miss B---- is young in years, she is mature in character, and is of the highest type of American womanhood, and will command respect anywhere. We commend her to you as one of our noblest women, who will be equal to any position, and one who will never fail nor falter in the line of duty.”

I had naturally expected a woman of stately and commanding presence, and one who would be equal to any emergency; but she seemed to me to be only a child in years and experience.

“I have ordered up my baggage,” she said with childlike simplicity, “and I have brought my little melodeon with me. I thought it might be useful.”

Sure enough, when her luggage came, and the box containing the instrument was opened, she took out the smallest melodeon I ever saw.

“What shall I do with that dear little child from Rhode Island and her little melodeon?” I said to my secretary, Mary Shelton, now Mrs. Judge Houston of Burlington, Iowa. But she could not solve the problem.

When the heavy work of the day was through, weary and full of care and anxiety, we joined Miss B---- in the parlor. After some conversation, she said,--

“Would you like to have me play and sing?”

We assented, and she sat down at the instrument and began to play and sing.

We were amazed and charmed. It seemed as though the curtains of heaven were lifted, and the songs of an angel were floating down upon us.

The tones of the little melodeon were soft and clear, and the voice of the singer was sweet and remarkably sympathetic. Her notes thrilled one; there was life and spirit in them. After listening to her for an hour or more, weariness and anxiety were gone, and _I knew just what to do with Lizzie B----_.

There were tens of thousands of aching and burdened hearts all about us; and she, with her wonderful gift of song, could lift some drooping spirit, and pour the balm of peace into some wounded, fainting hearts. I took her and her melodeon to Campbell Hospital the next morning, and told her to sing as she had opportunity.

The sick and wounded were quartered in great wooden barracks eighty feet long. There were rows of cots on either side of the room. That very day she went into one of these wards. She had never been in a hospital before; and when she entered and saw the long rows of cots, and all the faces of the men, whether they were lying down or sitting up, turned towards her, she grew faint and dizzy, and her courage almost failed her. She seemed powerless to do anything but to walk on down the long aisle.

At last a soldier called to her from his bed,--

“Say, miss, won’t you write a letter for me?”

It was a great relief to have the oppressive silence broken and to have something to do. As she sat down beside his cot, she asked,--

“To whom shall I write?”

“My mother.”

And he thrust his hand down under his pillow, and drew forth a letter which she read with tears.

“What shall I say to her?”

“Tell her that the surgeons think that I may live a week or two yet.”

“Oh! but you may get well.”

“No; I can never recover. I have a fatal disease.”

“Shall I ask your mother to come to you?”

“No; she cannot come. She is too poor, and she can’t leave the younger children; but she is praying for me.”

“Would you like to have me to pray for you?”

“Yes, miss, if you will.”

Lizzie B---- took one of his thin, cold hands in her own and knelt beside his cot, and offered up one of those low, sweet, sympathetic prayers that come from the heart and ascend straight to the throne of mercy.

When she arose, every man who could leave his bed was standing about the cot, and many were wiping away the tears they could not restrain.

“Would you like to have me sing something?” she questioned, looking kindly into their faces.

“Oh! do--please do,” they all urged; and she sang one of the sweet songs of the gospel that she could sing so well.

Of course they were all delighted, and begged that she would come again.

“I have a melodeon,” she said, as she left them; “and I’ll come to-morrow and have that brought into the ward, if the surgeon says I may.”

As they looked wistfully after her, one of the soldiers, wiping the tears from his eyes, said,--

“She looks like a woman, but she sings like an angel.”

The next day the little melodeon was carried into that ward, and Lizzie B---- sang for them, and the surgeon in charge was one of the auditors. He was so delighted with the influence of her singing, that he gave orders that she be allowed to sing in all the wards of that hospital.

From that time on, she devoted her time to the service of song, till all the hundreds in that hospital had been cheered again and again by her tender words and sweet, sympathetic voice.

The effects of her singing were so uplifting and comforting that I extended her field, and had an ambulance placed at her command that she might visit other hospitals. After that she made the rounds among the hospitals at Washington, going day by day from one hospital to another. Everywhere her coming was hailed with joy. Mothers and wives who were watching hopelessly beside their dying ones were lifted in heart and hope towards God and heaven. Men who had been strong in battle to do and to dare, but who now lay sorely wounded and weak, and heart and flesh well-nigh failing them, were lifted on billows of hope and faith and felt strong to live and to do, or to suffer and die.

Thousands were cheered and saved from despair by this wonderful singer of the hospitals.

I found her afterwards in other work, equal to the management of large interests. She could have taken charge of a special-diet kitchen, but I have always thanked God that her time was given instead to songs in the hospitals. She has changed her name since then. She is now the wife of a Congregational minister; but her voice still holds, by its sweet, sympathetic cadences, the listening congregations.

A YOUNG NURSE AT GETTYSBURG.

Little Sadie Bushman, who was not quite ten years old at the time of the battle of Gettysburg, proved herself a little heroine. Mr. and Mrs. Bushman, learning that the battle would rage in all probability on or near their premises, sent this child with her brother to her grandmother’s, two miles away, while the parents gathered up the other children and undertook to follow.

Sadie took hold of her brother’s hand, and they hurried on as fast as their feet could carry them. But it was not long before their pathway led them into the thick of the fight along Seminary Ridge. The roar of the artillery was continuous, but they could not retreat. There came a blinding flash and a deafening roar. A shell whizzed past them. A gray-haired officer seized the children, and hurried them down the ridge toward their destination.

But scarcely less danger awaited them there, as their grandmother’s house and yard was converted into a hospital. The first work of the child when she reached this place was to hold a cup of water to a soldier’s lips while one of his legs was sawed off.

She was separated from her parents two weeks before they knew she was alive, but all that time she was ministering to the wounded soldiers. She carried soup and broth, and fed those who could not help themselves. She worked under the orders of the surgeons, and was furnished with supplies by the Christian Commission as long as the hospitals were kept open in Gettysburg. She is now a married woman--Sadie Bushman Junkerman--and lives near Oakland, Cal.; but the scenes of the Gettysburg battle years ago are vividly remembered by her.

A BUT’FUL GUV’MENT MULE.

After the fall of Richmond it was found that the people were in a very destitute condition, many of them being almost in a state of starvation.

Every agency was at once used to furnish them with food.

The government issued rations as they came in, and the Sanitary and Christian Commissions distributed large supplies.

Among those who assisted in distributing the supplies of the Christian Commission was the Rev. John O. Foster, now living in Chicago, Ill.

Each day the supplies would be issued according to the amount on hand and the number standing in line.

Slowly the procession would march up with baskets to get what was offered; black and white, rich and poor, old and young, all fared and shared alike.

One evening after the issue had been made and the room cleared, an old colored man, who had been sitting off in one corner on a box, arose and shuffled along towards Mr. Foster. Taking off his old torn hat he made a low bow.

“Why, you’re too late; why didn’t you come up when the others did?”

“No, massa, I izent. Ben’s done gone and got my rashuns. I’se cum har on bizness.”

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“I’ze mos’ ’shamed to tell you, Capt’n,” and he put his old hat to his face and chuckled heartily. Then continued, “You see, Capt’n, day’s sellin’ lot uv guv’ment mules cheap, mighty cheap, mos’ as cheap as dirt, and I cud make a fortin if I could buy one; day’s sellin’ for twenty dollars, massa--but’ful guv’ment mules.” Then there was an awkward pause.

“Well?”

“I thot mebbe you’d len’ me de money.”

Foster laughed heartily.

“How would you ever pay me back?”

“By haulin’; dar’s a big speculation in it; make a fortin right off.”

“Where will you get a wagon?”

“Oh, I’ze got a wagin; one ole massa throde away and I mended up. An’ I’ze got ropes and ebery ting ’cept de mule; dat’s all I want now.”

“You think you will pay me back?”

“Sartin, massa. If I don’t pay, I guvs up de mule.”

Again Mr. Foster laughed at the thought of that mule coming back on his hands.

“Well, I think you ought to have the mule now,” was Foster’s generous reply; “and here is twenty dollars to buy one, but you must pay it back,” and he handed him a ten-dollar and two five-dollar bills.

“My Lor, massa! Neber had so much money ’fore in all my life. If I dun fail to pay it back, de mule’s yourn, sure.”

“Now, don’t allow yourself to be robbed or cheated out of it.”

“No, massa; I hain’t goin’ to let nobody know I’ze got nuthin’ till I git hole on de mule.”

Two days passed, and he saw nothing of the colored man. On the evening of the third day the colored man came in late, and took a seat in the corner on a box. But after all had left the room he came close up to Foster with his hand on his pocket.

“Well, did you get the mule?”

“Yes, massa; I got de most beautifullest mule dat you ever seed--de bes’ kind uv government mule.” Then he took from his pocket two clean, crisp five-dollar bills, and handed them to Mr. Foster. “’Fore Sat’day night I gwine to pay all, I ’spects; I’ze doin’ a busten bus’ness.”

The next Saturday evening the colored man was there; and as soon as the room was cleared he came forward, and, making sure that no one else would see, he took out quite a roll of bills, and from them selected a clean, crisp ten-dollar bill and handed it to Mr. Foster.

“How in the world did you make so much money?”

“I tole you, massa, der war a speculashun in it, an’ der war. Me and de mule and Ben arned ev’ry dollah. He’s the beautifullest mule you ever seed. Ben brung him round so as you could see ’em.”

Mr. Foster went to the door. There, sure enough, stood a good, strong mule, as docile, as quiet and sedate, as though he had not hauled the artillery into the fight, and stood near the big guns amid the thunders of battle; for Ben said, with great pride,--

“Dis mule is one uv dem best mules dat pulled de big guns ober de hills. Oh, he’s an awful strong hos!”