Sunday, 8th—We received orders to clean up for inspection and a detail of men was put to work cleaning up the parade ground. We have a fine drill ground out in a large field. But the camp being out in the open, the sun beats down pretty hot upon the tents.
Friday, June 8, 2012
June 8th, Sunday.
These people mean to kill us with kindness. There is such a thing as being too kind. Yesterday General Williams sent a barrel of flour to mother, accompanied by a note begging her to accept it “in consideration of the present condition of the circulating currency,” and the intention was so kind, the way it was done so delicate, that there was no refusing it. I had to write her thanks, and got in a violent fit of the “trembles” at the idea of writing to a stranger. One consolation is, that I am not a very big fool, for it took only three lines to prove myself one. If I had been a thundering big one, I would have occupied two pages to show myself fully. And to think it is out of our power to prove them our appreciation of the kindness we have universally met with! Many officers were in church this morning, and as they passed us while we waited for the door to be opened, General Williams bowed profoundly, another followed his example; we returned the salute, of course. But by tomorrow, those he did not bow to will cry treason against us. Let them howl. I am tired of lies, scandal, and deceit. All the loudest gossips have been frightened into the country, but enough remain to keep them well supplied with town talk. . . . It is such a consolation to turn to the dear good people of the world after coming in contact with such cattle. Here, for instance, is Mr. Bonnecase on whom we have not the slightest claims. Every day since we have been here, he has sent a great pitcher of milk, knowing our cow is out; one day he sent rice, the next sardines, yesterday two bottles of Port and Madeira, which cannot be purchased in the whole South. What a duck of an old man! That is only one instance.
June 8 — The war fruit ripened last night, and this morning the cannons commenced booming in front and rear. We were ordered to the Shenandoah River near Port Republic, as the advance guard of Shields’s army — which is advancing up the Luray Valley — was there hammering at and threatening Jackson’s rear — that is, if he has anything at present that can be properly designated a rear, as Old Stonewall showed two bold fronts to-day with very little rear to them. When we arrived at the river Jackson had already ordered a Yankee battery to change its position, and also had dodged a shell or two that were aimed at him personally, and his troops had driven back Shields’s heavy advance guard on the east side of the river.
We remained in battery on the highlands west of the river, together with some four or five of Jackson’s batteries and infantry, to hold back Shields’s forces, which lay below on the other side of the river, checkmated.
We remained in position a few hours, then moved up the river two miles to Vernon Forge, to guard a ford. We remained there until four o’clock, then moved up the river a mile farther to guard another ford, and remained there until two hours after dark, when we moved to Middle River, and camped. From about nine o’clock this morning until three this afternoon we heard the incessant thundering of booming cannon in the direction of Cross Keys, where a fierce battle has been raging nearly all day between General Ewell’s and Fremont’s forces. It is reported to-night that Ewell defeated Fremont.
To Mrs. Lyon.
Camp near Booneville, Miss., 25 miles south of Corinth, on Mobile & Ohio R. R., Sunday, June 8, 1862.— We are lying quietly here, encamped in a beautiful grove, on dry, clean land. Our regiment is in better health than almost any regiment near us, and yet we have a large number of sick men back in the hospitals. For myself, I seem to grow stronger and more healthy every day. The climate seems well adapted to my constitution. We have warm days usually, with cool, delicious nights. I sleep every night on the ground under a shelter of boughs, our tents not having yet reached us, with nothing but a rubber blanket under me, and I sleep soundly and sweetly. I do not think we shall move from here until the Mississippi river is open so that we can get our supplies by railroad from Memphis. We now have to haul them with teams from Hamburg, between forty and fifty miles distant. The Tennessee river will soon be so low that it will be difficult to get them to Hamburg.
I have no idea where Beauregard’s army is, but we have plenty of evidence that it is sadly demoralized. I do not expect any more hard fighting here, for I do not believe that the rebels will face us, but I may be mistaken. If McClellan takes Richmond, and the Mississippi is speedily opened, I shall confidently expect a speedy termination of this wicked rebellion. Then, our duty performed and our beloved country relieved from peril, with glad emotions will we return to the arms of our loved ones and to the sacred peace of our happy homes. God speed the joyful hour!
I have now been in two fierce battles and have faced death for long, weary hours, and amid the wild terrors of the contest have been enabled by our kind Heavenly Father to preserve my self-command and do my duty. Oh, how sublime a scene is a battle! I can not describe it, but it seemed like the thunder on Sinai or the day of judgment, as our imaginations picture those wonderful events. Aside from its fearful perils, a battle fills the soul with the most sublime emotions. Then life is regarded at its true value, and the obligations of honor, patriotism, duty and humble trust in God fire the soul to meet manfully the terrible responsibilities of the hour. I thank God most devoutly that I have been enabled to render some service to my country, and that thus far our sweet babes will never have occasion to blush at the thought that their father failed to do his duty. The conviction that I shall return to you in safety at the end of the war keeps my feelings constantly calm and happy, and I sincerely hope that you feel so. I am well satisfied that I did not accept the promotion to the 18th, for I feel justifiable pride in the renown which our regiment has achieved. I feel now very clearly that it is my duty to keep with my company. The devotion of my men to me, evidenced in a thousand ways, often brings tears to my eyes.
I am vexed with the newspapers. Some of them are dissatisfied because we did not fight a great battle and, of course, have a great slaughter; and they call the whole operation a defeat. This is frightfully, cruelly wicked. These men are in a rage because ten thousand more homes are not desolated. The fact is, the whole campaign has been conducted with the most consummate generalship. Corinth is a most important position in a military point of view, flanking both Fort Pillow and Memphis. We wanted the position. The rebels themselves, with their arms and supplies, were of but little consequence to us. We won the position with but little loss of life, and these cowardly home-guards gnash their teeth in impotent rage because no more of us were butchered.
Flat Top Mountain, June 8, 1862. Sunday. — A bitterly cold morning — too cold to snow! Gradually warmed up. P. M. rode with Avery four or five miles. Our horses rested and fed up were in high spirits. We are all heartily tired of staying here. When shall we go? — Dear Lucy, I think of her very often these dull days. It looks as if the war would soon be ended, and then we shall be together again.
8th. Sunday. Started on our return at 8 o’clock, with drove of cattle and horses. Major and Purps went ahead, and a few miles from the road, to a deserted camp and got a secesh wagon, old style, hitched in four horses and had a gay time. Lead horses whirled after a time and broke the tongue, fixed it and with two horses drove through the camp. Horses balked several times, once in the river. Hadley and I undressed and helped across. Command stopped at Hudson’s. Jayhawked the people badly. (“Purps”— nickname for noncommissioned staff.)
Written from the Sea islands of South Carolina.
[Diary] Sunday, June 8, 1862.
Before church we all, superintendents and the few ladies, stood under the oaks and talked of our dangers, and then Mr. Horton led us in to service. After service we talked long again, till the coming rain made our party from the Oaks hasten home, Park and others going to the Episcopal church to try the organ. Mr. Pierce had gone to Hilton Head, as a steamer was expected. I had reached home before the rain and was lying down, when Rina rushed into my room with a haste and noise so strange to her, calling out, “Miss Murray has come!” I got up suddenly, but felt so faint that I had to lie down again. Jerry and his boat’s crew had arrived with her trunk, but she did not come for an hour. The men had told Mr. Pierce that they would row up sooner than he could ride up to tell the news, but he did not believe them, and galloped all the way from Land’s End to be the first to make the announcement to me. He came in about a quarter of an hour after they did, and as I was then upstairs, heard from Nelly the arrival of the men. When I came down he greeted me with “So you fainted at the news?” “No,” I said, “not at the news, but I have not been well for a week and was startled by Rina, and getting up so suddenly made me faint.” He was determined to see a scene if possible, but when Ellen came and I stood on the porch as she came up the steps from the carriage, we shook hands very quietly and walked into the parlor in the ordinary manner of acquaintances. It was not till we were upstairs that we cut any capers of joy. She had been detained by the rain, the whole party stopping in the Episcopal church where they played on the organ and sang, Mr. McKim and Lucy[1] being highly delighted at the ride, the romantic church, and the meeting with some of the superintendents.
In the evening we went to a praise meeting, and Mr. McKim spoke to the people. We heard a very fine address from old Marcus. Afterwards we sat up late — Mr. Pierce and Mr. McKim having a long talk over the affairs of our little colony and we listening. Ellen and I are to sleep on the floor, Lucy McKim and Nelly Winsor in the beds in the same room. Ellen and I talked all night nearly.
“Wilson Small,” June 8.
Dear Friend, — This is the first quiet Sunday since we have been here. How long it will stay quiet, no one can tell for an hour together. The past week is wholly indescribable. Our own boats filled up calmly and comfortably on Sunday and Monday with the wounded of Saturday. Then the Government boats began to fill; and such fearful scenes as we have passed through since then until noon of yesterday, I would not tell you if I could. From five to eight hundred wounded men have been sent down daily: no authorized officials to receive them; no arrangements made of any kind. The boats which have been lying here idle for weeks, waiting for “surgical cases,” wholly unprepared, and their surgeons off to the battlefield. No stores, no-beds, no hospital stewards, no food, no stimulants. Then it is that the medical authorities fling themselves on the Sanitary Commission, and the Commission gives everything with a generous hand. It has done all that has been done on three fourths of the Government boats, and that at the last moment, without notice, and when its supplies were heavily taxed in fitting out its own boats,— which, happily, were all, except the “Spaulding,” here, and ready to ship the first wounded that came down. Never did men work as ours have worked. It would be hard to say who did best where all did so well. No description can give you a full idea of the pressure upon them, of the necessities they strove to meet; and all to be done out of their regular system, hurried and confused by the hurry and excitement of the one medical officer who appeared to have any authority upon the ground.
As for us women, all we could do was to give drink, stimulants, and food to the poor fellows, and what other little ease we could. We take great comfort in a tent-kitchen provided for us by Captain Sawtelle, from whom we receive much thoughtful, kind attention. From it we have fed four thousand men this week; on Thursday we served twelve hundred meals. We also receive kindness from other officers. Far from meeting with any of the usual army opposition, our help is claimed and warmly acknowledged.
To-day things look brighter. The “Elm City” and “Knickerbocker” are back and in perfect order. A new medical officer has been placed in charge of the transportation from this point. He began his duties yesterday after the departure of the “Louisiana.” She was fifty per cent better than any of the other Government boats, and yet this officer said to me to-day, when I took him through the wards of the “Knickerbocker” (she filled up at midnight): “Oh, what happiness to look at this boat after that accursed thing of yesterday!” I find I can bear anything with calmness and, in one sense, indifference so long as I am beside it and engaged with it. To feel acutely at such times is merely selfish. But no tongue can tell what I suffered yesterday afternoon when I was obliged to stay on board here for a little rest, and listen to the groans of men undergoing operations on the gangway of the “Louisiana,” to which we were moored. No trial of nerves ever equalled that. But why speak of such things? I beg you to offer the Prayer for the Sick, and that for the Afflicted, every Sunday in the Chapel. Can you not change and add something to them, to fill out and express all that we feel? It would be a great satisfaction to me to think that this were done.
I trust the worst is over. How little you all realize the magnitude of our necessities at your distance from them! Think of a handful of us here to keep order for the wounded of this great army,—I might almost say to keep life in them. I cannot adequately tell you of the work these Commission men have done. The lives saved are theirs. “Day” and “night” are words of no meaning to Mr. Olmsted and Mr. Knapp. I think they must break down under the pressure of care and physical effort. The young men of the Commission are most praiseworthy. Nothing is too hard, or too humble, or too constant for them to do, and do gladly, as if they rejoiced to do it. Dr. Robert Ware has more upon him than any one but Mr. Olmsted and Mr. Knapp; he is all that is sensible, energetic, and successful.
I have seen many men die, but never one to whom such a word as one might wish to say could be spoken. Our work is not like regular hospital work. It is succoring men just off the battle-field, and making them easy, clean, and comfortable before we turn them over into other hands. Those who die are too low when they come to us to know much; and when you think that four thousand men have passed through our hands this week, you will understand that we can do little beyond the mere snatching from physical death.
Good-by! I hope you may be happy this summer, — it would be something to be able to think of happiness as existing somewhere.
I send you a little poem addressed to Mrs. Howland, by a private soldier who had been in her care on one of our boats. If you knew her you would see that there is a poet’s insight in what he says of her: —
From old Saint Paul till now,
Of honorable women not a few
Have left their golden ease, in love to do
The saintly work which Christlike hearts pursue.
And such an one art thou, — God’s fair apostle,
Rearing his Love in war’s horrific train;
Thy blessed feet follow its ghastly pain
And misery and death, without disdain.
To one borne from the sullen battle’s roar,
Dearer the greeting of thy gentle eyes
When he aweary, torn, and bleeding lies,
Than all the glory that the victors prize.
When peace shall come, and homes shall smile again,
A thousand soldier-hearts in Northern climes
Shall tell their little children in their rhymes
Of the sweet saint who blessed the old war-times.
8th—I am threatened this morning with dismissal from the service, and my letter of yesterday is held up as a piece of intolerable insolence, and as one good ground for my being dishonorably relieved. Well, I am a Surgeon of a large hospital, in which are about five hundred brave but unfortunate men, who, under their almost superhuman efforts to sustain and defend a government have broken down and sickened. They are from home, from family, from friends; they are suffering for want of the commonest attention; the dead and the dying are lying together for want of proper and sufficient aid to dispose of them otherwise. The living are dying for the want of the necessaries of life, which, in great abundance, are in sight, part owned by the government, part by the rebels; that owned by the latter carefully guarded by men withrawn from our lines, lest some of these suffering sick should, in desperation, crawl from their beds, get in reach of, and take enough to snatch their languishing bodies from suffering, and, perhaps, from death. But worst of all, I have taken the liberty of stating these things plainly, and, as a penalty for my insolence in holding up a mirror to the eyes of a superior officer, I am to be relieved! By me, “this is a consummation devoutly to be wished.” Will they dare to try it? We shall see. (I have a mirror which will reflect other sights not less hideous than this. Perhaps they would like to look at it?)
Saturday, 8th.—Struck tents this morning, and by sun-up everything was on the move. Marched to Copper Hill, where we took the railroad train, and were soon on our way to Knoxville, arriving there at sunset; but in a very few minutes we were aboard the train, and on our way to Chattanooga.
(Note: picture is of an unidentified Confederate soldier.)
