William H. Ashley died this day at Cairo. The firing still continues. Lt. Allen left the Boat, on board the Steamer Rob Roy in a skiff with 3 citizens for the upper Ft. They approached within 200 y'ds of it could see One Gun Two empty carriages, and about 15 or 20 men apparently. Not doing any thing to them returned to the flag Boat Benton & reported to the Commodore.
SOURCE: Transactions of the Illinois State Historical Society for the Year 1909, p. 238
Spring has long delayed her coming here as well as northward. I could not be comfortable this P. M. in my room without a fire. Still, despite the cold, I have seen the blossom of a species of magnolia, which is very beautiful. It is in shape and size something like the African lily, and grew upon a tree the size of the common apple. It is of a peachblow hue upon the outside and white within, and with the mingled fragrance of the roses and lemon.
Aunt Nanny, the former housekeeper of the rebel banker who owned this residence, has just been giving me a highly interesting account of the scenes here when it became known that our forces were coming towards Nashville. It was on Sunday morning the news reached the white citizens, when they were on their way to church. And the streets were soon filled with half-crazed people flying here and there, women and children and even men running out of breath, and screaming, "The Yankees are coming," while the less excited ones were securing every possible conveyance to use for flight.
"We colored folks," said Aunt Nanny, "knew it in the night, and all de mornin' while de white ones was so quiet a putin' on dere finery for church, we knew it wouldn't last long. An' we was all so full wid de great joy, dat we'se a sayin' in our hearts all de time "Bless de Lord," "Thank de good God," for de "day of jubilee has come!"
"But we was mighty hush, an' put on just as long faces as we could, an' was might' 'sprized when they told us of it. An' missus she come runnin' back from the street wid' her bonnet on her neck, an' the strings a flyin', an' she come to the kitchen and put up both arms, an' she said:
"Oh, Aunt Nanny, we'll all be killed! The Yankees are coming! They'll hang or cut the throat of every niggar that's left here!'
"An' after that she tried to have me go south with her, but I told her I'd risk the Yankees a killin' us, an' I wouldn't go."
Aunt Nanny is respected by all who know her. She is neat, industrious, well-informed, although she cannot read, respectful, polite, affectionate, virtuous, and a Christian. Her husband is here, and she has one little daughter who is in my division at school.
She tells me also that only last Sunday she saw the body of a dead negro boy of about nine years who died from blows received from his mistress. The cause was her anger that his mother had run away in search of freedom. But the mother heard of the illness of her child and returned in time to hear him say that "the whipping his mistress had given him had killed him," and to find upon his back the terrible gashes from the whip, and bruises from blows.
I wish I had known of this before the child was buried. Having the name of speaking my mind, it might be as well to do so, occasionally.
Have just listened to a little incident which occurred some months since. While Grant had charge of this department, General Rousseau in his absence, issued an order to the effect that slaveholders, who had taken the oath of allegiance, might dispose of their slaves. One man from the country, accordingly drove in several slave women tied hand to hand. But Grant had suddenly returned and countermanded the permit, and he could not dispose of them. He got into his carriage and ordered his negro women to march home. They refused to obey. This was unprecedented insolence. He caught his horse-whip and was about laying it over their shoulders when the "blue coats" appeared as suddenly and as thick around him as if like fairies they had popped out of the ground.
"No whipping here! No whipping here!" they exclaimed, and the result was, he was forced to return alone, and they were slaves no longer.
SOURCE: 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. 70-2
A death in the house. Little Clark, the only son of Rev. E. P. Smith, aged three and a half years, died last night. It is a sad affliction. The disease, decline from measles. The funeral service was held in the parlor, this P. M., by Rev. Mr. Allen. His body was embalmed and is to be sent to the Sabbath School of the parish, over which Mr. S. presided, at Pepperill, Massachusetts.
To me it seems strangely touching this trusting of the precious remains to the chances of travel, and so many miles away, to land in the throng of sad little faces to whose questioning glances he can perchance respond
"From the land o' the leal."
He was laid out in a child's military suit of light blue, with star-flowers, snow-drops, rose-buds, and leaves of the rose geranium. It was a sweetly sacred bequest to the Sabbath School.
SOURCE: Elvira J. Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron and Visitor, p. 72
Have been to Hospital, No. 1, at the request of a mother whose young son had died there. She is in great anxiety to learn something of his last words, and whether he died a Christian. I have just written her the facts, that there was no outward evidence of the same, but that she must trust the Good Father that it was "well with him."
All the patients whom I have mentioned in my journal, are better. Even the one with ulcers is improving. As for William he has applied for a furlough, and expects soon to go home.
Day before yesterday a girl came to school who had just the look and complexion of a snuff-dipping refugee. She, also, like them, wore a dress of the same color, derived from some kind of bark. Her manner was as listless and her expression as vacant. Wishing much to know whether she could claim our superior race as her own, or whether a few drops of the black blood in her veins had procured perhaps from her father and master the fiat— "only a niggar!" I made known my curiosity to one of the teachers, with my perplexity as to how I should obtain the coveted information, without wounding her feelings.
"Oh! you need not fear that," was the reply, "they're used to it, and expect to be asked whether they're niggars or not." I could not do it, however, without considerable circumlocution; and commenced by asking if she could buy herself a book, whom she lived with, &c. After some time the questions eliminated the fact that though she didn't know whether she was free, or a “refugee," her own second name, or the age, she did know that she had lived most of her life in Texas, where she had always worked out of doors, had hoed corn, and ploughed that she lived with the same people now—that her father she had never heard anything of—that her mother was black, "though not real black," and finally that she herself was a "niggar," which nobody else could have told by her features or complexion.
A lady who stopped over night, on her way home from Bridgeport, where she has been stationed with her husband in charge of sanitary stores, relates the following:
She said that sitting a few days since in the rooms where were the stores of the Christian Commission, she saw a woman, when half a mile distant, who had a long stick in her hand. She supposed that being weary perhaps, with a long walk, she had picked it up to serve the office of a cane. But after entering, and engaging for some time in jovial conversation and laughter with some neighbors, she found there, she made known her errand. She wanted to beg a shirt, pair of stockings and a coffin for her husband, and the stick was the measure of his body. My informant asked the age of the deceased husband, and she replied:
"Well, now, I never rightly axed him how old he was. but I reckon he mought be nigh on to thirty or forty!"
SOURCE: 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. 72-4
On yesterday I wrote a bungling letter to my "little man" intending it for his birthday, as I feared we would be ordered off to-day, and sure enough I have just learned we are to leave directly. God has mercifully preserved me through the terrible battle of Gettysburg, though my escape was as narrow as possible. I cannot attempt an account of the battle as a private only knows what occurred in his immediate presence. Our regiment went into the fight with 350 and lost 150 in killed, wounded and missing. Lieutenant Joe Smith, son of Captain Jack Smith, on Hog Creek, was killed. We had just climbed a stone fence and crossed a branch and little marsh. Lieutenant Smith had wet his handkerchief in the branch and tied it around his head. It was extremely hot. It was about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and we had double-quicked across an open field for nearly 500 yards. He was killed in twenty feet of me, just after we crossed the branch—shot through the head, the bullet passing through the folds of his handkerchief on both sides. He was a splendid officer and we miss him very much.
From the 1st to the 6th of July I never took off my accouterments night or day. I marked in my Bible the Psalm which I read while in the line of battle among the rocks on the third of July. We were somewhat in advance of our main line and held our place, but could drive the enemy no further neither could they dislodge us. We remained there until the close of the battle. I have requested my friends to save my Bible and the little tin cup, which baby gave me for you in case of my fall. I threw away my blankets and all of my extra clothing when we went into the battle, but I picked up a blanket on coming out. You need not trouble yourself about my wants, as it is impossible to make a soldier comfortable. I was soaking wet from the 2nd to the 6th of July, without meat and with little bread, and have been for some time; so you see if I had all the comforts you might fix for me, I would have to throw them away on a long, wet march. It is impossible to carry them. I started from Texas to find a fight, and I have made a success of it. I am much delighted and gratified at the way in which you seem to be spending your time. With kisses for the little ones, I am,
SOURCE: John Camden West, A Texan in Search of a Fight: Being the Diary and Letters of a Private Soldier in Hood’s Texas Brigade, pp. 87-8
Expectation is still
on the strain. How long it has been kept up! But no order to move, and I doubt
whether we get any soon. Indeed, I think now that we should not move. 'Tis too
late. The roads are excessively bad, and for a long time we have been having an
almost continuous storm of freezing rain and snow. An army could not lie out
over night in this terrible weather, and be in condition next day to fight
against those who had slept in good quarters and been well fed. The time has
passed to move. But why are we not ordered to winter quarters? There seems to
me to be great recklessness of the soldiers' health and comfort in this army.
There is wrong somewhere.
A sad case has just
passed under my notice. Three days ago, as I was busily engaged in attending to
hospital duties, I entrusted, necessarily, the light sickness of quarters to
others. As I passed out just after morning call, I heard one of my nurses say
to a man, "You look sick; why do you not come to hospital, where we can
take care of you?" "That is what I came for, but the doctor says I am
not sick, and has returned me to duty." I passed on, but
notwithstanding that there is scarcely a day that some "shirk" who is
pretending to be sick to avoid duty, is not treated thus, that voice rang sadly
in my ears. In ten minutes I returned, and inquired after the man. The drums
had beaten to duty, and he was on parade. I followed to parade ground,
found him endeavoring to do his duty, on a "double-quick." I took him
from the ranks, examined him, and sent him to hospital. Before they got him to
bed he was delirious. He has just died. 'Twas a case of typhoid fever, of which
he had been sick for two days before I saw him. I ask of army Surgeons, Had you
not better excuse ten "seeds" who are worthless, even when in rank,
than sacrifice one good man like this, who believes he is not sick, because you tell him
he is not?
SOURCE: Alfred L.
Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of
Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B.
McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day
January, 1863, pp. 79-80
I made out returns
and wrote two letters. An awful snow storm came up just in the evening.
Hospital walls caving in. Private Small, Co. D of the Seventh, died about noon;
lung fever. Battalion drill. Lieut. Col. gave me five stamps, 15.
SOURCE: Lewis C.
Paxson, Diary of Lewis C. Paxson: Stockton, N.J., 1862-1865, p. 13
Nothing of special
importance occurred except the arrival of train and last supplies from
Alexandria and mail. D. Phelps, Co. D, Seventh Minn., died of inflammation of
the bowels.
SOURCE: Lewis C.
Paxson, Diary of Lewis C. Paxson: Stockton, N.J., 1862-1865, p. 14
In the hospital
after all. Dr. Andrus came last night to our tent and ordered me into the house
I spoke of. I had a warm, dry bed and a good night's rest and feel much better
to-day. The doctor has his office downstairs and the upstairs part is crammed
full of sick men. A big tent is being put up and cot beds put in to put the
fever patients in. Captain Bostwick was married last night, so it is said.
Corporal Knox died in a fit this afternoon. It tires me to
write so I must stop. Good-night.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 88
Captain Bostwick
came to see me to-day. Two men died last night, one in the hospital and the
other in his tent. I don't feel as well to-day.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 88
Am very weak yet. A little
tires me out. A letter from Herman just a month old. Coon died last night, but
we none of us knew it till we saw him carried out.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 89
Too much excitement
yesterday and I feel like two weeks ago. The doctor says I will have these
setbacks though and it is only a part of the process of getting well. A man
named Kipp died to-day. I don't know how many die out in the tent.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 91
Poor Crowthers died
very peacefully about noon to-day. His cot is next mine and he seemed like one
of the family to me. The company has undertaken to raise money to send his body
home.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 91
The finest morning
yet. The air is just right. The birds are singing, the sun shining bright and
everything seems just right for getting well. A man named Barker died last
night about midnight. He has seemed to be dying for a week and we have watched
to see him breathe his last any minute. Orderly Holmes is better and may get
well after all. Some of the boys killed an alligator to-day and cooked and ate
his tail. They say it is just as good as fish and looked like fish.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, pp . 91-2
Another fine day,
and another trip downstairs. My legs behaved better this time. Am not near so tired.
Now that I can write without getting tired I must put down some things I
remember, but which I could not write at the time. I shall always remember them
of course, but I want to see how near I can describe them on paper. First I
want to say how very kind my comrades have been all through. I can think of
many acts of kindness now that I paid little attention to then, but they kept
coming along just the same. Whatever else I think of, the thought of their care
for me and how they got passes and tramped miles to get me something to eat,
always taking it to Dr. Andrus first to see if it would do for me these
thoughts keep coming up and my load of gratitude keeps getting heavier. Can I
ever repay them? God has been good to me, better than I deserve. I was first
taken to the room where I am now writing. I remember but little of what
happened before I was taken out and put in the big hospital tent. It is a large
affair, made up of several tents joined together endwise and wide enough for
two rows of cots along the side, with an alley through the middle, towards
which our feet all pointed.
I remember the head
medical man coming through every day or so and the doctors would take him to
certain cots, where they would look on the fellows lying there and put down something
in a book. I soon noticed that most always such a one died in a short time, and
I watched for their coming to my cot. One day they did, and I remember how it
made me feel. Dr. Andrus was so worked down that a strange doctor was in
charge, but under Dr. Andrus, who had charge over all. When he came through I
motioned to him and he came and sat on the next cot, when I told him I would
get well if I could get something good to eat. "All right," said he,
"what will you have?" I told him a small piece of beefsteak. He sent
one of the nurses to his mess cook and he soon came back with a plate and on it
a little piece of steak which he prepared to feed me. But the smell was enough
and I could not even taste it. The doctor then proceeded to eat it, asking if I
could think of anything else. I thought a bottle of beer would surely taste
good and so he sent to the sutler's for it. But he had to drink that too, for I
could not. He laughed at me and though I was disappointed, it cheered me up
more than anything else had done for a long time. When I got so I could eat, I
surely thought he would starve me to death.
A poor fellow across
the tent opposite me got crazy and it took several men to hold him on his cot.
The doctor came and injected something in his breast which quieted him for the
night, but when it wore off he was just as bad and he finally died in one of
them. On my right lay a man sick unto death, while on my left lay another whose
appetite had come and who was begging everybody for something to eat. His company
boys brought him some bread and milk which he ate as if famished. The next
morning when I awoke and looked about to see how many faces were covered up I
found both my right and left hand neighbors had died in the night and their
blankets were drawn up over their faces. The sights I saw while I was able to
realize what was going on were not calculated to cheer me up and how I
acted when I was out of my head I don't know. At any rate I got better and was
brought back to this room, where I have since been.
SOURCE:
Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, pp. 92-4
Monmouth, May 21st, 1833.
But a few days ago, my beloved sister, your now wretched brother was the happy father of four blooming children. The hand of Providence has fallen heavily upon me in these last three days. Our beloved little Edward, who had never before had a moment's illness, was for about a week affected with derangement of the bowels, which at length resulted in cholera, and his pure spirit left this world for a better on the morning of the 18th. Oh! this was a severe blow to his fond parents, but a heavier yet was in store. On the night before last, my beloved, my beautiful, noble, and affectionate little John was seized with the fatal scourge, without any premonitory symptoms, and in six hours the little angel left this world for a better one. He had no pain, and was resigned, fond, and affectionate to the last expiring sigh. His poor mother is almost inconsolable at the loss of her two darlings. His sister, the constant, inseparable companion of his studies and his sports, looks as if she was deserted by all the world. His father's hopes, his high expectations, where are they? Oh! there is a void in my heart, a burden on my breast; yet I have strength, and will resign myself to this hard, hard dispensation; but Eliza, my dearest Eliza, with all her firmness, is nearly broken-hearted. Who shall describe a mother's sorrow? Two sweet children, upon whom her soul doted -around whom were twined the very tendrils of her heart-torn from her bosom so suddenly! The pestilence fell upon our house with unexampled fury. My German gardener died the day poor little Edward was buried. A servant-maid was attacked the same day, and still lies very low. We are now at Woodlands. A storm passed over last night, and physicians say the pestilence will cease. Its peculiarity has been to fall upon the most healthy localities and avoid others. Its sweep was short, but, merciful Heaven, what a blow! Eliza and I have determined to be resigned to our hard lot. Our poor little son appeared uncommonly beautiful and intelligent the day before his death. He breathed affection for all, and, though perfectly well, he seemed to have some presentiment of his fate. I saw its shadow along my path for weeks. Two hours after the first symptom of his disease, he said, “Father, I will never get well.” He was at the grave when his infant brother was buried, observed every thing with attention, and gave his mother an account of all. Their little graves are side by side, under a beautiful tree, below the garden. We had two of the best physicians, but no human skill could save them. Their heavenly Father had selected their pure spirits to surround His throne.
SOURCE: John F. H. Claiborne, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Vol. 1, pp. 132-3
June 16th, 1833.
MY DEAR FRIEND, — I have heard with feelings of great sorrow the severe visitation of Providence which you have suffered in the loss of your dear children. When I reflect what they were when I saw them, how much of promise they evidenced, how healthy, intelligent, and beautiful they were all that could warm with hope the breast of a parent—I think, with tears in my eyes, of my own dear Joseph, and that he, like them, was, by untimely fate, taken from the arms of those who had too much of their happiness, too much of their hopes dependent on him. Oh, my friend, how much of all our fondest anticipations, of our warmest affections and dearest hopes, may be buried in these little tombs! I have suffered more while thinking and deploring the loss of my boy, who was so promising, so much intertwined with all my plans, all my hopes, and with my very heart-strings — more than I thought my stubborn nature would submit to. Often have I shed tears on the midnight pillow, and my heart would swell as though it would suffocate me. Such was the shock, that I felt as though it would madden me; and even now I sometimes lose that self-control and equanimity which I had fancied I possessed. These are afflictions to which stoicism must yield, for nature is stronger than all the consolations of philosophy.
Accept, my friend, my sincere sympathy with you; consolation I can not offer; but the tears which I have shed over the grave of my child have again flowed over the remembrance of yours, who are fresh to my mind as beautiful flowers that have been crushed by the ravages of a dreadful tornado. Assure Mrs. Quitman of my regret for her bereavement, and may Heaven preserve you and her.
SOURCE: John F. H. Claiborne, Life and Correspondence of John A. Quitman, Vol. 1, pp. 133-4
A woman and boy died
in my division last night. The woman left a little child, eighteen months old,
which is inconsolable. The father, a soldier, wishes to take the child away,
but was not permitted to do so or to see it, for fear of contagion. It is to be
kept to see if the child has the disease. [It did not, and had no scar from
vaccination, such queer freaks the disease takes.]
The boy, an
Alabamian, told me yesterday he was getting better. He had been sent here with
measles, recovered from those, but the small pox did not break out. He died
easy, and said he was "going to Heaven." I write his people today,
via Fortress Monroe. His name was G. B. Allen, of Rockford, Cousa Co., Alabama.
One man died yesterday, to whose people I have written to-day. Another died
to-day. The mortality here is great. Said one patient to me: "People die
mighty easy here."
I asked in what way,
he meant.
"Oh," he
replied, "they'll be mighty peart-like, one minute, an' the next you know,
they're dead!"
This is true, and I
find so many who were sent here with measles, recover from those, and die of
small pox. Sixty cases of measles were sent to this hospital
in one month, as I learn from the lips of the surgeon in
charge himself, Dr. F. These are sent by the several physicians of Nashville.
The fact itself speaks volumes, but to stay here and see its effects day after
day in the poor victims of such ignorance, impress one with a sense of the
importance by the medical faculty of distinguishing between the two diseases.
SOURCE: 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. 42-3
I find many very
interesting cases here, some of which shall wait to see the finale before
making note of them.
What seems to me a
strange feature, as I become more familiar with death-bed scenes, is the fact
that so few know they are dying or are even dangerous, but persist with the
last breath, or until the last struggle, that they are "getting better."
One poor young boy
from Georgia, by the name of Ashman, who must die, although he eats nothing
except a few canned peaches and milk, which I carry to him, will tell me
sometimes when I go into the tent, that he is expecting a can of peaches every
minute from home, and at another that he has just heard that his mother is in
town, and that if he really knew she was, he would'nt lie there a great while
before he'd be hunting her up. At another, he asked my name and State, and
whether I took him to be a man or only a little boy. He is a slight little
fellow of about 18, but in answer to the question I told him that of course I
considered one really a man who could be a soldier and fight for our country,
and who could be so good and patient while sick. To-day he called me to him, as
soon as I entered the tent, and asked if I "could'nt discharge him to-day—that
the doctor had told him to ask me about it, and that whatever I said he might
do."
I told him that I
would discharge him just as soon as that limb of his got well, and reminded him
that he would want to be able to walk to the cars before starting home. He has
a bad abscess on his limb, from which the doctor says the flesh is sloughing,
and he does not expect him to live through tonight. And yet the boy wants me to
"write to his mother in Atlanta, Georgia, and tell her to write to his aunt
Shady, in Butler," that he "has been sick, but
is getting better."
One man—G. W. Crane,
of 3d Missouri Infantry, and who is called Major, was given up the day before
yesterday by Dr. R.
He complained
greatly of his throat, and I have since kept wet bandages on it, greatly to his
relief. I asked permission of the doctor to do this, and advice as to telling
him of his danger. He thought it would be well to do so, as he might wish to
make some business arrangements. It was a most unwelcome task, but I believed
it best; and first, asked him if he would like a letter written to his people.
"Oh no,"
was the reply, I shall be able to write myself in a few days."
"Perhaps you
may," I said, "but we are all in more or less danger when sick."
Adding as gently as possible, "How would you feel about it, if you thought
you were not going to get well?"
The queries seemed
cruel, but I knew he had loaned a gold watch and money to a man, and thought he
might wish to at tend to that and other matters. But he said decidedly "I
do not think anything about it, as I have no doubt I shall soon be up again.
And Madam," he added politely, "it would afford me great pleasure to
talk with you, if I were feeling well and in good spirits you know, but my
throat is so bad it hurts me to talk”
After this rebuff,
and being really undecided as to duty in the matter, I left him. Yesterday I
found him living, but evidently near his end, and I felt that I ought to let
him know his condition. First, I asked as before about writing letters, when he
said with great difficulty that he did'nt wish to talk with me as it distressed
him to speak. I then said I would only ask him one or two questions and then
leave him, and I said:
If the doctor and
all thought you could not live, would you wish to know it?"
He said
"No," decidedly.
"Well
then," I said "I will not trouble you any more, but if at any time
you wish letters written, you can send me word by the nurse.”
I left him and he
died in about an hour. He called for water, but as the nurse raised him to give
it, he exclaimed "I am dying," and then gave some incoherent charge,
in which the nurse distinguished the words; "the lady" and "a
letter."
His request has been
complied with.
Mrs. F. was relating
a similar incident to me the other evening. Dr. F. was at the depot in
Nashville, when an old acquaintance was found there, who had been ill, had
received a sick furlough, and was to take the cars for home. He was so feeble,
he was persuaded to go to a hospital to remain over night, and take the train
next day. In the course of the evening there was a change, and the physician
knew he could live but a short time. He knew also that were he aware of the
truth he would wish to send some message to his family. The man was speaking of
his home and laying plans for the future, when the physician asked if he
should'nt write a letter for him to his wife.
"Why no,"
he replied, "what need of that when I'm to start home tomorrow?"
"You may not go
then," said the doctor.
"Oh, yes,"
I must start tomorrow," was the reply.
The surgeon did not
answer immediately, but was sadly thinking how to do so, and regarding the
countenance of his friend, when the patient, who was about talking more of his
plans, suddenly paused upon observing the expression of the surgeon's face, and
earnestly asked:
"Doctor—you do
not think me very sick, do you?"
"I do,"
was the sad reply.
"But doctor you
don't think me dangerous?"
"I think you a
very sick man."
He lay silent for a
few moments while thought was busy, and then asked:
"Am I about to
cross the lines, doctor?"
Tears, and the
simple "I think you are," was the answer.
Then was business
arranged, messages given, and they were alone again. Then he said:
"Why, doctor is
this all that death is? It's nothing at all to die."
And thus he
"crossed the lines."
SOURCE: 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. 43-7
The ambulance and
driver were placed at my disposal this P.M., and I visited Hospital No. 1. I
find changes here, but mostly for the better. Some have recovered sufficiently
to be sent North. The "Alabamian," as he was called, who together
with "William" was placed in my care, I am grieved to learn has
"crossed the lines." He was getting better I was told, until one
night he died suddenly of an ulcer on his lungs. William is dressed and walks
around is surely getting well, and talking of going home. Has had a letter
written to his father and received a reply. Seems very grateful. The German
suffered no more pain from the amputation, and is hopeful. The Norwegian has no
gangrene in his arm now, and it is fast healing.
I find two or three
new cases of interest. One is a middle-aged man who is suffering greatly from
ulcers caused by scurvy. It is thought that he cannot live long; and he tells
me that he isn't ready to die that he has "been a bad man, that if the
Lord will only spare him this time, he will live a different life."
Another, a young man with fair skin, red cheeks and bright eyes, the victim of
consumption, was moaning,
"Only to die at
home with mother!"
SOURCE: Elvira J.
Powers, Hospital Pencillings: Being a Diary While in Jefferson General
Hospital, Jeffersonville, Ind., and Others at Nashville, Tennessee, as Matron
and Visitor, p. 60
