To aid in relieving the suffering among these wounded men was the “Germantown Field Hospital Association” formed; I mention it here because this was the first point where it came prominently into notice. They sent as their representative the well-known rector of one of their churches, Rev. B. W. Morris; his services as chaplain are gratefully remembered by many in these eventful times.
An incalculable amount of good resulted from this new “Association:” to me was given the great pleasure of distributing the articles which they contributed; and, until the close of the war, appeals for money or hospital comforts ever met with a ready, cheerful response, and an abundant supply of all that was needed. They afterward became one of the most valuable aids to the “United States Sanitary Commission” to be found in Pennsylvania.
The scenes around Gettysburg were horrible in the extreme: the green sod everywhere stained with the life-blood of dying men; the course of the fearful struggle marked by the “ridges” which furrowed the ground until one great hillock would be pointed out where hundreds, perhaps, had sternly fought and bravely fallen. To persons unfamiliar with such things, as sad a sight as any are the heaps of bloodstained clothing, the shattered muskets, the discarded knapsacks, disabled cannon and caissons, and the innumerable heaps of slain horses which literally cover the hard-fought field.
For a few weeks, the events daily occurring in the hospitals were most painful; they might be summed up, briefly, to be: fearfully wounded men; nurses watching for the hour when suffering would cease, and the soldier be at rest; parents and friends crowding to the hospital, hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst; strong men praying that they might live just long enough to see, but once more, wife, or child, or mother.
After this battle, relief came promptly; it was upon our own soil, and the “great heart of the people” was stirred to its very depths, when they knew that among us thousands of our countrymen lay with ghastly wounds,—men who had stood as a “living wall” between us and the foe, to save our homes from rebel rule.
All of home luxuries that could be carried, were lavished with an unsparing hand by a now deeply grateful people.
The government, fully equipped for the contest, had medical and hospital stores abundantly supplied. With the perfectly organized system and immense resources of the “United States Sanitary Commission,” ever ready and anxious to fill up all demands which the government could not,—aided by the Christian Commission and large volunteer assistance,—there was no long-continued suffering, as in the earlier battles of the war.
These days have left their impress upon all who were actors in them. Now, on this calm morning upon which I write, there comes thronging before me a vast array of forms and faces that I had thought forgotten. “Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!”—and so the swiftly changing scenes appear.
Prominent in them, I recall a burial where three were at one time taken to the little spot we called a cemetery. One sultry afternoon in July the stretcher-bearers came tramping wearily, bearing three bodies of those who had given their lives for freedom; as the last reached the place, the men dropped with a rough, jolting motion the army couch whereon he rested. The impatient effort to be rid of their burden was probably the means of saving a precious life; for the man—dead, as they supposed—raising his head, called in a clear voice: “Boys, what are you doing?” The response as prompt: “We came to bury you, Whitey.” His calm reply was: “I don’t see it, boys; give me a drink of water, and carry me back.” And then glancing into the open grave: “I won’t be buried by this raw recruit!” The raw recruit was a lieutenant of his own regiment. Not many stand so near the “dark valley” that they look into their own graves, and live. The “boys” did carry him back; and with the greatest care, his life was saved; months afterward he was sent to “Chestnut Hill Hospital,” Philadelphia; from there he wrote to me to say that his surgeon thought he would recover. His name was Luther White, Co. K, 20th Massachusetts, from Boston; he was wounded by a piece of shell, which tore off part of his ear, and shattering his jaw, laid bare one side of the throat. After the battle, he remained for three days unconscious, then rallied; and again sank away until he died,—as it was thought, and carried to the grave.
While the hospitals remained in the woods, the number of deaths daily was very large; as soon as the removal to the clover-field was accomplished, where all were in the sun, the change for the better was very decided; the night after, only two deaths occurred. During the few weeks the wounded remained there, my notes were too hurried and unsatisfactory for reference; they merely repeat that one and another has passed “to the land of rest.”