Part 9

We took our position on the battlements of Fort Hill, where we had a full view of the city and surrounding country. The point where we stood had been more sharply contested than any other. The fort had been undermined and blown up; and amid the confusion and disaster that buried a hundred or more in its ruins, an attempt had been made to scale the fort and enter the city. Before the dust of the explosion had cleared away a hand-to-hand battle was raging, and hand-grenades were being tossed as freely as balls on a playground, which exploded with great destruction. The roar of battle had raged again and again about that fort, but now all was calm and still at the dawning of this day of peace. As far as we could see, the muskets were stacked, and white handkerchiefs were fluttering above them. The Confederate and Union soldiers stood along the lines in groups, talking as friendly as though they had never exchanged shot with intent to kill. But there was no loud talking--all seemed to feel that it was a moment of deep solemnity.

At last the stillness was broken by the tramp of horsemen; and General Grant, with his staff of officers following, passed near us and honored us with a military salute,--not with guns, but that peculiar and graceful lifting the right hand, open, to the full length of the arm, with a graceful wave, and touching the cap,--a salute we never see in civil life, unless some old soldier forgets himself. Following close upon these came General McPherson and his staff. General McPherson was the most kingly looking man on horseback I ever saw. In personal appearance he was a prince among men at any time; but on this glad morning he seemed to be grander and taller under the enthusiasm and flush of victory than ever before. General Logan followed with his staff and his division on foot.

We stood there with our field-glasses in our hands, watching them as they marched down into the city. There was a long halt. They approached each other forming into long double columns, then we saw, opposite the blue, the gray forming into lines. Every eye was strained to take in the scene. There was a movement forward of officers, the flash in the bright sunlight of swords as they were handed over to the conquerors, and _then handed back_; for General Pemberton and his staff were allowed to carry their swords, and enjoy the freedom of the city. They had conducted an honorable warfare and must not be humiliated.

But now there was another point of interest. The Confederate flag had floated over the Court House tower through all these months of conflict, but the Stars and Stripes was now to take its place. Soon a little glinting of our loved flag came into view. But what could be the matter? Surely a tangle in the ropes could be adjusted in a few minutes. All stood in breathless anxiety. Such a delay at such a time was startling, and every moment seemed an hour to those who were watching from a distance. At last with rapid sweep the Stars and Stripes was run up to the top of the staff, and a heaven-sent breeze unfurled it to our delighted eyes.

What a burst of enthusiasm greeted it. We waved our handkerchiefs, while men who had faced the cannon’s mouth for the flag sobbed in their wild joy, and flung their caps into the air. But the Confederate soldiers, as far as we could see, stood with folded arms, silent, motionless. And yet with all our gladness that the guns had ceased to belch forth their murderous fire, there was a deep, fathomless undertone of sorrow over the cruel, bloody work of red-handed war, that the glad acclaim of triumph and victory could not drown.

HEALED SOUL AND BODY.

In 1863, just after the fall of Vicksburg, I visited the hospitals in Helena, Ark. Going into a large ward one day, filled with sick and wounded soldiers, I saw in the farthest corner of the room a very sick man. I noticed him the more because he was looking towards me, and there was upon his face such a look of agony and despair as I had never seen on any human face before, and I trust I may never see again. I said to the surgeon, who had stepped in with me,--

“You have one very sick man here.” And when I designated him, he answered, “Yes, he is almost gone; poor fellow, he’ll not live long.” I said no more,--my heart was too deeply touched,--but went directly to him. As I approached his cot-side, I said tenderly, “You seem to be very sick, my friend.” The look of agony deepened in his face as he answered,--

“_My friend!_ I have no friend. I am here dying among strangers, and nobody cares whether I live or die.”

“Oh, don’t say that. You have many friends in the North;” and I was going to say, “I’ll be your friend,” but I remembered how empty such a profession of friendship would be on the part of a stranger, and instead, I said, “There is a _Friend_ that sticketh closer than a brother. Can’t you make Jesus your friend in this dark hour?”

When I spoke the name of Jesus, he cried aloud,--

“Oh! would that Jesus were my friend; but I am a great sinner.”

“But Jesus is the sinner’s friend.”

“O lady! you don’t know what a wretched sinner I am, to what lengths of wickedness I’ve run, or you would not think that Jesus could save me.”

But I answered, “You don’t know what a great Saviour we have, or you would not doubt. He is the mighty God, and he is able to save to the uttermost; and that means that _he can save you_.”

“It is too late. It is too late!” he cried with such bitterness of soul that the men lying upon their cots--brave young men, who bore in their own persons the marks of their heroism--covered their faces with their bedclothes, and wept like little children.

But I urged that it was not too late, and commenced telling him of the thief on the cross; but he stopped me.

“Oh, I know about the thief on the cross; but, lady, I am a thousand times worse than the thief on the cross.”

“If you were _ten thousand times worse, Jesus could save you_; for he can save to the _uttermost_.”

These words gave hope, and he exclaimed, “Pray for me!”

I knelt by his cot-side; and while he prayed and I pleaded, “the opening heaven around us shone,” and the mighty power of saving grace came down upon his soul.

The tempest was stilled, and all was _peace_. I looked up into his face to see, that in a moment--as it were, in the twinkling of an eye--all the lines of despair had been taken out of his face, and that it was beaming with joy; a joy unspeakable, and full of glory.

If I had been an infidel up to that time, it seems to me that I should have been convicted of the truth of Christianity in that presence.

There were many witnesses to that scene; and it was as though the Master would show his mighty saving power, for _he healed that man soul and body_. My secretary was with me. Three days from that time I found him on the shady side of the house reading the Testament I had given him the day before. The same look of peace and joy was in his face, as he said,--

“Oh, I am so happy this morning! I have a _furlough_, and I am going home. How glad my Christian mother will be to know that I have found salvation.”

“Young man,” I said, “wherever you go, remember that you were snatched as a brand from the burning.”

“I can never forget that. My disease and despair were crushing me down. I must have died if salvation had not come just then; but when you _spoke the name of Jesus_, I knew you were a Christian, and that you would help me if you could.”

THE NEW YORK HERALD REPORTER WHO LIVED FOR TWO WORLDS.

Two weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg, I took passage on a steamer for the North. Just before the boat left the wharf, a gentleman whom I knew came on board in company with a sick friend, whom he introduced as Mr. Brown, “Correspondent of the _New York Herald_.” I was so weary with the scenes of war, with the heat and hard labor which had been the common lot of all workers during the siege, that I did not want to talk to any one, much less to a “_Herald_ reporter.” He was sick, and was going home for a season of rest, so he said. How deceptive appearances are. I set him down at once as a drinking man, because his face was flushed and his eyes red; and I determined to be as unsocial as possible. I did not see him again till evening, when he came back into the ladies’ cabin and began social conversation.

I determined our talk should be religious, and soon introduced the subject. He had remarked that we were making headway, and would probably reach Helena by eight o’clock the next morning. But he said, “of course there are dangers on every side--sand-bars, snags, and guerillas. _So we can’t tell where we will be in the morning._”

“It matters little,” I answered, “to those who live for two worlds. We have the promise that everything shall work together for good to those who love God.”

“I believe that, and am living for both worlds,” he responded heartily. Then began one of the most interesting conversations that it has ever been my privilege to engage in. He was a most deeply pious man, and through all the army life had walked with God.

As the evening wore on, conversation turned upon heaven, and the joys and privileges of the redeemed. I remember how his face glowed with holy enthusiasm as we talked of heaven. He contrasted the noisy, horrid scenes of war with the peace and sweet harmony of that world of light and love. He said, “I am prepared for such a blessed change of scenes at any moment.”

The evening was now well-spent, and bidding him good-night I retired to my stateroom. The next morning when I stepped out into the ladies’ cabin, I found the captain of the boat waiting for me.

“Did you know the gentleman you were talking with last evening?”

“Yes, slightly.”

“He is dead.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes, he is dead and cold; he must have died immediately after retiring. The gentleman who occupied the lower berth noticed his arm hanging down over the side of the berth when he went to retire, and spoke to him, but he made no answer; and this morning his arm was just in the same position.”

Yes, he was dead. He had gone from that talk about heaven right into the grandeur and glory of all its blessed mysteries. How thankful I was that our conversation had been about Christian duty and heaven!

My thoughts turned quickly to the widowed mother and the sisters so well beloved; for he had spoken of them all most tenderly. We were now nearing Helena, where he must be taken ashore and buried. He had died of heart disease; and it was that, not drink, which made his face so flushed.

I wrote to his mother, who lived in Lancaster, Pa., telling her all I could recall of our talk about God, duty, heaven, and all the circumstances of our brief acquaintance and his death.

One of his sisters answered my letter, for his mother was quite prostrated by the shock the news of his death had given her.

She said they were looking for his home-coming every hour, when the sad message that he was dead and buried reached them. But the sister’s faith rose triumphantly above it all.

“We all thank God for the loving providence which cast our dear one in the pathway of a Christian who directed his thoughts and hopes heavenward at the last. It is a great comfort to us that his faith was so bright and clear, and that his last thoughts on earth were about heaven.”

I HAVE THE BEST MOTHER IN THE WORLD.

The thunder of the cannon had ceased at Vicksburg. The artillery and heavy guns of two great armies were idle and silent; and although more than one hundred thousand men of war, the conquerors and the conquered, were in and about the fallen city, it was as quiet and orderly as a country village. Only the day before, July 4, 1863, I had stood with friends on Fort Hill and witnessed the surrender; but now, July 5, duty and conscience led me into the hospitals where the sick and wounded of the Confederate army were quartered. The hospitals were in a wretched condition because of lack of supplies, and some of the sufferers had been lying through all the long siege.

The battle was always on. Night and day the thunder of the guns and the bursting of shells made night hideous and the day a terror. Every nerve had been for weeks on the rack--in the battle, and yet unable to lift a hand for defence. Almost every hospital had been riddled with shells, and any moment the end might come to any one of them. But now all was quiet. As I passed through the various hospitals distributing supplies, I noticed a boy looking wistfully toward me. I went directly to him. As I took his hand in my own, and looked into his fair frank face, I felt that any mother might be proud of such a boy.

“Have you a mother?” I asked. Instantly his great brown eyes filled with tears, as he answered,

“Yes, madam, I have the best mother in the world.”

His answer pleased me greatly, there was so much of heart and earnestness in it.

“Where does your mother live?”

He mentioned the name of the village near Mobile, Alabama.

“Are you sure she is living there now?”

“Yes, she owns a place in the country near the village. There is nowhere else for her to live.”

“Would you like to have me write a letter to her about you?”

“You couldn’t do it--it wouldn’t get through the lines.”

“Yes, I can send it. I often send letters. I send them through the commanding general when a flag of truce passes.”

“Oh, if you can, do have pity on my poor mother! She is such a good mother. She said to me when I was leaving her: ‘Now, my child, do the best you can. Whatever may happen, be good and true. Don’t swear or drink or forget your mother. Remember your mother is praying for you, and God may have compassion on us and bring you back to me again.’ Oh, if you could only let her know that I’m alive, and that I’ve been good and true, I should be so glad,” and at this last outburst the tears ran down over his face.

I took the directions, and consulted the physician as to his condition; and that night, before I slept in my new quarters, in a house that had been assigned me in Vicksburg, I wrote to the mother about as follows:--

“DEAR MADAM,--I found your son in Vicksburg [giving his name, company, and regiment]. He was severely wounded in the battle outside of Vicksburg, and was carried into the city.

His condition is now hopeful. The surgeons tell me he will recover. He desires me to tell you that he has been good and true, and has never violated your injunctions.

Though we may differ on the great questions that have led to this terrible war, I feel it to be my duty as a mother and a Christian to let you know about your son, and that he still lives.

He will be moved to a Northern hospital; but you can reach him with home news by writing to my office, Sanitary Commission, St. Louis, Mo. I will arrange with him to notify me each time he changes hospitals. You must send your letter unsealed. Write briefly. Say nothing about the war or condition of affairs in the South or North, and I think you will reach me.”

The next day I drove over to General Grant’s headquarters with that and some other letters, and gave them to him as I had often done before, to send through the lines. In a very short time I had an answer from the mother. This was her reply:--

“DEAR LADY,--My eyes are full of tears of joy as I write. Your letter made a rift in the black clouds of sorrow that have hung over us for weeks. It was like a beam of heavenly glory from the Throne. At first it seemed too good to believe; but the name and company and regiment are all right, and it must be so. Your letter found us all dressed in black. I thought I had reliable news that my boy was killed outside of Vicksburg, and I did not hope even to find his grave.

Now we are all dressed in white.”

Then followed some family news, and she closed with the following sentence:--

“Give my love to my dear boy, and tell him we are praying for him; and be assured, dear lady, when we pray for him, we will pray for you--that you may be kept safely through all the dangers of this cruel war.”

Frequent letters were sent by the mother, and I kept track of the boy and answered them.

The last time I saw him was just before the close of the war. He was well and strong, but was a prisoner in Camp Douglass, near Chicago, Ill. I hope he reached his home and mother safely.

SEARCHING FOR THE DEAD.

A lady from Philadelphia searched for days over the wide battle-field of Shiloh for the grave of her only child--a bright, beautiful, Christian boy, only eighteen. A detail of men was sent from the regiment to help search for the grave. She was quartered on our Sanitary boat, and I went with her. “They are all buried side by side--all we could find of our regiment,” said the sergeant who had charge of the squad of men sent out to help us search. We scattered, keeping in sight of each other, and in calling distance, and searched thoroughly; but it was not till the second day that we found the grave.

The mother found it first of all. The name was written with a pencil on a bit of board at the head. She gave a call, and waved her handkerchief, and then fell on her knees, with her arms over the mound of earth above her boy. He was all she had on earth; for he was the only child of his mother, and she was a widow. As we gathered about the grave, and saw her frail form convulsed by the sobs of agony she tried to conceal, the roughest and bravest of the men turned away to hide their tears. “He was a good soldier; a good Christian; we had few like him in the regiment,” were the kindly comments that were made by his companions in arms. As I lifted her away from the grave, her eyes, though full of tears, caught sight of a passion flower at the edge of the mound.

She plucked it and took it away as a keepsake, saying, “God is good to give me this token of his own love and passion.” The body was to be taken up and placed in the burial-case she had brought for the purpose. They did not wish her to see it. Officers came and tried to dissuade her. No, she must see him.

“No matter how mangled, I shall know him; and I must know that it is my son.”

And she had her way. He was brought up; and when the blanket which was his only coffin was unrolled, there he was as natural as life.

She clipped a few locks from his wealth of brown hair, and kneeling by her dead, thanked God that he had given her back the body of her son, and for the hope that animated her that they should meet again in heaven. If by any possibility these lines should fall under the eyes of that lady, whose name I have forgotten, she will recognize the story, and I am sure she will be glad to renew the acquaintance with the strange lady who helped her find her boy’s grave.

VERY TIMELY ARREST.

When the lines of battle were near Corinth, Miss., hearing of a hospital at some little distance from the town, I determined to visit it, taking supplies and delicacies with me. Two ladies accompanied me. The driver of the ambulance, who assumed to know all about the roads, and just where to find that hospital, and who had a splendid team of horses, drove us off in good style.

After we had been _en route_ for some time, going at a rapid pace, I questioned the driver, “Are you sure you are on the right road; it seems to me we have come a long way?”

“Oh, yes; I know the road very well.”

“I wonder what those men are running after,” remarked one of the ladies of the company.

It did really seem that men were springing up out of the ground. They were running after us and waving their hands; but the steady, heavy tramp of the feet of our horses drowned their voices; and we failed to hear the oft-repeated command, “Halt!” “Halt!” which came from every direction.

“Just look back! There are a lot of men on horseback coming at full speed,” said one of the ladies.

It was only a moment before the foremost rider was near us, and he thundered out in tones I shall never forget, “Halt!”

Our driver reined in his horses. “Turn your ambulance back as quickly as you can, you fool! You are driving right into the enemy’s camp.”

The driver whipped up his horses and retreated at a gallop, but not until the Confederate sharpshooters had begun to send their bullets flying after the men who had come to our rescue. Some of the missiles came dangerously near to the little ambulance company. The cans and bundles which had been placed upon the seats with so much care, and held with our outstretched hands, now went tumbling into a common heap on the floor, and before the race was over two of us were down on top of them. When we were at a safe distance from the enemy, the horsemen riding near us, a halt was called, and we gathered ourselves up and tried to look respectable after such a rough and tumble ride.

A captain rode round in front, and in a tone which made the cold shivers creep along the spinal column, demanded, “Who is in charge of this ambulance?”

“I am,” I answered with all the self-composure I could command at that instant.

“And so you were trying to reach the lines of the enemy with supplies and this good team and a Union soldier?”