Recollections of the Civil War

by Maud E. Morrow

We could not get a train out of the city until 5 o’clock in the evening. There were a number of guests in the parlor of the hotel, among them a sweet-faced lady who sought to entertain and amuse me. There was also a young man in the custody of officers of the law, though for what offense I am unable to say. His mother, a sad looking little woman, was there to bid him goodby. He played on the piano and sang beautiful songs for the entertainment of those in the room. “All things come to him that waits,” and as we waited, this long afternoon came to an end. We were taken to the depot in a cab, and this little ride cost my mother one dollar. We traveled all night, reaching Odin, Ill., about daylight, where we remained until Monday evening, waiting for a train over the Illinois Central railroad.

Odin at that time comprised the hotel, postoffice and depot. There was a long board walk leading from the hotel to the depot, which I traversed many times during our enforced stay, scraping acquaintance with the telegraph operator, giving him my history, past, present and future so far as I knew it. The country here was one vast expanse of prairie land, and the wind raged ceaselessly. Many long trains passed over the road on Sunday, bearing troops to the South. I stood on the little upper porch of the hotel, counting the cars and watching the trains until they passed beyond my vision. At this distant day I remember the appearance of the room we occupied, even to the position of the bed and stove, and in my mind’s eye I can see my baby sister lying asleep on the bed, and my mother sitting in a rocking chair near the center of the room, engaged in conversation with a lady from Mound City, Mo., who, like ourselves, was waiting for a train.

An amusing incident comes to my mind as I speak of this lady. She was a later arrival than ourselves, and had not yet heard the gong. As it sounded the call to supper, she threw up her hands in alarm, exclaiming, “Mercy on us, what is that!” My mother told her what it meant, when with a sigh of relief, she said, “Why, it’s enough to raise the dead.”

On Monday evening, November 3, after we had partaken of supper by lamplight, the long waited for train arrived, which we hailed with joy after our long, and to my mother, wearisome, delay. Soon after stepping aboard I fell asleep, and knew no more until 4 o’clock in the morning. Having reached Cairo, Ill., at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, we left the train, and in the semi-darkness of the early morning, we were hurried down the bank and on board the steamer City of Alton, a magnificent floating palace of the Mississippi, which conveyed us to Columbus, Ky., a distance of twenty miles. We were landed at the foot of a long line of steep bluffs.

Here occurs the first break in my memory of this journey. I only know that it was completed by rail, and that we traversed the entire length of the State of Tennessee, from north to south, and that I was a very tired little girl when we arrived at Corinth, at 8 o’clock on the night of November 4th. We were met at the depot by an ambulance, and driven to the Corona College Hospital, a mile distant from the town.

As we neared the building and surrounding battle-field, a horrible odor, as of burning flesh, greeted our nostrils, which the driver informed us was caused by the burning of horses and mules killed in the late battle.

In the latter part of our journey we had fallen in with a Mrs. Dr. Blaker, whose destination was the same as our own, and who had come to minister to a sick or wounded husband. We entered the hospital together, and were first shown into the Medical Director’s room, where the records were examined. It took but a few moments for Mrs. Blaker to learn that her husband was dead and buried. I can hear her wails of distress yet. We were more fortunate, and were soon ushered into the room occupied by my father and several other sick officers. The hospital was crowded, and there was no extra room for us. Another cot was brought in, an army blanket hung as a screen, and thus we spent our first night in a southern hospital.

CORONA COLLEGE HOSPITAL

IT stood in the midst of the historic battle-field and surrounding encampment. Prior to the war, it was known as The Corona Female College. It was a large, three-story structure of brick, with portico in front supported by massive pillars, and never was hospital more conveniently located with reference to battle-field. To me it was the Castle Beautiful, and even now, as I attempt to write of it, the memories of that time come thronging and surging through my brain, with such forceful rapidity, each clamoring for utterance, that I scarce know how to take up the tangled threads of warp and woof, and weave them into a smooth and readable story. The building was also known by the names of General Hospital and Seminary Hospital.

With the happy freedom of childhood I roamed about at my own sweet will, and I have given the “cup of cold water” to more than one poor sick or wounded soldier, as he lay on his bed of pain. There was one in particular, whose room was opposite our own: the door was mostly open, and he would frequently call to me to come and talk to him or hand him a drink of water. The first day we were in the building, I made the rounds of our ward on the second floor, with a lady nurse, Mrs. Penfield. I afterward called down her wrath upon my head by asking her if she had a field full of pens. One scene of that day’s visit arises vividly before me now, and I can draw a pen picture of the white-faced soldier I saw, propped up in bed with the nurse combing his hair, and bathing his face and hands.