Part 2

The wounded soldiers were taken to a hospital hastily improvised at a point just opposite Vicksburg, where, although more than a mile nearer the enemy, with only the Mississippi River between them, they were nevertheless comparatively safe, being protected by a high embankment. I had been sending supplies to this little hospital with lavish hand. It seemed dreadful that wounded men should lie there night and day under the guns of two armies, the battle always on, the shriek and thunder of shell and shot over them, and all around them, and shaking the very earth on which they lay. Weary, homesick, and suffering, they were isolated from the army and from all other companionship, except that of the surgeon and his force of detailed soldiers. But this surgeon (I have forgotten his name, or I would mention it with the highest respect) was a thoughtful and kind-hearted man, who desired the best for his men and heartily sympathized with them. One day he came into my quarters on the Sanitary boat with radiant face. He had thought of something which would please his “boys,” and that was that I should visit them. At first the thing seemed impossible. The distance was many miles. I could not go in an ambulance, or on foot, and the dangers of the journey were appalling. But he had thought of all that, and explained the whole scheme. He could get a good, safe horse, and I could ride on a cavalry saddle; and although there was some water in the canal, and the banks were steep, the crossing was entirely safe, and there were places where the horse could climb.

I could not refuse to go to the men who had faced the cannon, and gone down wounded and helpless to the gates of death for my country and my flag. General Cyrus Bussey, who was afterwards the Assistant-Secretary of the Department of the Interior, and his plucky, lovely little wife, who is now among the glorified in heaven, volunteered to accompany me. Mrs. Bussey had her own horse and a side-saddle. I had a great raw-boned animal, which looked as though he had been in several wars, with a good new cavalry saddle, which some officer had kindly lent for the occasion. “This horse is good and safe,” the surgeon explained, by way of apology; “they say he wouldn’t shy or jump if a shell burst just before him.”

The guns of two armies were screaming over us when we reached the point which our guide designated as “the safe place to cross the canal.” He did not know that some of the barriers at the mouth of the canal had given way, and that the water in the canal was several feet deeper than when he had crossed that morning. The tide was swift and turbulent; but the surgeon said cheerfully, “It’s perfectly safe; just follow me.” The next moment his horse went down into the muddy, swirling flood, and, struggling heroically, swam to the opposite shore.

The surgeon called back to us that he had missed the crossing, and designated a point a little higher up, which, as he said, “was perfectly safe.” I had misgivings, but, settling myself well in the saddle, gave the horse loose rein. He marched bravely in, and went down into the flood with a plunge. General Bussey, fearing I would be drowned, spurred his horse in after me, and the two brave animals struggled together until we reached the opposite shore. Thanks to my Kentucky training, I kept the saddle, and the only damage done was a good drenching.

As General Bussey expressed a wish that Mrs. Bussey should not attempt to cross, she remained at a cabin near by, which was somewhat protected, till we returned.

Reaching the embankment opposite Vicksburg we scattered, the surgeon taking the lead. I followed about fifty yards behind him, and General Bussey about fifty yards behind me. The road was fair, and we flew over that stretch at a full gallop. My shaggy, raw-boned steed made good time. It was a wild ride. We were surrounded by batteries. The mortar boats of the Union army, placed as near to Vicksburg as possible, were sending their uncertain shells thundering over our heads into the doomed city with deafening fury. The heavy guns along the heights of Vicksburg were answering the long line of batteries and heavy mounted guns on our side of the river; and only the river lay between us and the enemies’ works. Shot and shell screamed over us. Sometimes it seemed as if the sky was torn to pieces above us; but my horse did not flinch. On and on we went, in a full gallop. If a gun was levelled at us that day from any of the near batteries, we were not in range when the shot came over, and so we reached the hospital in safety.

What shall I say of this hospital? What can I say of these wounded, suffering men? Language is inadequate to describe their condition. Longing for home and mother, for human sympathy, their moans were answered only by the guns. They longed for quiet and sleep, but the guns of two armies were thundering night and day over their heads. How could flesh and blood, brain and nerve, endure it? My garments were still dripping, but I went from cot to cot to speak the words of cheer. The men tried to express their thanks for my coming in a befitting manner; but their “God bless you for coming!” was choked with tears. As I saw those brave men lying there weak and helpless, and every nerve racked with the thunders of battle, I could not beat back my own tears. Indeed, as I live it all over again, and write of it, the tears will come again, although more than thirty years have rolled by since that time. I sobbed out as best I could: “God bless you, boys; keep good courage. I will get you out of this if it is possible.”

The return trip was safely made. Again we swam the canal; Mrs. Bussey joined us, and we returned to camp. The next morning I called on General Grant, and reported the condition of these wounded men. General Grant was most thoughtful and careful of his sick and wounded. He took in the situation at once. Calling Rawlins, he said, “Those wounded men must be moved from the Point right away. Send an order to the medical director to that effect.” And that night, under the cover of the darkness, they were removed to hospitals at Milliken’s Bend, twenty-five miles away from the belching batteries.

A WOMAN WOUNDED IN BATTLE.

A woman who had served as a private soldier in the ranks was severely wounded and taken prisoner at Chickamauga. She fell in a charge made upon the Confederates; and as the troops immediately fell back she was left with the other wounded on the field, in the enemy’s lines. As she was dressed as the other soldiers were, her sex was not discovered till she was under a surgeon’s care in the hospital. She was wounded in the thigh. No bones were broken; but it was a deep, ugly flesh wound, as if torn by a fragment of a shell.

A day or two afterwards she was sent with a flag of truce into the Union lines.

The sum and substance of the official message sent with this woman was: “As the Confederates do not use women in war, this woman, wounded in battle, is returned to you.” There was great indignation in the regiment to which this woman belonged; and officers and men hastened to protest, that, although she had been with them for more than a year, not one in the regiment suspicioned that she was a woman. She stood the long, hard marches, did full duty on the picket-line and in camp, and had fought well in all the battles in which the regiment took part. She was in the hospital at Chattanooga for some time, where I first met her. When she was able to bear the transportation, she was removed to a hospital at Nashville. I met her there again and again, and tried to ascertain why she had enlisted.

“Had you a husband in the regiment?” I questioned.

“No.”

“A lover or friend?”

“No, I didn’t know any of them.”

“Well, why did you enlist?”

“I thought I’d like camp-life, and I did.”

“You did your full share of the hard work, I am told, marching, going on picket duty, and chopping wood?”

“Yes; I was put on detail just like the others, and I never made any excuse. I was awfully afraid they would find me out, and then I’d have to go.”

“But they did not find you out?”

“No; not till I was wounded. The most I care about now is that they won’t let me go back.”

“Where did you come from? and what is your real name?”

“I don’t want to tell, and I sha’n’t tell, either.”

When she was able to sit up the question of clothing became an important one. The surgeon said, “She must have women’s clothes to put on.” We women from the North, by gift and by purchase, provided the necessary outfit for a woman’s wardrobe. To raise some funds for her we had her photograph taken, first in the uniform of a private soldier, and then dressed as a woman. She sold them to soldiers and visitors for twenty-five cents each, and raised considerable money. I have the two I purchased, which I have treasured in my war album all these years. She was stout and muscular, with heavy features, high cheek bones, and her black abundant hair was cut very close. She was perhaps twenty-six or twenty-eight years old, but when in her military rig looked like a beardless boy.

The time came at last when she must be dismissed from the hospital; and I was commissioned by the officers to find out all I could about her, and where she lived, as she had been more friendly to me than to the others. The interview was a long one. I can give only the main points. “The time has come,” I said, “when you must be sent out of the hospital. Where do you wish to go?”

“I’ll stay in Nashville,” she answered.

“But you can’t stay in Nashville. This city is within the military lines, and no one can come in, stay here, or go out of this town, without a pass. You have come into these lines in disguise as a soldier, but you are now known. So if you will not go willingly, you will be sent out in charge of a provost marshal. That is, you will be taken under arrest by the government officers to Louisville, and left there. Then what will you do? You are not strong enough to do hard work, and I doubt if you could get any work there to do.”

“I’m awfully sorry I can’t go back into the army.”

“You certainly cannot, the case is too well known; and recruiting officers have been warned, and will be on the lookout hereafter. If you will give your name and place of residence, the government will send you home, and the trip will not cost you anything.”

“If I tell you my name, and the place I wish to go to, will you keep it a secret?”

“I will be obliged to tell the officers.”

“Will you ask them not to publish it?”

“I certainly will; and I will never tell it to any one, except the officers from whom I will get the order for pass and transportation.”

“I will trust you,” she said; and she whispered her name and residence. Two days after that she was on her way to her home in the Northwest.

I never knew what became of her.

BRAVING DANGERS.

In December, 1862, General W. T. Sherman gathered his forces at the landing at Helena, Ark., and on the 21st of the month the great fleet, with flags flying, moved down the Mississippi River. A very strict order had been issued by him against any citizen or reporter accompanying the expedition; and severe penalties were threatened in case the order should be disobeyed.

It was well known that the movement was against Vicksburg, but the bravest reporter feared to defy that order.

As some time passed without news of Sherman’s army, the _Blue Wing_ was sent down with communications, but she was captured by the Confederates. The government finally decided to send down two gunboats and the _White Cloud_, a wooden steamer. I at once asked the privilege of loading the _White Cloud_ with sanitary supplies. Mr. Plattenburg, agent of the Sanitary Commission, who was also at Helena, had a heavy lot of supplies.

As I had a pass for myself and all goods, from the Secretary of War, I had no trouble in securing a passage on the _White Cloud_. I do not recall as to how Mr. Plattenburg secured the privilege of going with the little expedition; I only know that he went, and that the boat was loaded with our supplies.

Thousands of soldiers were about the landing when our little fleet moved out with banners flying. We all knew that untold dangers were before us. And our heroism created the greatest enthusiasm. When the _White Cloud_ moved out into the channel and turned her prow down stream, I stepped out “on the guards” to take a last look at Helena. My appearance was greeted with such an outburst of applause from the thousands on the wharf that I fled to the cabin, after waving my handkerchief in acknowledgment of the salute.

We were fired into frequently from the banks. Whenever we reached a point of especial danger the _White Cloud was sent eight or ten miles in advance so as to draw the enemy’s fire_, and thus uncover his batteries; for it was not likely that if the gunboats were in sight we would be attacked. Every moment, night and day, we were in expectation of shot or shell from some concealed battery from the shore. But they had been forewarned that the gunboats were coming, and so did not attempt to capture the _White Cloud_. The sharpshooters on the shore fired into us again and again. No one was killed; but sleep and rest were impossible, and there were many narrow escapes. We reached Milliken’s Bend one morning about daylight, to find General Sherman’s army quartered there.

There was a great fleet of boats, and the sick and wounded were on them. A tugboat was detailed to me; and I went with my supplies from boat to boat, distributing such comforts and delicacies as I had, to the men who had been wounded in the fight near Vicksburg. It was decided by the medical authorities to send a steamer up the river with a load of the wounded at once. The _City of Memphis_, the largest steamer on the Mississippi River, was selected for this purpose. A regiment and a battery were removed from the boat, and she was put in order; that is, the filth was shovelled overboard.

I was told by a chaplain at the time that there were so many of our men dying that the firing of salutes over their graves was ordered discontinued. The constant noise of funerals was demoralizing. During the afternoon the boat was loaded up with the worst patients on the several boats. They were placed in the berths, and under the berths, and on the floor, and out upon the guards. Wherever there was a place where a fever-stricken, or a torn and broken body could be laid, it was occupied. About seven hundred and fifty were put on board.

The sun was sinking;-behind the long, low line of cypress trees, festooned with their trailing mosses, when our boat turned her prow up the Mississippi River.

Long rows of men lay on the floor with their knapsacks for their pillows. Among them was a Missouri soldier, severely wounded and delirious, who all the night long called piteously for his sister.

His cry, “O sister!” was so plaintive and pathetic that I would go to him every little while and ask,

“What do you want?”

“I am glad you have come--I want a drink of water.”

When the water was given he would remain quiet for a little time. The next morning, as soon as it was light, he was taken to the amputating-table, and one of his limbs sawed off above the knee. He sank very low under the operation--so low that no attempt was made to remove him from the table. The surgeon in charge said to me, “Get him to take some food or drink if you can; he is sinking very fast.” I offered him every delicacy in my possession, but he turned away in disgust. There had been some of my supplies transferred to this boat. While working with the men on the lower deck, and helping dress their wounds, I found a barrel of sauer-kraut. I allowed the attendants to open it; but afterwards, as I came up to the upper cabin, I called the surgeon’s attention to it, so as not to be blamed in the matter if the results were bad.

It happened that I met him near the amputating-table. As I passed the patient I turned to give him a sympathetic look. He beckoned to me, and I hastened to him. “I want some kraut,” he said.

I stepped over to where the surgeon was ministering to a man, and questioned as to whether it was best to grant his request. “Give him anything he wants--he can’t live anyway,” was his answer. I sent an attendant down to get the kraut; and he brought up a big tin cup full, and placed it on his breast and went his way.

Shortly afterwards, passing that way, I noticed him, feebly, ravenously trailing the kraut to his mouth; and I never saw any one eat as much kraut as he did in my life. He never stopped till he emptied the cup. No one attempted to hinder him, as it was expected he would die soon. From that hour he began to mend, and by the time we reached St. Louis his case was considered hopeful.

Months afterwards, as I was passing through one of the St. Louis hospitals, I heard the _thud, thud_, of crutches coming after me. I turned to see who was following me; and a merry voice greeted me, “Here’s your sauer-kraut man! Here’s your sauer-kraut man!” And there, sure enough, was my Missouri soldier, able to get around lively on crutches, and as blithe and merry as though he had never felt the keen edge of the surgeon’s knife.

The dangers and hardships of that trip can never be forgotten. There were many touching incidents. If this little story falls under the eyes of that Missouri soldier, I would like to hear from him.

He told me, that day that I last met him, his story, which was full of the pathos of home love and tender sacrifices. He was the youngest of his father’s family; and they did not want to spare him to the country, though they were loyal to the Stars and Stripes. But the lawless bands of marauders, who were significantly called “Bushwhackers,” were prowling over the State of Missouri, and his life was unsafe. He did not venture to sleep in a house for months before he left his home, and at last sleeping in the bushes became dangerous. Several times, as he was asleep out in the undergrowth, he narrowly escaped the bushwhackers, who were seeking him. I never saw him again, but hope he got back to his own home safely.

During the trip up to Cairo twenty died, one with lockjaw. It was pitiful to see a great stalwart man deprived of the power of speech, starving to death. Not one particle of food could pass between his closely-set teeth. His mind was clear, and daily he wrote out his requests in regard to his friends and other matters.

Never was ocean traveller gladder to see the headlands of his own native country than were we to see Cairo. A company of ladies came on board, fresh nurses and surgeons were obtained, also comforts for the wounded in the shape of cots, mattresses, etc. Many of the patients were removed from the overcrowded boat into comfortable hospitals at Cairo, thus relieving all parties. As soon as the boat landed, I went to the house of a friend; and as I had not had one hour of unbroken sleep for about ten days, I redeemed the time by taking a nap thirty-six hours long.

TWO DREADFUL DAYS ON THE BATTLEFIELD. SHILOH.

The hospital steamer on which myself and two other ladies took passage to Pittsburg Landing from Cairo, Ill., reaching Savannah, Tenn., eight miles below there, about four o’clock A.M., April 7. There we heard the news of the terrible battle that had been fought the day before. Some said: “The Union army is defeated and driven to the very banks of the river, and are all likely to be captured to-day.” We were soon out of our berths and on the outlook. The boat, with a full head of steam, made all possible speed to reach Pittsburg Landing.

Two gunboats, the _Tyler_ and the _Lexington_, lay out in the stream, sending shot and shell over the heads of the Union Army into the Confederate ranks. As the boat steamed up to the Landing, where already a great fleet of steamers was lying, the shells went screaming over our heads with deafening fury. All was in seeming confusion at the Landing. The roadways, dug out of the steep bank, were insufficient for such an emergency. In the hard fight on the day before, a vast amount of ammunition had been used, and the officers all well knew that with the dawn of the coming day the battle would be renewed with desperate fury. Every teamster was, therefore, doing his utmost to get ammunition and provisions to the front. They would bring their mules to the steep, roadless bank, that stood at an angle of forty-five degrees; and while the driver held the lines with a strong, steady hand, and set his boot heels so as to keep a standing position as he ploughed his way to the bottom, his mules put their little front feet down, settled themselves on their haunches, on which the wagon rested, and skeeted to the bottom with the driver. It was a wild sight. Each teamster had an assistant who held a torch made of pine. Hundreds of torches lighted up the black night. There was a clamor that cannot be described in the loading up, and a steady stream of loaded wagons going up the hill by the regular roadways.

As soon as the first rays of the morning light made objects distinct, the firing began. Both armies had rested, face to face, on their arms, and a hasty breakfast had been snatched of what they could get before daylight, for all well knew that a bloody day was before them. Each man, as he lifted his head from the ground where he had pillowed it the night before, wondered if he should live to see the setting of another sun.