Nurse and Spy in the Union Army / The Adventures and Experiences of a Woman in Hospitals, Camps, and Battle-Fields

CHAPTER XI.

ANOTHER DISGUISE—I BECOME AN IRISH PEDDLER—FEVER AND AGUE—A NIGHT OF SUFFERING IN THE SWAMP—RETROSPECTION—LOST IN THE SWAMP—CANNON MY GUIDES—A SICK REBEL—I FIND SOMETHING TO EAT—MY NEW PATIENT—SYMPATHY FOR SUFFERING—TALK WITH A DYING REBEL—A WILLING DETENTION—EXTEMPORIZING A LIGHT—THE LAST HOUR—SOLDIERS OF CHRIST—THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.

While all these preparations were going forward, I was meditating another visit to the rebel camp. It was not safe for me to attempt to palm myself off again on the rebels as a colored boy. In the first place, I should be in danger of being recognized as the cowardly picket who deserted his post—a crime worthy of death; and in the next place, I should be in imminent danger of blistering my hands again—a thing which I felt particularly anxious to avoid, especially in performing labor that would enable the enemy more successfully to repel the attacks of the Federals. Now a new disguise was necessary, and I decided to abandon the African relation, and assume that of the Hibernian. Having had this in view before leaving Williamsburg, I procured the dress and outfit of an Irish female peddler, following the army, selling cakes, pies, etc., together with a considerable amount of brogue, and a set of Irish phrases, which did much toward characterizing me as one of the “rale ould stock of bog-trotters.”

The bridges were not finished across the Chickahominy when I was ready to cross the river, so I packed up my new disguise in my cake and pie basket, and my horse, “Frank,” and I took a bath in the cool water of the Chickahominy. After swimming my noble steed across the river, I dismounted, and led him to the edge of the water—gave him a farewell pat, and let him swim back again to the other side, where a soldier awaited his return. It was now evening; I did not know the precise distance to the enemy’s picket line, but thought it best to avoid the roads, and consequently I must spend the night in the swamp, as the only safe retreat. It required some little time to don my new disguise, and feel at home in the clothes. I thought the best place for my debut was the “Chickahominy swamp.” I did not purpose, this time, to pass the enemy’s lines in the night, but to present myself at the picket line, at a seasonable hour, and ask admission as one of the fugitives of that section flying from the approach of the Yankees, which was a usual thing.

In crossing the river I had my basket strapped on my back, and did not know that all it contained was completely drenched, until I required to use its contents. It was, therefore, with feelings of dread and disappointment that I discovered this sad fact, for I had been suffering from slight ague chills during the day, and feared the consequences of spending the night in wet clothing, especially in that malaria-infested region. However, there was no alternative, and I was obliged to make the best of it. I had brought a patch-work quilt with me from the hospital, but that, too, was wet. Yet it kept off some of the chill night air, and the miasmatic breath of that “dismal swamp.” The remembrance of the sufferings of that night seem to be written upon my memory “as with a pen of iron.” There I was, all alone, surrounded by worse, yes, infinitely worse, than wild beasts—by blood-thirsty savages—who considered death far too good for those who were in the employment of the United States Government.

That night I was attacked by severe chills—chills beyond description, or even conception, except by those who have experienced the freezing sensation of a genuine ague chill. During the latter part of the night the other extreme presented itself, and it seemed as if I should roast alive, and not a single drop of water to cool my parched tongue; it was enough to make any one think of the “rich man” of the Bible, and in sympathy with his feelings cry to “Father Abraham” for assistance. My mind began to wander, and I became quite delirious. There seemed to be the horrors of a thousand deaths concentrated around me; I was tortured by fiends of every conceivable shape and magnitude. Oh, how it makes me shudder to recall the scenes which my imagination conjured up during those dark weary hours! Morning at last came, and I was aroused from the horrible night-mare which had paralyzed my senses through the night, by the roar of cannon and the screaming of shell through the forest.

But there I was, helpless as an infant, equally unable to advance or retreat, without friend or foe to molest or console me, and nothing even to amuse me but my own thoughts. I looked upon the surrounding scenery, and pronounced it very unromantic; then my eye fell upon my Irish costume, and I began to remember the fine phrases which I had taken so much pains to learn, when the perfect absurdity of my position rushed over my mind with overwhelming force, and the ludicrousness of it made me, for the moment, forget my lamentable condition, and with one uncontrollable burst of laughter I made that swamp resound in a manner which would have done credit to a person under happier circumstances, and in a better state of health.

That mood soon passed away, and I began a retrospection of my past life. It certainly had been an eventful one. I took great interest in carefully tracing each link in the chain of circumstances which had brought me to the spot whereon I now lay, deserted and alone, in that notorious Chickahominy swamp. And ere I was aware of it, I was sighing over a few episodes in my past history—and mentally saying, well, only for this intense love of adventure, such and such things “might have been,” and I should now be rejoicing in the honorable title of —— ——, instead of “wasting my sweetness on the desert air,” in the wilderness of the Peninsula.

Of all the sad words, of tongue or of pen,
The saddest are these—“it might have been.”

The cannonading was only the result of a reconnoissance, and in a few hours ceased altogether. But not so my fever and chills; they were my constant companions for two days and two nights in succession. At the end of that time I was an object of pity. With no medicine, no food, and consequently little strength; I was nearly in a state of starvation. My pies and cakes were spoiled in the basket, in consequence of the drenching they had received in crossing the river, and now I had no means of procuring more. But something must be done; I could not bear the thought of thus starving to death in that inglorious manner; better die upon the scaffold at Richmond, or be shot by the rebel pickets; anything but this. So I thought and said, as I rallied all my remaining strength to arrange my toilette preparatory to emerging from my concealment in the swamp.

It was about nine o’clock in the morning of the third day after crossing the river, when I started, as I thought, towards the enemy’s lines, and a more broken-hearted, forlorn-looking “Bridget” never left “ould Ireland,” than I appeared to be that morning. I traveled from that time until five o’clock in the afternoon, and was then deeper in the swamp than when I started. My head or brain was completely turned. I knew not which way to go, nor did I know east from west, or north from south.

It was a dark day in every sense of the word—and I had neither sun nor compass to guide me. At five o’clock the glorious booming of cannon reverberated through the dense wilderness, and to me, at that hour, it was the sweetest and most soul-inspiring music that ever greeted my ear. I now turned my face in the direction of the scene of action, and was not long in extricating myself from the desert which had so long enveloped me.

Soon after emerging from the swamp I saw, in the distance, a small white house, and thither I bent my weary footsteps. I found it deserted, with the exception of a sick rebel soldier, who lay upon a straw-tick on the floor in a helpless condition. I went to him, and assuming the Irish brogue, I inquired how he came to be left alone, and if I could render him any assistance. He could only speak in a low whisper, and with much difficulty, said he had been ill with typhoid fever a few weeks before, and had not fully recovered when General Stoneman attacked the rebels in the vicinity of Coal Harbor, and he was ordered to join his company. He participated in a sharp skirmish, in which the rebels were obliged to retreat; but he fell out by the way, and fearing to fall into the hands of the Yankees, he had crawled along as best he could, sometimes on his hands and knees, until he reached the house in which I found him.

MAKING HOE-CAKE FOR A SICK REBEL.—Page 153.

He had not eaten anything since leaving camp, and he was truly in a starving condition. I did not dare say to him “ditto”—with regard to poor “Bridget’s” case—but thought so, and realized it most painfully. He also told me that the family who had occupied the house had abandoned it since he came there, and that they had left some flour and corn-meal, but had not time to cook anything for him. This was good news for me, and exhausted as I was, I soon kindled a fire, and in less than fifteen minutes a large hoe-cake was before it in process of baking, and a sauce-pan of water heating, for there was no kettle to be found. After searching about the premises, I found some tea packed away in a small basket, with some earthearn ware, which the family had forgotten to take with them. My cake being cooked, and tea made, I fed the poor famished rebel as tenderly as if he had been my brother, and he seemed as grateful for my kindness, and thanked me with as much politeness, as if I had been Mrs. Jeff Davis. The next important item was to attend to the cravings of my own appetite, which I did without much ceremony.

After making my toilet and adjusting my wig in the most approved Irish style, I approached the sick man, and for the first time noticed his features and general appearance. He was a man about thirty years of age, was tall and had a slight figure, regular features, dark hair and large, mournful, hazel eyes; altogether he was a very pleasing and intelligent looking man. I thought him quite an interesting patient, and if I had had nothing more important to attend to, I should have enjoyed the privilege of caring for him until he recovered. It is strange how sickness and disease disarm our antipathy and remove our prejudices. There lay before me an enemy to the Government for which I was daily and willingly exposing my life and suffering unspeakable privation; he may have been the very man who took deadly aim at my friend and sent the cruel bullet through his temple; and yet, as I looked upon him in his helpless condition, I did not feel the least resentment, or entertain an unkind thought toward him personally, but looked upon him only as an unfortunate, suffering man, whose sad condition called forth the best feelings of my nature, and I longed to restore him to health and strength; not considering that the very health and strength which I wished to secure for him would be employed against the cause which I had espoused.I had a great desire to know more of this man who had so strangely called forth my sympathies, and finding that he had grown stronger since he had partaken of some nourishment, I entered into conversation with him. I found that he was wholly and conscientiously a Confederate soldier, but, strange to say, completely divested of that inveterate hatred of the Yankees which is almost universal among the Southerners. I dared not express my sentiments in very strong terms, but gently interrogated him with regard to the right which he claimed the rebels had to take up arms against the United States Government.

At length I asked him if he professed to be a Soldier of the Cross; he replied with emotion and enthusiasm, “Yes, thank God! I have fought longer under the Captain of my Salvation than I have yet done under Jeff. Davis.” My next and last question upon that subject was—“Can you, as a disciple of Christ, conscientiously and consistently uphold the institution of Slavery?” He made no reply, but fixed those mournful eyes on my face with a sad expression, as much as to say—“Ah, Bridget, you have touched a point upon which my own heart condemns me, and I know that God is greater than my heart, and will also condemn me.”

In this earnest conversation I had unconsciously forgotten much of my Hibernian accent, and I thought that the sick man began to suspect that I was not what my appearance indicated. It alarmed me for a moment, but I soon recovered my composure after stepping forward and examining his pulse, for he was fast sinking, and the little strength which he seemed to have a short time before was nearly exhausted. After studying my countenance a few moments he asked me to pray with him. I did not dare to refuse the dying man’s request, nor did I dare to approach my Maker in an assumed tone of voice; so I knelt down beside him, and in my own natural voice breathed a brief and earnest prayer for the departing soldier, for grace to sustain him in that trying hour, and finally for the triumph of truth and right.

When I arose from my knees he grasped my hand eagerly and said: “Please tell me who you are. I cannot, if I would, betray you, for I shall very soon be standing before that God whom you have just addressed.” I could not tell him the truth and I would not tell him a falsehood, so I evaded a direct reply, but promised that when he became stronger I would tell him my history. He smiled languidly and closed his eyes, as much as to say that he understood me.

It was now growing late. I was not far from the rebel lines, but was not able to successfully act a part in my present debilitated condition, and besides, I was glad that I could consistently remain over night with that poor dying man, rebel though he was. I began to look around for something which I might convert into a light, but did not succeed in finding anything better than a piece of salt pork, which I fried, pouring the fat into a dish in which I put a cotton rag, and then lighting the end of the rag I found I had secured quite a respectable light. After making some corn-meal gruel for my patient, I took care to fasten the doors and windows so that no one could enter the house without my knowledge, and screened the windows so that no light might attract the rebel scouts.

Thus with a sort of feeling of security I took my seat beside the sick man. The dews of death were already gathering on his pallid brow. I took his hand in mine, examined his pulse again, and wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. Oh how those beautiful eyes thanked me for these little acts of kindness! He felt in his heart that I did not sympathize with him as a rebel, but that I was willing to do all that a sister could do for him in this hour of trial. This seemed to call forth more gratitude than if I had been heart and hand with the South. He looked up suddenly and saw me weeping—for I could not restrain my tears—he seemed then to understand that he was really dying. Looking a little startled he exclaimed—“Am I really dying?”

Oh, how often have I been obliged to answer that awful question in the affirmative! “Yes, you are dying, my friend. Is your peace made with God?” He replied, “My trust is in Christ; He was mine in life, and in death He will not forsake me”—almost the very words I heard a dying Federal soldier say, a few days before, at the hospital in Williamsburg. A few weeks previous these two men had been arrayed against each other in deadly strife; yet they were brethren; their faith and hope were the same; they both trusted in the same Saviour for salvation.

Then he said, “I have a last request to make. If you ever pass through the Confederate camp between this and Richmond inquire for Major McKee, of General Ewell’s staff, and give him a gold watch which you will find in my pocket; he will know what to do with it; and tell him I died happy, peacefully.” He then told me his name and the regiment to which he had belonged. His name was Allen Hall. Taking a ring from his finger he tried to put it on mine, but his strength failed, and after a pause he said, “Keep that ring in memory of one whose sufferings you have alleviated, and whose soul has been refreshed by your prayers in the hour of dissolution.” Then folding his hands together as a little child would do at its mother’s knee, he smiled a mute invitation for prayer. After a few moments’ agonizing prayer in behalf of that departing spirit, the dying man raised himself up in the bed and cried out with his dying breath, “Glory to God! Glory to God! I am almost home!”He was almost gone. I gave him some water, raised the window, and using my hat for a fan, I sat down and watched the last glimmering spark of light go out from those beautiful windows of the soul. Putting his hand in mine he signed to me to raise his head in my arms. I did so, and in a few moments he ceased to breathe.

He died about twelve o’clock—his hand clasping mine in the painful grip of death, my arm supporting him, and his head leaning on my bosom like a wearied child. I laid him down, closed his eyes, and straightened his rigid limbs; then folding his hands across his breast, I drew his blanket close around him and left him in the silent embrace of death. The beautiful, calm expression of his face made me think he looked

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

This was rather a strange position for me to occupy at midnight—alone with death! Yet I thanked God that it was my privilege to be there; and I thanked Him for the religion of Jesus which was the strength of my heart in that trying hour. Yes, I could then rejoice in the providence which had detained me in the Chickahominy swamp, and had thus brought me to the bedside of that suffering stranger. Profound silence reigned supreme, and there was naught to chase away the darkness of that gloomy midnight hour save the consciousness that God was there.I felt it good thus to be drawn away from the tumult of war, and there, in the presence of the angel of death, hold communion with my own heart and drink deep from the well of holy meditation. I thought there were happy spirits hovering round the lifeless form of him who was so lovable in life and lovely in death. Yes, I imagined the shining host had returned from escorting the triumphant spirit to the Throne of God, and were now watching the beautiful casket which had encased the bright spirit whose companionship had made some southern home bright and joyous.

I thought, too, of the loved ones who had gone and left me to finish my journey alone, and who would soon come to bear me away to that bright eternal world, if I only proved faithful unto death. “How impressively sad, how thrillingly beautiful, the lesson we glean from this silent spirit communion! Our physical nature starts and shudders at the thought of joining the silent numbers of the dead; but our spiritual nature catches a glimpse of that spirit-life beyond the portals of the tomb, where life, pure, free and joyous, shall be ours.”

A lesson sad, but fraught with good—
A tearful one, but strengthening food—
Thou givest me;
We learn that “dust returns to dust,”
Anew in God we put our trust,
And bow the knee.

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