With the last squad my husband was compelled to go back to camp, as just then military rules were severe, and very strictly enforced. I passed the night in an old, broken arm-chair, Tempe lying at my feet, and slept so soundly that I heard not a sound of shot or shell. Very early next morning, however, we were awakened by a terrible explosion near us, and directly afterwards heard that within a hundred yards of our place of refuge a shell had exploded, tearing away the upper part of a house, killing a man and his three children, who were sleeping in one of the rooms. This made me very uneasy, and increased Tempe's terror to such an extent that she became almost unmanageable. During the next day I actually became accustomed to the noise and danger, and "with a heart for any fate" passed the day. At night my levee was larger than before; among them I had the satisfaction of seeing and supplying some Alabama, South Carolina, and Tennessee soldiers. That night the bombardment was terrific. Anxiety for my husband, combined with a shuddering terror, made sleep impossible.
The next morning, my husband having obtained a few hours' leave of absence, joined me in my shattered retreat. The day was darkened by the agony of parting. It seemed to me impossible to leave him under such circumstances, and really required more courage than to face the shot and shell. But I could easily see that anxiety for me interfered with his duty as a soldier, so—we must part. On the same evening I returned to Newnan, where my friends were so overjoyed at my safe return that they forbore to upbraid. Soon afterward the battle of Jonesboro' again filled our wards with shattered wrecks. As I have already stated, my husband then came for the first time to claim my care. Before he was quite able to return to duty, the post was ordered to Fort Valley, Georgia, a pleasant and very hospitable town, where new and excellent hospital buildings had been erected. From here Mr. Beers returned to his command. The day of his departure was marked by hours of intense anguish which I yet shudder to recall. The train which stopped at the hospital camp to take up men returning to the front was crowded with soldiers,—reinforcements. I had scarcely recovered from the fit of bitter weeping which followed the parting, when, noticing an unusual commotion outside, I went to the door to discover the cause. Men were running up the railroad track in the direction taken by the train which had just left. A crowd had collected near the surgeon's office, in the midst of which stood an almost breathless messenger. His tidings seemed to have the effect of sending off succeeding groups of men in the direction taken by those I had first seen running up the road. Among them I discovered several surgeons. Something was wrong. Wild with apprehension, I sped over to the office, and there learned that the train of cars loaded and crowded with soldiers had been thrown down a steep embankment, about three miles up the road, and that many lives were lost. Waiting for nothing, I ran bareheaded and frantic up the track, for more than a mile never stopping, then hearing the slow approach of an engine, sunk down by the side of the track to await its coming. Soon the engine appeared, drawing very slowly a few platform-and baggage-cars loaded with groaning, shrieking men, carrying, also, many silent forms which would never again feel pain or sorrow. The surgeons upon the first car upon descrying me crouching by the roadside, halted the train and lifted me upon the last car, where, among the "slightly hurt," I found my husband, terribly bruised and shaken, but in no danger. Arrived at camp, where tents had been hastily pitched, the wounded and dying were laid out side by side in some of the largest, while others received the dead. The sights and sounds were awful in the extreme. At first I could not muster courage (shaken as I had been) to go among them. But it was necessary for purposes of identification, so I examined every one, dying and dead, feeling that certainty, however dreadful, might be better borne by loving hearts than prolonged suspense.
Among these dreadful scenes came a minister of God, whose youthful face, pale and horror-stricken, yet all alight with heavenly pity and love, I can never forget. Tenderly he bent above these dying men, his trembling lips touched by divine inspiration, whispering words precious to parting souls. Unshrinkingly he performed his mission to those who yet lived, then, passing among the dead, lovingly composed and prepared for decent burial the mutilated bodies. One burial-service served for all; this was as tenderly rendered as if each unfortunate had been dear to himself.
This young clergyman was Rev. —— Green, of Columbia, S.C., a near relative of the eminent divine and inspired patriot, Dr. B.M. Palmer, now of New Orleans.
Few patients were sent to Fort Valley. Upon recovering from the effects of the railroad accident, my husband again left for his command. Growing dissatisfied, I applied to Dr. Stout for a position nearer the front. Not receiving a satisfactory reply, went to Macon, where for a few weeks I remained at one of the hospitals, but still felt that I was losing time, and doing very little good. In November I was offered a position in a tent-hospital near the front, which I eagerly accepted, little dreaming (God help me!) of the hardship and disappointment which awaited me.
CHAPTER VI.
OMEGA.
The detention of the railroad-train belated us, and when we (I and my servant) were left at a small station in Mississippi, night had fallen. The light from a little fire of pine knots, built on the ground outside, while illuminating the rough depot and platform, left the country beyond in deeper darkness. It was bitterly cold. The driver of the ambulance informed me, we had "quite a piece to ride yet." A moment later, Dr. Beatty rode up on horseback, welcomed me pleasantly, waiting to see me safely stowed away in the ambulance. The ride to camp was dismal. I continued to shiver with cold; my heart grew heavy as lead, and yearned sadly for a sight of the pleasant faces, the sound of the kindly voices, to which I had been so long accustomed. At last a turn in the road brought us in sight of the numberless fires of a large camp. It was a bright scene, though, far from gay. The few men who crouched by the fires were not roistering, rollicking soldiers, but pale shadows, holding their thin hands over the blaze which scorched their faces, while their thinly-covered backs were exposed to a cold so intense that it congealed the sap in the farthest end of the log on which they sat. Driving in among these, up an "avenue" bordered on either side by rows of white tents, the ambulance drew up at last before the door of my "quarters,"—a rough cabin built of logs. Through the open door streamed the cheery light of a wood-fire, upon which pine knots had been freshly thrown.
A bunk at one side, made of puncheons, and filled with pine straw, over which comforts and army-blankets had been thrown, hard pillows stuffed with straw, having coarse, unbleached cases, a roughly-made table before the fire, a lot of boxes marked "Q.M.," etc., to serve as seats, and you have my cabin in its entirety.