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.