But we met them for religious services not only in camp, but also in buildings in the city specially provided for that purpose.
In an empty store on Fourth Street, on the ground floor, there were long tables. For many days, at the noon hour, soldiers passing through the city or temporarily stopping there, marched in and sat down at those tables for their midday meal. I was asked by Drs. Eliot and Post to take my turn with them in preaching to these soldiers as they ate. To this I consented, but found it a difficult task. I stood at the head of the table and delivered my message, while the militant audience consumed their rations of hardtack, bacon and coffee. They had tin plates, cups and spoons, and cheap iron knives; and though they were always respectful, and declared that they wanted and enjoyed the preaching, the clatter of their metal dishes was so loud and incessant, that it disturbed not a little my course of thought. But I did my best.
When the hospitals were opened I found in them the largest opportunities to labor on behalf of the soldiers. For a time I worked a part of almost every day in the Sisters’ Hospital. For years it had been cared for by the Sisters of Charity; but for the time being it was thrown open for the use of the government. Here I often found sick and wounded men from both of the contending armies; Federal and Confederate soldiers, the blue and the gray, here lay peacefully side by side. For the time at least their animosity was gone. Suffering had made them kin. The heart of the man in gray was touched, when he saw that he was as carefully nursed as the man in blue.
In my ministrations to suffering Southerners, I carefully avoided all allusion to the war, and our political differences. But, apparently astonished at the kindness shown them, many of them would broach some question concerning the national conflict, and when they did so, I always answered their queries as best I could. On one point most of them were set, and that was that the North began the war. I assured them that in this they were altogether in error, and rehearsed to them the historical facts. They said that they could hardly believe my statement, since they had been often told the exact contrary.
I met in that hospital a Confederate soldier from one of the western counties of Arkansas. His name was Anderson. He had small, shining black eyes, peeping out from under black eyebrows; long, heavy, black whiskers, unkempt and begrimed, needing the cleansing power of soap and water; thick, shocky black hair that hung down to his shoulders, and was as coarse as the hair on a horse’s tail. When I first saw him I had a strong desire to have a talk with a man so peculiar and who bore my surname. While he could neither read nor write, I found him intelligent on all matters pertaining to his county, but about things outside of his own immediate neighborhood, he knew next to nothing. He never had been away from home before. Having been taken prisoner, he was compelled to travel. Contrary to his will he had begun to see more of the world. But he was absolutely sure that the “Yanks” had begun the “wicked war.” He informed me, that the North first fired on the South. Nor could I convince him of his error. He was ignorant, and a hot Southerner. His under jaw was square and each ropy hair springing out of his tawny scalp looked as though it were clinched on the inside of his skull. A face so strange and strong, I can never forget.
A few days later, in the same hospital, I was urgently asked by a man about thirty-five years of age to help him solve a question of conscience. He was a Quaker by birth and conviction. He had imbibed with his mother’s milk the notion that war was prohibited by the commandment, “Thou shalt not kill.” By education it had been interwoven with all his thinking. But having at the same time a great abhorrence of human bondage, when, in his neighborhood, scores of men were enlisting to fight a Confederacy, the corner-stone of which had been boastfully declared to be African slavery, the doctrine that war was murder sank so completely into the background that, for a time, he became quite unconscious of it. Aflame with patriotism, along with his neighbors, he volunteered to fight the enemies of the Union. Then came the long, toilsome days of military drill, and the march southward to meet the foe in battle. He had much time for thought. As he reflected, the conviction that no war is justifiable, which, for a season, had been submerged, came up out of the depths of his subconsciousness and reasserted itself. He began to feel utterly out of place. He had taken a solemn oath to do what his conscience utterly forbade. He was in deep distress. There was no one to whom he could unbosom himself. He was among thousands of his countrymen, but felt absolutely alone. His regiment was ordered into battle. For hours with his comrades in arms he loaded and fired; but he could not shoot at his fellow men, so he shot into the air above their heads. But this was a violation of his oath. And after the battle was over and he had been sent to this hospital, what he had done tortured him. Conscience pierced him for having broken his oath as a soldier, although that same conscience had driven him to break it. In his agony of spirit he pitifully appealed to me. “What shall I do? What can I do?” I dealt with him honestly. I told him that he had no moral right to violate his conscience. But since his conscience had put him between two fires, it was his duty to tell his story to the military authorities, and ask to be discharged from the army. I assured him that they had no wish to compel men to fight, who could not do so with a good conscience. Still he seemed to be greatly distressed to think that, contrary to his oath, he had shot into the air, during that battle. But he did as I advised him to do, and a few days afterwards I heard that, on the ground of his conscientious scruples, he had been honorably dismissed from his regiment.
About this time, March, 1862, I was asked to take the oversight of the religious work in the Fifth Street Hospital. It became my duty to supply the sick and wounded there with religious papers and books. These were freely contributed by loyal Christian families. A book from my own library, “The Signet Ring,” was very popular among the soldiers. It is a good book still, but scarcely known to the present generation. It was also incumbent on me to provide for religious services in the hospital. These were held in the different wards, but especially in those wards where were gathered the convalescents, and those suffering from the milder forms of disease. The services were very simple and brief. A few words of Scripture were read, some joyful hymn was sung, and a prayer was poured out from the heart. Then a short sermon followed, presenting some truth that comforted and helped those that were in trouble. These services were conducted sometimes by chaplains of regiments, often by the different pastors of the city, and were frequently marked by unusual fervor. The eagerness with which the sick and wounded men listened was wonderful. They were reminded of their churches at home, of loved ones with whom they had often met; their hearts were full and the irrepressible tears started. At times during those moments of service heaven and earth seemed to meet and blend.
There were in this hospital, as in all the rest, some professional women nurses, and they were very efficient. They did their work not only with technical skill, but they had that prime quality that must ever characterize nurses of the highest order, heartfelt sympathy with those whose sufferings they strove to alleviate. But in addition to these, there were many volunteer nurses, women, who, by regular appointment, were there at all hours of the day and night. They were ready to do any service within their power. They worked under the direction of the physicians and in harmony with the professional nurses. They often brought with them, from their own household stores, such appetizing foods as reminded the sick soldiers of the tender nursing that in homes far away they had sometimes received from mother or sister. A little gruel or soup, or fruit, or jelly, how grateful to the palate, and cheering to the spirit! The very thought of it started many a sick soldier boy on the road to health and further service in the field.
The tender sympathy which these women lavished on the suffering was often more healing than medicine. And when, sitting by the bedside of languishing heroes, sick it may be even unto death, they wrote letters for them to the loved ones at home, these missives throbbed with a mother’s love and were often wet with a mother’s tears.
An incident of that kind comes vividly to mind as I write. A young man from Indiana lay on his death-bed. He was about twenty-two years old and fully six feet in height. He was muscular and strong. But pneumonia had seized upon him and had baffled the best skill of the surgeon. He had been told that he could not live more than five or six hours longer. But he was a Christian and had hope of a glorious immortality. In the final arrangement of his affairs he was as calm in spirit as if he were going out on dress parade. By his cot sat a young mother. He asked her to write to his family and tell them what to do with his things. She wrote as he suggested, her heart almost bursting with emotion. He gave one thing to this sister, another to that brother, and last of all he said, “I give Jeff. C. Davis to my youngest brother.” “But what is Jeff. C. Davis?” asked the one who was writing for him his last letter, and there were tears in her voice. He replied, a smile playing around his lips, “It is my colt. I named him for General Davis, who is an Indianian and very popular in our State.”