The morning of the 17th, the men still short of rations, and trouble threatening, the Sanitary Commission gave them the pork and “hard tack,” with coffee, which had been provided in case of need. This restored peace and order again. Soon after we came up with the rest of the fleet; anchored below Fort Powhatan; an order was sent to the supply-boat for rations, and no further difficulty occurred. Here we were detained while Gen. Grant was crossing with his army to the south side of the James River. The pontoon bridges upon which they passed were the objects upon which all eyes were fastened. The roads leading to the river could be traced by the clouds of dust which hung heavily over them. This was the second time we had seen that grand army moving in “battle array.” In the evening signal lights were seen flashing upon the hill-tops and from their camping grounds; the shipping was beautifully illuminated with various-colored lanterns; and though in the midst of war, the river, with its numerous lights, had a gay, holiday look.
On the 18th of June the pontoons were removed, and we pass on up the James; at 1 P.M. landed at City Point; the town filled with wounded. In the evening, walked through the dust two miles to the site selected for the hospital, which is a wheat-field on the Appomattox. The continued heavy firing near Petersburg plainly heard. A few tents were arranged for the surgeons, nurses, etc., and in refreshing sleep all else was soon forgotten.
In the morning, our rations were very scanty—we had but the remains of what we brought with us from White House. Before a stove could be had, or caldrons in readiness, those who were slightly wounded came straggling in; soon the number increased; and then trains came in sight, and were unloaded upon the ground. Battle-smoked and scarred, dusty, weary, and hungry, the poor fellows came—looking longingly at anything to eat; from early morning until late at night, the scene was the same as White House—thronged with wounded; the worst cases sheltered in tents, the others lying upon the now trodden wheat. It was impossible, with the few conveniences at hand, to prepare food for all that number. The night was far advanced before we were ready for the rest we so much needed, and then retire, with wounded and dying men lying upon the ground close to our tent. How heartless it sounds, at home, to sleep under such circumstances!
The next day, commenced 5 A.M. Nothing before us all the day but wounded; wounded men at every step you take. Three times that day we fed six hundred men (when the number is given we know it to be accurate, as it is taken from the morning-report at headquarters), not counting the stragglers who received a cup of soup, farina, or crackers, as the need might be.
The first boat-load sent off to-day; June 20th; but others directly fill their places. All that makes endurable this voluntary life of toil, and saddening scenes, is the simple fact that we know some lives are brightened by the care we strangers give to sick or wounded men. Every train brings with it cases of especial interest: one man, as he was lifted from the ambulance, almost with his parting breath, gave his name, company, and regiment; and then slept, to wake no more to pain and agony. Upon the ground lay a little French boy, so low he could scarcely speak; as I quietly sponged, with cool water, his face and hands, his lips quivered, and from his firmly-closed eyes tears were slowly trickling; perhaps it may have reminded him of a mother or sister’s care, in the far-off land of his birth.
The weather is now intensely warm, June 24th. Clouds of dust fill the air; and though the hospital is some distance from the traveled road to the front, yet by four o’clock the rows of tents which stand but a few yards from us are obscured, and the river, about one square distant, is invisible.
The Sanitary Commission, with the consent and approval of the “authorities,” again select the spot for the cemetery, and continue to superintend its arrangements and the burial of the dead. During the past week, two hundred have come to this “silent city;” two hundred were sent North to-day, all “walking cases,” as the surgeons say; but such walkers are not often seen outside of a field hospital. I happened to be passing as the sad procession came in sight; of course stopped to give them a kind word, and say good-by. As the motley-looking crowd, in their hospital uniform of shirt and drawers,—a few wearing caps and shoes, many without either,—came near, the first sentences I heard were from the “advance guard,” the best walkers of the party, who shouted: “Here we come, reinforcements for Grant.” Another calls: “Keep step; left, left.” “We are the cripple brigade,” said his comrade with the crutch. “This is war,” in a sadder tone, from a faint-looking corporal, as he feebly passed by. Some too ill even to raise their eyes, move slowly, painfully on, step by step, through the burning sand to the boat. Many who are really unfit, start to walk, as they say, imagining they will get home sooner. The stretcher-bearers bring up the rear, to pick up those who fall exhausted by the way.
The next day, two hundred bad cases were sent: two of the number were soon carried up again from the boat, wrapped in their blankets, signifying that they had “fought their last battle,” and were now ready to be laid beside their fellow-soldiers in the cemetery. They died upon the wharf, while waiting to be carried on the boat.
The contrabands have been coming to the hospital in large numbers, for protection, for some days past; in their hasty flight, they pick up the very articles we would think they did not need—probably leaving what would be useful. A group of fifty just passed, well loaded: one with a bed upon his shoulders; another, a box as large as he was; many of the women carrying cooking utensils; a little fellow, of six or eight, wearing a gentleman’s coat, the skirts sweeping the ground, a stove-pipe hat upon his head,—the style of twenty years ago,—and, above all, a huge cotton umbrella! Many of the young girls wore flounced silk dresses, evidently “confiscated” from missus’s wardrobe. Their arrival quite enlivened the hospital; they were in every direction greeted with continued shouts, which mark of attention seemed gratifying to them. Rations are furnished them by government, and tents supplied for their use; all who wish to remain are employed in some way, the rest are sent to Washington.
July 4th, all the North expecting some great battle or success, while here it is so quiet that it seems almost like a real Sunday. Salutes are heard from every quarter in honor of the day; and at the front, the “Petersburg Express” sent its compliments into the town, at intervals of fifteen minutes, to remind them of the day we celebrate. This morning Dr. C...., of Massachusetts, told me of a young soldier in his ward that he knew must die; while attending to him, dressing his wound, the man inquired in a cool, calm manner: “Doctor, what is to be the result, life or death?” The doctor hesitated a moment, and said: “There is one chance in ten that you may live.” He was quiet for a little while, then, with a bright, beaming smile, replied: “Better than that, doctor; God is good!” “Well, my boy,” answered the surgeon, “that chance is the best.” He has all the care that can be given him; but with a wounded, fractured thigh, the doctor says the “chance” is even less than he stated.