The Story of Aunt Becky's Army-Life

Front matter

OF

AUNT BECKY'S ARMY-LIFE.

BY

Preface

In presenting the following unpretending story of the hospital-labors of Mrs. Sarah A. Palmer to the public, it was thought best to give it the autobiographical form, as it was found in her diary of three months, and in repeated and extended conversations with her almost daily during the period of its writing.

A full diary had been kept up to the occupation of City Point as a hospital-base, but was lost with a trunk of clothing, and never recovered.

She relies on memory for the date of many incidents, and should they be found incorrect, begs it to be remembered in extenuation of the errors, that her mind was so filled with the anxiety, and her body so wearied at times with watching, that it would be strange if everything was laid away in its proper niche in Memory's store-house.

There is no gild of fiction over this plain story; the events are related as they occurred, and hundreds will attest to their truthfulness.

That "Aunt Becky" was well beloved by the soldiers of the Ninth Corps, numerous and unobjectionable testimonials have been received. Said one soldier, who served three years in his regiment, "I never knew a woman so much thought of as she was by the boys—she never showed any partiality—we all got the same attention—officers no more than privates."

Said another, when asked if he ever knew a matron called "Aunt Becky," in the Army Hospital; "Know her—I guess I did—she saved my life;" and forthwith all business was dropped for the time, while he hastened to find her home.

With no thought of publishing her hospital life, it was suggested to her that she should do so, as a duty to herself, that through its sale some provision might be made for her future comfort.

With health broken by exposure, and spirit saddened by the many scenes of death which she witnessed, and the constant sight of painful wounds, she returned home, weary and worn, feeling, as she expressed it, "As though she had not had sleep enough for years." Not even allowing herself a week for rest, she went to hard and unremitting toil again.

It was talked of amongst the members of the One Hundred and Ninth Regiment, that a memorial should be presented to Congress, stating what her services had been, and asking an appropriation of two thousand dollars with which to purchase her a home. The "Story" had been thought of in the meantime, and her reply was, "Let those who would help me buy a book, and then they will get the worth of their money. If I have done anything for my country's soldiers, I am glad of it; but Congress has enough of its own little bills to pay."

Now, with a heart too large for the slender frame which holds it, no weariness is brought up as an excuse when a sufferer calls for aid, and her readiness to watch by the bedside of the sick and dying is widely known, and many drafts are made and honored upon the broad humanity which, although "the feet were worn through till blood wet the shoe soles," has not withheld its hand from those who asked and needed help.

It was an undertaking from which many shrank, because the cry was loud, "It is no place for women," and although many dared to brave the tide, few held to post longer or more faithfally than she. Some swept with silken trains through the well-kept hospitals, ordering what should be done, and one, as she held up her sumptuous riding-habit with her jewelled hand, looking scornfully on the humbly-apparelled woman who was dressing a painful amputation, said, "That is no work for you."

But her heart said anything was her work which would soothe one throb of pain, and she quietly kept on with her task.

There is no high-sounding record of what those women did, who, in plain, hoopless dress, recognized as army nurses, on a pay of twelve dollars a month, stood by the beds of death-struck soldiers—combing out locks of matted hair, binding up their wounds, and smoothing out the pillow when in the delirium of pain they called for mother, wife, or sister.

Hers was a hand which shrank from no festering wound, which recoiled not when the blood and dirt of the deadly trenches bespattered the torn uniform — she washed away the grime of battle smoke from faces unrecognizable through the mask surrounded with the locks of tangled and scorched hair. Her hand fed with pitying gentleness many a one whose good right arm, mangled by shot or shell, lay food for the worms. Surely a reward should be due her for this faithful toil, even if the pages of her story failed to bring an interest to those whose hearts have bled, and been well-nigh broken before the stroke of battle.

Many were "Unknown" who were brought into those hospitals—perhaps it was her hand which closed the eyes of him for whom you mourn—perhaps it was her hand which helped to make decent the shroud in which your noble one was brought home to you so silent and cold, after the bullet had done its fearful work.

Many years will pass away, we trust, before another desolating war shall sweep over our land, but should the cry " To Arms," again resound over our hills and valleys, and our brave ones go to the hot affray, may her example, and the record of what one woman did to mitigate the horrors of the battle serve to endow other souls with equal courage, and when the Reaper sends his unripe harvest in, let there be

No dearth of woman's nursing And no dearth of woman's tears."

With these explanatory lines we respectfully submit to a generous public, which will not fail to deal fairly, the pages of this unpretending Story of Aunt Becky's Army Life.

SYLVIA LAWSON COVEY.

Ithaca, N. Y., May 10, 1867.

Chapter I

THE STORY

OF THE

NINTH CORPS HOSPITAL MATRON.

CHAPTER I.

It is no record of bloody battles which these pages are opened to detail; neither do I purpose to depict the horrible scenes of carnage which made the "Sunny South" one red field of flame: only to show one weak woman's work amongst the sufferers gathered up from those dreadful slaughter-plains, and those driven in sick and exhausted from the unwonted exposure in camp and march, this work of recording is begun.

Standing firm against the tide of popular opinion; hearing myself pronounced demented—bereft of usual common sense; doomed to the horrors of an untended death-bed—suffering torture, hunger, and all the untold miseries of a soldier's fate; above the loud echoed cry, "It is no place for woman," I think it was well that no one held a bond over me strong enough to restrain me from performing my plain duty, fulfilling the promise which I made my brothers on enlistment, that I would go with them down to the scene of conflict, and be near when sickness or the chances of battle threw them helpless from the ranks.

I found it was a place for woman. All of man's boasted ingenuity had been expended to devise terrible engines with which to kill and maim God's own image; and if war was right, it was right for woman to go with brothers, and husbands, and sons, that in the time of peril the heart might not faint with the thought of an untended death-bed in the crowded hospitals, where no hand but the rough soldier's should close the dead staring eyes.

It was something to brave popular opinion, something to bear the sneers of those who loved their ease better than their country's heroes, and who could sit down in peace and comfort at home, while a soldier's rations, and a soldier's tent for months and years made up the sum of our luxurious life.

Had there been more women to help us, many a brave man, whose bones moulder beneath the green turf of the South, would have returned to bless the loved ones left in the dear old home behind him. But all alone, while the shadow of the valley of death was fast stealing over the numbing senses, his spirit went back, and his white lips murmured words which the beloved so far away would have given worlds to hear; and we heard them, but could not repeat them from the dying lips.

It is past and gone. The long agony is over, and the nation breathes free. Yet hardly a heart or home but holds the remembrance of some brave one, near and dear, who gave his life to save his country's honor. On the battle-field they fell, in tented hospitals, within noisome prison-pens breathed out the last breath of life, and counted it no loss if the glorious stars and stripes could but follow in the path which they helped to clear with tired, blistered feet, and blood dropping from throbbing wounds.

Should traitors again assay to grasp the helm of state, and the cry go up for succor, while the legions of young men spring armed from the North, let there be no words of sneering spoken to keep back those whose hearts go out with them, and who would gladly leave home, and friends, and comfort, to follow the brave one to the battle, and bind up his wounds when the day was won, and his life fast ebbing away with the gory stream, drawing, with every shifting sand, nearer and nearer the fountain. Let no one say, if war and its attendant sufferings be Christian, that where men are in the midst of the dreadful work, "it is no place for women."

The One Hundred and Ninth had been gone two weeks, and I did not care to leave till the change and exposure to which the raw regiment was unused had wrought sickness, and made my presence needed; and September 3d, 1862, I left Ithaca, N. Y., in company with one of our men, who had returned with the body of a comrade, killed by the cars while on guard-duty along the railroad, at Laurel Station, Md.

It was one of those rare mornings peculiar to that beautiful month. Deliciously cool, with soft breezes whispering in the tree-tops, then sweeping low to shake from the grass-blades a million of diamond drops. No bird-songs thrilled the still pulses of air like those which charm the summer mornings; the deep hush of everything but soft-sighing winds seemed to rush over me with overwhelming sadness, till for a moment, as I thought of the two little girls whom I was leaving motherless, I felt a wild desire to return—a shrinking from the duties which I had undertaken, and sickened at the thought of dressing bloody wounds, of combing out hair tangled and matted with the thick gore—of being alone of my sex at times in the camp of soldiers, whose trade was death.

Then better feelings took possession of me, and I knew if they could suffer so much, and die for their country, I could at least give some years of my poor life in the attempt to alleviate their sufferings; and I took up my burthen of duties again, and watched listlessly the changing scenes along the road.

The cool September morning ripened into the hot, dusty day; still we kept on our journey, arriving at Baltimore, weary and hungry, on the morning of the 4th.

We went for a moment's rest and escape from the dust into the ladies' room, our empty stomachs suggesting the roundness and thickness of the flakes of flesh which once clung round the bare ham-bone lying on the shelf, and the probable age of the remnant of cheese over which the sprightly skippers were noting.

We had no time to go in search of food, and our lunch had long since disappeared before the ravages of hunger, and soon were on board the cars again, arriving at Bladensburg at ten o'clock a.m., finding Co. G., of the One Hundred and Ninth Regiment N. Y. V., my own band of gallant men.

The greeting assured me that I was welcomed, and when we unpacked the boxes of provisions which had been prepared by the hands of mothers, wives, and sisters in the old well-remembered kitchens at home, there was silence for a moment, as the heart of the soldier throbbed with a half homesick feeling, then beat again in its patriotic measure, and voices grew loud and hilarious over "the box from home."

Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

I was anxious to find my work, and in the afternoon of our arrival, Captain Knettles went with me to Beltville, where the hospital had been established the day previous.

The building was an old three-story wooden house, which had been unoccupied for some months, and was in a ruinous condition. No fence separated it from the street—no shrubs or flowers marked it as the former abode of civilized men and women. The kitchen floor was level with the ground, and laid in brick; an arched fireplace yawning its black cavernous mouth at one end, and a similar one in the room opposite, which we used for a dining-hall.

I could romance as I wrought on the dirty floors, and put my hands to the work of cleansing. I could speculate on the joys and sorrows which had been born and nursed, and had died beside that hearthstone; but the half hundred men who, sick mostly with fevers and measles, lay on the damp, dirty floors—no pillows for the restless head, no beds for the aching body, nothing but the two blankets which each had drawn for covering, and pillow, and bed—all this forbade long speculation; my heart ached for their hard condition, and studied how best to make them more comfortable.

I was eyed curiously by the strangers in the hospital, and overheard whispers of "She will soon play out," "It's a new broom that sweeps clean," as I went into the work with a will. I laughed to myself, for I knew my own strength. I had not come to the South with any purpose of shirking my duty wherever it lay.

They had provided no room for me, and I was obliged for the present to find some place in which to sleep and eat. I was fortunate enough to obtain board and lodging at the next door, where my room was with a crew of as hateful specimens of humanity as ever had a stepmother do duty over them.

I returned to Co. G. the next day, and stayed with a Union family named Boughtnot, where I met with a Mrs. Youngs, a cousin of Mrs. Southworth's, the authoress, and to her I took an exceeding fancy. Although "secesh" in principles, and her whole heart in sympathy with the rebel army, yet she nursed many a poor Northern soldier back to life, and gave him again to his country to fight those she loved.

My return to the hospital, and the beginning of its routine, was marked by my first meal at my new boarding-house. It consisted of the favorite dinner of boiled vegetables, and the seasoning of the whole cabbage came on to my plate alone, in the shape of a huge angle-worm, intact.

I thought, every one for himself, and ate my dinner in silence, keeping down as best I could the rebellious upheavings of my stomach, which hardly relished such sauces of the ground.

At tea-time, I got in before the meal was ready, and found the mother holding the youngest "pet" on her knee, making him tidy for the appearance of the strange "hospital woman."

"Sisey" had put on her dishwater, like a thrifty housewife, before the meal, and it being quite handy, and "pet's" hair in tangles, "Ma" wet the comb therein, that the curls might more readily yield to the gentle pulling process. That over, and the hair in order, the dishcloth, which lay handy on the table corner, was called into requisition, to wipe the dirt from the little snubby nose and freckled face, greatly to my disgust.

Think of it, when I was hungry, and waited for my supper!

All night a brindle pup belonging to the owner of the house kept up its howling, driving sweet sleep from my eyelids, and bringing to mind the old superstition, that death was waiting for some one without those doors then following thought over to the hospital, where, in the languor of fever, some were listening to the call.

For five days I endured the bad meals, and the night's disturbed repose, when I told the steward I could stand it no longer. The nurses gave me their own room, and fitted it up very pleasantly for my accommodation. They were all so kind to me that I felt fully repaid for all privations which I underwent, and the consciousness that I was doing some good to those sick and suffering men, soothed down the homesickness which would come, now and then, at thought of children and home.

The Autumn was mellowing the tints of the trees—the strange trees, and the bristling pines shot up like lances against the blue sky, while I looked away to the North, and pictured to myself the fearful aspect of the hills, and the low-lying valleys, while around me the foot-prints of War wore plainly into the trodden dust.

Our trio of surgeons, consisting of Drs. Hunt, Johnson, and French, were very kind to the men, treating them like patients at home, willing and able to pay the just fee for attendance, not as in after months I saw men treated, while my woman's blood boiled up, and run over—when a man was less than a dumb beast, because if he died there was no market value lost.

I had been in Hospital three weeks, when I was prostrated with an attack of pleurisy, which kept me from duty a few days, and I learned afterwards, that serious doubts had been entertained of my recovery. Had I doubted before in what respect and gratitude I was held, I could do so no longer, when the inquiries relating to "Aunt Becky's" situation came pouring in.

My recovery was rapid, and again I went on duty. Our food was substantial, consisting of bread, potatoes, pork, beans, beef, rice, tea, coffee, and sugar, while by the kindness of neighbors we were often treated to milk, eggs, and chickens.

Often, in the after months of our sojourn, we contrasted our fare at Beltville with the hard tack and coffee, and, unseasoned as it was with luxuries, it seemed delicious indeed.

One by one our men died—no friends around them, only some soldier comrade, so low in fever and delirium as to be half unconscious also. My work was hard;—many a night I went to bed but not to sleep;—my pillow was coarse straw, and every motion which I made in my restlessness, rattled its contents, and sent up new bristling stems to thrust them into my head and face.

At our next door—my old boarding place, they still kept the howling brindle pup, and one day as I dropped in for a moment, I chanced upon the final scene of its brief career. Our steward had given him a dose of something effective, and as his master was playing roughly with him, calling him into his lap to show his sprightliness, he leaped into the air—shuddered, and fell dead. I shed no tears over his untimely demise.

Our Chaplain made us a visit, bringing a trunk of Hospital clothing from the ladies of Binghamton, some fruit from Sanitary at Washington, and a firkin of butter from Owego. The last was a seasonable gift,—now we could butter the toast for our convalescing men, while before we were obliged to use salt and water, sometimes seasoned with a spoonful of milk.

The clothing enabled us to change the fever-saturated garments of our patients, and the fruit cooled the parched tongues of some who would never taste the like again.

One of our fever-patients received a box from home, sent in the kindly spirit which forwarded so many tokens to the boys, but it proved his death. He was recovering, and his weakened mind clung to this last link from those he loved, and was content only with the box beside his bed. I begged to be allowed to keep it safely for him, but could not obtain his consent, and he ate of the cake surreptitiously, rapidly grew worse, and died.

Two deaths from Co. G. occurred about the same time.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

We proposed a Thanksgiving dinner, but Dr. Hunt thought we could not get one up for the whole Hospital, but I, being a private myself, was unwilling to assist in cooking dainties for the officers alone, and the matter was given over to me to manage in my own way.

Four days previous to the day, I gave in my requisition for the solid things which should flourish at the feast.

My order was for two pigs, seven turkeys, five chickens, beef, rice for puddings, seasoning for pies and cake, and with bread and vegetables, I thought our table would be well furnished for the occasion.

We had one hundred and eighteen names on our dinner-list, yet some were not able to eat a full supply. Matters began to look doubtful to me, as my order was not filled at the time I wished to prepare them, and the steward, with some of the boys, got permission to go out into the country, and see what they could obtain.

They returned with wild and tame turkeys, and pigs, and chickens, and we were soon on the high road to success.

Our pies Coleman and I made at night, and I cut out two hundred biscuit, thinking bread would eke out the supply, but we must have some of our home fixings, or it would not seem like Thanksgiving.

Our cooks, Stillman, West, Quick, and Georgie, prepared the vegetables, and Thanksgiving came.

Thanksgiving! How thought went back to our homes in the North, where the snow lay over the dead leaves, on the sear grain fields, and on the orchard paths, where the moss clung to the rocks and fences along the way. In the dear homes, by the warm fires they talked of us, who were so far away, and going on, no one knew how soon, into the valley of battlefields, some—ah many, never more to set foot upon those homeward paths, never more to cheer the loved ones who would wait their coming till the certainty of death broke the heart with its convulsive terror.

In the midst of so much preparation I could not indulge much sadness, and a box arriving to me from home, running over with just the things which I needed to crown the feast—cake and butter, and enough to go around withal, I felt a thankfulness which was in strict accordance with the day.

Our men had an excellent dinner. The table looked as homelike as we could make it by spreading sheets over it, and the new tin cups and plates, with the knives and forks, were laid neatly upon it.

We set the table for the officers in the steward's room, also spreading sheets thereon for a cloth, and the little handkerchiefs of cotton which the Binghamton ladies had sent for the use of our sick men, we used for napkins;—we were anxious to support some style while yet in the regions of civilization.

Adjutant Hopkins, forgetting that we should need them for the destined purpose ultimately, pocketed his, and was called back to deliver it up, amidst much laughter. They would soon forget the use of napkins in the camp, and on the hard marches; we could excuse it if he had passed into partial forgetfulness thus early in the day.

Col. Ireland of the One Hundred and Thirty-Seventh N. Y. V. took dinner with us, and seemed to enjoy the occasion.

I put my hands to all the work which lay in my way;—now washing—now mending—now making a toast, or cup of tea for a sick man, yet the days were long at times, and the nights endless, and sleepless. And yet I was not sorry to be where I was, I was not homesick—I would not have returned if I could.

Some jokes were perpetrated, and some patients suspected of not helping nature in rapid recovery,—still it was hard to think this of men who had done all the duty thus far required of them.

We had one man who "did not complain of feeling very well,"—his lungs were bad, and I proposed blistering. He had few friends, for above all a true soldier despises a sneak, and such we thought him to be—whispering and drawing his face into unusual length whenever he came near the steward or myself—of whom he was a little in fear, having been told that we were "cross."

Some of the boys in the secret said I would not induce him to submit to a blister, but I thought differently, and proposed mustard at first, which hurt some, but did not effect the cure,—he was still "weak in the lungs." Next, a blister of Spanish flies, well rubbed with vinegar to make it adhere, was applied, and he was cured.

We were very tired of him before he went away, but his blister served him one good purpose, whenever after that he was ordered to go on duty, all he had to do was to lay his hand on his lungs, and he was excused.

In the month of Jan., 1863, we were ordered to move to Laurel, to join those sick at that place—our hospital having been divided heretofore. The steward's mother was with us at that time, and once again I enjoyed the society of a woman, to whom I could talk without restraint. So strange it had seemed to me—no faces but those of bearded and mustached men.

I was anxious to go, for those whom I had come to the seat of war to tend in sickness were there. I took the cars, in company with a Mrs. Bennett, on a cold windy day, when the sun would peer at us by snatches, while white clouds with inky borders, as though they had dipped down into the troubled mire of earth in their flight, went hurriedly over the blue sky above us.

It was a dreary place to which we went, but I was welcomed to it so heartily, and found my room so cosy, I took it with a sigh of relief.

Our hospital buildings consisted of an old store, and a two-story dwelling house. As we had but little to move, only the precious sick, it took but a short time to settle ourselves, and be at home in Laurel Hospital, and our sick-list numbered on]y twelve men.

We were in the midst of a rich farming country, and as we tired of our bare rations, the boys made frequent requisitions on the neighbors, and drew a pig, then a turkey, then a goose, using all strategems, deeming them always fair in love and war, and the people were only loyal as they stood in fear of Northern bayonets.

Our cellar was open to the light of the sun, our door having fallen in, and, like tenants who expect to move in a week or so, and having no particular love for the landlord, we had delayed repairing it.

The boys enticed two pigs into it one day, regaling themselves in prospect of the delicious roast, which in savory sweetness lay palpitating beneath the bristling hide of the unthinking porkers. They had them nicely captured, and accustomed to the place, when Dr. Johnson was prompted by some spirit to go into the cellar, and out ran a pig. He asked me how it happened—pigs in the cellar—and I, not knowing how to account for it, said the boys must have concluded not to keep their pigs over, but had driven them in preparatory to the slaughtering.

Surgeon Hunt left us at Laurel, and Dr. Churchill, from Owego, took his place. We were very sad to part with him, for he had proved himself a kind, humane man—a friend to us all, and we had trusted in him to do so much for the recovery of the sick.

Dr. French went to Annapolis Junction to take charge of some of our regiment stationed there, and our medical corps was sadly broken up. Our sick-list swelled to thirty names, mostly down with fever, and my brother amongst them, prostrate with typhoid fever.

We had enough to eat, and comforts for the sick in a measure, and a box arriving from Sandy Springs, a few miles distant, sent by a Mrs. Deborah Lee, containing wine, jelly, and pickles, furnished cooling drinks for the sick, and many a little bit of relish for the convalescing.

Often we had chickens, and a cow would be milked by some unknown "fairy," and the contents of the pail deposited in our kitchen before the sun was up in the morning.

March, which brought its bitter winds to our Northern hills, came to us with now and then a clear sunny day—a promise of the coming spring. With every streak of golden light came a wild throbbing at my heart, for battles would be fought again—the contending forces only waited for the work of nature's hand to begin again the carnival of death. When her sweet breath had breathed life into the bud, and stem, and tangles of bloom rose in the waste places—then the blue sky with its fresh smile would be clouded with the thick smoke of battle, and the tender grass be dyed with the blood of human hearts.