September 9th. The first time during the summer, rode as far as Gen. Meade’s headquarters, which is within sight of our fortifications, and within shelling distance of the rebels—if so inclined. Passed, both going and returning, through most fearfully desolate-looking country. Part of it has been beautiful, as the remains of fine orchards and the ruins of large houses testify. Where the families remained in their homes, they were not molested; if the house was vacant, it was certain to be destroyed by the army. Met hundreds of men returning from Northern hospitals to duty; they look well, while those we send to the front are miserable in comparison. Graves scattered by the roadside, and gathered in clusters where hospitals or camps have been located, marking the course of the army. Near a deserted house, the large garden was made a burying-ground: many of its quiet sleepers are, doubtless, mourned for in Northern homes—some whose resting place will never be known.
“From Western plain to ocean tide,
Are stretched the graves of those who died
For you and me.”
My husband’s health, which had not been good during the summer, was now so much affected by the climate, that a change for him was all-important, and he again went North. We remained a few weeks longer, continuing the same routine of duties—varied only by the sad scenes around us.
While in the midst of so much excitement, in the times which form history, we were unconscious of it all: it was our daily life. Now, in these peaceful days, we begin to realize where we have been, and in what we have taken part.
Early in November, we left, expecting to return, after a few weeks’ rest, and resume our position in the corps hospital; but Mr. H.’s health was so much impaired that it was not thought prudent for us to do so until cold weather. With a glimpse of home and its comforts, in three days we again commenced visiting the “Aid Societies” and schools, and continued uninterruptedly until January; during that time, met several thousands.
CHAPTER IV.
First Visit to Annapolis.—Stories of Starved Men.—Burial at Andersonville.—Neely’s Life in the Dungeon of Castle Thunder.—Sergeant Kerker.—Captains Wilson and Shelton in the “Iron Cage,” in Buncombe County, Tenn.—The Boy and the Flag.—Gould’s returning Consciousness.—Mr. Brown in Danville Prison.
In this closing period of the war, and of our labor in the hospitals, comes the darkest, saddest page of all—too terrible to be lightly spoken, and too painful in its remembrances to be dwelt upon any longer than is needful for the connected continuance of the narrative. The inhuman, fiendish treatment of our soldiers in Southern prisons has now become a matter of history, the truthfulness of which cannot be doubted. Would that it could be!