May 18th, 1864.
When we arrived at Fredericksburg and our wounded were cared for, we, the volunteer nurses, were relieved from duty. But what to do with us no one could decide. The general opinion among the officers was that our parole was worthless.
I decided at once to report to my regiment, where I felt sure of getting advice. Accordingly eight of us started at 7 o’clock in the morning and reached Division Hospital—fourteen miles—at noon. Dr. Bevere was there, and expressed great pleasure at seeing us. I told him my situation and intention to rejoin my regiment. He requested me to remain while he made inquiries. A consultation was held by the surgeons, and not knowing what to do with us, they concluded to send us to Washington with a train of wounded about to start. While they were taking our names, General Burnside appeared. The perplexing question was at once referred to him. His decision was prompt and unequivocal: “Their parole is good and must be respected. Send every man back to Fredericksburg.” At 5 p. m. we were making our way, through rain and mud, back to the rear. The next day about twenty of us reported to the Provost Marshal for transportation to Annapolis. Transportation was out of the question at present, but we were assigned to very comfortable quarters.
All went smoothly for us for a day or two, and we hardly knew that we were prisoners. Soon a change came over our keepers. The day before yesterday —May 16th—we were summoned to appear before the Provost Marshal. He told the men—I was absent at the time—that our parole was not legal; there was much duty to be done, and we must help to do it; that guns would be furnished us, and we would be required to do guard duty; that every man who refused would be placed under guard on short rations, which meant hardtack and water. They were then sent to their quarters until guns could be procured. When I returned our quiet camp was like a nest of hornets recently stirred up.
In about an hour we were ordered to fall in. No determination had been expressed, and I was fearful most of the men would submit. Just before reaching the office we were halted and ordered to “rest.” William Anderson, of my company, asked me what I was going to do. My answer was, “I will not take a gun, let the consequences be what they may.” That was the decision of every man, and, when the Captain returned, he found us in open mutiny. He raved and swore; threatened us with all sorts of punishments; but, finding us unterrified, changed his tactics and tried persuasion, with the same results. Threats and persuasions proving futile, he sent us to our quarters.
We occupy a comfortable brick building, draw plenty of rations, have a good cook and expect soon to be sent to a parole camp, from where I will make a persistent effort to get home. Now that I can be of no service here, it seems to me I cannot be denied.
