On the 29th of May, left Port Royal with a fleet of seventy-five vessels bound for White House, on the Pamunkey, where the wounded were now to be sent. Vessels loaded with troops for the front were continually meeting us, far outnumbering those we had sent home weighed down with the wounded “soldiers of the Republic.” As they pass, all were cheering heartily; no note of despondency, as they came within sound of the conflict.
The evening of the 30th, landed at White House; found Gen. Butler’s command here, on their way to the front; within twelve hours, some of his wounded were brought back; and from that date, much more rapidly than tents could be erected to shelter them, they were sent on. Day and night the interminable trains continued, bringing thousands of wounded men, with the dust and smoke of battle yet upon them. Acres of ground were soon covered with bleeding, mangled men, who had so lately stood unflinching mid the storm of rebel shot and shell; now as bravely they endured suffering, while needing every comfort—thousands not even shielded from the burning sun.
The work of waiting upon them continued uninterruptedly, all resting in turn; sleep was almost impossible, as every spot of ground was covered, close up to the canvas, with soldiers who had crept there for shelter. Our duties were many and various: the preparation of food and drinks, directing and overseeing our diet kitchen, occasionally busy for hours among the wounded.
One morning as I came out of our tent very early, before the bustle of the day had commenced, a soldier came walking feebly, leaning upon a comrade’s shoulder, and inquired: “Would I dress his arm? it was untouched since first bandaged upon the field, and he knew was in offensive, bad condition, filled with creeping life!” The man said truly, it looked bad; and I shrank from the task, but persevered until it was nicely cleansed and dressed. Then with a clean “Sanitary shirt,” the sufferer was delighted and happy, and overwhelming in his thanks. The sincere, heartfelt gratitude of those for whom such trifling services were rendered was ample recompense. Their earnest words of thanks were often more than could be borne—destroying, for the moment, the composure which was all-important. As the work of attending to that soldier went on, hundreds of others, reclining upon the ground, were intently watching the process.
Eager for their turn, one after another came slowly up, with the same query from all: “Would the lady dress their wound?” A rough-looking Irishman among the number, having a fearful-looking wound in his head, said “he could bear any pain I gave him, if the doctors did not dress it;”—while in the midst of it, one of our best and most experienced surgeons made his appearance; observing what was going on, came to my relief, and, to the utter dismay of the poor fellow, took the sponge out of my hand to show me how much too tenderly and carefully the work was done; at every movement of the sponge in his hand, the soldier’s head bent and shrank beneath the touch, but not one word of complaint escaped him; as the doctor moved away, his thanks were not for the kindness shown him, but that he was gone, and that my unskillful hands would now finish. At this hour the regular dressers commenced their work, and the one who had usurped their office gladly disappeared among the heaps of edibles which filled the shelter nearest us.
Our “diet kitchen” was almost entirely supplied from the Sanitary Commission: it seems almost incredible the amount consumed in one day: on the 3d of June, two thousand were fed from that establishment. The working force consisted of eight soldiers; each had his allotted place, and knew the duties required of him. Caldrons of soup were quickly made: using essence of beef as the foundation, adding to it canned meats and vegetables, hard tack, or corn starch. The capacity of the caldrons varied from thirty to sixty gallons, and during these exciting times they were pushed to their utmost. There were men to act as “hewers of wood and drawers of water;” others whose work was to open the cans, which, as fast as emptied, were thrown into a barrel—and picked up directly by the soldiers to be used as tin-cups for their soup, coffee, etc. Tubs and buckets of milk-punch and lemonade were always in readiness. Apart from the eatables, one corner was appropriated to crutches, arm-slings, bandages, etc.; these were given, and fitted as required. They were clothed, bathed, fed; all hurried, continued work, making it impossible to give an exact account of even one day’s labor. This day’s notes end with: “Gave my only straw pillow to a wounded zouave, Sergeant Beecher, from Connecticut; his thanks were enough to make my sleep sweet without it.”
The 5th of June, Mr. Schall came, bringing the body of his brother, Col. Edwin Schall, to be embalmed. He fell at Cold Harbour on the 3d of June, shot through the neck. Connected with this gallant officer’s death is an incident so singular that it is worthy of record: Sunday, the 7th of June, in the Officers’ Hospital in Georgetown, my niece was sitting by her husband’s bedside, watching the passing away of a life now near its close. As the things of earth receded, and another world dawned upon his gaze, the lamp of life flickered and flashed in this its closing scene. Suddenly rousing up, his voice, which had previously been faint and feeble, rang out in a clear, loud tone: “Lieutenant, lieutenant!” A wounded lieutenant lying near him answered: “What is it, captain?” He replied: “I’m not calling you, it is Lieut.-Col. Schall; I saw him fall, and thought the way he was lying perhaps he was dead.” His wife soothed him, telling him “the colonel was all right;” and he sank exhausted on his pillow. But in a few moments called in the same tone: “Lieutenant, lieutenant!” repeating again the same words, that “he had seen him fall,” etc. Again he was soothed to quietness. Fully conscious that death was near, the brave soldier, in a few earnest, never-to-be-forgotten words, sent home the message, that he “gave his life freely for his country.” Then commending his soul to God, and committing wife and children to the same loving care, in two hours peacefully passed to that land “where there is no more sorrow, or sickness, or pain.” In Captain Bisbing’s death, two homes were made desolate; he was an only child; to the home circle of wife and children an irreparable loss, whose sorrows we do not presume to dwell upon. When Mrs. B. returned with her husband’s body to their home, she then first learned that the colonel had fallen—as the captain described—two days previously. His body also was brought home for burial, and interred the day preceding the captain’s funeral.
June the 7th, wounded still pouring in; frequently orders would be sent to us to prepare to feed a train of wounded five miles in length. I do not know how accurate that estimate may have been, but it seemed to us as though they never would end. Upon each arrival of the wagons, would be found some who had gone to their final rest during the roughness of the way,—suffering alone in the midst of so much misery, without any of the kind words and tender ministrations which we, at home, love to lavish upon those who we know are entering into the “dark valley.”
One of our party, while distributing food and drink at night, noticed a corporal’s arm over the side of the ambulance, and offered to him a cup of punch; finding another hand stretched out for it, called, “that is for the corporal;” the reply was, “he has been dead for hours.”
Many, of necessity, were buried by the roadside, or wherever they chanced to be; but when practicable, the bodies were brought on and interred in our little cemetery—making this desolate land truly “sacred soil.” The site selected was just without the intrenchments, near the burial-ground of the Peninsular campaign: in it the graves remain as they were left two years previous; some few inscriptions still legible. Major D. H. Von Valkenburg, 1st New York Artillery, killed May 31st, 1862, was the only officer’s grave to be seen. The inscription on a head-board, at the grave of a sergeant, was re-cut by a comrade on the second anniversary of his death.