Drawing my box up close to the fire, I sat down, Tempe, in the mean while, stirring the coals and arranging the burning ends of the pine in true country style.
Presently my supper was brought in,—corn-bread, cornmeal coffee, a piece of musty fried salt meat, heavy brown sugar, and no milk. I was, however, hungry, and ate with a relish. Tempe went off to some region unknown for the supper, returning unsatisfied and highly disgusted with the "hog-wittles" which had been offered to her. Soon Dr. Beatty called, bringing with him Mrs. Dr. ——, a cheery little body, who, with her husband, occupied a room under the same roof as myself, a sort of hall open at both ends dividing us.
We had some conversation regarding the number of sick and the provisions for their comfort. On the whole, the evening passed more cheerfully than I had expected. My sleep that night was dreamless. I did not even feel the cold, although Tempe declared she was "dun froze stiff."
Very early I was astir, gazing from the door of my cabin at my new sphere of labor.
Snow had fallen during the night, and still came down steadily. The path was hidden, the camp-fires appeared as through a mist. A confused, steady sound of chopping echoed through the woods. I heard mysterious words, dimly saw figures moving about the fires. Everything looked unpromising,—dismal. Chilled to the heart, I turned back to my only comfort, the splendid fire Tempe had built. My breakfast was exactly as supper had been, and was brought by the cook, a detailed soldier, who looked as if he ought to have been at the front. He apologized for the scanty rations, promising some beef for dinner.
Soon Dr. Beatty, accompanied by two assistant-surgeons, appeared to escort me to the tents. I went gladly, for I was anxious to begin my work. What I saw during that hour of inspection convinced me, not only that my services were needed, but that my work must be begun and carried on under almost insurmountable difficulties and disadvantages. I found no comforts, no hospital stores, insufficient nourishment, a scarcity of blankets and comforts, even of pillows. Of the small number of the latter few had cases; all were soiled. The sick men had spit over them and the bedclothes, which could not be changed because there were no more. As I have said, there were no comforts. The patients looked as if they did not expect any, and seemed sullen and discontented. The tents were not new, nor were they all good. They seemed to me without number. Passing in and out among them, I felt bewildered and doubtful whether I should ever learn to know one from another, or to find my patients. Part of the camp was set apart for convalescents. Here were dozens of Irishmen. They were so maimed and shattered that every one should have been entitled to a discharge, but the poor fellows had no homes to go to, and were quite unable to provide for themselves. There were the remnants of companies, regiments, and brigades, many of them Louisianians, and from other States outside the Confederate lines. Had there been any fighting to do, they would still have "taken a hand," maimed as they were. The monotony of hospital camp-life made them restless; the rules they found irksome, and constantly evaded; they growled, complained, were always "in hot water," and almost unmanageable.
The first time I passed among them they eyed me askance, seeming, I feared, to resent the presence of a woman. But I made it my daily custom to visit their part of the camp, standing by their camp-fires to listen to their "yarns," or to relate some of my own experiences, trying to make their hardships seem less, listening to their complaints, meaning in earnest to speak to Dr. Beatty regarding palpable wrongs. This I did not fail to do, and whenever the doctor's sense of justice was aroused, he promptly acted on the right side. I do not wish to convey to my readers the idea that there were men always sullen and disagreeable. Far from it, they were a jolly set of men when in a good humor, and, like all Irishmen, full of wit and humor. After I became known to them their gentle, courteous treatment of me never varied. They were very fond of playing cards, but whenever I appeared upon one of the avenues, every card would disappear. Not one ever failed to salute me, often adding a "God bless you, ma'am, may the heavens be your bed," etc. Disliking to interfere with their only amusement, I let them know that I did not dislike to see them playing cards. At this they were very pleased, saying, "Sure, it's no harrum; it's not gambling we are; divil a cint have we to win or lose." One day I stopped to look on a moment at a game of euchre. One of the players had lost an arm (close to the shoulder). Said he, "Sure, ma'am, it's bating the b'ys intirely, I am." I did not understand, so he explained, with a comic leer at the others,—"Sure, haven't I always the 'lone hand' on thim?" At once I recalled a similar remark made by an Irish soldier lying in the hospital at Newnan, who had just lost one of his legs; when I condoled with him, he looked up brightly, and, pointing at his remaining foot, explained, "Niver mind, this feller will go it alone and make it."
Among the surgeons in camp was one who had highly offended these convalescents by retiring to his cabin, pulling the latch-string inside and remaining deaf to all calls and appeals from outside. Mutterings of discontent were heard for a while, but at last as there was no further mention of the matter, I believed it was ended.
About this time the actions of the convalescents began to appear mysterious: they remained in their tents or absented themselves, as I supposed, upon foraging expeditions. Frequently, I found them working upon cow-horns, making ornaments as I thought (at this business Confederate soldiers were very expert). One day I caught sight of a large pile of horns and bones just brought in, but still thought nothing of it. Shortly, however, a small deputation from the convalescent camp appeared at the door of my cabin just as I was eating my dinner: all saluted; the spokesman then explained that the "b'ys" were prepared to give the obnoxious surgeon a "siranade" that same night. They had been working for weeks to produce the instruments of torture which were then all ready. "We don't mane to scare ye, ma'am, and if it'll be displazin' to ye, sure we'll give it up." I told them that I did not want to know about it, and was sorry they had told me, but I would not be frightened at any noise I might hear in the night. "All right, ma'am," said the spokesman, winking at the others to show that he comprehended. The party then withdrew. About midnight such a startling racket suddenly broke the stillness that in spite of my previous knowledge, I was frightened. Horns of all grades of sound, from deep and hoarse to shrill, tin cups and pans clashed together or beaten with bones, yells, whistling, and in short every conceivable and inconceivable noise.
After the first blast, utter stillness; the startled officers, meanwhile, listening to discover the source of the unearthly noise, then, as if Bedlam had broken loose, the concert began once more. It was concentrated around the cabin of the surgeon so disliked. As the quarters of the officers were somewhat removed from the hospital proper, and very near my own, I got the full benefit of the noise. I cannot now say why the racket was not put a stop to. Perhaps because the serenaders numbered over one hundred and the surgeons despaired of restoring order. At all events, during the whole night we were allowed to sink into slumber, to be aroused again and again by the same hideous burst of sound. I only remember that the next day the horns, etc., were collected and carried away from camp, while the offenders were refused permission to leave their quarters for a while.