My friend Mary Blackmar, a medical student, enlisted as nurse, that she might serve her year in the field work with its wider experience, instead of in some regular city hospital. A year after the war she graduated from the Woman’s Medical College, in Philadelphia, and assisted for a year in the dispensary with those wonderful pioneer women doctors Mary and Elizabeth Blackwell, in New York City. Miss Blackmar married, and finally, owing to ill health, was obliged to live in Florida, where she still practises medicine as Doctor Mary Blackmar Bruson.
In the winter of 1909 I found a little notice in the newspaper stating that Doctor Elizabeth Blackwell was still living near London at ninety years of age. About the same time I met a gentleman of my native city whose father (this name has escaped me) was the first reputable doctor to hold consultation with these remarkable women. This required courage, for at that time women doctors were considered bold intruders, “unsexed”—whatever that may mean—and why? Because they thought that it was time for women to know something about their own bodies and diseases.
MARY BLACKMAR
One morning Miss Blackmar, quite excited, her dark eyes dancing with pleasure, ran into my tent exclaiming, “O, Colonel” (meaning me) “such a beautiful girl is in camp, you must see her! I don’t know how she got here; but I can’t stop a moment, I must run back to my patients.”
Soon after, a graceful blonde was sent to us from headquarters to be entertained. She stated that, though English, she was in Edinboro when the news reached her that her brother was wounded at City Point, and she lost no time in sailing on the first vessel to America, where, perhaps owing to her good looks and persistence she succeeded in reaching our hospital. Meanwhile the brother had returned to his regiment, the Thirty-seventh Wisconsin, before Petersburg. I found means, however, to communicate with him, and in a few hours he pulled rein at our tent, having ridden many miles without a halt.
It soon developed that he was something more than a brother; though the girl claimed that this dashing, handsome young Englishman, Captain Robert Eden, was an adopted brother. He often got leave of absence that he might spend an hour with his fiancée, Miss Annie Bain, who became our friend and companion and, though taking no part in our work, remained with us during some months.
About this time our hospitality was taxed still further. An orderly brought a pleasant-looking woman and presented a note from Hospital Headquarters which read—“Please entertain Miss Mason, who is on her way South by ‘flag of truce’…. She is secesh. Watch her.”
Miss Mason remained a few days, and went South by first detachment of paroled rebel patients without any incident of interest.