As the soldiers went out from among us, there came the yearning wish to lessen somewhat the hardships of their lonely camp life, especially when sick in hospital or wounded. What each family first began to do for their relatives and friends, soon became general; and thus by uniting together, “Soldiers’ Aid Societies” were formed. With all loyal women of the land, I worked zealously in their behalf; worked, because there was irresistible impulse to do, to act. Anything but idleness, when our armies were preparing for the combat, and we knew not who should be the first to fall, who be called widow, or who fatherless. At length the battle of Antietam came so startlingly near, that it brought before us the horrors and sufferings of war as we had never previously felt it. From our midst six women felt called upon to offer their services, for a few weeks, to nurse the wounded. Though strongly urged to make one of the number, I declined. The idea of seeing and waiting upon wounded men, was one from which I shrank instinctively.
But when my husband returned, soon after, with the sad story that men were actually dying for food, home comforts and home care; lying by the roadside, in barns, sheds, and out-houses; needing everything that we could do for them, I hesitated no longer, but with him went earnestly to work in procuring supplies of food, medicine, and clothing. Through the kindness of friends and neighbors, we were enabled to take with us a valuable supply of articles that were most urgently required. Fortunately they were hurried through without delay, came most opportunely, and were invaluable. The name of Antietam is ever associated in my mind with scenes of horror.
As I passed through the first hospitals of wounded men I ever saw, there flashed the thought—this is the work God has given me to do in this war. To care for the wounded and sick, as sorrowing wives and mothers at home would so gladly do, were it in their power. From the purest motives of patriotism and benevolence was the vow to do so, faithfully, made. It seemed a long time before I felt that I could be of any use—until the choking sobs and blinding tears were stayed; then gradually the stern lesson of calmness, under all circumstances was learned.
We found the men, who had so bravely fought, still scattered over the hardly-contested field. At this time, 6th of October, 1862, they were all under some kind of shelter. A sad want of suitable food and medical stores was still felt; and though both were forwarded as rapidly as possible, yet it was insufficient to relieve the distress.
At that early day in the history of the war, we found our noble United States Sanitary Commission here, doing a vast amount of good. From their store-room were sent, in every direction, supplies to relieve the greatest suffering. And to it, strangers as we were to them, we daily came for articles which we found, in our visits to the hospitals, were most urgently needed, and which our own more limited stores could not furnish. They were as freely given to us for distribution, as they had been in like manner intrusted to them by friends at home. The Montgomery County delegation occupied one room in a house adjoining the “German Reformed Church Hospital.” In this uncomfortable, little place, crowded with boxes and swarming with hospital flies, the six ladies continued their labors during the day, waiting and working faithfully among the wounded. And so dividing their number that part went daily in the ambulance, which was furnished for their use, to look after and prepare food for those in the country that urgently required it, while the remainder attended to the same kind offices for those who were in town. Of the six who at that time volunteered their services, one remained in the hospital for two years; two others, from that date until the close of the war, were known as reliable, valuable helpers.
Added to this fatiguing kind of labor, there seemed no limit to the numbers who came looking after their dead and wounded, the “loved and lost.” From that little room persons were constantly aided in their search for missing friends, food furnished at a time when it was almost impossible to buy at any price, and they directed to lodgings in the town or elsewhere.
Among these was a young wife, whose frantic grief I can never forget. She came hurriedly, as soon as she knew her husband was in the battle, only to find him dead and buried two days before her arrival. Unwilling to believe the fact that strangers told her—how in the early morning they had laid him beside his comrades in the orchard, she still insisted upon seeing him. Accompanying some friends to the spot, she could not wait the slow process of removing the body, but, in her agonizing grief, clutched the earth by handfuls where it lay upon the quiet sleeper’s form. And when at length the slight covering was removed, and the blanket thrown from off the face, she needed but one glance to assure her it was all too true. Then, passive and quiet beneath the stern reality of this crushing sorrow, she came back to our room. The preparations for taking the body to Philadelphia were all made for her, and with his remains she left for her now desolate home.
My imperfect notes of this date are filled with names of terribly wounded men, who are scattered over the entire extent of the field, recalling most vividly scenes that can never be forgotten. Those were fortunate who were in barns, where they were sure of a little hay or straw upon which to rest their shattered limbs, while many of the others lingered a few days, with no bed nor pillow other than a knapsack or piece of clothing. And then—the weary marches over, their last fight ended, they closed their eyes, and sank to rest. Upon one end of the piazza, at Locust Spring, lay Lieut. Williams, of Connecticut. For three weeks he lingered in intense suffering, and then passed from earth. That same piazza had been thickly strewn with the dying, and the wounded, ever since the battle. In the house were several officers, all seriously wounded. The barns were crowded with the sufferers; among them Lieut. Maine, of the 8th Connecticut—nursed by his wife, patient and gentle, while life lasted. In one of the tents was a zouave; a shell had torn his chin and fractured the shoulder; both legs broken; the fingers of one hand partly gone,—yet he is cheerful, and thinks he got off well. Near him lay a young boy, from Union, Centre County, Penna., wounded in the chest badly, but, as his surgeon said, not fatally. His thoughts, sleeping and waking, were of home. He was constantly repeating, “Oh, take me to my mother.” And when I told him that I would do all I could for him, that I knew many persons in Centre County, he brightened up and quickly said: “Then you will take me to my mother.” Of his wound he never seemed to think, but at each visit we saw that he was fast passing beyond our care; and in a few days, repeating, while life lasted, the same words, he “fell asleep,” and so went to his “long home.” In a miserable little log-house near the Potomac, thirty men lay upon the floor, ill with fever; some had a little straw, but no pillows were to be found; at that time it was unavoidable, but their food was hardly fit for well men; medicines very scarce;—this house the counterpart of many others, both as to occupants, food, etc.
On the same road were several places filled with wounded rebels; in their hurried flight, they had been left by thousands, and now had to be provided for. The Episcopal church in the town had also been taken for their use. The rest of the churches, and half the houses in the place, were crowded with our wounded troops.
Going into the hospital one evening, I found, lying upon a stretcher near the door, Wm. P. C., of the 12th New York State Vols., “the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.” To my question, if I could do anything for him, he replied: “Not now; he was waiting for the surgeon to attend to him.” A few hours later, when taken from the operating table, I found him perfectly calm and quiet; after making him as comfortable as could be done for the night, promised to care for him on the morrow. When I first wrote to his mother, it was only to tell her he was wounded. The following day was a decided change for the worse, and he thought he could not live. Even then, it was not upon his own sufferings and death that his mind dwelt, but upon his absent mother and sisters. He would constantly exclaim, “This will kill my mother; oh, break it gently to her.” After messages to them, would ask that some portion of Scripture be read to him, and the prayers which he named repeated with him. Thus occupied, the hours fled too rapidly, as we felt that each moment was precious to him who was upon the brink of that unknown river, whose crossing must be alone. By his lonely bedside, I wept bitter tears for the home so darkened, the light of a mother’s life departed, and the sorrowing sisters of whom he spake. Conscious almost to the moment of his departure, he calmly and trustfully passed “into the spirit land.” Upon the evening of the same day, 13th of October, 1862, with my husband and a lady friend, we accompanied the detachment of his own regiment which carried his body to the grave. In the Lutheran church-yard, with the solemn burial-service of the Episcopal Church, Mr. Holstein committed his remains to the grave. “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” Soon after came the most touching letter of thanks from his sister. I thought then, as I still think, that those kindly words amply repaid me for the little I had done for him, or all I could do, for other soldiers, in the future. A few months afterward we stood again beside his open grave; this time, at the request of his sister, that we should once more look upon the body we had placed there, and know that it was indeed her brother. Painful as it was, her request was complied with to the letter; the body, disinfected, was prepared for reinterment. With my husband as its escort, the homeward journey was taken; at length reached Utica, N. Y., in safety; then, his last request complied with, carried by loving hands to its final resting-place. Again came words of thanks, dearer far to me than any earthly treasure.