While the army rested in the vicinity of Sharpsburg, in addition to the wounded, scores of fever-patients came pouring in; some new regiments went down by hundreds. About this time the wounded were gathered up from the numerous scattering hospitals, and sent to “Smoketown” or “Frederick City.” As the short supply of medicine, food, and clothing continued, we left, when the party of six went home. Going directly to Philadelphia, came to the house of a relative as the wedding-party of a dear friend was about proceeding to the church; with the family, we stood around the chancel, as our beloved Bishop Potter pronounced the words which made the twain one; and then, as the guests returned to the house, for a few moments mingled with the crowd. But think of the contrast! Only yesterday walking among, and waiting upon the mangled, brave defenders of our country’s flag; men who were in want of suitable food, lying upon the hard ground; needing beds, pillows, clothing, covering,—is it any wonder that I turned away, sick at heart, coldly calculating how many lives of noble men might have been saved with the lavish abundance of the wedding festivities which I saw? Of the wedding, I knew nothing more; but quietly withdrew to an upper room. From thence sent notes, imploring help for the wounded, to friends throughout the city: so prompt and abundant was the response, that in forty-eight hours we were on our way back to Antietam, with boxes of medical stores, valued at one thousand dollars. Delicacies, clothing, etc., all selected to meet the wants as we represented. We were again most warmly welcomed by our friends, the surgeons, under whose direction our labors had heretofore been carried on. The supplies, as they said, were in many instances a perfect “Godsend,” as we had articles which it was impossible to obtain there. This time, our location was a better one, near the Lutheran church, occupying part of a house devoted to fever-patients. A narrow entry separated our room from the one where twenty men laid upon the floor. Here, in one corner, was a graduate of Yale College; his opposite neighbor, a young lawyer, from near Pittsburg, who was an only son; next to him, upon the floor, the son of a Presbyterian clergyman; the rest of the occupants, Eastern and Western men, indiscriminately mingled. All privates. But all, far superior to the same number from any portion of the rebel ranks that I have ever seen.
The next house was filled in like manner: soon after we came, and before the names and faces of the men were familiar, I went there, carrying some nourishing food. A Pittsburg colonel had just requested that I would find some of his regiment, if possible, that he could not trace. As I opened the door, and asked, “Are there any from Pennsylvania here?” a number replied in the affirmative; but the one nearest me sank back gloomily upon his handful of straw, murmuring: “Well, as I am from Massachusetts, I suppose that means that we are not to have any of that nice supper.” I quickly corrected his mistake, and explaining my errand, told them the supper was for all: there could be no distinction of States, where all the soldiers needed care. Thus early was I taught a lesson I never forgot.
It was but a few days until they were all moved into our house, and this same Massachusetts soldier, Mr. B., was one that required more kindness and attention than any of the others, during the short time he lived. In the same room was Jim C., a boy of nineteen, belonging to the 32d Massachusetts Vols.; he had been very ill with fever, but was thought convalescent; but owing to some imprudence, there was a relapse, and he sank rapidly. When he knew there was no hope of his recovery, his greatest comfort seemed to be to have the Scriptures read to him; recognizing my voice, called: “Oh, pray for me! I have sinned, have sinned; but I repent, and 'believe in God the Father,’” etc. “Jim, who taught you the Creed?” “I don’t know; but I want to say it all;” so it was repeated with him; and again, with the earnestness of a child, the Lord’s Prayer was uttered. He listened with the closest attention, as different passages were recited to him; and would frequently interrupt the reading, saying: “Yes, I do believe; say that over again.” It was a most affecting sight, the dying boy begging God’s forgiveness of his sins, that he might be “taken up,” as he expressed it; and then his body laid in the earth without a fear. The few days he lingered were all thus spent, and when death was near, almost to the last moment that consciousness remained, and his voice could be heard, prayers for pardon were upon his lips. The evening of the 24th of October, 1862, he suddenly and peacefully died. Early the following morning, wrapped in his blanket, he was given a soldier’s burial in the little church-yard.
“Leave him to God’s watching eye;
Trust him to the hand that made him.”
At this time our valued friend, Mrs. E...., who had been the directing power among the party of six, and who returned with us to Sharpsburg, had unmistakable symptoms of camp fever. She was taken home as quickly as possible; the attack at first seemed a light one, until an unlooked-for relapse brought her within the very shadow of the “dark valley,” and she appeared sinking beyond all human skill. But prayers were heard, and answered, and a life so precious spared to be the sunlight of her husband’s home, and a blessing to all around her.
Her sister, “Miss Lizzie,” then came to assist: from this period almost to the close of the war, she was my excellent co-worker. Among the wounded at Antietam, Gettysburg, and in Virginia, her kind ministrations will be long remembered.
The 26th of October the army, which had been resting for more than a month in the vicinity of the battle-field of Antietam, took up its line of march southward; by the evening of the same day their camping-grounds were nearly all vacated. The 30th of the month, the last of the troops were moving, and the town looked deserted; but in the hospitals the duties continue the same, and cases of the deepest interest are daily found. Of the numbers we had known upon our first arrival, many had gone to their “dreamless sleep” by the side of comrades who had early fallen; and we now saw many hillocks in the little inclosures, where a few weeks ago lonely graves were found.
The little hospital in our house continues full. When a soldier dies, his vacant place upon the floor is soon filled by another; and thus the number remains the same. D—g, from Pittsburg, an orphan, with only an elder brother to grieve for him, was a case that seemed particularly hard. “Leave of absence,” at the right time, might possibly have saved his life; but his furlough came a few hours after death had released the suffering body from sorrow and disappointments.
Mr. B., the Massachusetts soldier, mentioned some time since, was now extremely ill: as I was busied in waiting upon them, one Sunday morning, he inquired if I would write home for him, as he dictated; and replying that I certainly would, he directed me where to find his little writing-case, preferring that his own paper and envelopes should be used, that his wife might recognize his writing upon them. In a calm, composed manner, speaking so clear and distinct that the surgeon involuntarily paused in his work to listen, he gave the parting messages to wife and children; wished a lock of his hair cut for his wife, while he was living; then, taking a ring off his finger, it was inclosed, as he directed, to his little daughter; after disposing of other keepsakes to his children, added: that their likenesses, with his wife’s, that had so often comforted him in hours of sadness, and weary marches, though dimmed with the smoke and dust of battles, would be buried by his side. This was all he had of his distant home—pictures that were so dear, that even when life was gone, they must not be separated from him. Then, giving instructions as to the final disposition of his property, and the education of his children, he commended them, in a few earnest words, to the loving care of their Heavenly Father. As he directed, I closed the letter, and kept it until a few days later, when another was added to it, to say that the patient sufferer was at rest. Death, to him, was not unlooked for, though it came suddenly; as I was reading to him in the evening, he fell asleep, and never more wakened upon earth. In the morning we found his lifeless body, wrapped in his blanket, lying in the entry near our door,—the same resting-place that his fellow-soldiers had found. The first coffin that we knew used in the hospital was made for Mr. B., of rough boards—the remains of our packing-boxes. His request was faithfully carried out, and the pictures placed beneath his folded hands.