Three years in field hospitals of the Army of the Potomac

by Anna M. Holstein

A boy, belonging to the 148th P. V., George S. L...., whose home was in Centre County, Penna., was very low from hemorrhage; his nurse came to ask if I would try to induce him to eat; he had refused all food that had been offered, and it was important that his strength should be kept up: I prepared some article as directed by the surgeon, and took it to him; when I entered the tent, he was lying with closed eyes, and a face colorless as the canvas above him; I spoke, telling him that I came, at the surgeon’s request, to feed him, that he was not to speak or make any exertion—merely swallow what I gave him. The blue eyes opened wide, scanned my face steadily for a moment; possibly satisfied with the scrutiny, no objection was made, and he really enjoyed the slight repast. I told him at such an hour I would be there again, and would prepare his food and drink. For two weeks, all he ate was what I gave him; during that time was a very decided change for the better, and he could now converse without danger. The week preceding the battle of Chancellorsville, we were obliged to go home for a short time; but left, to carry on the work, my valuable assistant, Miss P. When George found we expected to leave, he cried bitterly, exclaiming that “he knew he should die, if I left him;” and thanking, and blessing me for my care.

As soon as it was possible, after the battle, to get within our lines, we were at our posts. During our absence the hospital had been moved two miles, and was now located near Potomac Creek. Of course, as soon as we arrived, my first inquiry was for George; the surgeon replied, “he was living, that was all; was in a stupor, and knew no one.” I could not realize that the boy must die; when I hastened to his tent, and spoke, asking if he knew me, his reply was, calling me by name: “Do you think I ever could forget you?” My daily reading was again resumed; the blue eyes now regularly brimmed over at my approach: it was his expressive, silent greeting; though apparently insensible to all around him, my voice would at any time rouse him, and a faint smile light up his wasted face. He lingered a few days longer, and then, one quiet morning, with the precious words of faith and hope yet sounding in his ears, he gently passed from earth.

Trains of wounded were still coming from the late battle, when we arrived; some had lain for many days upon the field, and were gathered up in out-of-the-way places; one such group, of five, “shot to pieces,” as they said, were entirely overlooked, until found by a New Hampshire chaplain, who brought them water for their wounds, and obliged the rebels to bring them food: finding they had not died, as they had hoped, they sheltered them slightly from the weather; and at length, to their great joy, they were sent to our lines. In the number were many badly, some singularly wounded. While the hospital continued crowded, the duties were wearisome, giving but little time, either day or night, for any of the attendants to rest; there was much daily occurring of interest among those who now filled the wards.

Our nearness to the “front,” within sound of musketry and cannon, prepared us for whatever might occur, so that we were always anticipating more than passed around us. As soon as transportation could be had, the number in the hospital was lessened by sending the patients North. And now that milder days gave promise of the coming spring, the “surgeon in charge” commenced the work of beautifying the grounds; soon the sloping hillsides were covered with a neatly planted garden, containing a large variety of vegetables. Flowers, roots, and seeds were sent to us; and as if by magic, beds of flowers were scattered everywhere; many springing into beauty in the form of the corps badge—needing but a few weeks’ sunshine and showers to perfect the red color of the division. Rustic work of the most artistic order graced the grounds; all this was done for a twofold reason—to give employment to the convalescents, and amusement to the patients. In front of our tent was a rustic arbor, so complete that any of our country homes would prize it for its beauty.

Work went on, and everything made apparently as lasting as though we expected to spend the summer within sight and sound of rebel batteries. A few days previous to the army moving, a portion of the sixth corps was sent across the river to attract the attention of the rebels in that direction, and to ascertain what force they had remaining. We were close to one of our batteries during a portion of the time this was occurring, intently watching the skirmishers, and the rebels, that were plainly seen in the woods near them. Within a few minutes after we left the spot, the rebels again renewed their leaden compliments to the battery where we had been: they returned them in like manner; in the distance, we plainly heard the sharp firing which ensued. Things continued in this way until Saturday, the 13th of June, 1863: while at dinner, the order was received to break up the hospital; quietly and rapidly was it obeyed; the ambulances were in readiness to take all who could not walk, and in two hours the seven hundred men were on their way to the station. It was surprising to see how quickly crutches were thrown aside, and all who could, were willing to start for the cars—exulting in the prospect of going that much nearer home. When the order to “break up” was given, the gardener was putting the finishing touches to some ornamental rustic work about our tent: instantly hammer and hatchet were thrown aside, flowers remained unplanted, and, with a hurried “good-by,” he fell into line with his comrades. The remainder of that day was a busy scene of destruction and confusion; but the night found us still occupying our tent, though nearly all the others, except a few of the officers’ quarters, had been “struck.” The next day, Sunday, came with all the loveliness of June; but there was nothing in our surroundings to point it out to us as a day of rest.

Almost the first object which the early morning revealed to us was the Army of the Potomac in motion. Looking down upon the plain beneath, far as the eye could reach, was a moving mass of men, horses, and artillery, with the heavy army wagons and trains of ambulances; gleaming through and above it all, in the bright sunlight, were the bayonets—upheld by that heroic column, which the future record proved to be firm and enduring as their trusty steel. It was a grand sight, never to be forgotten; in one continued stream, this mighty army poured along. At six in the evening, our hospital train of empty ambulances was in readiness; and then the torch was applied to all that remained of so much beauty about our camp. We sat, quietly watching the flames as they curled and flashed from one arbor to another, encircling in a wall of fire the evergreen screens which had so pleasantly shielded us from heat and dust, and crumbling into ashes in a few moments the work of months. All hospital and army property which could not be transported, was thus consumed, two officers remaining to see that the work of destruction was complete; what could not be burned, the axe rendered useless. As the flames lessened, we took our places and moved on with the train, expecting to join the division at Stafford Court House; halting there long enough for a hasty supper, the march was resumed. To lookers-on, if any could be found in that desolate region, it must have presented the appearance of an almost unending torch-light procession: as from nearly every ambulance and wagon was suspended a lantern, to point out the dangers of an unknown road. At the crossing of Aquia Creek, rested for an hour; and here all were glad to sleep, even for that short time. A little distance beyond, passed a Connecticut battery of six siege guns—32-pounders, each drawn by ten horses. Very early in the morning, the sixth army corps came up, moving quickly by, cheering as they passed, and calling, “On for Pennsylvania!” Breakfasted near Quantico Creek, in a rebel house; the occupants enjoyed our coffee, as a luxury beyond their reach since the commencement of the war; on the surrounding hills, found many deserted rebel camps, abatis, and defenses of various kinds. This day’s march brought us to Dumfries, and camped in its vicinity at 11 P.M., the occupants of our ambulance most thoroughly used up, all but myself; assisted in arranging our little tent, prepared lunch, and made very strong tea with thick, muddy water—tired and hungry as we were, it was not as unpalatable as one would imagine. After three hours’ rest, the order was given, quietly, to move quickly as possible, but cautiously, as we were in sight of rebel camp fires. Here, as elsewhere in this hurried journey, whenever such orders were given, some of the soldiers ran with our ambulance, steadying it, as the wretched roads required. The rebels were continually harassing the rear of our column. We had left Stafford Court House late in the evening; the next morning our cavalry had a short fight with them there.

The morning of the 16th of June was cool and delightful, but the mid-day heat was intense; the soldiers feeling it painfully, but bearing it cheerfully. From this place onward, our course could be traced by the blankets, coats, and knapsacks thrown aside by the foot-sore and weary men; broken, abandoned wagons and disabled horses, seen all along the route. The difficulty of procuring water was greater than any previous time; numbers of wells by the roadside were observed filled with stones; the water was always muddy and bad, and could be had only at long distance from the road. This day found both men and horses needing a full night’s rest: quite early in the evening we halted at the edge of a beautiful wood in Fairfax County, and in its shade our little tent was pitched; with the dawn we were astir, deeply thankful for our safe, refreshing rest and shelter during the night. Of course, in all this journey, our bed was a soldier’s couch—the ground; with a gum-blanket, and satchel for a pillow, could at any time or hour sleep soundly.

We crossed the stony Occoquan at Wolf’s Ford; on the heights were the remains of formidable-looking rebel fortifications. Here, June 15th, 1863, we heard the first tidings that the rebels were in Pennsylvania; the excitement the news created was intense. This day’s heat told sadly upon the men; despite their eagerness to reach Pennsylvania, they could not bear up, and many fell by the wayside from exhaustion: in one division, one hundred and twenty reported with sunstroke. During the hurried march, numbers of cavalry horses had been abandoned by their riders, who only required a few days’ rest to recruit, and again they were ready for duty. They were to be seen all along our route, undisturbed by the passing column, except when caught by some of the foot soldiers. It was amusing to observe the ingenious arrangements made to answer for the horses’ trappings: a piece of old tentcanvas was soon converted into an admirable bridle; another piece of the same shelter kept the saddle (a blanket) in its place: thus mounted, he would be delighted; and day by day added to the number of this escort. There were constantly exciting incidents: sometimes we were in a dangerous position, from our driver losing his place in the line; then the crossing of the infantry through the train, the frequent breaking down of bridges, and the delay caused by disabled wagons constantly impeded our progress.

Near “Union Mills,” our troops camped for the night in “line of battle;” our little tent was pitched upon the banks of the stream, in rear of our army, almost within bugle-call of the rebel lines. Here the order was given to reduce officers’ baggage to twenty pounds, forward the surplus to Washington—or destroy it. Many officers and men came with the request that we would take charge of money and valuables for them. It was a touching sight—upon the eve of a battle, as it was thought—to see keepsakes, from loved ones at home, intrusted to comparative strangers, hoping thus to save them in case of attack, which here, near the old “Bull Run” battle-ground, seemed imminent. I wore under my coat a belt, and carried the costly sword belonging to it under my dress. A civilian, as my husband was, could not do so without danger of arrest, while I would pass unnoticed. The large amount of money and valuables in our possession were brought safely to Philadelphia, the former soon restored to its rightful owners; the sword with some other articles were unclaimed till near the close of the war.

As a battle was anticipated, and we were now accessible to railroad, near Sangster’s Station, it was thought advisable to proceed without delay to Alexandria and Washington, from whence we could readily return if our services were needed. After remaining some days in Washington, Mr. H. was threatened with an attack of malaria fever—warning us to proceed homeward without delay. We came to it, worn out and wearied as we were, as to a haven of rest.