I had scarcely reached home when I received a call from Hon. Mr. Upton and wife, of Michigan, Dr. Alvord (our Secretary) and wife, and Mrs. Baldwin of Pontiac—all anxious to hear from the front. Five large boxes and two barrels of goods, which arrived during my absence, must be unpacked and receipted for, and a mail of thirteen letters promptly answered. Hammer, chisel and pen are called in requisition, and keep me company until a late hour. Dr. Alvord had succeeded, after repeated and most persistent efforts, in getting an ambulance detailed for me, which greatly facilitated my work. I could accomplish much more, with far greater ease, than when I had to trudge on foot, “toting” a loaded basket. To one unacquainted with hospital work and experience, it might seem an easy task to ride to a hospital some fine morning with a well-filled ambulance, distribute its contents, and return, load up and repeat the same again, and even again. Were this all, it would have been comparatively easy and pleasant; but it was this carried out into detail, the minutiæ, that made the work laborious. In a former chapter I referred to the many errands there were to be done, not only for those among whom I was expected more especially to labor, but for others, for any and all, who appealed for aid. I could not turn a deaf ear to a soldier’s wants.
The winter of 1864, during Mrs. Brainard’s absence, and while boarding myself, was a season of fatiguing labor, from early dawn until late at night. Returning to my room after a busy day’s work, I had the privilege of getting my supper or going without it—and the going without was often preferable. Supper disposed of, the next thing in order was to transfer my new list of names to the register, and note down any removals from the hospitals, by death or otherwise (I here refer particularly to Michigan men). Then the long list of “wants,” noted down during the day for individual cases in the different hospitals visited, must be examined, and the article prepared for distribution. Then the mail, which night was sure to bring, must be examined—and many of those letters demanded not only a prompt reply, but often brought additional work. Here is one from a father, containing inquiries concerning his son, who, the last time he heard from him, was stationed in one of the forts on the south side of the Potomac; but for several weeks he has lost all trace of him, and requests me to try and find him and deliver the enclosed letter. My visit to the fort, a few days after, was unsuccessful; the boy had been sent to the army. The letter is returned to the father, with what information could be gathered. The next is from an anxious wife, earnestly requesting me to see her husband, who is sick in Washington; but she forgets to mention his regiment, or the hospital he is in. Another is from a young lady wishing to obtain a situation as nurse, and asks my advice and influence. Here is one from a soldier at the front who wishes me to store a box and valise for him until he shall call for them, designating the place where they may be found. In my search for these I was successful, as may be seen from an extract from my journal of February 23d, 1864, which I will quote:
“This afternoon I have been in search of a box and valise belonging to a soldier of the Seventh Michigan Cavalry, which he left at a private house when he was sent from dismounted camp to his regiment several months ago. I succeeded at length in finding them, about four miles from here, on the Alexandria road, at a small wood-colored house, with high rickety steps, whose occupants evidently belonged to that class known as ‘poor white trash;’ but they were very kind and obliging. The articles had been carefully stored, and were readily delivered up as soon as they found I was authorized to get them.”
On my return I improved the opportunity of paying a short visit to the Arlington House, the late residence of the rebel general, Robert E. Lee, as I had a desire to see where dwelt this rebel chieftain in the days of his prosperity and loyalty. But, alas! its glory has departed; it is now occupied, as head-quarters, by officers who have command of the forts on the south side of the Potomac. As the building stands on an eminence, the northern verandah commands a fine view of the Potomac and the city beyond. The Capitol, in all its beauty and grandeur, looms up before the beholder. There are but few articles of furniture left. A few ancient paintings, said to have been executed by some member of the Curtis family, adorn the walls. The flower-garden, the large grove of stately forest trees—including many acres—with its broad carriage-ways and winding paths, remind one of Pilgrim’s enchanted ground, and a sweet desire to linger among so many natural beauties takes possession of the mind; but, as it was getting late, I had only time to make a flying visit to the place, then jump into my ambulance and be off for home. We are soon at the Long Bridge. The draw is open. A large number of army wagons have collected on either side of the draw, and, while waiting for it to be closed, a train of cars approaches, the horses become frightened, when suddenly a four-horse team leaps over the railing and plunges into the river beneath, dragging wagon and all after them. In a moment the waters close over them, and no trace of horses or wagon was afterward seen. Fortunately the driver saved himself by jumping from the wagon, when all hope of saving his team had fled.
February 25th.
I have been to Douglas and Harewood hospitals, accompanied with Mrs. Tunnecliffe, with flannel shirts, blackberry sauce, and other delicacies for the sick. Nearly all the Michigan soldiers at Harewood are convalescing. Poor Sergeant Rooks seems to be the only one who is gradually failing. I fear his stay on earth is short.
Before returning to the city, I drove out to the “Soldiers’ Home,” near which thousands of the “boys in white” lie buried, and their number is daily increasing. The representatives of many a broken home circle slumbers there.
Sigh not, ye winds, as passing o’er
The chambers of the dead ye fly;
Weep not, ye dews,