Again, as at my former visit, the work of unpacking, assorting, and distributing to different hospitals and those sick in their quarters had to be gone through with. Most of the sick who were in these hospitals upon my former visit had been sent away, but they were filled with others quite as needy.
The afternoon of the 29th I rode out with Sergeant Summerville to the camp of the Twenty-fourth Michigan, to learn the condition of the sick and what they were most needing. The regiment was encamped in a beautiful place about a mile and a half from the once pleasant little village of Culpepper. The hospital I found entirely empty. A few had been sent to the division hospital at Culpepper, but none were dangerously ill. From both surgeon and chaplain I learned that the health of the regiment was never better, and that whatever stores I had designed for them had better be given to those more needy. Here for the first time I had the pleasure of meeting that excellent lady, Mrs. Chaplain Way. Who knows how far her kind care and advice and influence went toward not only restoring the sick to health, but preventing sickness? As the day was far spent, and having about nine miles to ride, we made only a short stay, and then headed our horses for “home.”
After passing through Culpepper, we struck across lots for Pony Mountain. We were not troubled with fences, but found plenty of mud and ditches to be gotten over and through as best we could. On our way to the Twenty-fourth, we rode over Pony Mountain, instead of taking a circuit around it. It was decidedly romantic climbing the steep ascent, clambering over rocks and urging our way through the thick bushes, which at times almost impeded our progress. On the top of the mountain was a signal station. Here we dismounted to rest our horses, while we took a good view of the surrounding country. The landscape before us was picturesque and grand. The vast Army of the Potomac was encamped about us; white tents clustered in every valley and covered every hill-side. At our left lay the village of Culpepper; the Blue Ridge with its snowy peaks loomed up in the distance; while a little to the southward, just across the Rapidan, was the enemy’s country, with its long lines of fortifications crowned with frowning, glistening guns. At the station, the signal officer was making various evolutions and movements with his little black and white flag, conveying, perhaps, important messages to the commanding general.
Remounting our steeds, we slowly proceed down the steep declivity on the opposite side of the mountain, and hurry on. We had gone but a short distance when we came to a large three-story brick house, where, Mr. S. told me, the rebel sharpshooters were once concealed to pick off our men as they pursued the flying foe from Culpepper. A battery was opened upon the building, and soon “Johnny reb” was glad to evacuate his stronghold and beat a hasty retreat. The family, in their frenzy, rushed into the cellar for safety; but there is little safety in the face of an open battery. A large ball, striking the wall near the ground, knocked in the bricks, hurling them in confusion across the cellar, killing an old man and a little child. The whole building—roof, wall, and windows—showed the folly of hoping for safety within.
The next morning I was invited by Dr. Beach to take a ride along our picket-line. As my pass had not yet expired, and being naturally a little fond of adventure, the temptation was too great, and, in spite of the dark, lowering clouds, the slow, drizzling rain, and the prospect of a stormy day, we mounted our steeds and galloped away. Our infantry pickets are soon passed, and, as we approach the Rapidan, we descend the bank, and ride for some distance along the flat, only a few rods from the river. At our right, across the river, are the rebel pickets; at our left, our own. These are the outposts of the two armies, each mounted, and vigilantly watching the movements of the other. About noon we called at a small wood-colored house to rest. In this small building the women and children representing three different families were living. One of the ladies was a widow. The husbands of the other two were in the rebel army. They received us cordially—they dare not do otherwise even had they felt disposed to, being at the mercy of our army, and subsisting wholly upon it. Dinner being ready we gladly accepted an invitation to share their frugal meal, which consisted of pork and beans, corn-bread, and rice. After dinner we rode over to Germania Ford and called on another secession family. Here we found a woman and two or three little children living alone. The lady’s husband had been in the rebel army, but was then a prisoner, confined in the old Capitol, at Washington. She claimed to be a relative of the rebel General Ashly. She was none of the “poor white trash” of the South, and, though then very destitute, she had seen better days. The children, ashamed of their rags, ran and hid themselves behind the house, and could not be induced to come in, though the mother urged the little girl to come and play for us on the piano. The lady played and sang several beautiful songs. She was greatly pleased that we had called. She urged me to stay until the next day, and tried to exact a promise that I would be sure and come again. “Oh!” she said, “I am so lonely! I have not seen a lady before in months.” She was hemmed in between the two picket-lines, and could make her escape in neither direction. Though still a rebel, she deemed their cause hopeless, and earnestly wished for a speedy return of peace.
The Twenty-Sixth was the last regiment visited this time. My stay there, though short, was rendered exceedingly pleasant, as Mrs. Dr. Raymond and the wife of Commissary Patterson were spending a little time in camp with their husbands. About four o’clock, the morning of the 3d (I believe) of March, an order for “three days’ rations in haversacks” was issued, and at early dawn, each company, fully armed and equipped, with “drums beating and colors flying,” slowly filed out of camp, knowing not whither they went—expecting, however, to cross the Rapidan and engage the enemy. But fortune favored them; for, while others crossed, met the enemy, fought and fell, they were all permitted to return in safety. Many a sad “good-by” was spoken that morning, and many a “God bless you!” went with those brave fellows, while, with a prayer in our hearts, we commended them to the keeping of Him who holds the destiny not only of nations but of individuals in his hands. At eight o’clock the same morning I left for Washington, in company with Lieutenant Grisson, who had obtained a fifteen-day leave of absence. On our way to Brandy Station we met the artillery-trains and long lines of infantry moving toward the scene of conflict. When within a mile of the station our ambulance broke down, which we left sunk in the mud nearly to the axles, and started on foot; but, while trying to pick our way so as to avoid the deepest mud and water, the shrill whistle of the locomotive is heard, and the train comes rushing on from Culpepper. We are admonished that there is no time to lose, and, increasing our speed to a “double-quick,” we stop for neither mud nor water until we are safely seated in the cars. Then the beautiful prospect of riding with wet feet a distance of seventy miles, incident to all the delays to be met with in travelling over a military road, presents itself—cheering, to say the least, and an excellent remedy for cold and cough (?)
Upon our arrival in Alexandria, we learned that there had been an accident that morning on the Long Bridge, damaging it so much that the trains could not pass over. The particulars of the accident were as follows:—The draw had been opened for a boat to pass, and was not yet closed when the train approached. The danger was discovered too late. With all possible speed the breaks were put on and the engine reversed; but, being a down-hill grade, the train continued to move from its own weight and the velocity which it had already acquired. On rushed the engine into the open space and plunged headlong into the river, dragging with it two or three cars freighted with human beings, mostly soldiers returning from furloughs. Many a poor fellow found a watery grave, while others died soon after of the injuries received.
No doubt the prayer was continually being offered by friends they had left at home, that God would shield them and cover their heads in the day of battle, little dreaming that the grim monster, Death, lurked by the way side.
Leaving the cars, we hurry to the landing and take boat to Washington. Sad, pale faces and stricken hearts meet us at every turn. Captain Mason, of the Eighty-first Pennsylvania, is among the passengers. He is on his way to his home in Philadelphia, to attend the funeral of his wife, having received a telegram the day before announcing her death.