Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Thursday, April 7, 1864

Nashville, Tenn., Thursday Evening, April 7.

The present week, thus far, has been to me, full of new and thrilling experiences.

On Sabbath, the day after our arrival, I entered an ambulance and visited a camp for the first time. The company consisted of three, besides myself—Rev. Dr. D., a young theological student who is passing vacation here, and Miss T. The day was warm and springlike; the hyacinths, crocuses, and peach trees in blossom. It was the camp of the 7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, and situated upon one of the hights overlooking the City. The tents were white, the soldiers well-dressed, the uniform bright and everything tidy. A new and gaily painted banner pointed out the tent of the Colonel. As we entered the grounds, that gentleman, with the Major, met us cordially, a seat was prepared for the ladies at the opening of the Colonel's tent, while a huge box in front served for a speaker's stand. The bugle then summoned such as wished to listen, and service was held by the two gentlemen of our party. Books and papers were afterward distributed, for which the soldiers seemed eager. The Colonel informed us that the Regiment had just been reorganized, and new recruits filled the vacant places in the ranks, made so by the heroes, who fell at such battles as Lookout Mountain, Mission Ridge, and Chickamauga. There is a long list of such inscribed upon this banner, of which they are justly proud.

On Monday, visited a hospital for the first time. Was accompanied by Mrs. E. P. Smith, Mrs. Dr. F. and my travelling companion Miss O, beside the driver. As the ambulance halted, we saw through the open door and windows the homesick, pallid faces raised from the sick beds to greet us with a look of pleasure. Upon entering, almost the first object was that of a dying boy. His name was John Camplin, of Co. G. 49th Illinois Vols. He was a new recruit of only seventeen, and the victim of measles. He "did'nt want to die," but, after the singing of such hymns as "Rock of Ages," and "Jesus lover of my soul," he grew more resigned. I took the card which hung in a little tin case at the head of his bed, and copied the name and address of his father. The dying boy had been watching, and he then with difficult speech asked me to write to his people and tell them "good bye,” and that he was "going home." I tried to obtain a more lengthy message to comfort them, but speech was soon denied nd reason wandered. He died a few hours after, and the sad tidings was sent next day.

Found another poor boy quite low, with pneumonia. He knew his condition, but with an heroic smile upon his wasted features said, that "if" his "life would do his dear country any good" he was "willing to give it."

The Masonic Hall and First Presbyterian Church constitute Hospital, No. 8. We visited that on Tuesday.

As we enter the Hall, past the guard, we find a broad flight of stairs before us, and while ascending, perceive this caution inscribed upon the wall in evergreen.

"Remember you are in a hospital and make no noise." Up this flight, and other cautions meet us, such as "No smoking here"—" Keep away from the wall," &c. We here pause at a door, and are introduced to the matron who is fortunately just now going through the wards. It is Miss J-tt, of Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Ascending another broad flight, and asking in the meantime of her duties, she throws open the door of the linen room where are two clerks, and says:

"This department comprises all the work assigned to me whatever else I do is voluntary and gratuitous. "But today," she adds laughingly, "it would be difficult to define my duties. I think I might properly be called 'Commandant of the Black Squad,' or Chief of the Dirty Brigade;" and she explained by saying that she had seven negro women and two men, subject to her orders, who were cleaning the building. She next throws open the door of a ward which contains but a few patients, and has a smoky appearance. She tells us, they are fumigating it, having had some cases of small pox, most of which have been sent to the proper Hospital.

We pass to another, where she tells us, previous to entering, is one very sick boy. He is of a slight form, only fifteen, and with delicate girlish features. His disease is typhoid fever, from the effects of which he is now quite deaf. As we approach, he says to her faintly, "Sit down here, mother, on the side of my bed.”

She does so, when he asks her to "to bend her head down so he can tell her something." This she does, when he says, quite loud, but with difficulty;—“There's some money under my pillow, I want you to get it, and buy me some dried peaches."

"I don't want your money," she says, "but you shall have the peaches if I can get them," and she writes a note and dispatches it to the sanitary rooms for them." "This boy always calls me mother," she says, "and the first day he was brought here, he sent his nurse to ask if I would come up and kiss him. He has always been his mother's pet, and I now correspond with her on his account."

His fever is very high, and we pass our cold hand soothingly over his forehead and essay to speak words of cheer, and as we turn to leave, he looks up pleadingly and says:

"Can't you kiss me?"

"Yes, indeed, I can—am glad to do so," and we press our own to his burning lips and receive his feverish, unpleasant breath, not a disagreeable task though, for all, when we remember that he is the pet of his mother, who misses him so very much, and who may never look upon her boy again.

Of one-a middle-aged, despondent looking man we ask cheerily, how he is to-day.

"About the same," he replies coldly, but with a look which is the index of a thought like this:

Oh, you don't care for us or our comfort,—you are well, and have friends, and home, probably near you, and you cannot appreciate our suffering, and only come here to satisfy an idle curiosity."

He does not say this, but he thinks it, and we read the thought in the voice, manner, and countenance. We determine to convince him of his mistake, if possible, notwithstanding he looks as if he prefers we should walk along and leave him alone.

"Were you wounded?" we ask.

"No-sick," was the short gruff answer.

"Your disease was fever was'nt it?" we persist," your countenance looks like it."

"Yes, fever and pneumonia,” he replies in the same cold, but despairing tone.

"Ah-but you're getting better now."

"Don't know about it—reckon not."

"Well, how is it about getting letters from home?"

His countenance, voice and manner undergo a sudden change now, and his eyes overrun with tears, at the simple words "letters from home."

And as he raises his hand to his mouth, to conceal its quivering, he tells us with tremulous voice that he has sent three letters to his wife and can get no answer. She has left the place where they used to live, and he does not know certainly where to direct. We ask who we can write to, to find out, and learn that a sister would know. We take the probable address of the wife, and that of the sister, and after some farther conversation leave him looking quite like another man as we promise to write to each in the evening. (Subsequently, we learned that he received a reply to both, and was comparatively cheerful and very grateful.)

Down stairs, and we enter a ward on the first floor. Here is a thin sallow visage, the owner of which piteously asks if we "have any oranges," "No," but we provide means, by which he can purchase.

"I'm from North Carolina," he says, "I hid in the woods and mountains and lived on roots and berries for weeks, before I could get away."

In reply to our query as to whether he would like a letter written home, he informs us that his wife and father arrived in town only a few days ago,

"Then you have seen them," we say.

"Yes, they both visit me, but my wife comes oftenest."

Just now, his nurse, a young man who should know better, interrupts him by telling us that "it isn't so, and his family are all in North Carolina."

"That's just the way," said the sick man, turning to me with a flushed and angry look, "that they're talking to me all the time, and trying to make everybody think I'm crazy. I reckon I know whether I've seen my wife or not!"

"Of course you do," we say quietingly; "does she bring you anything nice to eat?" and we add that we wish she would come while we were there, so we could see her.

"Well, she don't bring me much to eat," he says in a weak, hollow voice, but earnestly, "she don't understand fixin' up things nice for sick folks, and then she's weakly like, but she does all she can, for she's a right gude heart. She doesn't fix up, and look like you folks do, you know," he added, “for she's sort o' torn to pieces like by this war."

“Yes, we can understand it."

Upon inquiring about this man a few moments after of the Ward-Master, we find that he is really a monomaniac upon this subject, persisting in the declaration that his wife and father visit him often though no one sees them.

"He can't live," said the Ward-Master, "he has lost all heart and is worn out. The chance of a Southerner to live after going to a hospital is not over a fourth as good as for one of our Northern boys. They can do more fighting with less food while in the field, but when the excitement is over they lose heart and die.”

We find upon several subsequent visits that he is growing weaker, and at the last when his countenance indicates that death is near, we are thankful that he is still comforted by these imaginary visits from father and wife.

We crossed the street and entered the First Presbyterian Church, which constitutes a part of the hospital. This place is notable for the promulgation of secession sentiments from its pulpit in other days. A specimen of the style was given here a short time before the entrance of our troops, by Prof. Elliott of the Seminary, who in a prayer besought the Almighty that he would so prosper the arms of the Confederates and bring to naught the plans of the Federals, that every hill-top, plain and valley around Nashville should be white with the bones of the hated Yankees!”

“After hearing this it was doubly a pleasure, in company with Miss J., another "Northern vandal," to make the walls of the old church echo to the words of "The Star Spangled Banner," with an accompaniment from the organ; and it would have done any loyal heart good to see how much pleasure it gave to the sick and wounded soldiers.

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. 13-19

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: April 1, 1864

ON BOARD THE "GEN. BUELL,"        

OHIO RIVER, April 1, 1864.

HAVING been duly commissioned and ordered to “report immediately at Nashville, Tenn., for hospital service at the front," my friend, Miss N—— O——, and myself find ourselves steaming down the Ohio, between Cincinnati and Louisville.

Thus far we are quite ignorant of the duties of hospital life, though so soon to enter upon them. Our Northern friends have been questioned to little purpose, except that of ascertaining how very little knowledge there is upon the subject; and the papers are equally silent.

This fact determines me to keep some sort of a journal, however imperfect. It will of course necessarily be so, as I must neglect no duty for the sake of scribbling about it.

We have just been seeking information of our gentlemanly escort, Mr. R., of Louisville. He, it appears, has an innate love of humor and a peculiarly dry and quiet way of quizzing people. Here was a fine opportunity. But we determine to ward off the attacks as skilfully as possible with the little knowledge we do possess. He says:

“Well, ladies, I suppose you are prepared to make bread and gruel, sweep and mop, make beds, dress wounds and plough?"

In reply the gentleman was informed that had we not been proficient in each, especially the ploughing, we should never have dared to make application for the situation.

He explained by informing us that one of the Southern refugees, who confessed herself unable to do either of the others, said she "could plough."

"And I suppose you have each brought good knives along with you?" was the next query."

“Knives—oh yes, but for what purpose do you mean?" And visions of being set to amputate limbs or to protect ourselves against personal assaults flitted through our minds.

“Well, nothing, only you'll have an enormous amount of onions to peel for those boys down there. You can peel those during the night, for you'll hardly have time in the day, that's the way I used to do."

"Did you? That's pleasant employment. I've practised it considerably myself, but didn't, like you, have the satisfaction of knowing during the grievous operation that I was shedding tears for the good of my country."

Then he wished to know whether in our visits to the sick wards we should "notice only the good looking ones." Upon being informed that we have fully-determined to minister to such only as looked as if they were ministers, doctors, lawyers or editors, the gentleman seemed satisfied that we were fully fitted for the service. Still he felt called upon to caution us against excessive attention even to such, by relating that one of the class was asked by a lady visitor if she might "comb his hair."

"Yes-you-may," meekly responded the sufferer, "but it will be the thirteenth time to day."

Evening.

Just at sunset we passed North Bend, and had a glimpse of the tomb of President Harrison. The remains of Mrs. Harrison have within the last thirty days been laid by the side of the old hero. The place was pointed out by Dr. S., of Louisville, who is a second cousin to Mrs. Harrison. He informed us that the brother of his grandfather received a grant of all the land lying between the "Big and Little Miami,” and extending back sixteen miles from their mouths. 4500 acres of this was willed to the grandfather of the Doctor and about the same to the mother of Mrs. H.

Dr. S. also informed us that he was the only one in Louisville who voted for Lincoln. That the polls were twice declared closed, and the clerk with oaths refused to record his vote, when the son of one of our Generals—I regret having forgotten the name—peremptorily ordered it done; when an A. and L. and a long black stroke was dashed upon the record, The baser sort had all day threatened hanging him upon the back porch, but at the close of the day most of them were safely intoxicated.

The Doctor has the sad trial of losing a son, who had by the offer of military emolument been drawn into the Confederate service. He was wounded or taken sick and carried to Ohio, where a brother took care of him till his death. The father wished him brought home, and funeral services performed, but the military authorities of Louisville forbade it, as similar occasions had drawn out crowds of two or three thousands of secession proclivities. Then he was buried in Ohio, but when the citizens of the loyal little town learned that he had been in the Confederate service, they obliged Dr. S. to remove the body. That such staunch loyalists should suffer innocently is one of the saddest features of this rebellion.

In the course of conversation this evening we were informed by the Doctor that we were to pass the next day within seven miles of Mammoth Cave. And he spoke of the subterranean streams and mills in the vicinity, and of the blind fishes in the waters of the Cave.

"Yes," said Mr. R., in his usual serious way, "and I believe that is where your people go a craw-fishing!"

The Doctor replied in the affirmative, but in a tone which excited my curiosity. Here was a chance to add to my rather meagre stock of knowledge in natural history, and with the anxiety of a reporter for something out of which to manufacture an item, I inquired what kind of fish those were—if that was the name given to those blind fishes in the cave. To my astonishment a universal laugh greeted me from the trio. An explanation followed; and it seems that the same or something similar to what at the North we find in creeks and ditches, and call fresh-water crabs, there bear the name of craw-fish. And moreover as those crawl backward, they have attached a meaning to the term, so that when a man "puts his hand to the plough and looks back," he is said to have “gone a craw-fishing." So, like that notable traveller in Pickwick Papers, I can make a note of the discovery of a new kind of fish of the skedaddle genus. Hallicarnassus was decidedly

wrong in thinking one can sail around the world in an armchair. He should have considerately assisted that big trunk down stairs, and benignly seconded Gail's efforts to go abroad and see the world, for peradventure she might learn something even about craw-fish.

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. 1-5

Diary of Elvira J. Powers: Saturday, April 2, 1864

Reached the "City of the Falls" in the night. Left the boat about six this morning, took a hasty breakfast at the “National,” then a hack for the depot, calling at the office of Provost Marshal to secure passes on train to Nashville. Am pleasantly impressed with Louisville. A pretty green plot in front of private residences, even if quite small, with linden, ailanthus and magnolia trees, are peculiarities of the city. It is too early for the foliage of the trees to be seen, but the deep green, thick grass and the blossoms of the daffodil are in striking contrast to the snow I saw in the latitude of Chicago and Buffalo only day before yesterday.

The cars are now so crowded with soldiers en route for "the front," that it is quite difficult for citizens to find passage. Some have to wait several days before they can find an opportunity. Only one car is appropriated for this use, and ladies with their escort always have the preference. Thus gentlemen who are alone are liable to be left, As we were leaving the "National" this morning a gentleman rushed out and inquired if we were going to take the Southern train, and if there was only one gentleman to the two ladies. He "begged pardon—knew he was a stranger—wished to go to Bowling Green his wife was sick and he had written her he would be home to-day. If the ladies would be so kind as to pass him along, and if the gentleman would step with him into the office he could convince him, through the keeper of the "National," that he was a man of honor,” Mr. R. referred the matter to the ladies. They decided to take under their protecting wing the lone gentleman and see him safe home if the interview with the landlord, with whom Mr. R. was fortunately acquainted, should prove satisfactory. It was so, and Mr. Moseby—not the guerilla as himself informed us—entered the hack. He had "taken the oath of allegiance," he said, and "lived up to it, but had a right to his own thoughts."

Upon arriving at the depot found the ladies' car locked, and we were left standing by it while the two gentleman looked after the baggage. Mr. R. was not to accompany us farther. Soon an elderly, pale-looking man, with a white neck-tie, came up, who asked if we each had a gentleman travelling with us. We hesitated and evaded the question. This was being in too great demand altogether. It was not even included in Mr. R.'s list of our duties. He "was really hoping we had not, and that one of us would take pity on an old man and pass him along."

His fatherly look and manner banished selfishness, and he was told to wait until the gentlemen returned, and we would see about it. As they did so Mr. Moseby stepped up and cordially shook hands with the old man, calling him “Judge." But all Southerners are styled judges, captains, colonels or generals, thought I, and this one is an honest old farmer nevertheless. As Mr. M. assured us that he was "all right," and a "man of honor," I told him he might occupy half of my seat in the car. But it was not long before I found that my poor old farmer was no less a personage than Judge Joseph R. Underwood, one of the most noted men and pioneers of Kentucky. He has been Judge of the Supreme Court of that State six years, a United States Representative for ten years and a Senator for six.

A spruce little Captain came through to examine military passes before the cars started. Quite a number of citizens were left as usual, and as we were moving off I heard one young man exclaim in desperation that he would "go right back to the city and marry." The gentlemen congratulated themselves upon their good fortune, and the subject elicited the following incidents:

A gentleman of Mr. M.'s acquaintance could get no admission to the cars, no lady would take him under her care, and he asked the baggage agent if he might get in the baggage car. That functionary said he had orders to admit no one. "Then you'll not give me permission, but if I get in will you put me out?"

No answer was made, but the agent walked away, and the man, thinking like children, that "silence gives consent," entered the baggage car and remained.

Another gentleman, a merchant of Bowling Green, by name F—— C——, could get no chance to ride. But fortunately having on a blue coat, in desperation he stepped up to a man with the two bars on his shoulder who was putting his soldiers aboard, and said with a pleading look and tone:

"Captain, can't you lengthen out my furlough just two days longer?"

"No," said the Captain, in a quick authoritative tone, "you've been loafing 'round these streets long enough, in with you," and he made a motion as if he would materially assist his entrance if he didn't hurry.

“Well, if I must I must, but its hard, Captain."

"No more words," was the short reply, "in with you.” Another was related by an eye witness. A lady who was travelling alone was about stepping into the car, when a gentleman, who was trembling with anxiety lest he should be left, stepped up and offered to take her box. He did so, and stepping in behind was allowed a seat by her side, cautiously retaining the box. He had two comrades equally desirous of securing a passage, who had seen his success. One of them stepped to the car window and whispered him to pass out the box. It was slyly done, and the gentleman marched solemnly in with the weighty responsibility. The box went through the window again, and again walked in at the door, until it must have been thoroughly "taken in" as well as the guard.

Just out of the city we passed a camp and saw soldiers lying under the little low "dog tents" as they are called, and in the deep, clay mud, while only a few rods distant was a plenty of green sward. Any officer who would compel his men to pitch tents where those were ought to be levelled to the ranks.

I saw for the first time to-day, fortifications, stockades, riflepits, and mounted cannon at the bridges. We passed over the battle-ground of Mumfordsville, and saw the burnt fences and the levelled trees which were to obstruct the march of our troops, and the building which was used by them as a hospital. In the deep cut passes one sees suddenly the picturesque figure of a negro soldier, far above upon the heights, who with shining uniform and glittering bayonet stands like a statue, guarding the portals of liberty. At the fortifications are sign-boards upon which are printed in large letters, "Please a drop a paper," while perhaps half a dozen hands point to it as the train whirls past. Some papers were thrown out. There were other things which had for our Northern eyes the charm of novelty. A half respectable or squalid farm-house, with a huge chimney upon the outside, and with a huddle of negro quarters. Also negro women with turbans upon their heads, working out of doors, and driving teams—in one case on a load of tobacco, while driving a yoke of oxen. The total absence of country school-houses, and the squalid and shiftless appearance of the buildings and people at the depots, are in striking contrast to the neat little towns of the Northern and Eastern States. The scenery is fine, much of the soil good, and the water-power extensive. Nature has dealt bountifully with Tennessee and Kentucky, but the accursed system of slavery has blasted and desolated the land, and both races, black and white, are reaping the mildewed harvest.

I find my honorable companion very entertaining and instructive. I am indebted to him for many items of interest, both concerning the early settlers, and also the modern history of the places we pass. His personal history is full of interest, and is one more proof that early poverty is not necessarily a barrier to honor and position. The Judge was given away by his parents to an uncle, who educated him, gave him five dollars and told him he must then make his own way in the world. Another uncle lent him a horse, and he set out to seek his fortune as lawyer and politician. He has in trust the fortune of an eccentric old bachelor, which is known in Warren County as the Craddock fund. Three-fourths of this is used to educate charity children, while the other fourth pays the Judge for his care of the fund. His friend Captain C., while upon his death-bed, sent for the drummer and fifer to play tunes in the yard, and from those selected such as he wished played at his funeral. He was buried with military honors.

“Muldroughs-Hill" which we saw, is a long ridge extending about one hundred miles from the mouth of Salt-River to the head of Rolling-Fork. It was named from an early settler who lived twenty miles from the others, and was farthest west. Rolling-Fork is a tributary of Salt-River. The origin of the term "going up Salt-River" originated at a little place we passed, now called Shepherdsville. It has only four or five hundred inhabitants. But in its early days its salt licks supplied all the Western country with salt, and was a growing aspirant for popularity, as it invited so much trade. It was a rival of Louisville, but unlike that, made no provision for its future well-being, but depended on its present worth alone. "Thus," moralized the Judge, “do we often see two young men start out with equal advantages, and find afterward that one became a Shepherdsville, and the other a Louisville." Now there is a bridge at Shepherdsville guarded by cannon, then there was no bridge and ferry-boats were used. It was not a smooth stream, and to cross, one must row up the river some one hundred rods before heading the boat to the opposite shore. Owing to the rapidity of the current, it was hard rowing, and great strength was needed. There were those engaged in the making of salt who were called kettle-tenders, and who for the most part were a low, rough set, being often intoxicated and quarrelsome. Two of these having a fight, the victor finished with the triumphant exclamation of There, I've rowed you up Salt River!"

Lincoln's birth-place is near this, in the adjoining County of Larue—although this was not the name at the time of his birth. And how little did the mother of Lincoln think, as she taught him the little she knew of books, that the people in the vicinity would ever have cause to exclaim of him, in relation to his rival for the Presidency, as they do of the successful politician—" he has rowed him up Salt River !"

There is a little river called "Nolin," which waters his birth-place. It was so named from the fact that in the early settlement upon its banks a man named Linn was lost in the woods, and never found. He was probably killed by the Indians. But the neighbors searched for several days, and at night met at a place upon its banks, calling to each other as they came in, "No Linn"—" No Linn, yet."

The Judge has carried lead in his body for over fifty years, received in the war of 1812. He was in the battle on the Maumee river called Dudley's defeat. The regiment, under Dudley, had crossed the river to take cannon of the enemy, which they succeeded in doing, but instead of returning they pursued them two or three miles, leaving a few behind to protect the captures. But a detachment of the enemy passed around in their rear, retook the cannon, and when the regiment returned, their retreat was cut off, and all were taken prisoners and obliged to run the gauntlet. About forty were killed in running the gauntlet. The Judge saw that the line of men which had formed at a little distance from, and parallel with the river, had a bend in it, and that if he ran close to the guns they would not dare fire for fear of hitting their own men. The Indians were armed with guns, tomahawks, and war clubs. In that day the gun was accompanied with what was called the "wiping-stick," which was a rod made of hickory notched, and wound with tow, and used to clean the gun. He escaped by receiving a whipping with some of those sticks. It was the last gauntlet ever run in the United States. During the trip I had quite a spirited but good-natured discussion upon the condition of the country, with Mr. M., who I found is really a strong rebel sympathizer. He worships Morgan since his late raid into Ohio, and secretly cherishes his picture in his vest pocket. Just before reaching Bowling Green, where we were to separate, the fatherly old Judge took a hand of each in his own, and with moisture in his eyes and a tremor in his voice, said:

"My children, you represent the two antagonistic positions of the country, and like those, do not rightly understand each other, on account of sectional prejudices. And now let an old man who has watched the growth of both sections, who has, as he trusts, fought for their good in the field, the desk, and senate, join your hands in the grasp of good fellowship, and oh, how sincerely I wish that I could bring also together the North and South in one lasting peace!"

Soon after, he pointed out his residence—the cars stopped, and we parted with our pleasant friends.

Reached the "City of the Rocks" about five, this P. M. Shall wait to see more of it, before making note of impressions.

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. 5-12