Kate Cumming: A Journal of Hospital Life in the Confederate Army of Tennessee.

November 16.—The weather is delightful, and our wounded doing a little better.

We had two men die to-day—the first in three weeks. When they were brought in we did not think they would live but a day or two. One, named Patrick Conda, was a member of the Tenth Tennessee Regiment, and was wounded at the late battle. His sufferings were great, and he bore them with much fortitude. He blessed me every time I did any little thing for him. He was a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and died trusting in the atoning blood of his blessed Savior. He was a native of Ireland, but all his relatives live in New York.

The other patient who died is named William G. Elliott; he was a member of the Forty-third or Forty-eighth Alabama Regiment. He died from fever. At the time he was brought in he was deranged, and died in that state.

The youth, Seborn Horton, has just breathed his last. Poor child! I trust he is now at rest in the bosom of his God, secure from woe and sin. He was like many other badly wounded men whom I have seen, deranged a short time before his death. I have written to his mother, who lives in Marshall County, Alabama.

November 13.—Dr. Bemiss left to-day. He is going to assist Dr. Stout . We all regret his leaving. To use the phrase of a friend, “he is a gentleman and scholar, with his heart in the right place.” A more devoted patriot we have not in the cause.

Dr. J. N. Hughes of Kentucky is his successor, and I am told is a true patriot and a high-toned southern gentleman.

Our wounded are doing badly; gangrene in its worst form has broken out among them. Those whom we thought were almost well are now suffering severely. A wound which a few days ago was not the size of a silver dime is now eight or ten inches in diameter.

The surgeons are doing all in their power to stop its progress. Nearly every man in the room where they were so full of jokes has taken it; there is very little laughing among them now. It is a most painful disease, and plays sad havoc with the men every way. We can not tempt them to eat, and we have very little sweet milk, and that is the cry with them all. Many a day I have felt as if I would walk any distance to get it for them. It is distressing to go into the wards for I hear but the one cry— milk!

I have told every body that I have met about it, but with no effect. If all would give a very little, there is no end to the amount of good of which it would be productive.

The people say that they use it for their negroes and children, as they have no fresh meat; but I expect they could spare a little for these wounded patriots.

Mrs. Johnston’s little boy, my talkative friend, comes every day with milk. His mother tolls mo that she can not get him to taste it himself, for he desires to bring his share to the soldiers.

We have had a number of ladies from the country visiting the wounded; many of them have come twenty miles. They bring baskets full of all kinds of eatables. It does me good to see them come, as the very best we can give wounded men is not enough. And another thing: the diet is a change; they bring ham, biscuits, chickens, pies, cakes, etc.

Sunday, November 8.—I am kept quite busy; I do not have time to talk or read to the men. Mrs. W.’s health being bad, she was advised a change of air, and has gone to Mobile.

Captain Smith, one of my Corinth patients, called to see me. He has never wholly recovered from his wound. He was appointed major of his regiment, and had to resign on account of his health, lie is now chaplain of the regiment. He is hopeful about our cause, as indeed all our soldiers are.

I have received a letter from a Kentucky friend, and with it a trophy found on the late battle-field. It is a kind of book, called “The Holy Comforter,” in which are appropriate selections from Scripture. It is for the use of a sick-room.

My friend says he can not see what such people as the enemy have to do with any thing of that kind, and wishes they would only profit by such teachings. He forgot that wicked people would not put on a cloak of any thing that is wicked wherewith to cover evil, as then it would be no mask.

When we look at the history of the world, and the persecutions, called religious ones, how little the calm and holy spirit of religion has had to do with it all!

Christianity breathes nothing but peace and good-will toward men; but if men, in their blindness and evil hearts, pervert it, it loses none of its sanctity or truthfulness, but only adds tenfold to the condemnation of those who abuse it. The devil quoted Scripture, why may not his followers?

I am not one of those who say there are no Christians in the North, because of the terrible blasphemy which is now raging there. If we are to believe their own papers, the birthday of Tom Paine is kept as a grand festival; and men wearing the garb of the sanctuary cry, Down with the Holy Bible because it upholds slavery. To use the language of a southern poet, where

“A preacher to the pulpit comes,

And calls upon the crowd,

For southern creeds and southern hopes,

To weave a bloody shroud.

Beside the prayer-book on his desk,

The bullet-mold is seen,

And near the Bible’s golden clasp

The dagger’s stately sheen.

The blessed cross of Calvary

Becomes a sign of bale,

Like that which blazed when chieftains raised

The clansmen of the Gael!”

I think, even with the true picture which the above represents, that there are many good and true Christians in the North—men who have not let the wicked one take possession of them altogether. And it is with the hope that we have many such that I look forward to that happy day when they will rise in their might, and with one voice demand that the demagogues and fanatics who are now having full sway desist from this unholy strife, and treat us as they should. They seem to have forgotten that we are God’s creatures as well as they, with at least as much power of reasoning.

My Kentucky friend says he has just heard from his home, and that his wife is dying, and he is not permitted to go and see her. It is not much wonder that he is so bitter.

November 3.—A very warm day, and our patients are suffering very much. If the weather was cool it would be better for them. One of the wards, called the carriage ward (as it had been a carriage house), has about fifty patients, and it is heart-breaking to hear them groan. I think it is even worse than Corinth, as the men here seem to suffer much more. There they either died or were taken to another hospital. Fresh wounds are scarcely ever as painful as old ones.

This ward is a large, low-roofed, whitewashed room, roughly boarded, so that there are not a few openings where the daylight peeps through.

On entering, the first man to the right is Mr. Robbins, about fifty years of age. The doctors say he is one of the worst wounded men we have. His appearance is weak and languid, and there is very little hope of his recovery. Near him is Mr. McVay, an Irishman, much emaciated. One of his legs has been amputated above the knee, and the bone is protruding about an inch, which is very painful.

To the left is Mr. Groover, wounded in both knees. While marching, a cannonball took off the cap of one, and the under part of the other, and his back is one solid bed-sore. We have tried to relieve his suffering in every way. The very sight of his face is distressing, and makes me feel as if I would sacrifice almost any thing to palliate his pain. The effluvia from his wounds is sickening.

Further on are a dozen or so badly wounded: one without a leg; another without an arm, and some with wounds which are awful to look at, but their faces denote all they need is plenty to eat. I passed on, telling them that they are beneath my notice.

At the head of this group is Mr. Conda, an Irishman, with his leg in a sling. His wound, though not a bad looking one, is very painful, and he sleeps but little day or night. The clammy sweat constantly on his forehead tells how acutely he suffers; so that there is no need of asking him how he is.

Opposite him is Mr. Horton, another great sufferer. Just beyond is a man who has about two inches of his shin-bone cut out, and it is growing up.

Along side of him is Mr. Sparks, who came here with apparently a slight wound in the leg. It is now so painful that he not only groans day and night, but many a time his plaint can be heard in the street. His nose is pinched, and all his features have the appearance of a great sufferer. A little ways from him is Mr. Robinson, a lad about seventeen. The calf of his leg is a solid sore. He wails most dolefully, and we find it impossible to assuage his pain.

He and many of the others might have their limbs amputated, but the doctors say that their systems are not in a fit state, and that they would not stand the shock. There are many other badly wounded men in the ward, but they do not seem to suffer so acutely.

In looking over letters received from a friend in Mobile, I was a little astonished at an assertion in one about the planters. It seems they will not sell produce unless at an exorbitant price, and many will take nothing in return but gold and silver. If this is really the case, which I have no reason to doubt, I am at a loss to understand how they can be so blinded. Are they not aware that we are blockaded, and can only procure food from them; and do they not also know, if the enemy succeed— which they assuredly will, if the planters and others act as they are now doing— that they will be ruined, as well as every body else? Heaven help the country! I am getting sick at heart with seeing men from whom we expected so much acting as they are now doing. I wonder if they expect men to fight for them and their property, if they leave their wives and children to starve? The men will be more than mortal if they do it.

It is too bad that President Davis can not devise some way of making these Esaus, who would not only sell their own birthright, but ours, for a mess of pottage, give up their stores. They are ours by right. God did not shower his blessing on the land, as he has done this summer, for them alone.

It is said the planters were to blame for the fall of Vicksburg, and that after its fall the enemy came and took all their cotton, corn, and every thing else they had. If this report be true, it is a just judgment on them. And will they not all suffer the same?

“Men of the South! look up, behold

The deep and sullen gloom

Which darkens o’er your sunny land,

With thunder in its womb!

Are ye so blind ye can not see

The omens in the sky?

Are ye so deaf ye can not hear

The tramp of foemen nigh?

Look north, look west, the ominous sky

Is moonless, starless, black,

And from the east comes hurrying up

A sweeping thunder rack!”

When I think of these wretches, and of the men who are lying here, having suffered so much to save them and their wealth, I can scarcely keep from crying out on them. What is every bushel of corn and acre of land these planters have compared with the sacrifice these men have made? A mere cipher. Why, such comparisons are odious!

I noticed a very good article in a Mobile paper, signed “Gray Hairs.” The writer is calling on the people to try and improve the currency, and denouncing the grand jury for not doing something about the matter.

The papers are filled with good advice, if the people would only take it, and be warned before it is too late.

Many are placing their hopes of peace on the peace party in the North. I do think we have had enough of that. The North always seems to get as many men as they want in spite of “peace parties” and every thing else.

November 1.—A mild beautiful day. Mrs. Dr. Reesse called with her carriage, and took me down to visit our patients at the Springs. They are all doing well. Mrs. H. seems perfectly happy in her new vocation.

After leaving there we visited Major Brewster’s, where our old patient, Lieutenant Paine, is lying very sick. We left him in Atlanta, and from there he went to Dr. Collier’s, near Atlanta, followed us here, and since then has been growing worse, He is now in good hands, and is receiving every attention.

On the 29th ult., Mr. G. Cross died. He was wounded at the battle of Chickamauga. When he was first brought here, we did not think he could live but a few days. He was a member of the Twenty-seventh Tennessee Regiment . He has a sister in Atlanta, to whom I have written. We have an addition of two surgeons, Dr. Wellford from Virginia and Dr. Glenn from New Orleans. Dr. G. came out of New Orleans a registered enemy to the United States. Dr. W. is from that heroic but unfortunate city, Fredericksburg, where the enemy robbed him, and destroyed every thing he possessed.

In letters received from home I see that the president has visited Mobile. All are perfectly delighted with him. He made a speech which my father thinks a very fine one. He reviewed the troops, and the folks say he has a fine commanding military appearance.

October 28—On my way to the wards this morning I was annoyed at something which happened. I had made up my mind to leave the hospital, but on entering the wards all of this feeling vanished. When I saw the smile with which I was greeted on every side, and the poor sufferers so glad to see me, I made up my mind, I hope for the last time, that, happen what may, nothing will ever make me leave the hospital as long as I can be of any service to the suffering.

The surgeons have told me it is impossible for Mr. Groover to live. I have written to his wife, and told her of his condition. Poor man! he cried like a child when spoken to about his wife, and begged me not to let her know how badly he was wounded.

We have a badly wounded man, named Robbins; he has always a smile on his face and a joke for every one. He sings hymns all the time, and I am told on the battle-field he was as cheerful as he is now.

We have two lads severely wounded; one named Moore, from North Carolina, wounded in the lungs. He is as patient as if he were an old man. The other, named Seborn Horton, from Alabama; ho is not more than sixteen years of age. He is a great sufferer. Nothing pleases him better than to have ladies come to see him, and I beg all the girls, little and big, to come. One day I took some ladies to see him, and there was a crowd of little girls standing around him. I remarked that he would be pleased now. He answered that he was, but he was afraid the girls would not come back again. They had brought him a bouquet, which he prized very highly. Our men all seem fond of flowers.

We have numbers of Texas soldiers, members of Hood’s division. They are a fine-looking lot of men, and seem brave enough to face any danger. I have had not a little quarreling with them. They will have it that this army is not to be compared with the one in Virginia for bravery. I do not agree with them, for I have always heard it said that up here we have the flower of the North with which to contend. But these things do for something to talk about. It is amusing to hear the men abusing the different states. Of course it is all in jest, but sometimes they wax quite warm on the subject.

When our army was in Mississippi, had I believed one half the stories told of the people, I should have thought it the meanest state in the Confederacy.

While in Tennessee the same story was told; and now that we are in Georgia, it is honored by the same cognomen. I have come to the conclusion that where our army is that by it the country is injured, and that makes the people do things they otherwise would not. This the soldiers do not think about.

It is reported that General Thomas has superseded General Rosecrans, and that at Chattanooga we have the enemy completely hemmed in.

Our army is on Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain, and we have possession of the Nashville Railroad. The enemy have to haul their supplies from a great distance. On this account it is rumored that they are starving in Chattanooga. But I have heard some say that, with all their drawbacks, they are not only not starving, but are being heavily reinforced. It seems like folly to listen to any thing. I hope and pray that General B. will not feel too secure, and that he will be on the alert. Nearly all the defeats we have ever had have been from our want of caution.

Sunday, October 26.—Mrs. Harrison, the lady from Florida, has taken charge of the ward at the Springs. She had a pretty hard time at the beginning. The first day the rain poured into her room in torrents. She told me this as a joke, as she has determined not to complain. I think, like myself, she has something of the Mark Tapley spirit, and thinks, unless she has drawbacks, there will be no credit in staying in a hospital. A number of our patients have been sent down to the Springs, and Mrs. H. is paying them the most devoted attention.

To-day is Sunday, but we are too busy to think of going to church. Mrs. W. and myself are up at 4 o’clock every morning, preparing eggnog and toddies for the wounded; they are compelled to have them before eating. One of our patients, by the name of Davis, has had his arm amputated, and is doing well.

Sunday, October 18.—Nearly all the wounded are doing well. We shall not lose near as many as we thought. We have a room with seven men in it, who have lost a limb each. It is a perfect treat to go into it, as the men seem to do little else but laugh. They are young men, and say to me, I must tell all the young ladies to come and see them, and that they will make excellent husbands, as they will be sure never to run away.

We have a wounded captain, named Desha, related to the family in Mobile of that name. He is from Kentucky, and a cousin of Professor Pickett, whom I met at Ringgold. I have been told he is one of the bravest and best men in our army. I was conversing with him one day relative to the ignorance of our men. He said there was no doubt it was very great, but not greater than that of the northerners. He had seen hundreds of letters from the people in the North, and they were not only illiterate, but vulgar. This I have often heard said before.

Dr. B. is as kind as ever to the patients. He is constantly going around inquiring if they get enough to eat, and is using every means to get plenty for them. We get quantities of buttermilk, which is a great treat.

Dr. B. tells me he has over fifty relatives in the army, and he has not heard from them since the battle.

The president has just paid a visit to the Tennessee army; it is said for the purpose of making inquiries as to the dissatisfaction against General Bragg among his officers.

It seems that all his generals, excepting General Breckinridge, sent a petition to the president to have him removed. General Bragg has heard of it, and begged to be relieved, but the president refuses, as he says he does not know who to put in his place.

October 12.—The hospital is filled with wounded—the very worst which were on the battle-field. There was a raid expected, and they had to be taken off in a hurry. They were put on the train about three or four days ago, and have had little to eat; and many of them have not had their wounds dressed during that time. One of our nurses told me he had never seen wounded in such a state before, and says that many will be certain to die.

A man, Mr. Groover, is wounded through both knees, and his back is full of bedsores, caused from lying on a hard bunk made of branches of trees. He lay in one position on his back, from the time he was put on the train until he was taken off. The train was filled with slop and dirt of all kinds, and he had to lie in the midst of it. He is only one of many others who had to do likewise. On going into the ward the same sad spectacle greets us. One of our southern poets has drawn a picture only too faithfully of the scene in nearly all. Its vividness struck me so forcibly that I insert it:

A Call To The Hospital.

Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,

Turn the key on your jewels to-day,

And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses

Braid back in a serious way.

No more delicate gloves, no more laces,

No more trifling in boudoir or bower;

But come, with your souls in your faces,

To meet the stern wants of the hour!

Look around by the torch-light unsteady—

The dead and the dying seem one;

What! trembling and paling already,

Before your dear mission’s begun?

These wounds are more precious than ghastly—

Time presses her lips to each scar;

While she chants of that glory which vastly

Transcends all the horrors of war.

Pause here by the bedside; how mellow

The light showers down on that brow!

Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow!

Some homestead is missing him now;

Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing;

Some mother sits moaning, distress’d;

While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing,

With the enemy’s ball in his breast.

Here’s another: a lad—a mere stripling—

Picked up on the field almost dead,

With the blood through his sunny hair rippling

From a horrible gash in the head.

They say he was first in the action;

Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty;

He fought till he dropped with exhaustion

In the front of our fair southern city.

Fought and fell ‘neath the guns of that city,

With a spirit transcending his years;

Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,

And wet his pale lips with your tears.

Touch him gently—most sacred the duty

Of dressing that poor, shattered hand!

God spare him to rise in his beauty

And battle once more for his land!

Who groaned? What a passionate murmur!

“In thy mercy, O God! let me die!”

Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,

That musket-ball’s broken his thigh.

Turn the light on those poor, furrow’d features,

Gray-haired and unknown!—bless the brother.

O Heaven! that one of thy creatures

Should e’er work such woe on another!

Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief;

Let the old tattered collar go wide!

See—he stretches out blindly to search if

The surgeon still stands by his side.

“My son’s over yonder—he’s wounded—

O, this ball that has entered my thigh!”

And again he burst out, all atremble,

“In thy mercy, O God! let me die!”

Pass on; it is useless to linger

While others are claiming your care;

There is need for your delicate finger,

For your womanly sympathy there.

There are sick ones athirst for caressing,

There are dying ones raving of home,

There are wounds to be bound with a blessing,

And shrouds to make ready for some.

They have gathered about you the harvest

Of death in its ghastliest view;

The nearest as well as the farthest

Is here with the traitor and true.

And crowned with your beautiful patience,

Made sunny with the love at the heart,

You must balsam the wounds of a nation,

Nor falter nor shrink from your part.

Up and down through the wards, where the fever

Stalks noisome, and gaunt, and impure

You must go with your steadfast endeavor

To comfort, to counsel, to cure.

I grant you the task’s superhuman,

But strength will be given to you

To do for these dear ones what woman

Alone in her pity can do.

And the lips of the mothers will bless you

As angels sweet-visaged and pale!

And the little ones run to caress you,

And the wives and sisters cry “Hail!”

But e’en if you drop down unheeded,

What matter? God’s ways are the best;

You have poured out your life where ’twas needed,

And he will take care of the rest.

I have just received a letter from my brother, dated the 8th inst. He says the army has been in line of battle ever since the late battle, and are waiting for the enemy to make the attack.

We had two deaths this past week—one named Roberts, who was wounded at the late battle; his wife lives in Macon County, Georgia; the other is named Jesse Ferrell, from Thomas County, Georgia. He has been here since we first came.