GLOOM IN ST. LOUIS.

tered out till the end of the war."

197

But this man

afraid to die.

was the only one I ever met who was Over and over again I have listened to public narrations of horrible dying scenes in hospitals and on battle-fields but I knew personally of but this one instance.

We spent some two or three weeks in the different hospitals of the city, visiting every ward, and communicating with every patient, doing for him whatever we could. I cannot recall a single cheerful or humorous event connected with the visit. There was gloom everywhere. St. Louis itself was under a cloud. The spirit of rebellion within it was intimidated, but not subdued. Business was depressed, stores were closed, and of its oldtime sociality and hospitableness there was no sign. The guns of the fortifications were pointed at the city, holding it to compulsory neutrality, if not loyalty.

Fifteen thousand troops marched out of Benton Barracks, the great camp of rendezvous, and from other encampments while we were in St. Louis, and went down the river, on their way to the front. Many of them were without muskets, drill, or military experience. Some of the regiments had no surgeon, not a surgical instrument, nor a particle of medicine with them, while their officers were fresh from the plough, the shop, the counting-room, or office, ignorant of military tactics, knowing nothing of military hygiene or sanitary laws. In this wholly unprepared condition, these raw, undisciplined soldiers were, in a few weeks, precipitated into the battle of "Pittsburg Landing," or "Shiloh"- one of the most desperate, hotly contested, and sanguinary fights of the whole

198 THE DEAD AND DYING EVERYWHERE.

war, when the two armies, for two days, stood up and fought, without intrenchments on either side.

Through whole long streets these regiments marched, on their way to the boats, with colors flying, and bands playing, in their first enthusiasm rending the air with their shouts; and not a face appeared at a door or window with a "Godspeed" in its look, not a woman waved her handkerchief in welcome, not a child shouted its pleasure. The closed houses frowned down on them, as if untenanted; and the few men who passed on the sidewalks drew their hats over their eyes, and slouched by sullenly. St. Louis, at that time, had no heart in the gigantic preparations of the government to conquer the rebellion.

To add to the general depression, the city was full of the relatives of the dead or wounded, waiting for their bodies to be given them for burial, or striving to nurse them back into health. Fathers and mothers, wives and sisters, were in the wards beside the men they loved, and who had passed through the hell of battle alive, but mangled and mutilated. How they fought death, inch by inch, for possession of these remnants of humanity! In every ward were dying men; in every dead-house were the coffined dead, and the ambulance, standing near, was ready to take the cold sleepers to their last resting-places. The men whom no home friends visited looked with hungry eyes at the manifestations of affectionate interest bestowed on their comrades, and, after a few preliminaries, were included in the petting, soothing, and praising, that were always helpful to the poor fellows.

In one hospital I found a patient, feeble and ghastly, packing a valise with the help of a convalescing comrade. He had received a furlough, and

WEDDING IN THE HOSPITAL.

199

was going home for a month, and, despite his low physical condition, was full of courage. Three days later, I had occasion to pass through the same ward, and the man was just breathing his last.

"What has happened?" I inquired. "Wasn't the poor fellow able to make the journey after all?"

"His furlough was revoked for some reason; and he immediately fell back on the bed in a faint, and hasn't rallied yet.'

He never rallied, but died from the removal of the stimulus of the promised visit home.

A young captain in the officers' ward interested me greatly, and I went daily to visit him. A refined and delicate fellow, with a very sensitive nervous organization, he had suffered severely. He had endured two amputations of the arm, which still refused. to heal, and a third was ordered. He had become so reduced that the surgeon feared the result, and so informed his patient. Then the young officer telegraphed the girl who was to be his wife, and who had only delayed coming to him because of his earnest entreaty that she would not encounter the horrors of a hospital unless he sent for her. She came as fast as the lightning express could bring her; and, at her own desire, before he submitted to another operation, they were married by the chaplain. The arm was removed to the shoulder. For a day or two there was hope of him, and then he sank rapidly.

I entered the ward about two hours before his death, and found his three days' bride ministering to him with inexpressible tenderness. There were no tears on her cheek, no lamentations on her lip, but her face shone with unnatural brightness, and she seemed to be lifted above the depression of her sur

200

THE BRIDEGROOM DIES.

roundings. Mrs. and myself were about to pass them by, not thinking best to intrude on the sacredness of their privacy or sorrow. But the look in the husband's eyes invited us, and we moved softly towards the couch of death. He was conscious and understood what was said, but could only speak in occasional whispers.

"You are ready to go?" asked Mrs., my hostess, who had seen much of him, and whom he welcomed with a smile.

For answer, he looked at his young wife, who was gazing in his face. She understood him, and answered:

"Yes, we are both ready- he, to go, and I, to stay." And, turning to us, she added, "When he enlisted, I gave him to God and the country. I expected this, and am prepared for it."

The next morning I met her embarking for home with the body of her beloved. Her own relatives were a married sister, and a brother in the Army of the Potomac. She was taking the coffined remains to the widowed mother of the dead man, who lived near Centralia, Ill., and who had two other sons in the army, and a son-in-law. The exaltation of her spirit still upbore her, and I saw that nature would not assert itself till her duties to the dead were over.

CHAPTER VIII.

I BECOME ACCUSTOMED TO HOSPITAL WORK-FILTH AND DISCOMFORT, NEGLECT AND SUFFERING-LEAVES FROM MY EXPERIENCE - MESSAGES FROM THE DYING TO LOVED ONES AT HOME.

Cairo an immense Basin, partially filled-Skilful Pilotage needed -Comfortless Hospitals-"My Wife came this Morning"-"Bring me a drink from the Spring"-The "Brick Hospital" a Marvel of Excellence "Sisters of the Holy Cross" its Nurses - The young rebel Prisoner-Longing for his Mother-"Philip Sidneys" in every Hospital - Mary Safford my Companion the second Time- Her Method of Work-Her Memorandum Book and Baskets - Something for every one-"You are the good Fairy of the Hospitals"-Men crying for Milk -Mourning the Loss of "Mother Bickerdyke" - Wounded Soldier from "Island No. Ten"-Noble Letter from his Wife-"The Children needed him more than I"-Eulogy of Mary Safford - Her Career since the War-Professor in the Boston University School of Medicine.

ROM St. Louis we went to Cairo, Ill., where were other hospitals overflowing with the sick and wounded. It was by no means a lovely place at that time. Every one visiting it bestowed on it a passing anathema. A levee built up around the south and west protected it from the overflow of the Mississippi and Ohio. From the levee the town looked like an immense basin, of which the levee formed the sides and rim. It was partially filled with water; and the incessant activity of the steam-pumps alone saved it from inundation. Vile odors assailed the olfactories, as one walked the streets. If it chanced to rain, one