Monday, 16th.
Early this morning I started out, accompanied by one of the “boys” detailed to assist us, for an old four story factory, situated in the outskirts of the city, with beef-soup, crackers, and pillows. Another revolting scene, one from which the mind instinctively turns, was there witnessed. I found the wounded, as in other hospitals, lying upon the hard floor, some with but many without even a blanket. Everything in the shape of knapsacks, haversacks, canteens, and even boots, are used for pillows. For one to stand and look in upon them in all their destitution and suffering, and to hear the begging for pillows upon which to rest aching heads, wounded limbs, and broken bones, and to see the empty cups held up for a little soup—“just a little, please,”—would be a soul-sickening sight! A mere spectator could not live here; not if he had a heart to feel for others’ woes. There must be something to stimulate; and the hope of being able, though in a small degree, to alleviate the suffering seen on every hand nerves one for the work and enables him to labor on week after week composedly, it may be, amid scenes the most revolting, with ghastly death staring him in the face at every turn. This is no place for idlers or the faint-hearted. Strong nerves, brave hearts, and willing hands are needed. My next visit was to the hospitals on the Heights, where I found a large number who have, to-day, arrived from the battlefield. Many of these were wholly unprovided for; some were lying upon the ground, others sitting upon old boxes, benches, and even the wood-pile, while the hot sun was pouring his searching beams upon them. Among these seemingly neglected ones was a poor fellow who had lost part of his lower jaw; his swollen face was bound around with an old blood-stained bandage, and the bloody water was running from his mouth. He could not speak, but looked, oh, so imploringly for help! I resolved to do something for him. My first thought was to provide for him a bed; but where was the bedding to come from? It was suggested that I should go to a “Secesh” family, living about eighty rods from there, and try and beg some. I readily yielded to the suggestion; but, on making known my errand, the woman—I can not call her lady—of the house utterly refused to let me have any, saying that they needed what little they had for themselves. I did not doubt her word, but told her she must try and divide with me, even if it were no more than a couple of quilts or blankets, as I wished to fix a bed for a soldier who was very badly wounded. But she still refused. “Very well,” I replied, “I shall report you to the Provost Marshal,” and turned to leave, when an old gentleman—her father, I concluded—said, “I reckon we can spare a couple of blankets and a mattress;” and, without waiting for her consent, went into an adjoining room and brought them out. This was better than I expected, and more than I had asked for; but, on seeing the blankets, I recognized them as belonging to “Uncle Sam.” The look of gratitude the poor boy gave, as he lay down to rest upon his new bed, with a clean bandage about his face, will never be effaced from memory.
A few words in regard to our home-duties, perhaps, would not be amiss. We made our coffee in a caldron-kettle, stewed our fruit in a large copper boiler, and made our soups, puddings, and tea over the stove. It took one to attend to the storeroom, one or two busy cooking, and several constantly employed carrying and distributing supplies to the various hospitals. Our rooms were continually besieged with weary, hungry soldiers, who were more fortunate than their comrades in not being wholly disabled. To all such, wherever they hailed from, coffee and crackers were furnished as long as the supply lasted. Among the soldiers detailed to assist us were Leonard Sears and George Taylor, of the Eighth Michigan; James Meade and Frank Phillips, of the Twentieth; Hall, of the Fourth; Lewis Gridley, of the Second; and one whose name I have forgotten, whom we always called “Curly.” Poor boy! he was mortally wounded at the battle of Cold Harbor, and died while en route for Washington. In addition to the above there were three from the Twenty-Sixth, whose names I have not. These were not able-bodied men from the ranks, but convalescents from the hospitals, who were detailed at different times and places during the summer of 1864. They were faithful to duty, and did us excellent service.
Tuesday, the 17th.
The wounded still arriving. Early this morning a long train came in and parked across the way from us. Among those who assisted in the work of feeding these was Chaplain Way, of the Twenty-Fourth Michigan Infantry, who always seems to know just what, when, and where to do. He is always willing to assist, and always at work.
Many of these had been in the hands of the rebels, and were nearly starved. Most of them were seriously, and many mortally wounded. Death was at work while on their way from the field; his cold, icy fingers had chilled the life-current in the hearts of some. There was one poor man with both thighs amputated. As I handed him a cup of wine, he raised up, drank a few swallows, and, without a murmur or even a groan, lay down again. Instead of complaining at his hard lot, he had a word of thanks for this small favor. “Oh, what bravery this!” thought I, as I passed on to the next ambulance. After all had been fed, the train moved on toward Belle Plain, where they are to be taken on board transports and carried further North. The suffering experienced during that tedious ride, what pen can portray? During the day I have been to several hospitals, with soup, crackers, milk-punch, tea, etc. One of these, formerly a stable, I found in a most deplorable condition. The wounded, terribly mangled and covered with blood, were lying upon the floor. Many of these were rebels. Only a few hours had elapsed since their arrival from the field of battle. A more heart-sickening sight I have not witnessed since coming to this bloody city. I could not pass them by neglected. Though enemies, they were nevertheless helpless, suffering human beings. I deemed it best to act in accordance with the injunction: “If thine enemy hunger, feed him.”
With these few extracts from my journal, something of an idea can be formed, not only of our work while in Fredericksburg, but also of the wretched condition of our hospitals—though, in most of these, great improvements were made before the place was evacuated. Cots were furnished, and other comforts supplied, which it was impossible to have at first; for the wounded were brought in, not only by hundreds, but by thousands. Day after day, long trains freighted with human suffering continued to arrive, until it was estimated that there were at least ten thousand wounded in the city at a time. All the public buildings—the Court-House, churches, hotels, warehouses, factories, the paper mill, theatre, school-buildings, stores, stables, many private residences—and, in fact, everything that could give shelter was converted into receptacles for the wounded, until Fredericksburg was one vast hospital.
Our daily duties were so similar, that an account of one day’s work would be a fair specimen of every day’s. We knew no rest until the wounded were all removed. Night ever found us weary and foot-sore. There was a large number of faithful laborers at Fredericksburg. The different commissions and State associations were there, each with a noble corps of earnest workers. Among these untiring ones was Mrs. General Barlow, whose husband commanded the First Division, Second Corps. Many of the improvements made in our hospitals—especially of the Second Corps—were the result of her personal efforts. She worked on through sunshine and storm, until her overtaxed system yielded to the ravages of disease, and she fell a martyr to the cause she had so faithfully served. But the laurels she won “are unfading, and will be verdant in heaven.” Among the many faithful workers in Fredericksburg, I knew of none who accomplished more than Mrs. Samson, of Maine, and Miss Hancock, of Pennsylvania. They were not only earnest and faithful, but efficient—going where many would not think of venturing, overcoming obstacles to others insurmountable, yielding to discouragements never. Heat or cold, storm or sunshine, distance or danger, were never allowed to interfere with duty. There were many others whose noble deeds are recorded on high.
We were aided in our work by a number of volunteer laborers, who, one after another, remained a few days or weeks, as they had opportunity. Among these were Colonel Barnes, Messrs. Bayley and Wallace, of Detroit; also, Messrs. Thompson, Moses, Pierce, Horton, Willcox, and Green. Each day’s work was full of incident, sad yet interesting. One morning, accompanied by Mr. Horton, I went with supplies to one of the hospitals, which I found in a most destitute and neglected condition. It was filled with wounded, brought in the night before. As yet they had eaten nothing, neither had they been visited by a surgeon, consequently their wounds remained undressed. The hospital was filthy beyond all comparison. After dishing out our soup and crackers to those poor half-starved men, Mr. H. began the work of dressing wounds, while I started in search of a surgeon, or some one, to assist him. At the Cavalry Corps Hospital—more than a mile distant—I secured the services of Steward Smith; and, as we were hurrying back to that abode of wretchedness, we were overtaken by Steward Dennis, of the Sixth Cavalry, who volunteered to assist us; and very soon both were at work in good earnest, while I hastened “home” to replenish our supply of rags, bandages, shirts, drawers, pillows, and handkerchiefs; and then, assisted by the nurse, began the work of cleaning the hospital. Before leaving, all had been fed, wounds dressed, clean clothing provided, the worst of the filth and dirt removed, and a large quantity of lemonade made for the “boys.” One poor fellow died during the day, and three more before morning. In a few days, those who survived were removed, and the hospital again filled with others. Thus they continued to come and go, until the last wounded were brought from the field.