While we remained at Harrison’s Landing I spent much of my time in the hospitals. Nellie was now my faithful friend and companion, my colleague when on duty, and my escort on all occasions in my rides and rambles. She was a splendid woman, and had the best faculty of dispelling the blues, dumps and dismals of any person I ever met. When we went to a hospital and found the nurses looking tired and anxious and the patients gloomy and sad, it never required more than half an hour for us to get up a different state of feeling, and dispel that “Hark-from-the-tombs-a-doleful-sound” sort of spirit, and we invariably left the men in a more cheerful mood, evidently benefited by having a little respite from that depressing melancholy so prevalent among the sick, and so often indulged by nurses.

In our own hospital we generally managed to so assort and arrange the patients as to have all of the same temperament and disease together, so that we knew just what to do and what to say to suit each department. We had our patients divided into three classes; one was our working department, another our pleasure department, and a third our pathetic department. One we visited with bandages, plasters and pins; another, with books and flowers; and the third, with beef tea, currant wine, and general consolation. Sometimes Nellie would sit and fan the patients for hours in the latter department, and sing some soothing pieces in her soft, sweet strains, until she would have them all asleep, or quiet as babies. I think the soldiers may truly say of the gentle Nellie:

Her soothing tones with peace beguile
The weary hours of pain,
And make the lonely sufferer smile
And joy to come again.
Still let me often hear thy voice,
Which gently whispers peace,
And let my troubled heart rejoice,
And strains of sadness cease;
Still speak to me of pleasant things—
Of faith, and hope, and joy;
Then shall I rise on lightsome wings
Where pains no more annoy.

I used to watch with much interest the countenances of those men as they lay fast asleep, and I often thought that I could read their characters better when asleep than when awake. Some faces would grow stern and grim—they were evidently dreaming of war, and living over again those terrible battles in which they had so recently participated; some groaned over their wounds, and cursed the rebels vigorously; others grew sad, and would talk in the most pathetic tones, as if the pain borne so silently through the day revenged itself now by betraying what the man’s pride concealed so well while awake. Often the roughest grew young and pleasant when sleep smoothed away the hard lines from the brow, letting the real nature assert itself. Many times I would be quite disappointed, for the faces which looked merry and pleasing when awake would suddenly grow dark and hideous, as if communing with some dark spirits of another world.

One poor fellow, whose brain was injured more than his body, would wear himself out more in an hour when asleep than in a whole day when awake. His imagination would conjure up the wildest fancies; one moment he was cheering on his men, the next he was hurrying them back again; then counting the dead around him, while an incessant stream of shouts, whispered warnings and broken lamentations would escape from his lips.

I became acquainted with a young man from Rhode Island in one of the hospitals, who was the most patient and cheerful person it has been my lot to meet under such circumstances. I find the following notice with regard to him:“I came out here,” said he, “as rough and as bad as any of them. But I had left a praying mother at home. While in camp at Poolesville I heard that she was dead. After that her image was never out of my thoughts. It seemed as if her form appeared to me as in a mirror, and always as wrestling for her wayward son. Go where I might I felt as if I saw her in her place of prayer, kneeling and putting up her petitions to God, and not even the roar of battle could drown the soft tones of her voice.”

He was at the battle of Fair Oaks, and when it ceased sat down on a log, exhausted, by the wayside, and then, to use his own words, he “thought over the matter.” Heaps of dead men lay on every side of him. They had fallen, but he was still unharmed. The melting words of his mother’s prayer came back to his mind with new power. He thought of his own condition, and of her happy home, so far removed from the strife and agony of war. A pious soldier of his company noticed that he was very thoughtful, and inquired the reason. To this friend he opened his mind freely, and told him how he felt. They sought occasion for private conference, communed together and prayed; strength was given him to make the “last resolve,” and the soldier who had been so rough and had became a soldier in the Army of Jesus. The sainted mother had not prayed in vain. A battle had just been fought, a victory won, which was spreading joy throughout the nation; but here, too, was a triumph, a different triumph, such as cause the angels of God in heaven to rejoice.

Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bid’st me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God! I come.

One day, while employed in the hospital assisting Nellie in some new arrangement for the amusement of the men, I received a letter from the captain to whom I had given my horse for the use of himself and three companions on the retreat from before Richmond. He and his friends had reached the James river in safety, and had been so fortunate as to get on board of one of the transports which had been sent for the wounded, and were now comfortably installed in a hospital in Washington. He also wrote that he had given my horse in charge of one of the quartermasters of General G.’s brigade, a piece of information which I was exceedingly glad to hear, for my colt was well nigh spoiled on the retreat, and if it had not been, was not fit to ride much, or indeed at all, to do it justice, for it proved to be not quite two years old.

But upon finding the quartermaster I was politely informed that he had bought and paid for the horse, and of course I could not have it. I said nothing, but went to General M.’s headquarters, stated the case, and procured an order which brought the horse in double-quick time, and no thanks to the quartermaster.

A month passed away, and everything remained quiet at Harrison’s Landing and vicinity. The troops, having rested, began to grow tired of the routine of camp life, and were anxious for another brush with the enemy. The vigilant eye of McClellan noted the impatience of the men, and he daily kept urging the necessity of reinforcements, and protested against leaving the Peninsula, as retreat, in his opinion, would prove disastrous both to the army and the cause. Our commander’s patience was well nigh exhausted, as the following brief despatch of July 30th indicates:

“I hope that it may soon be decided what is to be done by this army, and that the decision may be to reinforce it at once. We are losing much valuable time, and that at a moment when energy and decision are sadly needed.”

About this time an order came from Washington for all the sick to be sent away, without giving any definite information with regard to the intended movements of the army.

August fourteenth orders came for the army to evacuate Harrison’s Landing. None knew whither they were going, but notwithstanding every pain was taken to conceal the destination from the troops, it was evident that we were retreating; for the ominous fact that we turned our backs toward Richmond was very suggestive of a retreat. This had a demoralizing effect upon the troops, for they had confidently expected to advance upon Richmond and avenge the blood of their fallen comrades, whose graves dotted so many hillsides on the Peninsula, and whose remains would now be desecrated by rebel hands. The men were deeply moved; some wept like children, others swore like demons, and all partook in the general dissatisfaction of the movement.

On the morning of the sixteenth the whole army was en route for parts unknown. Our destination proved to be Newport News—a march of nearly seventy miles. It was well for us we did not know it then, or probably there would have been more swearing and less weeping among the soldiers. So far as I was personally concerned, I had a very pleasant time during that march. Mr. and Mrs. B., Dr. E., Nellie and myself, made up a small party, independent of military discipline, and rode fast or slow, just as it suited our fancy, called at the farm-houses and bought refreshments when we were hungry, and had a good time generally. Nellie rode my confiscated colt, and pronounced it a perfect gem. Dr. E. playfully said that he supposed she admired it because it was a rebel, and I suggested that he too must be a rebel, from the same premises.

Time passed away pleasantly until we drew near to Yorktown, where sad memories interrupted the animated conversation. Nellie was near her former home, with all its pleasant and sad associations. We visited the grave of Lieutenant V. I could but rejoice that he had been taken away from the evil to come. He had been saved from all those terrible marches and horrible battles, and from this distressing and humiliating retreat. We hitched our horses and remained some time there, some of the party gathering the rich, ripe fruit, which hung in abundance from the peach trees around us. Before leaving, we all bowed around the grave of our friend. Chaplain B. offered up an ardent prayer that we might all be faithful, and follow the example of our departed loved one, as he had followed Christ, and meet him where war and strife would be heard no more.

I know thou art gone to a clime of light,
To a world of joy and love,
Beyond the reach of the sunbeam’s flight,
In the shadowless above.
And I will rejoice in thy smiles again,
And hap’ly thy whisper hear;
Dispelling the gloom of sorrow and pain,
When the twilight of death is near.

We stopped at a farm-house one evening during our march, and engaged lodgings for the night. The house was very large, and afforded ample accommodations. It was the first one on the Peninsula at which I had seen a strong, healthy-looking man, attending to his farm as if there was no such thing as war in the land. The lady of the house was an active, business-like sort of woman, and went to work to make us comfortable. But there was evidently something in or about that house which was not just right—and we had not been there long when I detected suspicious movements, and drew the attention of Dr. E. to the fact. The man seemed very uneasy and restless, going from one room to another, shutting the doors very carefully behind him, carrying parcels up stairs in a half frightened way which increased our suspicion. I proposed to our little party that they should remain while I rode back to the army for a detachment of the provost-guard. My proposal was agreed to, and I started back in the direction of the main column.

The family seemed alarmed, and asked a great many questions concerning my departure, to which I replied: “I am only going a short distance; I shall probably be back by the time supper is ready.” I made all haste after I disappeared from view of the house, and in an hour I was on my way back again, having succeeded in finding the provost-marshal, and getting a corporal and six men to go with me. They entered the house boldly, and told the inmates that they had been informed that there were rebels concealed in the house, and they had come for the purpose of searching it; adding, that they would not disturb anything, if their suspicions were unfounded.

The lady said that she had some sick persons in the house, and did not wish them disturbed, assuring them that her family were all Union, and they would not harbor any rebels whatever. But all her excuses and pretensions did not deter the guard from accomplishing their object. So marching up stairs, they searched every room. In one room were found four rebel soldiers, or guerillas, all of whom pretended to be very ill. Dr. E. was called to examine the patients, and pronounced them well as he was. In another room were two officers; they made no excuse at all, but said that they were the landlord’s sons; had been in the rebel service, and were now home on furlough. They said they had been home ever since Stuart’s cavalry raid at White House, and were waiting for another such dash in order to get back again.

The provost-guard marched them all back to headquarters, which was in the saddle, and our little party thought proper to take shelter that night under the wing of the main column, instead of at a farm-house where we were not sure but that our lives would pay for that piece of information given, before morning.

The army marched on until it reached the transports. Some embarked at Yorktown, some at Newport News, and others at Fortress Monroe. The troops were literally worn out and discouraged, caring but little where they went, or what they did. They were huddled on board of transports, and were landed at Aquia Creek.

General McClellan finding his army, as he had anticipated, much depressed and discouraged in consequence of the retreat from the Peninsula, sent the following appeal to General Halleck: “Please say a kind word to my army, that I can repeat to them in general orders, in regard to their conduct at Yorktown, Williamsburg, West Point, Hanover Court-house, and on the Chickahominy, as well as in regard to the Seven Days, and the recent retreat. No one has ever said anything to cheer them but myself. Say nothing about me; merely give my men and officers credit for what they have done. They deserve it.”

The Army of the Potomac had performed an enormous amount of labor in making entrenchments, constructing roads, bridges, etc., and did it with the most gratifying cheerfulness and devotion to the interests of the service. During the entire campaign they had fought ten severely contested battles, and had beaten the enemy on every occasion, showing the most determined bravery and invincible qualities it was possible for an army to exhibit. They had submitted to exposure, sickness and death, without a murmur; and they deserved the thanks of the government and the people for their services.

On arriving at Aquia Creek, we found ourselves the victims of another rainstorm. Five of us went on board of a little steam-tug, and thus escaped a severe drenching during the night, for we had not yet seen our tents. When morning came we were treated to breakfast, and the captain was very kind indeed. We were just congratulating ourselves on our good fortune, when we discovered that all our little valuables, relics which we had brought from the Peninsula, toilet arrangements, and even our Bibles, had been stolen while we were asleep. Nellie and I were indulging in some uncharitable remarks concerning those persons upon whose hospitality we had fared sumptuously and slept comfortably, and who had so generously refused to take any remuneration in the shape of greenbacks, but who had helped themselves to things more precious to us than money, when good Chaplain B. entered just in time to catch the most unchristian-like sentence we had uttered, and forthwith gave us a lecture upon the heinous sin of ingratitude. When he had concluded, instead of saying amen, I said: “from such hospitality in future, good Lord deliver us.”

We did not remain long at Aquia Creek, but were ordered to embark immediately for Alexandria, Virginia. When we arrived there, Pope’s army was in danger of annihilation; and, consequently, as fast as the Army of the Potomac arrived, it was ordered to Pope’s assistance; one portion in one direction, and another in another direction, until it was cut up into sections, and General McClellan was left at Washington, without an army or anything to command except his staff.