SCENES FROM HOSPITAL AND CAMP.

I met him again; he was trudging along,
His knapsack with chickens was swelling;
He’d “blenkered” these dainties, and thought it no wrong,
From some secessionist’s dwelling.
“What regiment’s yours, and under whose flag
Do you fight?” said I, touching his shoulder;
Turning slowly about, he smilingly said,—
For the thought made him stronger and bolder,—
“I fights mit Siegel.”
The next time I saw him, his knapsack was gone,
His cap and his canteen were missing;
Shell, shrapnell, and grape, and the swift rifle-ball,
Around him and o’er him were hissing.
“How are you, my friend, and where have you been?
And for what, and for whom, are you fighting?”
He said, as a shell from the enemy’s gun
Sent his arm and his musket a-kiting,
“I fights mit Siegel.”
We scraped out his grave, and he dreamlessly sleeps
On the bank of the Shenandoah River;
His home and his kindred alike are unknown,
His reward in the hands of the Giver.
We placed a rough board at the head of his grave,
“And we left him alone in his glory,”
But on it we cut, ere we turned from the spot,
The little we knew of his story—
“I fights mit Siegel.”—Grant P. Robinson.If any of the little “life stories” which I here relate in this brief chapter, have perchance before met the reader’s eye, I can only say that they cannot be read too often. We need no longer go back to remotest history—to Joan d’Arc, Grace Darling, Florence Nightingale, nor to revolutionary scenes—to find “cases of courage and devotion, for no annals are so rich as ours in these deliberate acts of unquestioning self-sacrifice, which at once ennoble our estimate of human nature, and increase the homage we pay to the virtues of women.”

A Hospital Scene at Night.

Night gathered her sable mantle about earth and sky, and the cold, wintry wind swept around the temporary hospital with a mournful wail, a rude lullaby, and a sad requiem to the wounded and dying soldier boys who crowded its rankling wards. Through the dark, sickly atmosphere, by the flickering lamp-lights, are just discernible the long rows of suffering, dying humanity. As the wind lulls, the sighs and groans of the unfortunate sufferers greet your ears on every side. “Water, water!” is the general request.

Every moment new ones are added to the mangled and suffering throng, as they are brought in from the battle-field and the amputating-room. The surgeons are busily at work. Every able-bodied soldier must be at the front, for the emergency is great. Ah! who shall give the “water” which raging thirst momentarily demands? Who is to soothe the fearful anguish, from lacerated nerve and muscle, by cruel shot and shell? And who shall smooth the dying pillow, hear the last prayer, for self, and for loved ones far away in the northern homes? And who will kindly receive the dying messages for those dear ones,—wife, children, father, mother,—whom he never will see again, and kiss the pallid cheek, commend the soul to God, and close the eyes forever of the poor soldier boy, who died away from home and friends, in the hospital?God himself had raised up those to fill this sacred office, in the form of frail women—woman, because no man could fill the hallowed sphere. Flitting from couch to couch, like a fairy thing, noiselessly; like an angel of mercy, administering, soothing; but like a woman, beautiful, frail, and slender, with a cheering smile, and sympathy, as much expressed in the light of the eye as the sound of the voice, she moistened the parched lips, lightened the pillows, and the hearts, and seemed never to tire in deeds of love and kindness to the distressed soldiers.

Next to the soldiers, the physicians know how to appreciate the true women at the hospital couch. After the manifestations of skill, labor, anxiety, and devotion to the cause by the physicians, thousands of men would have perished but for the hand and heart of woman, and who now live to speak her praise and cherish her memory forever.

“Ain’t she an angel?” said a gray-haired veteran, as she gave the boys their breakfast. “She never seems to tire; she is always smiling, and don’t seem to walk, but flies from one to another. God bless her.”

“Ma’am, where did you come from?” asked a fair boy of seventeen summers, as she smoothed his hair, and told him, with gleaming eyes, he would soon see his mother, and the old homestead, and be won back to life and health. “How could such a lady as you come way down here to take care of us poor, sick, dirty boys?”

“I consider it an honor,” she said, “to wait on you, and wash off the mud you have waded through for me.”

Said another, “Lady, please write down your name, that I may look at it, and take it home, and show my wife who wrote my letters, combed my hair, and fed me. I don’t believe you’re like other people.”

“God bless her, and spare her life,” they would say, with devotion, as she passed on.

(These things were written of Miss Breckenbridge by Mrs. Hoge, of Chicago.)

The Soldier Boy’s Dying Message.

She sat by the couch of a fair-haired boy, who was that day mortally wounded. It was night now, and in the hospital before described. The poor boy knew he must go, but before he died he wanted to leave a message of love for his mother, away in the northern home.

“Tell me all you wish to have her know; I will convey your message to her,” said the lady, as she bent her slender young form over the dying boy, and tenderly smoothed back the fleecy locks from his pallid brow.

THE DYING MESSAGE.

“O, bless you, dear lady. You speak words of such joy to me. But it is this. I left a good mother, and sister Susie, in the dear old home in A. O, so much I have longed to see them during these last few hours! to see them but for one moment! O God, but for one moment!” And while he took breath she turned away her beautiful face to hide the falling tears, which she must not let the poor boy see. “Tell her,” he pursued,—“my mother,—that I never found out how much I loved her till I came away from her side to fight for my country. O, lady, tell her this, and Susie, and poor father. I see it all now. And the old home comes back to my mind as clear as though I left it but yesterday. There is the old house, with its gabled roof, and the porch, all covered with clinging jessamines, and the big house-dog lying under the porch, and the great old well-sweep; and off in the meadow are the trees I used to climb. O, I never, never shall see them again. I feel very weak. Can’t I have some more of that drink?”

“Yes, poor, dear boy. Here; the surgeon said you could have all you wanted.”

“O, thank you. I wish I could write. O, there; that is so refreshing. If I could but write and tell her how good you have been to me! But write your name to her, the whole of it. She will understand, if you don’t tell her how good you are. Well, I won’t say any more, for you shake your head; but tell her how I love her, and them all. Am I fainting?”

She arose from her knees, and taking some water, with her hand she moistened his brow and his silky hair, and offered him some more of the strengthening cordial. But he declined taking it. The boy was dying. He made one more effort, and said,—

“Mother! Tell her, too, how I have kept her little Bible; and she can see how it has been read, and marked, and worn. O for one sight of her dear face, one look from her loving eyes, one kiss from her lips! I’d then die in peace.”

The beautiful lady softly smoothed his hair, wiped his face, whispered words too sacred for sterner hearts, and kissed away her own tears from his pallid cheeks.

“Mother! Was it you? Then good by. I die—happy, Mother!”Thus he expired. The good lady wrote the above to the mother of the brave lad, and thus I obtained the original.

Warm Hearts in frozen Bodies.

“A lady in one of the hospitals of the west was much attracted by two young men, lying side by side, all splintered and bandaged, so that they could not move hand or foot, but so cheerful and happy looking, that she said,—

“‘Why, boys, you are looking very bright to-day.’

“‘O, yes,’ they replied, ‘we’re all right now; we’ve been turned this morning.’

“And she found that for six long weeks they had lain in one position, and for the first time that morning had been moved to the other side of their cot.

“‘And were you among those poor boys who were left lying where you fell, that bitter cold morning, till you froze fast to the ground?’

“‘Yes, ma’am; we were lying there two days. You know they had no time to attend to us. They had to go and take the fort.’

“‘And didn’t you think it was very cruel in them to leave you there to suffer so long?’ she inquired.

“‘Why, no, ma’am; we wanted them to go and take the fort.’

“‘But when it was taken, you were in too great agony to know or care for it?’

“‘O, no, ma’am,’ they replied, with flashing eyes. ‘There was a whole lot of us wounded fellows on the hill-side, watching to see if they would get the fort; and when we saw they had it, every one of us who had a whole arm, or leg, waved it in the air, and hurrahed till the air rang again.’”

This is from a letter by Miss M. E. Breckenbridge, a lady who laid down her life for the sick soldiers.

Pudding and Milk.

Under Dr. Vanderkieft’s supervision, in Sedgwick’s corps, there was one of the noblest self-sacrificing women of the army of the Potomac. This lady was unwearied in her efforts for the good of the soldiers.

While at Smoketown Hospital, there was a poor, emaciated soldier, whose weak and pitiable condition attracted her attention. He could retain nothing on his stomach. Mrs. Lee—for that was the lady—had tried all the various dishes for which the meagre hospital supplies afforded materials, but nothing afforded the patient relief and nourishment, until one day, in overhauling the stores, she found a quantity of Indian corn meal.

“O, I have found a prize,” she cried, in delight.

“What is it?” inquired the little fellow detailed as orderly.

“Indian meal,” was her reply.

“Pshaw! I thought you had found a bag of dollars.”

“Better than dollars. Bring it along.” And she hastened away to the tent where lay her poor patient.

“Sanburn,” said she,—for that was the invalid’s name,—“could you eat some mush?”

“I don’t know what that is. I don’t like any of your fancy dishes.”

“Why, it’s pudding and milk,” said a boy on the next cot.

“O, yes,” exclaimed the starving soldier. “I think I could eat a bucket full of pudding and milk.”

Mrs. Lee was not long in giving him an opportunity for the trial. She at first brought him a small quantity, with some sweet milk, and to her joy, as well as that of the lean, hungry patient, it suited him. He ate it three times a day, and recovered. Indeed, the sack of meal was worth more than a sack of dollars, as she had said.

As strange as this may seem, there are instances on record where very remarkable, yea, absurd articles of diet have cured where medicine failed.

Small Beer.

The Earl of Bath, when he was Mr. Pulteney, was very sick of the pleuristic fever, in Staffordshire. Doctor after doctor had been called down from London, till his secretary had paid out the sum of three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. The last two physicians had given him up. “He must die,” said Drs. Friend and Broxholm. They, however prescribed some simple remedies, and were about to leave, when the invalid, just alive, was heard to mutter, “Small beer.”

“He asks for small beer,” said the attendants. “Shall we give him some?”

“Yes, give him ‘small beer,’ or anything,” replied the doctors.

A great two-quart silver pitcher full was brought, and he drank the whole contents, and demanded more. The request was granted, and, after drinking the gallon, he fell asleep, perspired freely, and recovered.

The poetical and amusing Side.

There is a poetical side, as well as a prosy side, to the camp and hospital. The following effusion of confusion was sent to the writer by a brother who gave his life for his country. It was written by a rebel soldier, who never realized his dream, and doubtless his “Amelia” mourns his loss as sincerely as though he had fought in a better cause.

To Amelia.

1. O, come, my love, and go away to the land up north; for there, they say, it’s rite good picketin’ for rebel boys. And we’ll take the land, and sweep the band of New Yorkers into the bay.

2. I’ve heered of Delmonico’s, and Barnum’s Shows, and how many hotels the land only knows. And we’ll steer our bark for Centre Park. Here’s a health to ourselves, and away she goes. (Here I drank.)3. Then come with your knight so true, and down with the boys that’s dressed in blue. Farewell to hoe-cake an’ hominy, Richmond and Montgomery. I’ll lick the damn Yankees, an’ marry you.

4. Here’s a heart, I reckon, as firm’s a rock; no truer ever beat neath a gray or blue frock. So come, my love, and haste away. We’ll moor our bark in New York Bay, when I end this fighting work.

Your true lover,
J. Parsloe.

The next has been in print, and was written by Major McKnight, while a prisoner. “He was a poet, musician, and joker, and used to run from grave to gay, from lively to severe, on almost all mottoes. He was an especial favorite with his guard, the Union boys.”

My Love and I.

My love reposes in a rosewood frame;
A bunk have I;
A couch of feath’ry down fills up the same;
Mine’s straw, but dry.
She sinks to rest at night without a sigh;
With waking eyes I watch the hours creep by.
My love her daily dinner takes in state;
And so do I;
The richest viands flank her plate;
Coarse grub have I.
Pure wines she sips at ease her thirst to slake;
I pump my drink from Erie’s limpid lake.
My love has all the world at will to roam;
Three acres I;
She goes abroad, or quiet sits at home;
So cannot I.
Bright angels watch around her couch at night;
A Yank, with loaded gun, keeps me in sight.
A thousand weary miles stretch between
My love and I;
To her, this wintry night, cold, calm, serene,
I waft a sigh,
And hope, with all my earnestness of soul,
To-morrow’s mail may bring me my parole.
There’s hope ahead: we’ll one day meet again,
My love and I;
We’ll wipe away all tears of sorrow then;
Her love-lit eye
Will all my many troubles then beguile,
And keep this wayward reb from Johnson’s Isle.

STUCK!

A Scriptural Conundrum.

The Georgia contrabands were great on conundrums, says a soldier of Sherman’s army. One day one of these human “charcoal sketches” was driving a pair of contrary mules hitched to a cart loaded with foraging stuff. He was sitting on the load, saying to himself, “Now dat Clem ax me dat cundrum to bodder dis nigger, and I done just make it out. ‘Why ar Moses like er cotton-gin?’ I done see. I mighty ’fraid I hab to gib dat up. Whoa! Git up? What de debble you doin’?”

While “cudgelling his brains” for a solution of Clem’s conundrum, the mules had strayed from the cart road, and were stuck hard and fast in the mud. “Git up dar yer Balum’s cusses!” piling on the whip and using some “swear words” not to be repeated. “Dar, take dat, and dat, yer!”

Just then Chaplain C. rode up, and hearing the contraband swearing, said,—

“Do you know what the great I Am said?”

“Look’er yer, masser,” interrupted the negro; “done yer ax me none of yer cundrums till I git out ob dis d—— hole; and I answer Clem’s fust—‘Why am Moses like er gin-cotton?’”

Wouldn’t marry a Regiment.

When General Kelley was after Mosby’s guerrillas, he captured a girl named Sally Dusky, whose two brothers were officers in the guerrilla band. The general tried in vain to induce the girl—who was not bad looking, by the way—to reveal the rebs’ hiding-places. Having failed in all other ways, the general said,—

“If you will make a clean breast of it, and tell us truly, I will give you the chances for a husband of all the men and officers of my command.”

With this bait he turned her over to Captain Baggs. After some deliberation she asked that officer if the general meant what he said.

“O, most assuredly; the general was sincere,” was his reply.The girl assumed a thoughtful mood for some moments, and then said,—

“Well, I wouldn’t like to marry the whole regiment, or staff, but I’d as lief have the old general as any of them.”