Echoes from hospital and White House. : A record of Mrs. Rebecca R. Pomroy's experience in war-times

Preface

Through the earnest solicitation of friends, Mrs. Pomroy consents that a portion of her life shall go before the public.

With the increase of years, the natural desire for quiet and seclusion makes it less and less an object of interest on her part, but all the more desirous are friends that the work of collecting and arranging in permanent form the incidents that occurred during her public service, should not be delayed until the channels of information, which grow less with every increasing year, shall be insufficient to furnish material for the work.

This little volume is not intended as a biography; it is simply an eventful chapter out of her history — a leaf from the book of life. A leaf blotted with tears, it is true, yet showing so unmistakably God's guiding hand in every line, and exhibiting the relation between pure motives and noble achievements so clearly as to stimulate rather than depress.

The stirring events of our Civil War, in which

6 PREFACE.

she bore her part so well, are fading from memory. They live in history, it is true, but who shall rehearse the story of those lives offered as a sacrifice on the altar of their country, when this generation shall have passed away?

The lessons taught by their fortitude, valor, and self-sacrifice, are needed for the inspiration and incentive of coming generations.

We regret that our sources of intelligence, with regard to the special events of Mrs. Pomroy's service, are not more ample, particularly that portion of it during which she was a member of President Lincoln's family at the White House. A journal whith she had carefully kept during that period, in which she had recorded her most interesting interviews and conversations with the President, was lost during one of her furloughs, and we are thereby deprived of much valuable material.

Personal recollections supply this deficiency in part, which, together with letters and information derived from a few who were privileged to call her " Mother," in the hospital, furnish the chief source of supply from which we obtain our information. A. L. B.

Newton, Mass., 1884.

I. He Leadeth Me

Early Widowhood.— Incidents at Hamilton Camp-Meeting.— Beginning of the War.— Her Desire to go as Nurse.— Telegram from Miss Dix.— Arrival in Washington.

II. Free To Serve

Youthful Service.— Georgetown Hospital.— First Night's Experience.— Goes to Columbia College Hospital. — Its Appearance and Surroundings. — First Impressions.— Duties as a Nurse.— Letters Home.— Soldiers' Needs.— Nurse's Poetry. Assistance from the North.— Small Pox Scare.— Eleventh Maine Regiment- The Bugler Boy.— Another Death.— Member of the Band.— First Prayer Meeting.— Sunday at Columbia College.— Ward-Room.— Barnet of Michigan.— Treatment for Scurvy. — Soldiers Encouraged.— Catholic Priest. — The quiet Nurse who carried her Point.

III. Certainly I Will Be With Thee

Abraham Lincoln.— Is called to the White House.— Interview with the President.— Letter Home.— Visit to the White House. — False Aspersions corrected. — Obtains Permission

8 CONTENTS.

for Protestant Service. — Assistance of "Washington Friends.

— Soldiers' Free Library.— " The Rebel Flags." — Rev. John Pierpont. — Mrs. Secretary Wells. — Ice Cream. — Scarcity of Supplies. — Soldiers' Union Relief Association. — A Cup of Tea. — Miss Gilson.

IV. All My Springs Are In Thee

Furlough at the White House.— Privations of Soldiers and their Families. — Invoice of wounded Men. — Act of Emancipation. — Incidents of President Lincoln's Life. — "Little Tad." Incident in the Guest Chamber. — Influx of Wounded Men.

— Petition for a Chaplain. — Vermont Boy. — A Visit from the President. — Charlemagne. — Skennel. — Letters Home. — Soldiers' Home.

V. Led On

Alarm at Washington. — Visits Virginia. — The Wounded brought in. — Letters Home. — Furlough. — Presentation of Flag. — Christmas. — Emancipation Proclamation. — Winter in the Hospital. — Album Quilt. — McKinney. — Lucrative Positions offered. — Marriage at the Capitol. — Receptions. — Sickness.

— Letters from Home.

VI. Our Father Knoweth

Hospital Cares. — Cliftburn Hospital. — St. Aleosus Hospital. — The Fourth of July. — Mrs. Lincoln's Illness. — Interview with the President. — Widow's Request. — Vermont Boy. — Second Furlough. — Loss of Journal. — Letter Home. — Pickled Beets. — L. E. G.— Miss Dix's Orders. — Routine of Hospital Life. — Visit to Virginia. — Invalid Corps. — Gettysburg.

CONTENTS. 9

VII. I Am With You Alway

Thanksgiving. — Incidents. — Investigation. — Contrabands. — Song of " The Lively Old Lady." — Little Caty. — Preparations for more Patients. — Incidents. — Pennsylvania Boy. — The Dance.

VIII. Faithful Unto Death

Exchange of Prisoners. — Goes to West Hospital. — Hospital Horrors. — A Night in the Attic— Baltimore Boy and Others. — Rebel Officer.— Visit to Fortress Monroe. — Hospital Incidents.— Loss of Matron.— Visit to Virginia,— New York Boy. — Kane of Cambridgeport.

IX. She Hath Done What She Could

Third Furlough.— Extract from Chelsea Telegraph and Pioneer.— Letters Home.— The Father's Appeal.— Office Seeker.— Thanksgiving Box.— Rebel won over.— Hanging the Stockings. — One more Smoke.— Sickness. — Assassination of the President. — Is honorably Discharged. — Letter from Newburg. — Subsequent Events.

ECHOES FROM HOSPITAL AND WHITE HOUSE.

Chapter I. He Leadeth Me

MRS. REBECCA R. POMROY, a brief portion of whose life comes under our notice, became a widow at the age of forty, and under circumstances exceedingly painful.

Her husband had been a sufferer for nineteen years, during which time she had buried a dear brother and sister, a promising son and an only daughter. One son alone remained to her out of that once happy family group. When she parted with her husband, the last of these dear sufferers, all of whom she had watched through weary months of nursing, the fountain of loving service

u seemed to have exhausted itself, and she felt as one stricken of God. Still another trial was in store for her. The pleasant little home, where had budded and blasted all the fond hopes of wife and mother, must be sold and passed over to the hands of strangers. True, there were friendly hearts and homes opened to receive and assist her, but Rachel's grief, that would not be comforted, was upon her.

Eighteen months had passed, and friends, anxious to bring some change into the weary life, suggested a few days' recreation at Hamilton Camp meeting. After many entreaties she consented, with utter indifference as to its result, to try the remedy that nature stores up for her children in the pine grove, and the change that comes from meeting new faces in new surroundings. Here her comfort and convenience was most kindly consulted. For three days she sat apart, weak and sensitive, only able to commune with her own troubled heart, touched, doubtless, by the sweet melody of the Methodist hymns, wafted in from the surrounding tents and cottages, mingled with the sweet, undefinable influences of life in the forest. At the end of three days there came a terrible thunder-shower.

Torrents of rain fell, and all the ladies in the tent, with the exception of Mrs. Pomroy and an aged Christian lady, took refuge in the hotel not far distant. I make special mention of these slight events because of what follows.

God had evidently, in his good providence, brought her here for a purpose. He had arranged the place and the time when he could so manifest himself to her as to change the whole current of her being and purpose of her life, as the circumstances that follow will show.

Mrs. Pomroy speaks of this experience as follows : '' As we sat alone in our tent, this kind, motherly Christian showed great interest in me, telling me in the sweetest tones that my Heavenly Father was doing all things well by me, and that he was only trying me so that I could do more for him than ever before. I said that it was impossible for me to do anything more for any one, and that I wished to die. She then told me to put all my faith on Christ, who was watching over me like a mother over a sick child, and try to say, ' Lord, do with me as thou thinkest best, but hold up my goings,' and I should gain strength. She prayed earnestly for me, and I gave up all into his hands. For the first time for years I slept soundly that night. I woke, after that beautiful slumber, refreshed and thrilled with a sense of the goodness of God in the physical world about me, and felt as though I never had loved him as I did then. My great grief that had lain so long like a heavy burden was rolled away, and my heart said continually, ' Bless the Lord, O my soul.* I was the first one out at the morning meeting, and the first one to speak of God's love. From that time I continued to improve. Appetite, strength and spirits came back, and when Saturday came, and the meetings broke up, I was loath to leave. When I first trod those grounds my harp was hung on the willows, but now the voice of the Spirit seemed to say, *Go home, and tell thy friends what great things the Lord hath done for thee.' That night, on parting with the aged Christian, she remarked, * The Lord has a work for you to do, and he will strengthen you for it.' From this time forth my mind gained in quietude and health, bodily strength came back by degrees, and I began to wonder if the Lord had not something more for me to do."

Two years of widowhood had now passed when the cry of war agitated our nation. Husbands and sons were enlisting, or mustering in camp, or, already on the field of action, were pouring out their hearts' blood, or, rescued from the battle-field, were languishing in impromptu hospitals from insufficient treatment and nursing. With the call for men came the call for nurses. One day Mrs. Pomroy took up the daily paper to peruse the war record, when her eye scanned one of those advertisements for nurses, common enough in the papers at that period, and her attention was arrested. She read and re-read, and with every perusal strength of purpose grew within her. The pulse beat quickly as she thought, " I can answer these requirements ; what is to hinder my going ? No earthly tie keeps me back, for my son, the only one left of all my family treasures, is already on the battle-field. Lord, what wilt thou have me to do ?" Nerved by prayerful faith, her purpose is no sooner matured than she seeks an interview with the old family physician, and tells him her wish to go to Washington. Here she encounters the first of a series of obstacles. Her old friend, Doctor Forsyth, replied, " You cannot endure, in your present state of health, such a long journey, with the coarse food and foul air that must be your portion in those dreadful hospitals.

Her answer was, "I want to be a mother to those wounded and dying soldiers." Hon. Frank B. Fay, then mayor of Chelsea, had just returned from Washington, where he was engaged in service in hospitals and on the battle-field, and she was advised to confer with him. She did so, telling him how much her heart was set upon the object before her. His advice was of a similar nature. He said the rations of salt pork, meal, and government beef would be insupportable ; that they would not take such a frail-looking woman. In addition, he said there were already one thousand women whose names were registered in books at the State House, waiting their orders, and they would be sent for first. She then told him of her special preparation for the work; the nineteen years of nursing in a sick room, and how she thought the Lord had called her to go, adding that she should not have her name on those books, but should write directly to Miss Dix, and trust the result to her Heavenly Father. The parting words of Mayor Fay furnished little encouragement, but, true to the fact that obstacles prove only incentives to the determined spirit, she went to a third friend, who thought, she says, "that I must be a little insane," to dream of so laborious a work.

But at last she found one, an old friend of her husband's, Mr. D. of Somerville, whose face lighted up as she told him her story. He thought she had better sleep over it one more night, and in the morning he would talk with her again. The morning dawned and the conversation was renewed, at the conclusion of which he said, " I do say go, and the Lord go with you. Write your letter on the spot to Miss Dix." She did so. This was on Thursday. On the following Sunday she received a message from Miss Dix, superintendent of female - nurses, requesting her to report on Tuesday at Washington. The telegram was announced in the various churches of Chelsea Sunday morning, and that evening the usual preaching services were exchanged for meetings of prayer and supplication on her behalf.

Mrs. Pomroy's long residence in Chelsea had brought her into pleasant relations with a large circle of friends, and, for a period of years, hers was known as the "afflicted family ; " and when she appeared among that assembly of friends, in the large Congregational church, that Sunday evening, to exchange farewells, as the first volunteer nurse of Chelsea, there was no end of the heartfelt sympathy and prayers offered for her. ' There were many tears and much handshaking, in the midst of which she broke away to snatch a few hours of rest before her departure.

Everything being in readiness, Mrs. Pomroy started alone on her journey, Monday morning, late in the month of September, 1861, and reported herself on Tuesday at Miss Dix's headquarters in Washington.

Here her accommodations were of the most meagre kind. She was received by a temporary matron, who informed her that Miss Dix was away on the battle-field. There was nothing in the building to eat, and nothing with which to make a fire. Cold water was the only refreshment offered to the weary traveller, and she went supperless to bed.

On Wednesday morning Miss Dix made her appearance. She received the new-comer pleasantly, asked a few questions, then taking a carriage, they visited places of interest, stopping at Georgetown Hospital.

Finding that a nurse there had been worn out by constant care and watching, she at once decided to leave Mrs. Pomroy to fill the vacancy.

My heart was hot and restless,

And my life was full of care.

And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others , Throws its shadow over me.

Chapter II. Free To Serve

OF work as of greatness, it may be said, some are born workers, some become workers, and some have their work thrust upon them. ' Mrs. Pomroy was a born worker. From early childhood she was never content unless she was doing something for others. At the age of twelve, during the summer vacations, it was her delight to gather the small children of the neighborhood, keeping them two or three hours, amusing them by reading, playing games, and gathering flowers. Caring for children and making them happy was her highest ambition, and so successful was she that parents felt relief and satisfaction while the little ones were in her charge. At the age of sixteen, she became an active member of the Sunday-school connected with Father Taylor's Seamen's Bethel. It was her practice to visit the families

II of the poor seamen, invite the wives and children to church and Sunday-school, and when they were destitute, provide suitable clothing, not unfrequently soliciting money to procure boots and shoes in which they could appear respectable. She continued in this labor of love until her marriage called her away. The years that followed were filled with cares and responsibilities, such as many a more hardy woman might reasonably have shrunk from. Now, as the arduous duties of hospital life opened before her, it was evident that she lacked no qualification and was equal to the occasion, except as bodily weakness triumphed over the willing spirit. Her first experience in Georgetown Hospital we will give in her own words :

"I was put at once on duty in a ward with fifty typhoid patients, and what with the odor and moans of the dying, it did seem to me unbearable. As the surgeon came round about four o'clock to tell me about the medicines, I felt such a faintness that I had to be excused and go to my room. After partaking of water and throwing myself on a miserable little cot, struggling with this dreadful weakness, the familiar words, "He that putteth his hand to the plough and looketh back," broke

22 ECHOES FROM HOSPITAL AND WHITE &OUSE.

ill upon my distress, and from my heart of hearts I asked the Lord to strengthen me for all that awaited me. And that prayer was heard, for I was obliged to sit up a part of that night, as the soldiers were all tired out. After I resumed duty, while passing several rooms, what should greet my car but the sound of a sick man's voice calling my name. In surprise, I went to his bedside, and he burst into tears, crying, ' What sent you here ? ' and grasping my hand, he told me his history. He was a Chelsea boy, by the name of Stevens ; had known me in that city, and used frequently to play in my garden with my dear Willie. He had afterwards removed to Boston, and had enlisted from there early in the war. The fatigue and hardships incident to the battle of Bull Run had resulted in dysentery and other weaknesses which soon carried him off. While I was there I gave him all the time I could spare, talked and read to him, and, to use his own expression, 'it did his very soul good to see a woman from home whom he had never expected to see again.' . . .

"In a little room by himself lay a sick boy who had been dying several hours. His frequent calls for his mother were heart-rending. I watched and soothed him, gave him the last stimulant, when he put his arms around my neck, crying, * Oh, my dear mother ! ' and died. I had to call one of the watch to release me from the death grasp, then another, and not till after a hard struggle did they succeed. My first night in a hospital! I can never forget it, and how I was sustained.

** On the next bed I visited lay a young man who had had a ball pass through his wrist, and was suffering exceedingly, not only mentally but physically. He was eighteen years of age, and had enlisted without his mother's consent. He would not let her know where he was, for *it would break her heart,* he said. He was all she had. During the days that followed I read and talked to him, and advised him to let me write to that widowed mother, who lived in Methuen ; but 'No,' said he, *I shall kill my mother.' Soon the litter came to take that dear young man into the operating room, where his hand was amputated. He burst into tears on his return as he took my hand in his remaining one, saying how much I reminded him of his mother."

These are only a few of the many touching incidents that occurred during her stay at the Georgetown Hospital. The following Monday she received orders from Miss Dix to repair to Columbia College Hospital, where she was enrolled as a nurse.

The hospital was situated on Meridian Hill, on the outskirts of the city of Washington, beautifully laid out with driveways, trees, and a fine park in the rear of the building. At the time of the civil outbreak it was the seat of a flourishing Baptist college. From here Doctors Stowe, Neale, and other men of talent, had graduated years before, when it was in possession of the South. Now, seized by government and used as a military hospital, it had assumed a warlike appearance, sadly out of keeping with its original design. At the time of Mrs. Pomroy's entrance, ten regiments were stationed around the building as a protection against the secessionists who had threatened to burn it. At night-time drums beat, bands of music made the air vocal with national and home melodies, while the four outlying hospitals and scores of tents gave a festive appearance to the scene, contrasting sadly with the groans of the dying, the moans of the wounded and the crazy paroxysms of typhoid patients within.

We extract portions of a letter written soon after Mrs. Pomroy entered the hospital, which give

a somewhat detailed account of how she found

things, and her first impressions, dated October 12.

Dear Sister H. — It is Saturday night, and I am sitting in one of my pleasantest rooms, watching over several of my boys. You can have no idea of their suffering, even if I should attempt to describe it. In the next room are two handsome young men, unconscious of suffering, who have been dying all night, and we are ignorant about their friends, as they came to us so delirious that they knew nothing. We always get their names if possible when the ambulance brings them in, that we may telegraph to their friends. When they are brought in they are carried to the bath room, stripped entirely and washed thoroughly; then they are put into bed and the clothing they wore is rolled up, after the money, photographs and the like, are taken from their pockets, their name marked on their bundle, then, with the sword and knapsack, it is put in a shed, on a shelf, until called for. Many of our patients are dying of typhoid. Their tongues are black and their breath is extremely offensive. While I am writing, a New York company is doing escort duty for one who was a patient of mine, who is to be buried to-morrow. As many of my bo)^s ask me the name of their dead mates, I take the opportunity to speak to them of their need of preparation for the same change, and they always listen with great attention. I have become familiar with death. Often I am called at the solemn hour of midnight to stand alone by the bedside of the dying, and close mouth and eyes. Many have died clasping my hand tightly. O, dear sister, will you ask every friend of mine to pray for the dying soldier? The prayers he utters for wife or mother are often heart-rending, but I cannot talk to him, for his ears are past all sound. I feel that I am placed in a very trying situation. How could I do what I am called to if I was not strengthened by an unseen hand and fed daily and hourly with the bread of heaven ?

Our rations are twenty cents a day, one dollar and

forty cents a week. That money is put into beef, bread, rice, etc., and we all go in together and get one of our sick soldiers to cook for us. Of course it is cooked man-fashion. We are not allowed to bake bread, cake or pies, but must live like the camp. * We work like slaves — work all day and part of the night,' is all I hear from the nurses. But I get along very nicely, as I have tea occasionally from home, and with that and what Miss Dix sends us, L feel that I have no reason to complain. ' A contented mind is a continual feast.' I am very happy in mind, still have hold of my Saviour's hand, and believe he has yet a great work for me to do. They have put nie to blistering all the patients under my care, who have typhoid, and you must know it is no pleasant task to perform for so many soldiers morning and evening ; but they think I do just right and the physicians give me much credit. There are some among our number who drank from the spring water poisoned by the rebels. Two of our men have already died from the effects of it. Our nurses are ten in all. Two each from Ohio, New York, Connecticut, Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. We all dress just as we please; not, however, without regard to Miss Dix's expressed opinion. She sa3's ' she expects a nurse will dress according to her work.' We are not allowed out of the hospital even to walk on the grounds. We are under government rule,

surely

I want the good ladies of Chelsea to knit some thick socks for our sick and wounded. Our windows are open night and day, and they all complain of the cold. I would like some postage stamps for the sick men when they write home, also a boiled ham, as we can eat that without cooking ; and some crackers, as the sick men cannot eat the poor bread. Your hearts would ache could you see two hundred half-starved men getting up from the fever. Boxes of fruit, jellies and cologne often come to the nurses of our hospital from strangers, and I always give my part to my boys. I have twenty-seven men, and to-day they had six grapes apiece, and you should see how they snatched at them. I am obliged to cut an orange into eight pieces for those who cannot speak a word or eat a particle of food. If some of the good people of Chelsea will make up a box for the soldiers who are so anxious to get well and join their regiments, they will be grateful, I assure you, and take up their duties on the field again with a will. My love to all. R. R. PoMROY.

The people of that city were not backward in responding to this appeal, for early in December she writes, '' I have received six boxes from Chelsea, and the contents has been distributed in the best manner possible. Could Mrs. L. have seen the grateful smiles with which her gift of the grapes and wine were received, she would have felt amply repaid.

"Thirteen of my soldier boys went to the convalescent hospital in Baltimore, last week. Some of them, when sent here, had been given over by their physicians, but God blessed the means used for their recovery, and they were able to leave and make room for sicker patients. As they each took my hand to say Good-by, they said they should never forget that name, Chelsea, and When the war was over, if their lives were spared, they would find out more about the place, by visiting it." She speaks farther of receiving short visits from Reverend Doctor M., Messrs. B. and S., and Mayor Fay, all from there, and sends the following bit of poetry, written by one of her fellow nurses :

What do we live for ?

Live to be nurses,

Watching sick soldiers at Columbia Hall ;

Soothing their heartaches,

Stilling their curses,

Breathing a prayer to the Father of all.

What do we live for ?

Live for the mothers

Who send their brave sons at Liberty's call,

To die on the battlefield,

Or, living as brothers,

Here claiming our kindness, given to all.

What do we live for ?

Live for the sisters

Whose glory and pride we find in our camps,

Who, sick with the fever.

We poultice and blister,

Returning them weekly in health to the ranks.

What do we live for ?

The wives and the maidens

Whose patriot duty is staying at home,

Earnestly praying

That with victory laden.

Husband and lover with Union will come.

From another letter, dated December 31, we quote the following : *'As I take a glance at my ])atients, and hear the moan of distress and the sharp cry of suffering, I often wish that friends could look in and see how carefully our boys are watched and their wants attended to by faithful nurses. It is not all sad either. We have our reward, not in dollars and cents, but in the looks of satisfaction that prevail. Kind words at the outset often drive away the patient's fears on coming into the hospital

"During the three months I have been here I have received seven boxes from Chelsea, two from Newton Corner, one from G. P. Smith of Boston, one from the West Newton Congregational Church, and one from the Tremont Street Methodist. Up to this time I have received eighty-six letters. To the most important I have endeavored to reply, and to write for my boys to their afflicted friends, which makes in all one hundred and twenty-two letters

" Two weeks since I had notice to prepare beds for twenty-six patients sick with measles. It was heartsickening to see how many of them came up to my ward, helpless, upon litters. They were of the Eleventh Maine, all of them fine, stout men when they left home. One of them cried out on seeing me, *What will my poor mother say when I am laid away from her.^' One of my measley boys, after getting through with it, was taken down with small-pox. I was ordered to take care of him alone all one night, till the surgeon in charge came, and then such excitement ! The man was sent to the small-pox hospital, and order was given for his nurse to be vaccinated without delay, then to commence at the top of the building and vaccinate all the patients. I have a very lame arm, and shall be sure of one scar to remind me of my college days. As a result of the exposure, a boy was soon stricken down with small-pox. Our Sabbath was all confusion and excitement. The patient was kept in our midst till Monday noon, then carried to the small-pox hospital, perhaps to die like the one I cared for, who lived only a few hours after I gave him the parting hand."