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
