Mrs. Jeremiah Porter of Chicago, a dear little saint, who is now in heaven, had gone to Chattanooga with me; and we were together at the rooms of the Christian Commission when the storm burst upon the place in its terrible fury. Amid the raging of the tempest, which made every timber in the old frame building creak, and threatened to tear away the roof that covered us, our first thought was of the men in the field hospital, who were exposed to its fury. Night, as it was, it was decided that we should go to their relief. While the delegates were getting out the horses and ambulances, everything that would be likely to add to the comfort of the patients was collected from the stores on hand. It was about daybreak when we started.
The way was lined with dead mules and horses frozen to death. Half-starved and unsheltered they could not live in such a storm. The muddy roads were now frozen. The wind was in our faces, and the two miles we had to travel seemed a long journey.
When we reached the hospital our worst fears were realized. Many of the tents had been blown down upon the faces of the helpless men. Against the fierce northern blasts, which threatened to tear the tents into tatters, the attendants were striving to right them. But the force was small compared to the work which needed to be done. To leeward of the camp, three great log fires were blazing and crackling furiously.
Mother Bickerdyke, a grand old army nurse, who did heroic service in the hospitals from the beginning until the close of the war, was there, and giving directions with the clearness and force of a sea-captain in a storm. Orders were imposed on all of us before we were out of the ambulance. “Come on, Lawrence, with your men, and help get up these tents. Mrs. Wittenmyer, you and Mrs. Porter get sticks and pry out rocks, and heat them here in these fires and put them about the men to keep them from freezing.”
We all went to work at once. No one stood upon the order of his going. With such sticks as we could pick up it was hard to pry out the rocks, but we were willing and we succeeded. One delegate had brought a lot of reading-matter with him; and we utilized them as wrappers for the hot rocks, which we carried in our arms to the cots, creeping under the flapping canvas when the tents were down, and putting them around the men the best we could, and speaking at the time words of cheer which they so much needed. I thank God that because of the heroic and timely efforts which were made, not one man froze to death in the tents that day. The great log fires, we learned later, had been built from a part of a fort surrendered by the Confederates. Mother Bickerdyke, not finding suitable wood for fires which could withstand a tempest, suggested to the surgeon, that such timbers as they could get out of the two forts be used for that purpose. But as the forts were government property, the surgeon refused to touch them without an order.
Military headquarters were two miles away, and the tempest was raging. Mother Bickerdyke rose to the emergency as usual. “Come on, boys,” said she; “we’ll soon have the timbers out of the old fort. What possible use can Uncle Sam put them to?”
The surgeon warned her that it would be his duty to report the matter to the proper authorities. “That’s all right, doctor; but in the meantime we’ll have the fires going.” Of course nothing was ever done about it. We toiled all day. As the tents were raised we carried great pans and kettles full of live coals into the tents, and emptied them on the ground to temper the keen air, which seemed to pierce to the marrow. I had brought up the river, with great difficulty, a special store of supplies, transporting them in a small boat, through the special kindness of General John A. Logan, who had detailed the boat for that purpose. Among the supplies was the largest lot of good woollen home-knit socks I had ever seen together. Many sacks of them had been pitched into the ambulance that morning; and as we went through the tents we examined the feet of the men to see if they were frozen. We put socks on the feet that were bare, and kept the hot bowlders moving back and forth to aid all. Many of the men had on good socks which had been sent to them by mail; but the feet of many were bare. I shall never forget the stone-bruised feet on which we put warm woollen socks that day.
At last the work was well-nigh done. The wind had abated, the tents were up, and our supplies were nearly all distributed. We had reached the last tent, and the last two men in the tent. I turned to the last sack to draw out two pairs of stockings for the two men before us, but there was only one pair in the sack. “O Mrs. Porter, what shall I do? There are two men, and only one pair of socks!” I exclaimed in despair.
To my surprise the men began to laugh; and one of them said, “There is no great loss without some small profit, Jim.” And they laughed again heartily. At last one of them explained. “You see, miss, we’ve each of us lost a leg, and one pair will do us both.” And this was true; they had been brought into the tent for the amputation, and laid side by side. We were both deeply impressed. I had not counted the feet or the socks, but He who counts the hairs of our heads had counted both. Mrs. Porter and I divided the one pair between us, and each put a sock on the one foot. Tears of sympathy blinded our eyes as we remembered that henceforth these two heroes must walk lame through life.
It was wonderful with what heroism these men could bear their sufferings and losses. They were full of hope, and grateful for every little kindness. They literally overwhelmed me with thanks. But it was left for an Irishman to express his thanks for timely help in the most original manner. He said in the most impassioned tones, his face all aglow,—