the intense heat of june 26th has been noted in many of the diaries and records of the day. i remember it because i had feared its unfavorable effect upon my husband, not yet discharged by his physicians, and now lying weak and listless upon his bed at the spotswood hotel in richmond.

i was reading aloud to him the news in the morning papers, fanning him the while, when a peremptory knock at the door sent me to my feet. an ominous-looking note was handed in to "brigadier-general pryor." upon reading it, my husband slipped to the side of the bed, and reached out for his cavalry boots. the note ran: "dear general, put yourself at once at the head of your brigade. in thirty-six hours it will all be over. longstreet." before i realized the tremendous import of the order, he was gone.

mcclellan was almost at the gates of the city. the famous "seven days' fight" was about to begin.

several of the officers of our brigade were in the hotel, and i ran out to find their wives and learn 175 more news from them. on the stair i met colonel scott, and as he passed me, he exclaimed, "no time until i come back, madam!" turning, he paused, raised his hand, and said solemnly, "if i ever come back." the wife of captain poindexter came up at the moment. she was weeping, and wringing her hands. "do you think," she said, "that we could drive out to camp and see them once more before they march?"

we hurried into the street, found a carriage, and, urging our driver to his utmost speed, were soon in sight of the camp.

all was hurry and confusion there. ambulances were hitching up, troops forming in line, servants running hither and thither, horses standing to be saddled, light army wagons loading with various camp utensils.

captain whitner of the general's staff met me, and said, as he conducted me to my husband's tent: "the general will be so glad to see you, madam! he is lying down to rest a few minutes before we move."

he opened his arms to me as i went in, but there were no sad words. we spoke cheerily to each other, but, unable to control myself, i soon ran out to find john and see that he had provided brandy and cold tea, the latter a necessity lest good water should be unprocurable. never have i seen such a number of flies! they blackened the land, corrupted the food, and tormented the nervous horses. when i returned, mrs. poindexter was standing outside the tent waiting for me. "i can see my 176 husband only at the head of his company," she said. "look! they are forming the line."

we stood aside as the brigade formed in marching order. the stern command, "fall in! fall in!" reached us from company after company stretching far down the road. my husband mounted his horse, and, drawing his sword, gave the order to advance.

"head of column to the right!" and with steady tramp they filed past us—past the only two women, of the many who loved them, who had known of their going and had come out to cheer and bless them.

we could not bear to remain a moment after they left. finding our carriage, we were about to enter, when the driver pointed back with his whip. there, sure enough, rose the puffs of blue smoke from mcclellan's guns—so near, so near!

we set our faces homeward, two stunned, tearless women, neither yet able to comfort the other. presently the carriage stopped, and the driver, dismounting, came to the door.

"lady," said he, "there's a man lying on the roadside. we just passed him. maybe he's drunk, but he 'pears to me to look mighty sick."

fanny poindexter and i were out of the carriage in less than a minute, eagerly embracing an opportunity for action—the relief for tense feelings.

the man wore the uniform of a confederate soldier. his eyes were closed. was he asleep? we feared the worst when we perceived a thin thread of blood trickling slowly from a wound in his throat, and staining his shirt.

we knelt beside him, and fanny gently pressed 177 her handkerchief upon the wound, whereupon he opened his eyes, but was unable to speak. "what in the world are we to do?" said my friend. "we can't possibly leave him here!"

"i can tote him to the carriage," said the kind-hearted driver. "he ain' no heavy-weight, an' we can car' 'im to dat hospital jus' at de aidge of town. come now, sir! don't you be feared. i'll tote you like a baby."

we were terrified lest he should die before we reached the hospital. to avoid jolting, we crawled at a snail's pace, and great was our relief when we drew up at the open door of the hospital and summoned a surgeon. he ordered out a stretcher and took our patient in, and we waited in a little reception room until we could learn the verdict after an examination of his injuries.

"it is well for him, poor fellow," said the surgeon upon returning to report to us, "that you found him when you did. his wound is not serious, but he was slowly bleeding to death! which of you pressed that handkerchief to it?" i had to acknowledge that my friend had rendered this service. she was one of those nervous, teary little women who could rise to an occasion.

"he had probably been sent to the rear after he was wounded, and had tried to find general pryor's camp," said the doctor. "he missed his way, and went farther than necessary. it has all turned out right. he is able now to write his name—'ernstorff'—so you see he is doing well. when you pass this way, you must call and see him." 178

we never went that way again. two years afterward i was accosted at a railway station by a handsome young officer who said he "had never forgotten, never would forget" me. he was lieutenant ernstorff!

all the afternoon the dreadful guns shook the earth and thrilled our souls with horror. i shut myself in my darkened room. at twilight i had a note from governor letcher, telling me a fierce battle was raging, and inviting me to come to the governor's mansion. from the roof one might see the flash of musket and artillery.

no! i did not wish to see the infernal fires. i preferred to watch and wait alone in my room.

the city was strangely quiet. everybody had gone out to the hills to witness the aurora of death to which we were later to become so accustomed. as it grew dark a servant entered to light my candles, but i forbade her. did i not mean to go to supper? i would have coffee brought to me. god only knew what news i might hear before morning. i must keep up my strength.

the night was hot and close. i sat at an open window, watching for couriers on the street. the firing ceased about nine o'clock. surely now somebody would remember us and come to us.

as i leaned on the window-sill with my head on my arms, i saw two young men walking slowly down the deserted street. they paused at a closed door opposite me and sat down upon the low step. presently they chanted a mournful strain in a minor key—like one of the occasional interludes of 179 chopin which reveal so much of dignity in sorrow. i was powerfully affected—as i always am by such music—and found myself weeping, not for my own changed life, not for my own sorrows, but for the dear city; the dear, doomed city, so loved, so loved!

a full moon was rising behind the trees in the capitol square. soon the city would be flooded with light, and then!—would the invading host come in to desecrate and destroy? how dear the city had been to me always! i could remember when i was a very little child one just such night as this. the splendor, the immensity of the city had so oppressed me, coming, as i had come, from the quiet country, that i could not sleep. hot and fevered and afraid, i had risen from my little bed beside my sleeping mother, and had stolen to the window to look out. like to-night there was a solemn moon in the sky, like to-night an awful stillness in the city. just below me a watchman had called out, "all's well!" presently the cry was repeated at a distance—"all's well!" fainter and fainter grew the echo until it became a whisper, far away in the distant streets. the watchmen were telling me, i thought, telling all the helpless little babies and children, all the sick people and old people, that god was taking care of them; that "all's well, all's well."

ah! forever gone was the watchman, forever silent the cry. never, never again could all be well with us in old virginia. never could we stifle the memories of this bitter hour. the watchman on 180 the nation's tower might, some day, mark the triumphant return of this invading host, and declare, "all's well,"—our hearts would never hear. too much blood, too much death, too much anguish! our tears would never be able to wash away the memory of it all.

and so the night wore on and i waited and watched. before dawn a hurried footstep brought a message from the battle-field to my door.

"the general, madam, is safe and well. colonel scott has been killed. the general has placed a guard around his body, and he will be sent here early to-morrow. the general bids me say he will not return. the fight will be renewed, and will continue until the enemy is driven away."

my resolution was taken. my children were safe with their grandmother. i would write. i would ask that every particle of my household linen, except a change, should be rolled into bandages, all my fine linen be sent to me for compresses, and all forwarded as soon as possible.

i would enter the new hospital which had been improvised in kent & paine's warehouse, and would remain there as a nurse as long as the armies were fighting around richmond.

but the courier was passing on his rounds with news for others. presently fanny poindexter, in tears, knocked at my door.

"she is bearing it like a brave, christian woman."

"she! who? tell me quick."

"mrs. scott. i had to tell her. she simply said, 'i shall see him once more.' the general 181 wrote to her from the battle-field and told her how nobly her husband died,—leading his men in the thick of the fight,—and how he had helped to save the city."

alas, that the city should have needed saving! what had mrs. scott and her children done? why should they suffer? who was to blame for it all?

kent & paine's warehouse was a large, airy building, which had, i understood, been offered by the proprietors for a hospital immediately after the battle of seven pines. mcclellan's advance upon richmond had heavily taxed the capacity of the hospitals already established.

when i reached the warehouse, early on the morning after the fight at mechanicsville, i found cots on the lower floor already occupied, and other cots in process of preparation. an aisle between the rows of narrow beds stretched to the rear of the building. broad stairs led to a story above, where other cots were being laid.

the volunteer matron was a beautiful baltimore woman, mrs. wilson. when i was presented to her as a candidate for admission, her serene eyes rested doubtfully upon me for a moment. she hesitated. finally she said: "the work is very exacting. there are so few of us that our nurses must do anything and everything—make beds, wait upon anybody, and often a half a dozen at a time."

"i will engage to do all that," i declared, and she permitted me to go to a desk at the farther end of the room and enter my name.

as i passed by the rows of occupied cots, i saw a 182 nurse kneeling beside one of them, holding a pan for a surgeon. the red stump of an amputated arm was held over it. the next thing i knew i was myself lying on a cot, and a spray of cold water was falling over my face. i had fainted. opening my eyes, i found the matron standing beside me.

"you see it is as i thought. you are unfit for this work. one of the nurses will conduct you home."

the nurse's assistance was declined, however. i had given trouble enough for one day, and had only interrupted those who were really worth something.

a night's vigil had been poor preparation for hospital work. i resolved i would conquer my culpable weakness. it was all very well,—these heroics in which i indulged, these paroxysms of patriotism, this adoration of the defenders of my fireside. the defender in the field had naught to hope from me in case he should be wounded in my defence.

i took myself well in hand. why had i fainted? i thought it was because of the sickening, dead odor in the hospital, mingled with that of acids and disinfectants. of course this would always be there—and worse, as wounded men filled the rooms. i provided myself with sal volatile and spirits of camphor,—we wore pockets in our gowns in those days,—and thus armed i presented myself again to mrs. wilson.

she was as kind as she was refined and intelligent. "i will give you a place near the door," she said, "and you must run out into the air at the first hint of faintness. you will get over it, see if you don't." 183

ambulances began to come in and unload at the door. i soon had occupation enough, and a few drops of camphor on my handkerchief tided me over the worst. the wounded men crowded in and sat patiently waiting their turn. one fine little fellow of fifteen unrolled a handkerchief from his wrist to show me his wound. "there's a bullet in there," he said proudly. "i'm going to have it cut out, and then go right back to the fight. isn't it lucky it's my left hand?"

as the day wore on i became more and more absorbed in my work. i had, too, the stimulus of a reproof from miss deborah couch, a brisk, efficient middle-aged lady, who asked no quarter and gave none. she was standing beside me a moment, with a bright tin pan filled with pure water, into which i foolishly dipped a finger to see if it were warm; to learn if i would be expected to provide warm water when i should be called upon to assist the surgeon.

"this water, madam, was prepared for a raw wound," said miss deborah, sternly. "i must now make the surgeon wait until i get more."

miss deborah, in advance of her time, was a germ theorist. my touch evidently was contaminating.

as she charged down the aisle with a pan of water in her hand, everybody made way. she had known of my "fine-lady faintness," as she termed it, and i could see she despised me for it. she had volunteered, as all the nurses had, and she meant business. she had no patience with nonsense, and truly she was worth more than all the rest of us. 184

"where can i get a little ice?" i one day ventured of miss deborah.

"find it," she rejoined, as she rapidly passed on; but find it i never did. ice was an unknown luxury until brought to us later from private houses.

but i found myself thoroughly reinstated—with surgeons, matron, and miss deborah—when i appeared a few days later, accompanied by a man bearing a basket of clean, well-rolled bandages, with promise of more to come. the petersburg women had gone to work with a will upon my table-cloths, sheets, and dimity counterpanes—and even the chintz furniture covers. my springlike green and white chintz bandages appeared on many a manly arm and leg. my fine linen underwear and napkins were cut, by the sewing circle at the spotswood, according to the surgeon's directions, into lengths two inches wide, then folded two inches, doubling back and forth in a smaller fold each time, until they formed pointed wedges for compresses.

such was the sudden and overwhelming demand for such things, that but for my own and similar donations of household linen, the wounded men would have suffered. the war had come upon us suddenly. many of our ports were already closed, and we had no stores laid up for such an emergency.

the bloody battle of gaines's mill soon followed—then frazier's farm, within the week, and at once the hospital was filled to overflowing. every night a courier brought me tidings of my husband. when i saw him at the door my heart would die within me! one morning john came in for certain supplies. 185 after being reassured as to his master's safety, i asked, "did he have a comfortable night, john?"

"he sholy did! marse roger cert'nly was comfortable las' night. he slep' on de field 'twixt two daid horses!"

the women who worked in kent & paine's hospital never seemed to weary. after a while the wise matron assigned us hours, and we went on duty with the regularity of trained nurses. my hours were from seven to seven during the day, with the promise of night service should i be needed. efficient, kindly colored women assisted us. their motherly manner soothed the prostrate soldier, whom they always addressed as "son."

many fine young fellows lost their lives for want of prompt attention. they never murmured. they would give way to those who seemed to be more seriously wounded than themselves, and the latter would recover, while from the slighter wounds gangrene would supervene from delay. very few men ever walked away from that hospital. they died, or friends found quarters for them in the homes in richmond. none complained! unless a poor man grew delirious, he never groaned. there was an atmosphere of gentle kindness, a suppression of emotion for the sake of others.

every morning the richmond ladies brought for our patients such luxuries as could be procured in that scarce time. the city was in peril, and distant farmers feared to bring in their fruits and vegetables. one day a patient-looking middle-aged man said to me, "what would i not give for a bowl of chicken 186 broth like that my mother used to give me when i was a sick boy!" i perceived one of the angelic matrons of richmond at a distance, stooping over the cots, and found my way to her and said: "dear mrs. maben, have you a chicken? and could you send some broth to no. 39?" she promised, and i returned with her promise to the poor wounded fellow. he shook his head. "to-morrow will be too late," he said.

i had forgotten the circumstance next day, but at noon i happened to look toward cot no. 39, and there was mrs. maben herself. she had brought the chicken broth in a pretty china bowl, with napkin and silver spoon, and was feeding my doubting thomas, to his great satisfaction.

it was at this hospital, i have reason to believe, that the little story originated, which was deemed good enough to be claimed by other hospitals, of the young girl who approached a sick man with a pan of water in her hand and a towel over her arm.

"mayn't i wash your face?" said the girl, timidly.

"well, lady, you may if you want to," said the man, wearily. "it has been washed fourteen times this morning! it can stand another time, i reckon."

i discovered that i had not succeeded, despite many efforts, in winning miss deborah. i learned that she was affronted because i had not shared my offerings of jelly and fruit with her, for her special patients. whenever i ventured to ask a loan from her, of a pan or a glass for water or the little things of which we never had enough, she would reply, "i 187 must keep them for the nurses who understand reciprocity. reciprocity is a rule some persons never seem to comprehend." when this was hammered into my slow perception, i rose to the occasion. i turned over the entire contents of a basket the landlord of the spotswood had given me to miss deborah, and she made my path straight before me ever afterward.

at the end of a week the matron had promoted me! instead of carving the fat bacon, to be dispensed with corn bread, for the hospital dinner, or standing between two rough men to keep away the flies, or fetching water, or spreading sheets on cots, i was assigned to regular duty with one patient.

the first of these proved to be young colonel coppens, of my husband's brigade. i could comfort him very little, for he was wounded past recovery. i spoke little french, and could only try to keep him, as far as possible, from annoyance. to my great relief, place was found for him in a private family. there he soon died—the gallant fellow i had admired on his horse a few months before.

then i was placed beside the cot of mr. (or captain) boyd of mecklenburg, and was admonished by the matron not to leave him alone. he was the most patient sufferer in the world, gentle, courteous, always considerate, never complaining. i observed he often closed his eyes and sighed. "are you in pain, captain?" "no, no," he would say gently. one day, when i returned from my "rest," i found the matron sitting beside him. tears were running down her cheeks. she motioned me to take her place, and then added, "no, no, i will not leave him." 188

the captain's eyes were closed, and he sighed wearily at intervals. presently he whispered slowly:—

"there everlasting spring abides,"

then sighed, and seemed to sleep for a moment.

the matron felt his pulse and raised a warning hand. the sick man's whisper went on:—

"bright fields beyond the swelling flood

stand—dressed—in living green."

the surgeon stood at the foot of the cot and shook his head. the nurses gathered around with tearful eyes. presently in clear tones:—

"not jordan's stream—nor death's cold flood

shall fright us—from—the shore,"

and in a moment more the christian soldier had crossed the river and lain down to rest under the trees.

each of the battles of those seven days brought a harvest of wounded to our hospital. i used to veil myself closely as i walked to and from my hotel, that i might shut out the dreadful sights in the street,—the squads of prisoners, and, worst of all, the open wagons in which the dead were piled. once i did see one of these dreadful wagons! in it a stiff arm was raised, and shook as it was driven down the street, as though the dead owner appealed to heaven for vengeance; a horrible sight never to be forgotten.

after one of the bloody battles—i know not if 189 it was gaines's mill or frazier's farm or malvern hill—a splendid young officer, colonel brokenborough, was taken to our hospital, shot almost to pieces. he was borne up the stairs and placed in a cot—his broken limbs in supports swinging from the ceiling. the wife of general mahone and i were permitted to assist in nursing him. a young soldier from the camp was detailed to help us, and a clergyman was in constant attendance, coming at night that we might rest. our patient held a court in his corner of the hospital. such a dear, gallant, cheery fellow, handsome, and with a grand air even as he lay prostrate! nobody ever heard him complain. he would welcome us in the morning with the brightest smile. his aide said, "he watches the head of the stairs and calls up that look for your benefit." "oh," he said one day, "you can't guess what's going to happen! some ladies have been here and left all these roses, and cologne, and such; and somebody has sent—champagne! we are going to have a party!"

ah, but we knew he was very ill! we were bidden to watch him every minute and not be deceived by his own spirits. mrs. mahone spent her life hunting for ice. my constant care was to keep his canteen—to which he clung with affection—filled with fresh water from a spring not far away, and i learned to give it to him so well that i allowed no one to lift his head for his drink during my hours.

one day, when we were alone, i was fanning him, and thought he was asleep. he said gravely, "mrs. pryor, beyond that curtain they hung up yesterday 190 poor young mitchell is lying! they think i don't know! but i heard when they brought him in,—as i lie here, i listen to his breathing. i haven't heard it now for some time. would you mind seeing if he is all right?"

i passed behind the curtain. the young soldier was dead. his wide-open eyes seemed to meet mine in mute appeal. i had never seen or touched a dead man, but i laid my hands upon his eyelids and closed them. i was standing thus when his nurse, a young volunteer like myself, came to me.

"i couldn't do that," she said; "i went for the doctor. i'm so glad you could do it."

when i returned colonel brokenborough asked no questions and i knew that his keen senses had already instructed him.

to be cheerful and uncomplaining was the unwritten law of our hospital. no bad news was ever mentioned, no foreboding or anxiety. mrs. mahone was one day standing beside colonel brokenborough when a messenger from the front suddenly announced that general mahone had received a flesh-wound. commanding herself instantly, she exclaimed merrily: "flesh-wound! now you all know that is just impossible." the general had no flesh! he was as thin and attenuated as he was brave.

malvern hill.

as colonel brokenborough grew weaker i felt self-reproach that no one had offered to write letters for him. his friend the clergyman had said to me: "that poor boy is engaged to a lovely young girl. i wonder what is best? would it grieve him to 191 speak of her? you ladies have so much tact; you might bear it in mind. an opportunity might offer for you to discover how he feels about it." the next time i was alone with him i ventured: "now, colonel, one mustn't forget absent friends, you know, even if fair ladies do bring perfumes and roses and what not. i have some ink and paper here. shall i write a letter for you? tell me what to say."

he turned his head and with a half-amused smile of perfect intelligence looked at me for a long time. then an upward look of infinite tenderness; but the message was never sent—never needed from a true heart like his.

one night i was awakened from my first sleep by a knock at my door, and a summons to "come to colonel brokenborough." when i reached his bedside i found the surgeon, the clergyman, and the colonel's aide. the patient was unconscious; the end was near. we sat in silence. once, when he stirred, i slipped my hand under his head, and put his canteen once more to his lips. after a long time his breathing simply ceased, with no evidence of pain. we waited awhile, and then the young soldier who had been detailed to nurse him rose, crossed the room, and, stooping over, kissed me on my forehead, and went out to his duty in the ranks.

two weeks later i was in my room, resting after a hard day, when a haggard officer, covered with mud and dust, entered. it was my husband.

"my men are all dead," he said, with anguish, 192 and, falling across the bed, he gave vent to the passionate grief of his heart.

thousands of confederate soldiers were killed, thousands wounded.

richmond was saved!

general mcclellan and general lee both realized that their men needed rest. my husband was allowed a few days' respite from duty. almost without pause he had fought the battles of williamsburg, seven pines, mechanicsville, gaines's mill, and frazier's farm. he had won his promotion early, but he had lost the loved commander who appreciated him, had seen old schoolmates and friends fall by his side,—the dear fellow, george loyal gordon, who had been his best man at our wedding,—old college comrades, valued old neighbors.

opposed to him in battle, then and after, were men who in after years avowed themselves his warm friends,—general hancock, general slocum, general butterfield, general sickles, general fitz-john porter, general mcclellan, and general grant. they had fought loyally under opposing banners, and from time to time, as the war went on, one and another had been defeated; but over all, and through all, their allegiance had been given to a banner that has never surrendered,—the standard of the universal brotherhood of all true men.