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
