In the midst of this terrible winter, on one of the most bitter days, there came about noon an order from "the front" to prepare for two hundred sick, who would be down late the same night. There was not a bed to spare in either of the hospitals. Negotiations were at once opened for the only church in Ringgold not already occupied by the sick. The people declined to give it up. But, "necessity knows no law;" it was seized by Dr. Thornton, the pews being taken out and piled up in the yard. Fires were then kindled in both stoves to thoroughly warm the church. There was, however, not a single bunk,—no time to make any; all the empty ticks when filled with straw and placed upon the floor fell far short of the number required. For the rest straw was littered down as if for horses, and when the pillows gave out, head-rests were made by tearing off the backs of the pews and nailing them slantwise from the base-board to the floor, so that knapsacks, coats, etc., could be used for pillows.
The order had reached Ringgold about noon; it was ten at night before the rough preparations were completed. Meantime, such nourishment as hot soup, coffee, and tea, milk, egg-nog, and milk-punch (prepared with home-made peach or apple brandy), were kept in readiness. Near midnight I stood in the church awaiting the arrival of the train. Candles were scarce, but light-wood-fires outside gave sufficient light. The candles were not to be used until needed by the surgeons, who were now at the depot waiting to receive the sick. At last the train arrived,—departed; shortly thereafter there poured through the doors of that little church a train of human misery such as I never saw before or afterward during the war, and pray God I may never see again. Until that night the tale of the retreat from Moscow had seemed to me overdrawn; ever since I can well believe "the half has not been told." They came, each revealing some form of acute disease, some tottering, but still on their feet, others borne on stretchers. Exhausted by forced marches over interminable miles of frozen ground or jagged rocks, destitute of rations, discouraged by failure, these poor fellows had cast away one burden after another until they had not clothes sufficient to shield them from the chilling blasts of winter. Not one in twenty had saved even a haversack, many having discarded coats and jackets. One man had gained possession of an india-rubber overcoat, which, excepting his underclothing, was his only garment. Barefooted,—their feet were swollen frightfully, and seamed with fissures so large that one might lay a finger in them. These were dreadfully inflamed, and bled at the slightest touch; others were suppurating. The feet of some presented a shining, inflamed surface which seemed ready to burst at any moment. Their hands were just as bad, covered with chilblains and sores. Many were tortured with wounds which had at first seemed slight, but by neglect and exposure had become sources of exquisite torture. The gleaming eyes, matted hair and beard hanging about their cadaverous faces, gave to these men a wild, ghastly look utterly indescribable. As they came in, many sunk exhausted upon the pallets, some falling at once into a deep sleep, from which it was impossible to arouse them, others able only to assume a sitting posture on account of the racking, rattling cough which, when reclining, threatened to suffocate them. Few would stop to be undressed: food and rest were all they craved. Those who crowded to the stoves soon began to suffer from their frozen feet and hands, and even ran out into the snow to ease their pain. The surgeons worked faithfully, and the whole force was in requisition. But, alas! alas! death also was busy among these unfortunates. The very first man I essayed to feed died in my arms, two others during the night. The poor wounded feet I tried to handle so tenderly bled at every touch. The warmth of the room, while it sent some into a sound sleep which seemed death's counterpart, caused terrible agony to others, who groaned and screamed. It seemed to me just as if those men, having previously kept up with heroic fortitude under trials almost too great for human endurance, had, as soon as the terrible tension was loosened, utterly succumbed, forgetting all but the horrible pain that racked them.
Fever running riot in the veins of some found expression in delirious shouts and cries, which added to the horror. My courage almost failed me. About half-past two, Dr. Thornton, yielding to my earnest entreaties, went home and brought Mrs. Thornton to share my vigil, although, as a general thing, he was opposed to her going into the hospital wards. Together we labored through that long night. Soon after daylight next morning, passing into the church porch, we stood for a few moments silently, hand in hand, for, although both hearts were too full for speech, our labor of love had drawn us very near together.
Everywhere the snow lay white and glittering. In the church-yard, upon some of the pews arranged for the purpose, had been placed the lifeless bodies of the three men who had died during the night. There they lay, stark and stiff. Upon these cold, dead faces no mourners' tears would fall; no friends would bear with reverend tread these honored forms to their last resting-place. Rough pine boxes would soon cover the faces once the light of some far-away home, careless hands would place them in their shallow graves, without a prayer, without a tear. Only the loving hand of nature to plant flowers above them.
For months after entering the service I insisted upon attending every dead soldier to the grave and reading over him a part of the burial-service. But it had now become impossible. The dead were past help; the living always needed succor. But no soldier ever died in my presence without a whispered prayer to comfort his parting soul. Ah me! The "prayers for the sick, and those near unto death," are to this day more familiar to me than any other portion of the Prayer-Book, and at no time can I hear unmoved the sacred old hymns so often sung beside dying beds. Passing to my office along the path traversed last night by the incoming soldiers, I found the snow along the whole distance stained by their bare, bleeding feet, and the sight made my heart ache sorely. I think I never in all my life felt so keen a sense of utter dependence upon a higher Power, or understood so thoroughly how "vain is the help of man," than when, in the seclusion of my own room, the events of the night passed in review before me. With a heart aching with supreme pity, ready to make any sacrifice for the noble martyrs who, for my sake as well as for that of all Southern women, had passed unshrinking through inexpressible suffering, never faltering until laid low by the hand of disease,—I could yet do nothing. I could not save them one moment of agony, I could not stay the fleeting breath, nor might I intermit the unceasing care imperatively demanded by those whom timely ministrations might save, to give due honor to the dead.
Only an hour or two of rest (broken like the sleep of those of a household who retire from the side of beloved sufferers, leaving them to the care of others while they snatch a few moments of the repose which is needed to prepare them for fresh exertions) and I was once more on my way to the wards. At the gate of the boarding-house stood one of the nurses. Again, as often before, I was summoned to a bed of death. A soldier who had come in only two days before almost in the last stages of pneumonia was now dying. I had left him at eight o'clock the night before very ill, but sleeping under the influence of an opiate. His agony was now too terrible for any alleviation; but he had sent for me; so I stood beside him, answering by every possible expression of sympathy his imploring glances and the frantic clasp of his burning hand. Finding that my presence was a comfort, I sent for Dr. McAllister, and, requesting him to assign my duties to some one else for a while, remained at my post, yielding to the restraining grasp which to the very last arrested every movement away from the side of the sufferer. A companion of the sick man lay near. From him I learned the excellent record of this young soldier, who, during the frightful "retreat," had contracted the cold which culminated in pneumonia, but would not consent to leave his regiment until too late.
I had feared an awful struggle at the last, but the death angel was pitiful, bringing surcease of suffering; and so, peacefully sped the soul of John Grant, of the —— Mississippi Regiment, happily unconscious of the end, and murmuring with his last breath, of home and mother.
I remember with great distinctness his face,—suffering while he yet struggled with death,—happy and tranquil, when he stood upon the threshold of life eternal. Almost the very saddest and most trying portion of my Confederate service was just here. Only that my record must be faithful, I would fain bid memory pass with flying feet and veiled eyes over the scenes of that terrible winter at Ringgold, when my very soul was steeped in pity so painful that every night I was fain to cry out, "It is too hard! I cannot bear it!" and every morning my heart, yearning over "my boys," gave itself with renewed ardor to "the Cause" and its defenders.
Returning to my patients in the church about noon, I found a change for the better in many cases; in others it was but too evident that days, even hours, were numbered. Two soldiers in particular attracted my attention. One was an Irishman, of an Alabama regiment, the other from Arkansas. The Irishman was fast passing away, and earnestly desired to see a priest. There was none nearer than twelve miles. One of our foragers, himself a Roman Catholic, volunteered to go for him and by permission of Dr. McAllister rode off through the snow, returning after nightfall to report that Father —— had been called in another direction, and would not return home until the next day. Finding the poor fellow, though almost too far gone to articulate, constantly murmuring words of prayer, I took his prayer-book and read aloud the "Recommendation of a soul departing," also some of the preceding prayers of the "Litany for the dying." He faintly responded, and seemed to die comforted and satisfied. Afterwards I never hesitated to use the same service in like cases.
The Arkansian was a devoted soldier and a pronounced "rebel." He had preserved through all vicissitudes a small Confederate flag, made for him by his little daughter "Annie," now alas torn and shattered. When he came into the church on that terrible night, although almost destitute of clothing, he bore the flag safely pinned inside of his ragged flannel shirt. A few days afterwards I found the poor, emaciated frame propped up in bed, with a crumpled sheet of paper spread upon a piece of pine board before him, while, with unaccustomed hand and unaccustomed brain, he toiled over some verses of poetry addressed to "Annie." After a week or two, when he lay dying, I received from his hand the flag and the verses pinned together, and addressed to "Miss Annie ——," in some part of Arkansas; but as I hoped to retain, and finally to deliver safely, the articles so addressed, I did not tax my memory with it, and when afterwards, in Macon, all my belongings were taken by the raiders, I had nothing left to recall the name, and only remember one of the verses, which ran thus: