Have visited
Hospital, No. 8, as well as No. 1, several times since I have been here, and am
priviledged to carry some delicacies, and write letters for its inmates.
I yesterday visited
Hospital, No. 1, for the last time probably, while those remain in whom I have
become specially interested. But have made such arrangements that William and
the Alabamian, who were given to my care, shall have whatever is needed. They
seem to regret my departure, but William is decidedly better. Carried a large
bottle of lemonade, some oranges, and blackberry sirup.
Found a poor old
Norwegian suffering terribly from the application of bromine to the gangrenous
wound in his arm. He was very thankful for an orange and some lemonade—had
eaten nothing for two days. His face and bald, venerable head were covered with
a red silk handkerchief, to hide the great tears which were pressed out by the
pain; but his nurse said he never gave a word of complaint.
The German with
amputated limb is easier—the blind man hopeful of sight, and the little fellow
improving, who "enlisted to fight, and not to be sick."
While in ward 3,
yesterday, I was beckoned to, from a sick bed, whose occupant wished me to come
and "rejoice with him." Upon going there he assured me with a
mysterious air, that he "isn't going to tell everybody, but as I was a
particular friend of his, and he had always thought right smart of me, he would
tell me something greatly surprising."
Upon expressing my
willingness to be surprised, he confidently and joyfully assured me that though
very few people knew it, yet he was "The veritable man who killed Jeff.
Davis, President of the Confederate States!"
He waited a moment
to note the effect upon me of this pleasing intelligence, when I quietly told
him I didn't know before that Jeff. Davis was dead, but that if he was, and he
was the one who killed him, they ought to give him a discharge and let him go
home, as he has done his share of the work. Then he joyfully assured me, that
"they have promised to do so, and that his papers are to be made out
to-morrow." But more serious thoughts came to me then, for I saw written
upon his countenance, in unmistakable characters, the signature of the Death
angel, marking his chosen, and though I knew not how soon his papers would be
made out, was certain that before long they would be, and that he would receive
a full and free discharge from all earthly toil and battle from the Great
Medical Director of us all!
While passing
through the aisles of wounded men, and hearing their stories, many of them
intensely graphic, I seemed to hear something like the following, which, may
the author whose name I do not know, pardon me for copying:*
"Let me lie down,
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,—
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat; and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:
Let me lie down.
Oh, it was grand!
Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share;
The tempest—its fury and thunder were there;
On, on, o'er intrenchments, o'er living and dead,
With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead,—
Oh, it was grand!
Weary and faint,
Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest
With this shot shattered head and sabre-pierced breast ?
Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,
Wounded and faint.
Oh, that last charge!
Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell,—
Through without faltering, clear through with a yell,
Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom,
Like heroes we dashed at the mandate of doom!
Oh, that last charge!
It was duty!
Some things are worthless, and some others so good,
That nations who buy them pay only in blood;
For Freedom and Union each man owes his part;
And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart,
It is duty!
Dying at last!
My mother, dear mother, with meek, tearful eye,
Farewell! and God bless you for ever and aye!
Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!
Dying at last!
I am no saint!
But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,
'Our Father;' and then says, 'Forgive us our sins:'
Don't forget that part; say that strongly; and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say amen!
Ah! I'm no saint!
Hark! there's a shout!
Raise me up, comrades! We have conquered, I know;
Up, on my feet, with my face to the foe!
Ah! there flies the flag, with its star spangles bright,
The promise of Glory, the symbol of Right!
Well may they shout!
I'm mustered out!
O God of our fathers! our freedom prolong,
And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong!
O land of earth's hopes! on thy blood-reddened sod,
I die for the Nation, the Union, and God!
I'm mustered out!"
_______________
NASHVILLE is a city
which is set upon hills. It is also founded upon a rock, and the fact that it
has not much earth upon that rock, is made the pretext for leaving numberless
deceased horses and mules upon the surface, without even a heathen burial, until
they are numbered with the things that were.
But it has been
comfortingly asserted by the agent of the Christian Commission here, Rev. E. P.
Smith, that it is astonishing how much dead mule one may breathe, and yet
survive.
Nashville is also a
city of narrow, filthy streets, and in some localities, of water, which, like
the "offence" of the king of Denmark, "smells to Heaven."
It is moreover a
city of mules. Two, four, and six mule teams, with a driver astride
of one of them, and sometimes with the high, comical-looking Tennessean wagons
attached not to the driver particularly, but to the mules. These, with mulish
mules, who draw crowds instead of wagons, animate the streets day and night. It
is a city of either dust or mud—but one street boasts a street-sprinkler.
The citizens of
Nashville who remain, have mostly taken the oath of allegiance to protect their
property, but it is estimated that not above one in fifty is, at heart, loyal.
The ladies (?) sometimes show their contempt of Northern laborers by making up
faces when meeting them upon the streets, but there are so many "blue
coats" about, they do not think it advisable to allow their
"Angry passions rise,"
To tear out our eyes;"
as they would
evidently consider it a great pleasure to accomplish.
Nashville and its
vicinity boasts a few distinguished personages beside myself. Mrs. Polk, widow
of the Ex-President, resides a few blocks from this. Gen. Sherman's
headquarters are at a lovely retreat, we think, on High Street, and Gen.
Rouseau's but a few blocks distant, while the Hermitage of Gen. Andrew Jackson
is but twelve miles east of the city. This has many visitors, but who seldom
venture now without a guard. Since our stay here, a party of four ladies from
Hospital, No. 19, with as many gentlemen, and a guard of thirteen, visited the
Hermitage, who learned next day that a party of guerillas, 100 in number, came
there an hour after they had left, and followed them. At first, as they
informed us, they made it a subject for pleasant jesting, but after farther
consideration, for that of serious thought, as they came rather too near being
candidates for "Libby," or a worse fate.
A nephew, who is
also an adopted son of the old General, has charge of the place; he has two
sons in the rebel service. The property is confiscated to the Government, but
the family, out of respect to the memory of the stern old patriot, are
permitted to remain. The visitors may see here the quaint and cumbrous family
carriage in which the General used to journey, together with a buggy, made from
the timbers of the old ship Ironsides.
The family,
especially the female portion of it, being of secession principles, keep
themselves secluded from the gaze of northern mudsills. But the mudsills,
presuming upon the cordial reception which they believe would be extended by
the General himself, usually make themselves sufficiently at home to
wander at their own sweet will through the grounds, and partake of a lunch on
the shaded piazza.
It is a fine old
mansion, approached by a circular avenue, which is shaded by grand old trees.
And notwithstanding that the General has adopted grandsons in the rebel
service, and his family are secessionists, yet it requires but little faith to
believe that the stern old hero is not unmindful of the present gigantic
struggle, neither a great flight. of the imagination when the wind is moaning
and stirring the lofty branches of the grand old trees, to fancy that his
voice, in suppressed and now reverent accents, yet
emphatically exclaims:—
"By the Eternal, the Union must,
and shall be preserved!"
The city contains
many elegant private residences, and splendid public buildings.
Among the latter is
the State Asylum for the Insane, which has four hundred and fifty acres
attached, and had an expenditure of $48,000 per annum. Another is the
Institution for the Blind, the expenses of which for the year 1850, were nearly
$8,000. The Tennessean Penitentiary is also a superior structure. In September
30, 1850, the number of inmates was three hundred and seventy-eight, and of
this number three hundred and sixty-six, were white men, with only eight black
men, three white women with only one black woman.
The Medical College
is a fine building and contains a valuable museum. The University is an imposing
edifice of gray marble, while the Masonic Hall, the Seminary and graded school
buildings are spacious and beautiful structures. The first in
importance, among the public buildings of Nashville, and which is second to
none in the United States in point of solidity and durability, is the Capitol.
This is a magnificent edifice, situated on an eminence one hundred and
seventy-five feet above the river, and constructed inside and out, of
a beautiful variety of fossilliferous limestone or Tennessee marble.
At each end, it has an Ionic portico of eight columns, and each of the sides, a
portico of six. A tower rises from the centre of the roof to the hight of two
hundred and six feet from the ground. This has a quadrangular base surmounted
by a circular cell, with eight fluted Corinthian columns, designed from the
celebrated choragic monument of Lysicrates, at Athens.
Among the private
residences we have seen, is a beautiful mansion, still unfinished, which, at
the time of his death, was being built for the rebel Gen. Zollicoffer. A more
unpretending one perhaps, is that of the widow of ex-President Polk, the
grounds surrounding which contain his tomb—a plain, simple, temple-like fabric,
of light brown marble.
That beautiful
baronial domain known as the Achlen estate is situate about two miles out of
town. For attractions it has extensive grounds, with great variety and
profusion of shrubbery, among which flash out here and there, life-like statues
of men and animals, and miniature monuments and temples. A fountain jets its
diamond drops, while an artificial pond is the home of the tiny silver and gold
fish. Beside the noble family mansion is another building nearly as spacious,
which is used as a place of amusement. A well-filled conservatory is another
beautiful feature, while an observatory, which crowns an imposing brick tower,
gives a view of the scenery for miles around.
This estate with
large plantations, in Louisiania [sic],
were accumulated by the owner, while in the business of slave-driving and negro
trading. His name was Franklin. After his death his youthful widow married a
gay leader in the fashionable [sic]
world, known in the southern society of Memphis and New Orleans, as Joe Achlen.
Under his direction the estate was improved and beautified at a cost of $1,000,000,
At the commencement of this war, it was had in contemplation by the Confederate
officials, to purchase the estate and present it to his Excellency, Jeff.
Davis; but they will probably defer making that munificent gift, until the
Federal army is at a safer distance.
An intelligent
chattel, who has been on the place twenty years, informs us that Achlen was a
kind master. That when he visited his plantations in Louisiana, the negroes
would welcome him at the wharf, and if it was the least muddy, would take him
upon their shoulders and carry him to the house. But despite this fact, the
negroes have somehow got the impression that freedom is preferable to slavery.
So strongly are they impressed with the desire of owning themselves, that out
of 900 who were on the estate and plantations at the commencement of the war,
but five remain at the former place, and these with wages of $15.00 per month,
while about the same number are at each of the plantations, these kept also by
wages.
The death of Achlen
occurred last fall; his widow is much of the time in New Orleans, but the
property is neatly kept by what was formerly a part of itself.
One of those little
incidents, by the by, which proves that truth is stranger than fiction,
occurred to this negro who testified to the kindness of his master. When he was
purchased for the estate he was separated from his wife, who was sold south.
Neither knew the locality of the other, and nineteen long years passed by, when
this war, which has made such an upheaval in the strata of American society,
loosened the chains of the bondwoman, and true to the instincts of her nature,
she started toward the north pole, to find freedom and her husband.
He says it was a
joyful time when they met and recognized each other in the streets of Nashville;
but we each have the privilege of entertaining our own ideas as to whether the
race is capable of constancy and affection.
Even the Capitol has
its mounted cannon, to protect it against the citizens of
Nashville. During our stay in the city, we have had the pleasure of listening
to a lecture by two Rev. Drs. of New York, and Brooklyn, in the Hall of
Representatives, and by moonlight. They were to speak on the
subject of emancipation and reconstruction, by invitation of Gov. Andrew
Johnson, and Comptroller Fowler.
That afternoon, they
had returned from the front, toilworn and weary, where they had witnessed the
battle and ministered to the wounded of Resaca and Dalton. Upon proceeding to
the Capitol, the moon was bathing all things without in her silver radiance,
while within hid dark shadows, in strange contrast to an occasional silver
shaft, through openings in the heavy damask curtains.
Queries revealed the
fact that the Governor, Comptroller, and the man having charge of the gas
fixtures, had gone to attend a railroad celebration, not having received word
that the gentlemen had accepted the invitation to speak at that time and place.
Quite a number of
gentlemen gathered in front of the speaker's desk, with some six ladies the
latter provided with seats; and after some consultation we found ourselves
listening to interesting recitals of how "war's grim visage" had
appeared to Rev. Drs. Thompson and Buddington of New York and Brooklyn.
And we could but
think as we sat there in the moonlight, with most of the audience standing,
what different audiences they had swayed at home, and how much depends upon
time, place and circumstance in the life of a public speaker, and were glad to
see that they could meet adverse circumstances with becoming serenity and
humility. The novelty connected with the scene, time and place, made it an
evening long to be remembered.
The Seminary
building was used as hospital, then as barracks and since as soldiers' home.
The faculty of this
institution, in their last advertisement of its merits, previous to the arrival
of the Union army, assured their patrons that they would
"So educate
their daughters, as to fit them to become wives of the Southern Chivalry and
to hate the detestable Yankees!"
The Medical College
on Broad Street, is now a home and hospital for the refugees; and the filth,
destitution, misery and ignorance which exist among that class of poor whites
who have fled from starvation in Georgia, North and South Carolina, Alabama or
East Tennessee, must be witnessed to be realized. We no longer wondered
that the neat, industrious and comparatively well-informed negro servants and
free colored people of Nashville look upon them with the contempt so well
expressed by the words, "poor white trash!"
Brought up to think
labor a disgrace, they will sooner sit down in ignorance, poverty, and the
filth which nourishes vermin and loathsome diseases, than disgrace themselves
by work. Unaccustomed to habits of neatness and industry they are singularly
careless of each other's comfort, and neglectful of their own sick.
The same week of our
reaching this city, a family of refugees, nine in number, the parents and seven
children, all died, and of no particular disease. The scenes which they had
passed through, with the loss of home and each other, with the native lack of
energy which led them to succumb to circumstances, rather than battle to
overcome them, seemed the only causes.
We will sketch a few
of the scenes we saw in this home of the refugees, prefacing, however, that some
of the worst features we do not propose giving, either to offend ears polite or
our own sense of propriety.
In company with the
matron we enter the spacious building between two majestic statues, which stand
like sentinels to guard the entrance, less efficient, however, than that
"blue coat" who perambulates the walk with rifle and bayonet.
In the first room a
gaunt and haggard face meets ours, with piercing eyes, from beneath an old
slouched hood, and from a miserable bunk, whose possessor, within the next
twenty-four hours, ceases to battle with consumption, and finds that "rest
for the weary." She is now so restless she must be turned every few
minutes, and stranger hands attend to her wishes. "We were starved
out," she says. "The Rebs tuk everything what they didn't destroy;
and burnt the house."
"We,' who came
with you?"
"Me two
step-daughters. But they haven't been here these three days. I reckon they're
tired o' takin keer o' me. It's mighty hard though to raise up girls to neglect
ye when ye're on a death-bed."
What can we say to
comfort her. Our heart grows faint when we think how incapable we are to
minister to this one. Bereft of home, penniless, forsaken even by relatives,
and in such agonizing unrest. Yes, but a happy thought comes now, if homeless,
can she not better appreciate the worth of that "house not made with
hands, eternal in the heavens"—if penniless, realize the enduring riches
of the better land—husbandless and friendless, know better the worth of that
"Friend above all others"—restless, the value of that "rest for
the weary?" We tell her of all these, and she professes to gain new
strength from our words to wait on the chariot wheels which so long delay their
coming.
On another bunk is a
wretched woman, who is drowning sorrow as usual in the stupor induced by opium.
We have now no message for her.
See that little
chubby child, of perhaps three years, whose little flaxen head, has made a
pillow of the hard hearthstone, and is soundly sleeping. That is a little waif—nobody
owns it. It has neither father, mother, brother, sister or other relative in
the wide world that any one knows about. Pity, but some one bereaved by this
war would suffer this little one to creep into the heart and home and grow to
fill the place made desolate!
Here is a tall,
well-formed girl, of perhaps twenty, with a perfect wealth of soft, glossy,
auburn hair, of which any city belle would be proud, but it is in wild disorder
and just falling from her comb. Ask her, if you choose, what is that eruption
with which her hands are covered, and which appears upon her face, and she will
as unblushingly and drawlingly tell you, as though your query were a passing
remark upon the weather.
Here are three other
girls sitting upon a rough board bench—the eldest, a bright girl of about
twelve, is making an apron for her sister. Do you wish to hear her story?—if
so, listen.
"Me an' me
mother an' me two sisters come from East Tennessee. The Union army come to
our place first, an' they burned an' destroyed a great deal what they didn't
take away, and after they left the Rebs come an' did the same, an' so between
'em both they left us all starvin' through the country. Then the Unioners come
agin, and we followed 'em, an' they sent us here. While we were on the boat it
was powerful open an' cold-like, an' me mother tuk cold. An' she looked like
she was struck with death from the very first, an' the doctor told me I might
just as well make up my mind to it, first as last, an' make her as comfortable
as I could. So I tukkeer o' her, day an' night for two weeks, an' brought her
every thing she wanted, oranges an' sich like, till she died. I thought when my
father an' other relatives died that I tuk it powerful hard, but 'twas nothin'
like losin' me mother. While she was sick me two little sisters had been livin'
with a cousin o' mine; but I hearn tell he was treaten 'em mighty bad, so I
wrote a note to the captin an' told him I wanted to come here and see to the
keer on 'em myself. An' he said I might, so I comed yesterday."
We leave this room
for another. There a sick boy of fourteen is lying on a bed of rags, who is
recovering from measles. Hear his history.
"We lived in
East Tennessee, an' my father nigh onto the first o'the war, wanted
to get to Kaintucky and jine the Yankees, but the Rebels tuk him off to
Vicksburg and made him jine them. Then when the place surrendered to the Yanks,
about half on 'em jined them, an' my father 'mong the rest, jest what he'd been
wantin' to, for a long time.
But they burned and
starved us all out to home, an' we left thar an' come har whar we could git
suthin' to eat. Me an me mother an' me little brother what's only six year old
come. But me mother was tuk sick an' died here three week ago. I hearn right
after, that my father's regiment was ordered some whar else, an' I don't know
whar he is. She knew what company an' regiment me father was in, but I was sick
when he sent word about it, an' he don't know whar we air. Mother nor he
could'nt write, so we've no letters nor nothin' to tell. May be he's dead, an'
we'll never hear of it, or if he lives he'll never find us."
It is a sad case,
but we comfort him with the hope of what perseverance and a little knowledge of
writing may do for him, and pass to another.
Here is a young man,
dressed and lying upon the outside of his bed, whose foot and ancle are
encased in a wooden box. His temperament partakes largely of the nervous
sanguine. He has an open, frank, intelligent countenance, speaks rapidly, and
with a short, joyous, electrical laugh.
"I was raised
in North Carolina," he says. "I was'nta Union man at the first-nor a
Confederate either, well about half an' half, I reckon. But we'se all obliged
either to run away from our families an' leave 'em to starve, or hide with 'em
in the mountains or jine the army. So I concluded to jine; an' I've been in
Braggs army mor'n two years."
"Why did you
leave it," we asked.
"Well the fact
was I begun to think sure we was in the wrong, else we'd fared better'n we did.
For I've allays allowed the Lord would prosper the right ride. So when I found
that I had to march or fight hard all day, an' have nothin' more to eat for the
hull twenty-four hours, than a piece o'bread the bigness o'my hand, an' a piece
o'meat only as large as my two fingers-an' have been so hungry for weeks that I
could nearly eat my own fingers off, I concluded to desert and
try the other side.
My brother-in-law
left Lee's army about the same time I left Bragg's. I was to meet him and my
wife, at his house in Athens; but when I was coming on the train from
Charleston, I saw another train coming that ran into ours, and I jumped off and
broke my limb. So I could'nt go there, and they brought me on to this place.
I've enough to eat,
and have good care, and should feel right well contented till I get well, if I
only could know where my wife Martha is. I've sent two letters, but I can't
hear a word. I've got a letter written to my brother-inlaw about her now-its
lying there."
And he points to a
rough board. one end of which rests upon his bunk, and the other upon an empty
one near, and which serves him in place of a stand.
"Its been
waitin' a long time" he adds, for I hav'nt a postage stamp on it. We were
just married when the war begun, an' we had a fine start for young folks, but I
let my gold and silver go in gittin' settled, and the Confederate money's worth
nothin' here, so I hav'nt a penny to use."
The letter was put
in the office, and he was supplied with stationary and stamps during our stay.
He wished more added to his letter and we wrote what he dictated.
"It's the first time I
ever had anybody write for me," he said proudly. "I generally do my
own writin',—an' readin' too," and he glanced toward some books he had.
"An' you may be
sure," he added as we left him, "if I get well, an' my wife Martha is
lost, but I'll spend the rest o' my life huntin' but I'll find her!"
SOURCES: Elvira J.
Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General
Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron
and Visitor, pp. 26-41; For the poem “Mustered Out,” written by Rev.
William E. Miller, see Frank Moore, Editor, The
Rebellion Record: A Diary of American Events, with Documents, Narratives, Illustrative
Incidents, Poetry, Etc., Vol. 7 p. 92.
