Part 5

The Confederates had been driven back from Chattanooga and Knoxville, and the lines of railroad travel had been re-established. I had occasion at that time to go to Knoxville. The journey was a dangerous one; but the mission was important, and I took the chances. I was delighted to learn, after reaching Knoxville, that Parson Brownlow, the hero of East Tennessee, was at home. It was afterward arranged that I should meet him at his own house.

He dwelt in an unpretentious, two-story frame structure, having a little portico in front. Firmly attached to the little portico was a tall flagstaff, from which floated a large Union flag. This flag had been put up at the beginning of the war, and had never been hauled down. Parson Brownlow was tall, lithe, and sinewy in form. His hair was black and abundant. He was a quiet talker while conversing on ordinary subjects; but when the war, the causes which led to it, the plotting and scheming by which the loyal sentiment of East Tennessee was silenced, was the theme, his eyes flashed fire, his wit, sarcasm, and denunciation flowed in electric currents. His sentences were short, terse, and emphatic. One could better understand, looking into his face when he straightened himself up to his full height and poured out his torrent of accusations, why men whom he charged with treason and falsehood, and arraigned before God and men, should fall back in fear and shame.

He pointed out to me the little prison, with its iron-barred windows, in which he was for a time confined as a prisoner. The jail stood on the bank of the River Holstein, and he was put into a cell which overlooked the river and forest beyond. For a time his enemies had possession of the town, and he was placed where he could see nothing that was going on, and it was well. Many of his neighbors who had assumed to be loyal brought out Confederate flags, which they had kept concealed in flour-barrels, and flung them to the breeze. But there was one Union flag which did not come down, and that was the broad standard which floated over the little portico of Parson Brownlow’s house.

Mrs. Brownlow, a quiet, lovely little woman, added a word in explanation now and then; but when her boys were spoken of, she sighed heavily as though her heartstrings would snap asunder. And yet she had, in defence of the flag, shown uncommon courage. There were only two children at home; one a young lady, the other a girl of about ten or twelve years. We all stood out on the little portico, and Miss Brownlow described to me her heroic defence of the flag which was waving above us. She was a beautiful and stately woman; and as she stood there that day describing the scene, when with drawn pistol she challenged the men sent to take down that flag, she was the most perfect personification of the Goddess of Liberty I ever saw. As her eyes flashed fire, and her words rang out clear, full, and emphatic, we could well understand why the men retired.

The flag was watched and defended until a Union force came to their relief. The little force advanced carefully, until the head of the column reached the crest of the hill which environs the place. Looking out over the town, which was quietly sleeping in the gray of the morning, they saw among the Confederate flags the Stars and Stripes waving from one pole. It was like an inspiration. They made an impetuous charge, and captured the town. The flag over Parson Brownlow’s house never came down.

The influence of Parson Brownlow on Tennessee, and especially East Tennessee, still lives, and will live for ages. He was a man of great soul, of intense convictions, and of courage equal to his convictions. If he had been a coward, his blood would have watered the soil of Tennessee. But his courage, his wonderful mastery of the English language, and the fearful majesty of his presence, cowed his enemies; and those who had planned to take his life were glad to send him away out of their presence.

My visit to Parson Brownlow, his burning words, and the story of the flag, can never be forgotten. He was by far the ablest man Tennessee has ever produced.

A RICH REWARD FOR SERVICES.

SAVING THE LIFE OF A BROTHER.

I went out to Sedalia, which was in the heart of the State of Missouri, with supplies.

It was a crisp winter morning in January when the train reached the place. I went directly to a large hospital near the railroad station. Visitors were not received at that hour; but a pass from Mr. Stanton, Secretary of War, unbarred the door which opened from the vestibule into a large, long room filled with cots. On each cot lay a sick or wounded soldier.

Breakfast was being served by the attendants. Glancing down the room, I saw one of my own brothers, a lad of sixteen, who, fired with the war spirit, had gained consent to go. I had thought that he was a hundred miles or more away. There was a look of utter disgust on his face as he rejected the breakfast and waved the attendant away.

“If you can’t eat this you’ll have to do without; there is nothing else,” was the attendant’s discouraging response. On a dingy-looking wooden tray was a tin cup full of black, strong coffee; beside it was a leaden-looking tin platter, on which was a piece of fried fat bacon, swimming in its own grease, and a slice of bread. Could anything be more disgusting and injurious to fever-stricken and wounded patients?

And nearly every soldier in that hospital was prostrated by fever or severe wounds; yet this was the daily diet, with little variation. Typhoid fever and acute dysentery was the verdict of a conference of physicians that consulted in regard to my brother.

There was little hope of his recovery. An old, experienced physician said, “If he can have good care and nursing his recovery is possible, but not probable.” And the sad news was telegraphed to the dear old home. The surgeon removed him into a little inner room, and my fight with death began in earnest.

Oh! those dreadful days and nights of watching; no joys of earth can ever obliterate their memory.

The restless tossing of the fever-stricken ones in the adjoining room, the groans of the wounded, the drip, drip, drip, of the leaking vessels hung above the worst wounded ones to drop water on the bandages and keep them cool and moist, put every nerve on the rack, and pulsated through heart and brain till it seemed as though I should go wild. It was an inside view of the hospitals that made me hate war as I had never known how to hate it before.

The pitiful cry of helpless ones calling, “Nurse, nurse! water, water!” and the weary, sleepy nurses making no response--sitting, perhaps, fast asleep, yet willing to do their duty when I aroused them, still rings in my ears.

The surgeon in charge and all the attendants were kind and respectful, coming into our room on tiptoe lest their rude steps and ways might jostle a soul, hanging by a thread, out of life. Each day a telegram was sent to those who watched and prayed far away: “No better--sinking.”

But a new anxiety disturbed me. The acting medical director, who visited the hospital each day, coming in reeling drunk on the second day, ordered that I should only be admitted for an hour each day, in the afternoon.

No one in the hospital was ready to enforce such a brutal order.

Immediately the chief officers at Sedalia and St. Louis were advised of the state of affairs.

The next day, when the acting medical director came into the hospital, he was too drunk to talk plainly, or to walk without staggering, and yet his word was law. He was not too drunk to notice my presence when he staggered into that little room, however. He said,--

“Madam, it’s against my rules to have any ladies in my hospitals, and you must leave here.”

“The devotion of a sister is stronger than all hospital rules,” I answered calmly.

“You can’t stay in this hospital. I’m boss here.” I made no answer. One or the other of us must certainly leave that hospital. Letters and telegrams poured in upon the chief officers at St. Louis, from all the leading officers and surgeons in the army at Sedalia, and he was relieved from duty before the rising of another sun. And as he was only acting medical director, not yet having been mustered in, he was dismissed from the service, and I never saw his face again.

There was general rejoicing throughout the hospital, the camp, and the town, for the man had been a disgrace to the army. After this, there were only disease and death to fight. The powers of human endurance are wonderful. For seven days and nights I never closed my eyes to sleep, only as I leaned my head down on the side of the cot on which the one lay who was hovering between life and death.

My eldest brother, Dr. William H. Turner, who was a surgeon in the Union army, came up on a leave; but as the forces were ordered on the expedition against Fort Henry and Fort Donelson, he received a telegram to join his command the very next day. He had little hope of ever seeing his brother’s face again; but good nursing brought him, and many others in that hospital, through to health again. He not only recovered, but he returned to the army; and when his term for three years had expired, he re-enlisted and served till the close of the war.

He is still living. He has a ranch and a placer gold mine, with first water rights, near Helena, Mon., where he lives with his family.

In the corner near our little room lay a fair-faced boy of sixteen. The surgeons had given him up to die. When we looked into each other’s faces I asked the question, “Can I do anything for you?” The tears came welling up into his great brown eyes; and after a moment’s struggle, he burst into tears, sobbing like a child. I laid my face down on the pillow and cried too. No one laughed and called him babyish. Poor boy! sick and homesick, and needing so much care and love, and yet getting so little; lingering on the borderland, with no hand to help, and no voice to cheer him. No wonder he cried aloud; great stalwart men, stricken down in the midst of the fight, wounded, sick, and sore, understood it; and tears were on many a bronzed face as, taking his thin hands in my own, I cried with him.

As soon as he could command himself he said, “If only I could go home, mother could nurse me up in a little while.”

“You shall go home. I’ll get you a furlough as soon as you get well enough,” I answered hopefully.

From that hour there was a marked improvement in that patient’s symptoms, and many other overcharged hearts were relieved by this outburst of feeling. In less than two weeks this boy, closely wrapped in blankets, was helped to the train, for he was going home on a furlough. Friends were to meet him at St. Louis, and accompany him to his home and his mother in Denmark, Iowa.

And she did nurse him up; and he returned well and strong, to beat the drum for the rallying of the serried ranks of men, who, with set faces and glittering steel, marched to battle.

Never was a mother more grateful than that Iowa mother was for the little kindnesses shown to her suffering boy. I afterwards met him in the ranks; for he came down to the Sanitary boat to meet me. He was well and strong, and very grateful for the little help I had rendered him.

SAVED BY A BIRD.

The surgeon in one of the Nashville hospitals said, pointing to one of his patients, “There is a young man slowly starving to death. His fever is broken, and he might get well, but we cannot get him to eat anything. If you can tempt him to eat he may recover.”

I went over and stood beside his cot. “I am glad to see you looking so much better,” I said enthusiastically. He shook his head. “Oh, yes you are; and now what can I bring you to eat? I’ll bring you something real nice; what shall it be?”

“Nothing.” And he turned his face away in disgust.

“I’ll tell you what you can eat;” for I suddenly remembered that I had seen a lot of birds hanging in a meat-shop as I came down to that hospital; “you can eat a nice broiled bird.”

He looked up in surprise with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Maybe I could.”

“Why, of course you could; and I will go right away and get one for you.”

“It will be too much trouble.”

“No, it will not be a bit of trouble. You lie still and think what good eating a bird is till it comes.”

I hurried away lest he should change his mind, bought some birds, and took them to the Christian Commission Home, where there was an excellent cook.

“Aunt Debby,” I said, as I marched into the kitchen with the birds, “I want you to broil two of these birds the very best you can. A soldier’s life depends upon them.”

“Laws, missus! You ’most scare me to death talking dat way. I’ze weak as a rag, and ken do nuthen.”

“But you’ll do it right, and then the soldier will get well. I’ll help you.”

In a very short time two birds nicely broiled, and dressed with a little fresh butter and a pinch of salt and pepper, lay in the bottom of a hot covered dish. A card with the name of the hospital, the name of the soldier, and the number of his cot, was attached to the basket; and a half-grown colored boy in service at the house was intrusted with it, and bore it away in haste.

“Take notice, Ben, what he does and says, so you can tell us when you come back,” was my last injunction.

In due time Ben came back, laughing. “Did he eat them?” I questioned eagerly.

“O missus, you o’ter ’a’ seen ’im. I sot don the basket and tooked off de cover and held the birds up close tu ’im; an’ my, but it did smell good! He jus’ gim it one look, den he grab one an’ begun to eat. But I wus a-holden de dish dar, an’ he seed t’other bird, and he grabbed dat, an’ he dove his han’ dow under ’is piller an’ brung out an ole newspaper, and he wrapped up t’other bird and chucked it down under his piller, and den he went on eaten as fast as he could. Oh, golly, but wusent he hungry!” And Ben doubled himself up and laughed as only a colored boy can laugh.

The next day I was called away to Chattanooga, and so I left all my work in other hands. While in Chattanooga, General Hood marched northward and broke the lines of communication between Nashville and Chattanooga, and I was detained there several weeks. The very day after my return I was on the streets of Nashville, and a soldier met me with great cordiality.

“I don’t believe you know me,” he said.

“No, I don’t remember to have ever met you before,” I replied.

“I’m the man you sent the birds to.”

“I am glad to see you. How is it that you are up and out so soon?”

“Well, you see, there wasn’t anything the matter with me, but I did not know it. I thought I was going to die, but the birds did the business. I never did taste anything quite so nice as they were, and I have been eating ever since, anything I could lay my hands on. And now I am well, and am going to join my regiment.”

After a few cordial thanks and good wishes we separated, and I have never seen him since. If these lines fall under his notice, I would like to hear from him.

HOW MOTHER BICKERDYKE CUT RED TAPE.

The battle of Corinth had raged from early morning till late in the afternoon, and then General Price was checked and forced to retreat. The struggle had been a bloody one, and the ground was covered with the wounded and the dead.

The Confederates made a desperate struggle to capture Fort Robbinette. General Rogers, or “Texas Rogers” as he was usually called, led the charge against the fort. Splendidly mounted, with a flag in one hand and a pistol in the other, he rode up to the very mouth of the cannon, all the while beckoning his men onward. Reaching the ramparts, he planted the Confederate flag there, and the next moment fell dead. But his troops surged up after him, although the cannon of the fort mowed down great swaths of marching men, as with set faces and bowed heads they followed their leader.

The scenes that followed were indescribable. The human avalanche surged up into the fort, and men, hand to hand, contended for the mastery.

The Confederate flag waved only for a moment. Then it was torn away, and the men who had climbed up over the ramparts were hurled back. But still fresh relays came on. When there was not time to reload their guns, the invaders used them as clubs, and the fragments of many a shattered musket were left upon the field. Texas Rogers’s horse, which had gone back riderless, came dashing up again when the next charge was made, as though guided by human hands, and once more turned and went back. After the bloody conflict ended, it was found that forty-two men lay dead in a heap where “Texas Rogers” planted his flag and died.

Hungry and utterly exhausted as were the men, who, without food or rest, had fought all day, their first duty was to their wounded comrades. Every available building, and every church but one, was taken for hospital purposes; and long rows of tents were put up on the grounds of the Ladies’ College. But there was a lack of supplies. There were no cots or pillows--only the bare ground.

Among the heroic workers there, was Mother Bickerdyke, who could always find supplies if they were within reach. She took some wagons and a squad of men, and went down to the quartermaster’s storehouse. “Come on, boys,” she said; “we will see if we can find anything to make the wounded comfortable.”

The quartermaster was there to receive her, and to say, “We have no hospital supplies; they are all given out.”

“Then, I’ll have to take what I can get. Boys, roll out some of those bales of hay and cotton! They will make better beds than the ground.”

“You must bring me an order, madam.”

“I have no time to hunt up officers to get orders.”

“But I am responsible for these supplies, and cannot let them go without proper orders.”

The wagons were soon loaded up, and the bales of hay and cotton were soon at the hospital tents. An axe cut the hoops, and the hay went flying into the tents in long even rows with the help of ready hands. An armful of cotton made a good pillow. All night long the work went on. Some with lanterns were searching among the dead for the wounded and bringing them in; others dressing the wounds. No one was idle. The utmost of strength and energy must be put forth at such a time.

But the quartermaster must make his accounts all right, and of course had to enter complaint against Mother Bickerdyke. She was summoned to meet the charge, which she did when she found time to go.

“Mrs. Bickerdyke, you are charged with taking quartermaster’s stores without proper orders and over his protest.”

“Who ordered the tents put up on the college grounds?”

“I did.”

“What were they put up for?”

“To shelter the wounded men, of course.”

“Did you expect these wounded men to lie on the ground?”

“You should have obtained orders.”

“I had no time to go for orders. Why didn’t you order in the hay and the cotton?”

“I did not think of it.”

“Well, I did, and used all I needed; and now all you have to do is to draw an order for them and give it to the quartermaster.”

She bade the officers good-day and returned to her work, and no one thought of arresting her. Indeed, she had the best of the argument.

Mrs. Mary A. Bickerdyke, or “Mother Bickerdyke” as the boys used to call her, was one of the most energetic and faithful workers of the war. Her fidelity to duty, and her untiring efforts for the comfort of the sick and wounded, have endeared her to her co-laborers and to the old soldiers whom she blessed. She now, 1894, lives in quiet and comfort with her son, Professor Bickerdyke, Russell, Kan.

A FIGHTING EDITOR.

In the spring of 1861, Dr. Charles Elliott edited _The Central Christian Advocate_, in the third story of a business block in St. Louis, Mo.

_The Southern Christian Advocate_, which represented the views of the South, was at the time published in the second story of the same building.

The two editors, who had always been personally friendly to each other, were wide apart on the great question of disunion, which was stirring the hearts of the people.

Dr. Elliott was a genial Irishman of great ability and courage. He was one of the most learned men in the country. It is a remarkable fact that he had never been in a college until he was chosen president of one of the finest Western institutions of learning, yet he was master of all the highest university studies taught. Sanscrit, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, German, Spanish, and many other languages, were as familiar to him as the English, and he was profoundly versed in the natural sciences and mathematics. He was a thorough scholar, and made a good college president. But the church needed a strong, loyal man, with the courage to stand for the truth, at this outpost; and Dr. Elliott was chosen.

Both editors were able and fearless men, and they fought many a hard battle with their pens before the bombardment of Fort Sumter. After the fall of Sumter, the excitement in St. Louis ran high. The city was about evenly divided in sentiment, and no one dared to predict what a day or an hour would bring forth. The Stars and Stripes, symbolizing the Union cause, and the State flag, representing the disunion cause, floated here and there side by side on adjoining buildings. The two editors grew more intense in feeling as the conflict deepened. Dr. Elliott’s strong, masterly arraignment of the South for the crime of slavery, and his cutting sarcasm over secession, were almost unbearable to the managers of the other paper, and the latter tried to pay him back with interest; but at first neither one actually unfurled on the building the banner which represented his principles.