Religious services were also held at the Convalescent Camp, for there were some faithful Christian men even there who did not forget their religious vows when the fortunes of war called them away from their homes and accustomed places of worship. At one of the evening meetings in the large tent, which was filled to its utmost limits, an invitation was given to those present who were striving, as “soldiers of the cross,” to render faithful service to the Captain of their salvation, to raise the right hand. In response to the request, a large number of hands were raised. It occurred, however, to the leader of the meeting that some were there whose right arms had been shot off, and to such he gave opportunity to raise the left hand—and there were quite a number raised. But the most affecting sight was when a few men who had lost both arms in battle, and had only stumps remaining, rose to their feet and gave evidence of their loyalty to their Lord and Master. Such men could well sing at the close of the service:
“God of all nations! sovereign Lord,
In Thy dread name we draw the sword;
We lift the starry flag on high,
That fills with light our stormy sky.
“From treason’s rent, from murder’s stain,
Guard Thou its folds till peace shall reign,
Till fort and field, till shore and sea,
Join our loud anthem, Praise to Thee!”
I used to be greatly amused at times at the kind of literature which reached us when in camp from kind friends at home who were solicitous concerning our moral welfare. Sometimes it was very evident that a book or tract smuggled itself into the package sent which had never been “passed upon” by any member of the Christian Commission. Just think of placing a cook-book in the hands of a man who had been living for months on hard-tack and salt junk, with no prospect of a change in diet for months to come!
I am reminded, in this connection, of an incident which occurred in one of the hospitals in Washington. A kind-hearted Christian lady passed through the wards one day distributing religious tracts. She placed one in the hands of a young soldier who was occupying one of the numerous cots. As she turned away from him on her mission of love, she heard him laugh. The good woman’s feelings were hurt, and retracing her steps she mildly rebuked him for his seeming rudeness and ingratitude. He begged her pardon and assured her that no discourtesy was intended, and remarked that he was amused by the inappropriateness of the title of the tract she had given him, “The Sin of Dancing,” when both of his legs had been shot off.
Chapter VII.
In common with soldiers generally, the ménu of our company was somewhat limited in variety, and the dishes served did not materially differ from day to day. Sunday, however, was an exception to this general rule when we were in camp. In accordance with the time-honored New England custom, on Sunday morning we had our “baked beans.” If we did not always remember to keep the Sabbath day holy, we certainly never forgot that it was the day for baked beans; and I sometimes thought that the appearance of that article of food on Sunday morning served us better than a Church calendar or the “Old Farmer’s Almanac” could have done as a reminder how the day should be spent.
Our cook had a novel way of cooking or baking beans. He soaked them in the usual style, parboiled them in a large kettle, and then put them in a deep, iron mess-pan, generous slices of pork being placed on top of the beans. A hole was then made in the ground a foot or two feet deep and the bottom well filled with live coals, and on top of the coals was placed the iron mess-pan with its savory contents. Upon the cover of the pan was then placed more live coals, and the whole covered with turf well tamped down. This was done on Saturday afternoon, and on Sunday morning the beans came out of their improvised oven piping hot and in no wise inferior to those which furnished the staple article of the Sunday morning meal in so many New England homes.
Burns tells us that “the well-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley.” On one occasion it occurred that we encamped one Saturday afternoon on an old battlefield, and as it was known that we were to remain there over Sunday, our cook began the usual preliminary work whereby he was to furnish the company with baked beans on the following morning. It so happened that at the spot where the hole was dug in the ground an unexploded shell was buried a little farther down, and after the live coals and the bean pot had been deposited in the earth long enough to form a mutual acquaintance and become warm friends a loud explosion was heard, and immediately the beans took an upward tendency and the air was completely filled with them, confirming the assertion of Artemas Ward that the “festive bean, when baked, is a very lively fruit.”