While waiting in this lonely and solitary nook, three large bloodhounds came in sight. I remembered of hearing about their being let loose after sunset, to reconnoiter the premises, and I called to mind what I had heard and read in history, that however ferocious an animal is, a stern and steady gaze in the eye, by a human being, would disarm it of ferocity, and cause it to leave. This course I resolved to pursue with these three formidable enemies, that were already assuming a threatening attitude, with a low growl, showing their teeth, with hair on end—the leader as large as a yearling calf, the two following him slightly smaller. I fixed my eyes upon the sparkling eyes of the leader, that came within six feet and stopped; soon the growl ceased, the lips dropped over the long tusks, the hair smoothed back, and he quietly walked off with his companions. Soon came the girl, all out of breath: "Did the hounds come to you?"
"They did."
"Oh, dear! what did you do?"
"I stood perfectly still," I answered, "and looked in the eyes of the leader, and they soon became quiet and walked away."
"Oh, dear, that was the only thing that saved your life. If you had stirred a particle they would have torn you in pieces. I was so anxious to have Ann see you, I forgot the hounds until I started back, and I liked to have fainted, for I know they were awful. I liked to have screamed out 'God have mercy on that dear friend,' for I was 'most sure I'd find you killed."
"Oh, no, the Lord has preserved me, and I am not harmed." She was so badly frightened that it was some time before her voice ceased trembling; but He who is ever present with his trusting children was there.
Arrangements were made for Ann to go North, but if a word of suspicion was heard, I told her she must defer going to a future time; that she must go as her brother went, perfectly independent of any one, which she was confident of doing; but she wished to go on the same boat with me, if no one else was going from their city. I learned through her friend that she was overheard to ask a friend of hers for a shawl for a journey. I sent her word to abandon the idea of going then at once; that I should take the first boat for home.
She did not obtain her freedom until after her mother's death, two or three years later. I did not regard the trip lost, painful as it was. There was on the boat a sad couple, taken from a number of their children by a young beardless boy, perhaps eighteen or twenty, small and slender. I noticed them frequently in tears. They were noticed by a few of the passengers, who made remarks about the sad faces of those negroes. Said one heartless woman, "Look at that nigger cryin'. I don't see what she's cryin' about; she's got her young one and man to her heels." I carelessly watched for an opportunity to speak with one or both of these children of sorrow. As they sat on a pile of cable on the rear deck I caught the opportunity to inquire where they were going.
"We don't know; our young massa got to frettin', an' ole massa gib us to him and some money, an' tole him to go. We lef' three bigger chillun behin'; never 'spects to see 'em ag'in; I wish he'd buy a plantation somewhar, so we could go to work; 'pears like thar's no comfort for us poor people, only when we's got work, an' stops studyin' so much."
As the tears began to fall thick and fast, I took them by the hand and told them Jesus was the friend of the poor, and he had many followers who also remembered them in prayer. And he knew of their sorrow, and as they went to him he would comfort their sorrowing hearts. Pointing to his wife, he said, "She knows that, and I wish I did." I charged them to make no mention of my having spoken to them. For while they were slaves, I was not free. This young man with his heavy-hearted couple left our boat at Pine Bluff.
Surely I had seen enough of slavery in its own household. Three weeks was long enough to see and feel its virus. I met my old friends in Cincinnati with a glad heart, where I could draw a free breath. I could visit them but two days before I was on my way home, where were many glad hearts to listen in private circles to my experience in a slave State. More than ever they were convinced that the cannon and sword would, at no very distant day, destroy the monster.
Our institution was now in its second academic year, in charge of Joseph D. Millard, of Oberlin College. The stockholders had turned it over into my hands, making me sole-proprietor of the institution, with all its multiform cares and responsibilities. I had also frequent calls from fugitives in flight for freedom, whose claims were second to none other. But to see prejudice in our students melt away by an acquaintance with our work, richly repaid me for all my day and night toiling and cares, that seemed almost crushing at times. I purchased for the young men's hall a building that was erected for a water cure. That project failed, and the building that cost $2,000 to erect, was offered for three hundred dollars for my institution. I moved it one mile, and repaired it with fifteen rooms; and it was well filled the first year. This academic year of our usual three terms our students numbered over two hundred, mostly of those who had been teaching, or preparing themselves for teachers, or for a collegiate course. I served as preceptress, and was closely confined in school work. Realizing in a great measure the importance of molding the mind of youth for usefulness, these years of constant care passed pleasantly with the hundreds of young people of our own and adjoining counties.
A colored man, with a farmer's bag swung over his shoulder, approached two men at work on the railroad between Palmyra and Adrian, and inquired how far it was to Michigan.
"You are in Michigan, you fool you," was their reply.
"Then, will you please tell me how far it is to Canada?"
"You go to Adrian, about a mile ahead, and take the cars, and they'll take you to Canada in two hours; or, if you haven't money to go that way, you can go up that road till you come to the Quaker meeting-house, and go direct east two miles to the Widow Haviland's school, and she will tell you how to go to Canada, and it won't cost you any thing.' She is a great friend to your people."
He soon found me. I got my supper out of the way, and my men folks out again at their work. I then inquired who directed him to me, and he told me "two men six miles from this school said you was a frien' to my people; an' I thought if folks knew you six miles off I would be safe to come to you, 'case I wants to go to Canada right soon. I started once before, and traveled three nights by the North star; and as Indiana was a free State I thought I would stop and buy me some broad, an' the people was mighty kind, and said I could rest a week, and they would pay me for the work I did, to help me on to Canada. But firs' I knew my master come for me, an' I seed him pay them money—s'pose 't was reward."
This time he was so cautious that he would make a friend of no one until he reached Michigan. They had always heard people were friends to colored people in this State. He was six weeks from Kentucky, and had not dared to make his condition known to any one, white or black, until he saw a colored man in the yard at Dr Bailey's, of whom he inquired for my house. I told him that his coat and pants were too ragged, and that I must repair them. As he had not a second shirt, I took one of my son's, and gave him a couple of towels, soap, and a pail of warm water, and told him to take off his coat for me to mend, while he went up stairs to the room over the kitchen to change his shirt. He hesitated about taking off his coat, until I told him he must. "I am not your mistress," said I, "and yet you must mind me." Tears started as he slowly drew it off, when the torn and bloody shirtsleeves revealed the long sears, and a few unhealed sores on his arms. Said I, "Are these the marks of the slave whip?"
He nodded assent, while tears were falling.
"When was this done?"
"Two nights afore I lef'."
"What was jour offence?"
"Dis was what I got for runnin' off, an' I fainted, an' master dragged me in my cabin, and didn't lock me in, 'case I's so weak. I reckon he thought I's safe. But I got an ing'on to rub over the bottoms of my shoes so dogs couldn't foller me, an' I got four loaves o' bread and a big piece o' boiled meat, an' crawled into de barn an' tuck dis bag an' buffalo-robe for my bed, an' dragged it into de woods, and tuck my bes' frien', de Norf star, an' follered clean to dis place."
"What did you do for something to eat?"
"I tuck corn in de fiel'. When I foun' log heaps an' brush burnin' I roasted a heap to las' a few days; but I was weak an' trimbly to start, an' kep' so all de way."
After this little history I made him take off his vest, which was also very reluctantly done. But what a sight! The back of his shirt was like one solid scab! I made him open his collar, and I drew the shirt off from his shoulders and from the appearance of the shoulders and back it must have been cut to one mass of raw flesh six weeks before, as there were still large unhealed sores. I told him he must sit here until I called in my son and son-in-law to see it. As they looked upon that man's back and arms, and walked around him, said Levi Camburn, my son-in-law:
"Mother, I would shoot the villain that did that as quick as I could get sight at him."
"But, Levi," I replied, "he is not fit to die."
"No, and he never will be; and the quicker he goes to the place where he belongs the better. Indeed, I would shoot him as quick as I would a squirrel if I could see him."
Joseph, my son, responded:
"I think Levi is about right, mother; the quicker such a demon is out of the world the better."
"I know this is a sad sight for us to look upon; but I did not call you in to set you to fighting."
Many of my friends, and my son-in-law Levi, had thought me rather severe in judging the mass of slaveholders by the few unprincipled men who had fallen under my special notice; but I never heard of any remark whatever from my son-in-law or neighbors, after this incident, that charged me with being too severe in judging slaveholders. I furnished the poor man with healing salve, and tried to persuade him to rest a few days until he would be able to work; but no, he must see Canada before he could feel safe. He was very loath to sleep in any bed, and urged me to allow him to lie on the floor in the kitchen, but I insisted on his occupying the bed over the kitchen. I gave him a note of introduction to the next station agent, with a little change; and a few weeks after I heard from my friend, whose name was George Wilson. The reporter said: "The first two weeks he seemed to have no energy for any thing. But then he went to work, and quite disappointed us. He is getting to be one of the best hands to hire in Windsor."
This was the second fugitive from slavery who slept in my home—mine being the first house they had dared to sleep in since leaving their old home. A few days later another fugitive came from Louisiana. He was a black-smith. I wrote to a wealthy farmer in Napoleon, Michigan, to learn whether he could not furnish business for one or the other of two new arrivals from slavery. To show the feelings of thousands of our citizens at this date, I will extract a portion of his letter:
"There are constantly in our moral horizon threatenings of strife, discontent, and outbreaks between liberty and slavery. The martyrdom of John Brown only whets the appetite of the monster for greater sacrifice of life. The continued imprisonment of Calvin Fairbanks and others are not satisfying portions. I read your letter to our Arkansas friend, and we are glad to learn that another has escaped from the land of bondage, whips, and chains. In view of the wrongs and cruelty of slavery, how truly may it be said:
'There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;
It does not feel for man.'
"The natural bond of brotherhood is severed as flax that falls asunder at the touch of fire. Let the lot of bitter poverty be mine, and the hand of man blight every hope of earthly enjoyment, and I would prefer it to the condition of any man who lives at ease, and shares in every fancied pleasure, that the toil, the sweat, and blood of slaves can procure. Alas for the tyrant slave-holder when God shall make his award to his poor, oppressed, and despised children, and to those who seek a transient and yet delusive means of present happiness by trampling his fellow and brother in the dust, and appropriating the soul and body of his own crushed victim to the gratification of his depraved appetites and passions. I would rather enter the gloomy cell of your friend Fairbanks, and spend every hour of this brief existence in all the bitterness that the hand of tyrants can inflict, than live in all pomp and splendor that the unpaid toil of slaves could lavish upon man. Yours, etc.,
"July 27th, 1860. R.B. REXFORD."
Our blacksmith, whom we called Charles Williams, proved to be an honest and industrious man.
We solicited over seventy dollars for a poor woman by the name of Jackson, from Marseilles, Kentucky, who had bought herself by washing and ironing of nights, after her mistress's work was done. During seven long years she did not allow herself to undress except to change. Her sleep was little naps over her ironing board. Seven years of night work brought the money that procured her freedom. She had a son and daughter nearly grow up, and to purchase their freedom she was now bending her day and night energies. Her first object was to purchase the son, as his wages would aid her to accumulate more readily the amount required for the daughter, as she had the promise of both of her children. But her economizing to purchase the son first for the sake of his help failed, as the master's indebtness compelled him to sell one of them, and market was found for the girl of sixteen. Nine hundred dollars was offered, and the distressed mother had but four hundred dollars to pay.
She had trusted in her Lord and Savior in all these years of toiling, and now must she see that daughter sold down the river? In her distress she went from house to house, to plead for a buyer who would advance the five hundred dollars, and take a mortgage on her until she could make it. At length she found a Baptist deacon who purchased her daughter, and she paid him the four hundred dollars. He was to keep her until the mortgage was redeemed by the mother, who was compelled to abandon her first project, and bend her energies toward making the five hundred dollars. After working very hard one year, she was able to pay but one hundred and fifty dollars to ward the mortgage, when her health began to fail. The deacon told her the money was coming too slowly, and that he could not wait longer than another year, before he would have to sell her to get his money back. "Weeping and prayer was my meat and drink day and night. Oh! must I see my poor chile' go after all my hope to save her?" A merchant in that town by whom she had been employed, told her he would give her a little secret advice, which was, to go to Louisville as she had done before, but not to stop there, but to go on to Cincinnati, and he would give her a good recommendation to his brother, Mr. Ketcham, who was a merchant and knew the abolitionists. They would aid her in raising the three hundred and fifty dollars; but she must not let it be known that he had advised her, or that she was going North. Mr. Ketcham introduced her to Levi Coffin and lawyer John Jolliffe, who gave her letters of introduction to friends at Oberlin, and other places, and by the time she was sent to me she had over two hundred dollars toward the release of the mortgage on the daughter. As her health was poor from constant overwork and troubles incident to slave life, to give her rest I took her papers, and while calling on the friends of humanity, did not slight some of my Democratic friends, some of whom had some years previously told me if I would go to work and purchase the slaves they would aid me.
Consequently I called on one who was living in splendor within his massive pile of brick, and reminded him of the promise he made me on a certain occasion. Now was his opportunity, as I was assisting a mother to purchase her daughter. I gave him the line through which I had received the best of endorsements as to her industrious and honest Christian character, and what the friends had done for her upon whom I had called, and but for her poor health would have brought her with me. After listening attentively to all my statements, he arose from his chair, walked nervously to and fro across his room, as if striving to his utmost to brace against sympathy, and said, "Mrs. Haviland, I'll not give a penny to any one who will steal slaves; for you might just as well come to my barn and steal my horse or wheat as to help slaves to Canada, out of the reach of their owners."
"Did I do right," I asked, "in rescuing that Hamilton family from the grasp of those Tennessee slave-holders?"
"If I had taken a family under my wing, of course, I should calculate to protect them."
"That is not the answer I call for. I want from you a direct reply; did I do right, or wrong, in that case? You remember all the circumstances."
"Oh, yes, I remember it well, and as I tell you, if I had undertaken to protect a family I should do it."
"I shall accept no prevarication whatever," said I; "I demand a square answer, and it is your duty to give it; did I do right or wrong in that case?"
He drew out his pocket-book, and emptied it in my lap. "There is hardly a dollar, and if I had more you should have it; of course you are right, and every sane man or woman knows it; but my political relations are such I wish you wouldn't say anything about it."
It is no new thing for politics to stand in the way of humanity. A few weeks later the glad mother returned and redeemed her daughter. I saw them together at Levi Coffin's, in Cincinnati, happy in their freedom.
Another woman was directed to me by William King, who, with Rev. C. C. Foote, had founded a colony a few miles from Chatham, Ontario, for fugitives from slavery. She managed to escape with seven children, and her husband's master offered him to her for six hundred dollars, two hundred dollars less than the market price. I went with her a few days, and received from the friends one hundred and thirteen dollars. Then the sight of one whom she recognized hastened her back to Canada, a proceeding which probably saved us the fate of the Oberlin or Wellington rescuers, who spent a few weeks in jail. A year after we heard the husband and father was with his family in Canada.
A few weeks elapsed when another woman from Cincinnati learned that her husband could be bought for a low figure because of a rheumatic difficulty. She had been freed three years previously, and by industry had accumulated three hundred dollars. She came well recommended by Levi Coffin and others. While making calls in her behalf in a store owned by a Democratic friend, upon presenting her claim to the proprietor and a few bystanders, a gentleman stepped into the door with, "I see you come to Democrats for aid."
"She knows her best friends," said our merchant.
"I slight no one," I answered. "I call upon my acquaintances regardless of politics.
"I will give you five dollars for every one you'll get from an abolitionist in this place," said the sparkling, black-eyed stranger.
At this quite a shout arose in the store.
"That speaks well for your abolition friends," was the ironical retort of another bystander.
"Who is that gentleman?" I inquired.
"Mr. Lyons, the banker on Main Street," was the reply.
"All right," I said, "I shall remember him." I stepped into Edwin
Comstock's and mentioned this proposition.
"Very well; I will give five dollars for the sake of twenty-five dollars from Mr. Lyons," and I placed that in my book. I next met Stephen Allen on the street and I told him Mr. Lyons's pledge.
"All right," he said; "I will give four dollars, and that takes all I have in my purse to-day; but I am glad to give it for the twenty dollars we are to get from Mr. Lyons."
I called upon Anson Backus with my report and he said: "Here is five dollars for the twenty-five from Mr. Lyons." I then stepped into the Lyons's bank. "This, I believe, is Mr. Lyons, the proprietor, who pledged a few minutes ago five dollars for every one dollar I would get from an abolitionist in this place." His face flushed in reading the names with the fives and four dollar bills in the book I handed him.
"There is no abolitionist's name here."
"Isn't Edwin Comstock an abolitionist?"
"No, he isn't."
"Isn't Stephen Allen an abolitionist?"
"No, he isn't?
"Isn't Anson Backus an abolitionist?"
"No, he isn't."
"Then I ask you to define an abolitionist, for I call these men as radical abolitionists as we have in our country."
"Well, they are not."
"Please define them that I may know who they are."
"They are those who go down South and steal slaves away from their owners and report that they whip men and women and sell husbands and wives apart, and separate children from their mothers, and all that sort of thing, when it's all an arrant black-hearted lie."
"Mr. Lyons, you know all these flat denials are substantial truths. As you say you have lived in the South, you know in your own heart that men and women are cruelly whipped, and that families are separated, and these cases of cruelty are neither few nor far between. I will tell you what I have done for a woman who was a slave in Kentucky when she came to me for advice in Cincinnati, as she had a daughter to be sold, and her mistress was going to sell the whole family down the river. She was permitted to do her mistress's marketing in Cincinnati because she had confidence that she would not leave her family. I advised her to put her husband and children in that market-wagon and cover them with hay and bring them to a certain place I designated, and she would be aided in her flight to Canada. She took the plan I suggested, and her whole remaining family, nine in number, found themselves free in Canada. Was that the work of an abolitionist?"
"No, it isn't."
"Then I know not where to find one, for I see I too am out of the catalogue."
While this conversation was in progress he took three dollars from his desk and handed it to me; but as much as ever, I stopped to thank him, and told him the worst wish I had for him was that he would repent of his wicked position before the hour of death overtook him, and that he might find peace and pardon for these Satanic assertions he had made. He sat quietly listening while I gave out my indignation without stint. "Hand me back that three dollars," and it was as freely returned as I received it. He put it back in his drawer, took out five dollars and handed it to me, and hardly took time to nod "I thank you" for finishing my speech, which was not in the least interrupted, even with the increased subscription.
Poor man, I pitied him, for it was more than a year before I could get another opportunity to speak to him. His clerk left the bank as soon as he commenced his tirade. Although it is unpleasant to meet with such spirits, yet I never flee from them. If my cause is owned by the author of the Higher Law, none of these things move me. A few months after this we received a letter from Mintie Berry, the anxious wife, for whom we succeeded in raising enough to reunite the long separated couple, saying that their happy reunion was the result of favors from their many friends, to whom they returned grateful thanks, while they praised the Lord for the blessing.
I received a letter, July 4, 1859, from poor Calvin Fairbanks. Eight long years of the fifteen he had suffered in a Kentucky penitentiary. How sad are these lines, containing some of his prison reflections! He says:
"Speak kindly, ye muses, my spirit inspire,
Breathe softly and sweetly, sweep gently my lyre;
There's gloom in my harp-string's low murmuring tone,
Speak kindly, speak gently, to me here alone.
My spirit all broken—no soul-cheering ray
To warm, and illumine my cold dreary way,
No kind and beloved ones of days that are gone—
There's no one to cheer me, I'm alone, all alone.
From friends fondly cherished I'm severed away,
From the hills where I laughed at the bright early day;
And the morning of life like an arrow is gone,
Like a shadow, a moment, and here I'm alone.
The guardians of childhood, like the bright early flower.
Have blossomed with fragrance, and are lost in an hour;
And the cycle that brought them has eddied and gone,
And left me behind them, alone, all alone.
How solemn and dreary, how somber with gloom,
Are my lonely reflections, of the cold silent tomb,
The abode of a father once fearless and bold,
Of a sister once lovely, now silent and cold;
Of a mother lamenting her lost, lonely son,
Awaiting awhile, but a day to be gone,
And to mingle with spirits of blest early love,
And to rest in the bosom of Jesus above.
The thought of these loved ones, now silent for aye,
Or lingering and trembling, and passing away.
Breathes sadness on nature, most cheerful and gay,
And traces these numbers—we're passing away.
But cease my complaining, we'll soon be at peace,
We'll rest from our labors, forever at ease;
There's rest for the weary and joy for our gloom,
For God is our refuge, in heaven our home.
Yes, earth with her pleasures, and all that we love,
We shall leave for the land of bright spirits above;
No blasting nor mildew, nor soul-blighting care,
No sorrow, no dying, no sin shall reign there."
The year 1861 opened full of excitement. Both North and South assumed threatening attitudes. Raisin Institute was affected by it; yet the work of the Lord prospered with us. Within three weeks fourteen of our students experienced the new spiritual life. But soon our ranks were broken. The seventy-five thousand men in arms called for at the first by President Lincoln were not sufficient to suppress the slave-holders' rebellion. Seventeen of our students enlisted for the bloody conflicts of civil war.
Our principal, F. M. Olcott, had purchased my institution, and I looked forward to a happy release of the $15,000 indebtedness that was resting over Raisin Institute. The room-rent was not sufficient to meet the interest and other incidental expenses, and the tuition fees were required to pay the teachers. This indebtedness rested upon my shoulders. But for the salutary influence it exerted in molding the characters of our youth, I should have failed.
The declining health of our dear brother F. M. Olcott brought increasing darkness over our future prospects, and the memorable battle of Bull Run increased the shock that startled the liberty lovers of our nation at the firing upon Fort Sumter. The cloud that hung over our nation also overshadowed our beloved institution. We closed this year with sad forebodings. Our beloved principal was fast hastening to his reward. He suggested a friend of his to fill his position the ensuing year, and died of consumption within six weeks of our vacation. He was a noble Christian man, and had endeared himself to all who enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance. His loss was severely felt by his students, who enjoyed his faithful teaching, and especially by myself, as I had indulged the fond hope that he would become the efficient permanent principal.
The following year the institute opened with as fair prospects as could be expected, in charge of Edward A. Haight. Until the third year of the war our school was continued in successful operation. But during the last term of 1863-4, when the war had taken seventeen of our noble young men into the field, and the condition of our soldiers, daily reported as suffering and dying in camp and hospital, called for tender nursing, I offered myself for that work.
Leaving an excellent young woman as preceptress in my stead, I gathered from eighteen hundred to two thousand garments for freedmen, and hospital supplies for soldiers, and with papers from Austin Blair, governor of our State, from F. C. Beaman, member of Congress, and from others, I left my sweet home and the loved ones who still clustered around it. On my way to the depot I was met by Rev. P. Powell, who inquired how much money I had. "Fifteen dollars," was my answer.
"Why, Mother Haviland," he exclaimed, "you can never go with only that.
Stop a day or two, and I'll get up eighty or a hundred dollars for you."
"But I have arranged for all my supplies to go on today. There are three or four boxes waiting for me at Hillsdale, and I wrote them I would be there to-night. I have not asked for money, but for supplies. I have a free pass to Chicago and return, and if I can get a pass free to Cairo and return, I think I can get along, and perhaps lives may be in peril in the twenty-four hours I might be waiting here for money."
"Will you telegraph me if you do not succeed in getting the passes in
Chicago?"
"I will," I said, and went forward.
As I was taking leave of my son Joseph, and was about to enter the car, he held me by the hand, and said: "One promise I want you to make me, and make it so strong that your conscience will come in for a share; and that is, that you will stop, once in a while, to think whether you are tired or not. You are going among the suffering and dying, and I know you so well that you will go and go and do and do, until you will drop before you will think of yourself. If you will make me this promise I will feel a great deal better about you."
"Joseph," I said, "I will promise to do this," and we parted.
On visiting the sanitary rooms in Chicago I met Mrs. Hague, Mrs. Livermore, and others, who thought it very doubtful whether I could secure a fare free to Cairo, as President Arthur had shut down the gate on free, or even half-fare, passes. He had told them that associations might pay their agents enough to pay their fare. But I was under the auspices of no association. I was only a self-constituted agent, and I must try. Leaning on the arm of my guide, I went to President Arthur, and introduced myself by handing him my papers. On reading them he asked, rather sharply, "What do you want?"
"I am hoping to obtain a free pass to Cairo and return," I replied, "and free transportation for the supplies referred to in those papers."
"Are you alone, madam?"
"I am alone."
"Well, I think this is a heavy responsibility for a lady of your age. Are you aware of the responsibility you assume in this?" holding the paper up.
"I think I am aware of the responsibility. I do not know but the experience of age, however, may somewhat make up for the strength of youth."
"Well, I guess it will."
Settling himself back in his easy arm chair, he said again, "How long a time do you want it for?"
"I can not answer intelligently," I said, "I may wish to return for more supplies, within two or three months, and I can not say how long it will take to disburse these supplies judiciously."
"Very well," and he took my papers to his chief clerk, and soon brought me back passes, saying, "There are your passes, and they'll bring you back any time this year." He gave me also an order for free transportation. I left his office praising God for another victory.
I was met in the door of the sanitary rooms with "Did you succeed in getting a half-fare pass?"
"A free pass to Cairo and return," I said, "and free transportation for all my supplies from President Arthur."
The clerk clapped his hands, cheering: "You are a favored one; not one of us would have got that favor."
Not till then did they know of my leaving home with only fifteen dollars; yet it was sufficient.
A few hours more landed me in Cairo, where the wharf was lined with cannon, and piles of shells and balls. My first work was to find a soldiers' home, and visit hospitals. Oh, what scenes at once were presented to my view! Here were the groans of the wounded and dying soldiers. Some were praying—a few were swearing; and yet even these would patiently listen to reading the promises of Jesus and his loving invitations, and become calm.
CHAPTER X.
HOSPITAL WORK.
Our last chapter left us in hospital world at Cairo. A portion of the freedmen's camp of three thousand the officers proposed to remove to Island No. 10, and wished me to take most of my supplies to that place. While waiting for their arrival I visited the United States Hospital at Mound City, a few miles up the Ohio River. Here, too, were dying soldiers, one of whom especially attracted my attention, as he was perfectly sane and rather unusually intelligent. I immediately addressed him: "My son, are you prepared to go hence?"
"Mother," he said, "that is a matter which I ought to have attended to long ago, but I did not, and now it is too late! I am dying."
"Oh, do not say too late! Remember the condition is, 'Believe and thou shalt be saved;' 'As thou hast believed, so shall it be unto thee.' These are the sure promises of our merciful Redeemer. Remember the thief on the cross looked at him with repenting spirit and living faith, and said, 'Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom;' and the quick reply was, 'This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.' Can you not trust such a Redeemer?—such a loving Father as is our God, who saves to the uttermost all who ask with believing hearts?" He firmly held my hand and said, "I will try."
Our prayers were mingled in asking for the enlightening of the Holy Spirit, and while he was asking for the forgiveness of all his sins, that he might receive an evidence of acceptance, he seemed encouraged and gave me the names and address of his parents, for me to write them of his hope, in departing, of a better future.
There was also great suffering in the camp of freedmen. The officers wished me to aid them in persuading these people to go down to the island, as they were afraid of being returned to slavery at the close of the war, and desired to push as far into the free States as possible, and very loath to go back "an inch," as one of the officers expressed it. I took the names of these almost nude people, whom I instructed to come to my tent; as the officers said I should have one for the purpose of giving out clothing to the most needy among them. They assured them that their freedom was a fixed fact; that they would never see the day again when they would be separated by being sold apart. This, I found, has a greater inducement for them to consent to the request of the officers to go to the island than all the clothing I could promise.
But one poor woman came to the captain weeping, saying, "My poor baby is dying' an' I can't leave him. He is my only child left me." In the great hurry and bustle of business the quick reply was, "Go back and I'll see to it." As she left the office he turned to me and said, "I don't know whether it is so or not; they get up all sorts of excuses." As she was not yet out of sight, I followed her to the slab hut and found it true. An hour later and the baby of eight years was in the spirit world.
"Now, missus, I can't go an' leave my dead baby for de wharf-rats to eat, an' de boat goes out at three o'clock."
I reported the death of the child and of the distress of the mother. "Tell her," said the officer, "we will see that her child is buried this afternoon, and I want her to go on this boat." I told the mother of the captain's wish, and that I would see that her child was buried.
"Ob, missus, it 'pears like I can't leave him so; they'll leave him here to-night, an' dese wharf-rats are awful. Da eat one dead chile's face all one side off, an' one of its feet was all gnawed off. I don't want to leave my chile on dis bare groun'."
The grief of this poor mother was distressing in the extreme. She knew not whether her husband and three older children, sold away two years previously, were still slaves or living, as she had never heard a word from them since they were taken from her. Those sad separations, she said, were much harder to bear than the death of this child. But she consented to go, on my promise to see that her child was buried before night. After she left for the boat I went to the captain to see his promise performed. He seemed very indifferent.
"What is the difference if that child shouldn't be buried this afternoon or whether wharf-rats eat it or not?"
"You promised to have it buried this afternoon," I said, "and I told that poor woman I would see that it was done; and I see no other way than to hold you to that promise, for I shall meet her on the island, and I must report to her."
Said the captain, "You won't allow such things as these to break your heart, after being in the army a little while and seeing our soldiers buried in a ditch, with no other coffin or winding sheet than the soldier's dress. For the time being we bury hundreds just in that way; and when from five to fifteen die in one day, as sometimes is the case in these large camps, we can not make coffins for them, but we roll them up in whatever they have. If we can get a piece of board to lay them on when we put them in their graves we do well." "But here you have lumber and plenty of carpenters, and you can have a plain coffin for the dead, and I do hope one will be made for this child. As I told the mother I would see that a coffin was made for her child and have it buried this afternoon, I will do it." He called the sergeant and gave the order for a carpenter among the soldiers to make it, and I saw the pine board coffin go to the burying ground with the child just before sunset.
Colonel Thomas and the captain doubted whether I could secure transportation from General Taliaferro, who was in charge of that post. They said he was a cross old bachelor, and had said he would not give another woman transportation to go into the army. "But," said Colonel Thomas to the captain, "she will be more likely to succeed if she goes herself without any word from us."
On the following day my car-load of supplies arrived, and I began to regret that I had not waited a day or two longer at home for the one hundred dollars that could have been placed in my hands, so that I could use it in an emergency if I should be refused transportation. With some misgivings I entered the general's office and requested an interview. I introduced myself by handing him my papers, which he looked over, and pleasantly asked what I wished.
"I am hoping," I said, "to secure transportation to Island No. 10, and to Memphis, Tennessee, for myself and the supplies referred to in those papers."
"Well, madam, I think your papers are worthy of attention, and I will grant your request."
This was said in such a pleasant manner I almost concluded the general had been misrepresented, but how changed his tone when he called his adjutant, who in an instant stood before him. "Go tell my clerk to come in." He hurried to obey his command, and returned with the report, "He is gone."
"Gone! where has he gone?"
"He went a few minutes ago to Church."
"Gone to Church! He has no business to go to Church, or anywhere else, without my permission; he has no right to leave his office without my order."
This he said in such a stern, vociferous manner that I wished myself out of his presence. But turning to me, in a mild tone, he said:
"Mrs. Haviland, you don't want transportation tonight. You come to-morrow morning at nine o'clock, and you shall have the papers."
With heartfelt thanks I left his office. On my return I found Colonel Thomas and the captain anxiously waiting to learn the result of my call on the general. They met me at the door of their office, and asked:
"What is the news?"
"The general grants transportation for myself and supplies to Island
No. 10 and to Memphis," I said.
By their clapping of hands one would have thought they had got cheering news from the army. I found they too felt the weight of responsibility in this, as they had solicited my aid in getting these freed people to go to the island.
The following morning I found a boat was going to leave at half-past eight o'clock, but too early for the promised transportation, I told the captain of the boat of my wish to go with supplies to Island No. 10 and to Memphis, but had the promise from the general to have the papers at nine o'clock. A captain in the army, standing by, told him he could take me with supplies with all safety; for if General Taliaferro had promised transportation he could rest assured the general at Columbus, Kentucky, would be sure to give it.
"Very well," he said; "where are your supplies?"
They were pointed out, and he ordered them to be put on board at once.
On landing at Columbus I called on the general, and secured transportation from Cairo to places of destination. Now I thought all was straight; but as I handed my paper to the captain he said:
"This is an order for transportation. The captain-quartermaster is to fill it out, to be good for any thing."
I confessed my ignorance of army red-tape, and took back the papers to have them finished. He inquired for my pass from the provost-marshal. That, too, I knew nothing about; but the army captain came to my relief, taking my papers and getting the transportation filled, with a pass from the provost-marshal. These lessons I found important in all my after work.
We soon landed at Island No. 10, the area of which was two hundred and fifty acres of available plow land, with an excellent orchard of three hundred bearing apple and peach trees. Upon this island were seven hundred freedmen, who were making good use of the rich donations of twenty-five plows, with harrows, hoes, axes, rakes, and garden and field seeds, from Indiana and Ohio. Their superintendent, Chaplain Thomas, told me that he never saw a more willing and obedient people. They mostly lived in tents. Government had furnished lumber to erect a few temporary buildings. An old dilapidated farmhouse, and a few log-huts formerly occupied by the overseer and slaves, were the homes of Captain Gordon and Surgeon Ransom, with their families, who seemed to enjoy camp life as well as any I had seen. They had in charge four companies of soldiers. Their hospital assumed an air of neatness and comfort.
We took a stroll over the battle-ground, and saw the deep furrows plowed by the terrible shells, in which a horse might be buried. Here and there were interspersed "rebel rat-holes," as they were called, dug seven or eight feet deep, and nearly covered with planks and two or three feet of earth, in which they dropped themselves, after firing, to reload and be secure from flying shot and shell. I picked up a couple of cannon-balls about the size of a small tea-cup, of which a peck is used for a load. An officer told me that he saw twenty-five rebels killed with one discharge of these balls. O, what slaughter of human life!
Government provided a physician and dispensary for the freed people. Their hospital was a tent, like the majority of the regimental hospitals in the army. The first tent I visited was occupied by an aged pair, with two grown children, who appeared quite intelligent. Hard treatment and cruel separations had filled the greater portion of their lives. As I was making remarks on the wickedness of slavery, said the old man, with tearful eyes, "Please stop till I bring in my daughter and family from the next tent." They soon entered. "Please go on," said the father. While tears were coursing down the old man's furrowed cheeks, in undertone he ejaculated, "O Lord, I did not expect to live to see this day."
At the close of my remarks he arose to his feet, and in the most pathetic manner addressed his family as follows:
"My wife and children, have you thought we should ever see this? I fear we are not thankful enough to God. Do we prize this precious privilege as we ought? That dear wife was sold from me nearly twenty years ago; soon after my children were sold, and I thought my heart was broke. They punished me because I grieved so much, and then sold me to be taken another way. O, how I prayed for death to hide me from my troubles, for I thought none could see as much as I did. Many gloomy nights and days of sorrow I spent. I could hear no word from my wife, and nothing from my children. My master told me I should never hear from them again, because I made so much trouble over it; he would send me as far as wind and water would carry me, so I would never hear from them again. I remembered the words of my poor old father upon his death-bed, when he gave me this Bible: 'My son, the same God that made that Bible learned me to read it, and learned me to endure hard trials patiently. Remember, my son, the same God will do the same for you if you go to him for help;' and so he has. Praise be to the Lord forever!" He took from a box a Bible, all spotted over with mold, without and within: "This Bible has been manna to my soul for many years. God has learned me to read, as he did my poor father. He has been my support. I have prayed these many years for deliverance from bondage, and my faith told me it would come; but I didn't know it would come in my time. O, what a Savior is our Jesus! That dear wife was compelled to marry another man in these long years of separation. He was taken into the rebel army, and she came to the Union camp. A few days ago we met at Fort Pillow; and there we met our two long lost children; and here we found this daughter and family. O, how wonderful are God's ways! O, my wife, my children! let us live nearer that Almighty Deliverer than ever before, and praise his holy name forever." And the tall figure sat down, amid sobs and tears. The spirit of that family sermon I can never forget.
This noble man, Uncle Stephen, was but a few days before a slave; yet with the dignity of a patriarch he assumed his new relation. He was evidently a self-taught man, more intelligent, and using more correct language, than any I had met on the island.
On leaving my tent, tickets were given with explanations of my mission, which was both new and strange to them. In another tent I found a young man who had attempted to escape to our lines more than a year before, but was overtaken and shot by his master, shivering the bones six inches above the ankle, making amputation necessary. He was beginning to use his wooden leg. His master was taken prisoner by our men a few days before, and he, with one hundred fellow-slaves, fell into the hands of the Union army. He was fitted with a whole suit. This was done in but few instances, the general destitution forbidding it. It would have pleased the donors to see me with open boxes, taking out garment after garment, measuring and delivering, upon presentation of tickets previously given, to fifty or a hundred at a time; and to listen to the many thanks and hearty "God bless you!" as each garment was taken.
At breakfast the adjutant told me of five little boys belonging to some of the Fort Pillow families that were almost naked, and that he had given one little fellow a pair of his own pants. I told him to bring them to the commissary tent any time from nine to twelve o'clock, as I had arranged to meet the children to whom I had given tickets; and if he brought them or gave them a slip of paper with his name, it would serve the same purpose. Soon we were beside the boxes in our commissary tent measuring, fitting, and handing out, when up stepped the little fellow of eight summers with the tall man's pants, rolled over and over at the bottom, with one suspender tied around him, the other placed over his shoulder to hold them on. His eyes sparkled as a new suit was thrown over his arm; calling out, "See here, Johnnie, what I got!" "Yes, look at mine!" was the quick reply, while on the other side stood a little girl who exclaimed, in surprise, "Oh, Milla, my dress has a pocket, and see what I found," as she drew out a rag doll two inches long. Then a dozen other little girls instituted a search and found similar treasures, which I recognized as coming from certain little girls in Hudson, Michigan. All were on tip-toe with excitement, and these remarks were flying through this crowd of little folks when the adjutant came to the tent door. Laughing through tears, he said, "Have you ever thought of the Savior's words, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me?'"
"That thought had come to my mind before engaging in this mission, and it is that which drew me from my Michigan home."
"Doesn't this pay you," he continued, "for coming all this distance, to see those sparkling eyes and light hearts dancing with joy?"
"Here is verified the declaration that it is more blessed to give than to receive," was my reply.
A woman came one evening with the following queries:
"Missus, whar all dese clo'es come from? Does gov'ment send 'em to us?"
On listening to my explanation, "An' don't gov'ment pay you for bringin' 'em to us?"
After all her questions had been disposed of she sat for a moment in a deep study; then said in surprise, "De Norf mus' be mighty, mighty rich to send so much money down here to carry on de war and send so much to eat, and den da send so many clo'es an' keep so many men here too; indeed da mus' be mighty rich."
They were preparing to open a school for them. Henry Roundtree, a missionary, was laboring among them, and would disburse clothing sent to that point.
After spending over a week on this beautiful island, on my way to the steamer, I was hailed by a female voice calling out, "Missus, missus, don't pass by dis yere way." Turning in the direction of the call, I saw a very old woman sitting on a log, clad in a man's coat, hat, and shoes, with an old patched negro cotton skirt. On approaching her I remarked, as I took the bony hand, "You are very old."
"Can't tell how ole I is, only I knows I's been here great while. You see dat white house over de river dar? Dat's been my home great many year, but massa drove me off, he say, 'case I's no 'count, gwine round wheezin' like an ole hoss, an' snap a gun at me an' say he shoot my brain out if I didn't go to de Yankees. An' missus come out an' say she set fire to my cabin some night an' burn me up in it. 'Go 'long to de Yankees; da wants niggers, an' you ain't no 'count no how.' An' I tole 'em, 'Wa'n't I 'count good many years ago?' But da say, 'Clar out wid you.' An' I seed some boys fishing' on de bank, an' da fetch me over."
Looking down at her stockingless feet she said, "Missus, I ain't had a suit o' clo'es in seven years." I told her if there was a woman's garment left she should have it. And I would tell the good people about her, and they would send her a suit of clothes.
"Tank you, missus; God bless you!"
And I left the giant-like old woman, whose head was bleached by the fronts of eighty or ninety Winters. While waiting on the gunboat for the steamer, I referred to the old woman I had seen, when one of the men turned to his comrade and said, "That's the same strange-appearing old woman we brought over," and he repeated the same story she related to me. Said one, "Such people ought to be made to bite the dust. Her master took the oath of allegiance to save his property; but he has no more principle than a hyena to turn out such an old white-headed woman as that to die like a brute."
Such are some of the incidents that gradually changed the politics of the army. They made our Butlers and Hunters by scores. They saw that man's inhumanity to man was the outgrowth of slavery. They clearly perceived that the iron rod of oppression must be broken, or the unholy rebellion would succeed.
At four P. M. I embarked for another field. On board the steamer were a number of officers and soldiers, and three women who were ex-slave owners. They had quietly listened to the conversation of the officers on establishing schools among the freed men, and taking them into the army as soldiers. I, too, had been a silent listener. After the officers had left the cabin, one of the women drew her chair near me, and in a subdued tone said:
"Do you believe it is right to set up schools among niggers?"
"Certainly I do," was my reply, "as they have as good a right to become intelligent as any other class of people."
"Do you think that it is right to make soldiers out of niggers?"
"Certainly, if it is right for any class of people."
After looking around to see whether any officer was in hearing, she added:
"And do you think it right to rob us of our niggers, as the Yankees are doing?"
"Certainly, if you call it robbery to allow the negroes to go where they please."
My replies were in my common tone of voice, yet it seemed to frighten her. She would take a look to see whether an officer was near. Then would go on with her queries in an undertone.
"I tell you it is mighty hard, for my pa paid his own money for our niggers; and that's not all they've robbed us of. They have taken our horses and cattle and sheep and every thing."
As I had my little Bible in my hand, I turned to the predicted destruction of Babylon in Revelation, and read, "Fine flour, and wheat, and beasts, and sheep, and horses, and chariots, and slaves, and souls of men." "You see here," I said, "are the very articles you have named. And God is the same unchanging Lord to-day."
"But I tell you, madam, its mighty, mighty hard."
In all this conversation she closely watched the officers, and often raised her handkerchief to her face while talking with me, as if to check the sound of her already stifled voice. How widely different were our positions, compared with six years before, when going down this river on an errand for a white fugitive from slavery. Then my thoughts could find no place even in a whisper, and slave-holders were cursing and threatening abolitionists. What a turning of tables! Now I could say all that was in my heart on the sin of slavery, and the slave-holder was now hushed. The coal-barge "L. S. Haviland," that I saw on my other trip tied up a little way above Memphis, was not now to be seen. I had not yet learned the fate of those Tennessee slave-holders who had so often threatened my life, and a number of my friends had advised me to keep a proper distance from them, as this might be the time for their opportunity. When I left my home I had no idea of going as far as Tennessee, or my children and friends would have feared for my safety; but, as for myself, I knew no fear.
In Memphis I found many hospitals filled with sick, wounded, and dying soldiers; and in better condition than I had anticipated, except the Jackson Hospital, which was one of the largest in the city. I asked permission of the guards to enter, but was informed their orders were very strict to allow no one to go in without permission.
"Very well," said I, "please inform me where I can find the clerk, and
I will secure a permit."
The surgeon in charge was just passing out of the main entrance, and the guard introduced me. I informed him of my wish to visit his hospital. In a very surly manner he inquired:
"Have you a son here?"
"I have not," I answered.
"Then what do you want to go in here for? It is no place for a lady to step her foot over the threshold of a hospital."
"I perceive you and I differ widely in that; but if you doubt my fitness to visit your patients, you can examine my papers from the governor of my State and a member of Congress and others."
"If you have no son here, I don't see that you have any business here."
"Every soldier is some mother's son, and I wish to visit them, and here are my papers; you can read them if you wish."
Throwing out his hand angrily, he said:
"Go along, then; go along."
I went, but he took good care to bear me company.
As we entered each ward, every soldier who was able to bear his weight sprang to his feet, and stood by his cot during our stay in the ward. I saw at once that it was in pursuance of an order. I had made it a point to shake hands with every soldier that was awake and conscious, but the surgeon hurried through without giving an opportunity to speak to a half-dozen in the whole hospital. One poor skeleton of a man sat bolstered on his cot, eating his dinner, and had on his plate a spoonful of cooked onion.
"Where did you get that onion?" cried the surgeon.
"I paid my own money for it, doctor."
"Who said you might have it?"'
"Dr. Spears."
"Very well, then;" and passed on.
Here my disgust filled up to the brim. I cared but little for his attempt to browbeat me; but when he treated a helpless soldier like this I could hardly keep my indignation from boiling over. The first words spoken to me after entering the hospital were:
"Do you want to go into the kitchen?"
"I would like to pass through your kitchen," was my reply.
"Very unfavorable time, madam—very unfavorable; about dinner-time."
Very favorable, thought I, and went in. I could see at a glance that the large caldron of potatoes was boiled half an hour too long. Their bread looked well, and I suppose it was good. As we passed out, taking memoranda and pencil, I said:
"You have a very large hospital. How many will it accommodate?"
"Fifteen hundred, madam. Very few, very few at present, only four hundred and eighty-four."
"How many nurses have you?"
"Twenty-three."
"No female nurses?"
"No, madam. As I told you, a woman has no business to step inside of a hospital."
"As I told you, we evidently differ in that respect. Where I have found judicious female nurses it seems more home-like, and our soldiers feel more contented."
"Very few, very few judicious female nurses."
"They exist, notwithstanding. How many surgeons have you?"
"Only four at present."
"You are the surgeon in charge; please give me your name."
"My name is Surgeon Powers, of the Seventh Missouri Regiment."
His name and figures were too plainly recorded to be effaced. Here he turned a perfect somersault, if words could perform the feat. With an affected politeness, bowing himself almost double:
"Madam, I hope you will call again some time; call in the middle of the forenoon or afternoon—very unfavorable about meal-time."
"If I remain a week or ten days longer in the city," I replied, "I shall do so."
"I would be very happy to have you call again, madam; very happy to see you again."
I left with a heavy heart, and called at the sanitary rooms to ascertain the location of five unvisited hospitals. I found the room filled with officers and a few generals of high rank. I introduced myself, as usual, by handing Dr. Warrener, sanitary agent, my papers.
"Then you are visiting the hospitals, with supplies, etc., are you? I am glad to see you, as we have had no visitor from so far North. How do you find them?"
"I have found them," I answered, "more satisfactorily conducted than I anticipated, with but one exception."
"Have you visited the Jackson?"
"I have just come from there."
"To-day is not the visiting day. Did you see Surgeon Powers?"
"I did."
"Did you get into that hospital without trouble?"
"We had a parley."
"What did he say to you?"
I gave his objection and my reply in a low tone. To my annoyance, the doctor repeated it in a loud voice, and continued:
"You certainly could have given no better reason than that every soldier is some mother's son. What do you think of Surgeon Powers?"
I hesitated in view of all these officers; but my second thought was, no matter whether the President himself were present; and I frankly replied:
"I think he is a tyrant brandy-cask. Why do you allow such a man to occupy the responsible position of surgeon in charge of hundreds of the sick and wounded soldiers?"
"We tried once to get him out, and failed. You ought to see the medical director, who is in the city."
He gave me the location of the hospitals I desired, and I left. Remembering the promise I made my son Joseph, I returned to head-quarters, and spent the balance of the day in writing for soldiers and for myself.
The following morning I resumed hospital visiting. On the street I met an officer, who reached his hand with a smile, saying, "You do not recognize me, but I recognize you as being the lady in Dr. Warrener's office yesterday, after visiting the Jackson Hospital."
"I do not know but you thought me severe in my remarks concerning
Surgeon Powers."
"Not at all—not by any means, for I had two sons under him six weeks, and they both declared they would rather die in the open field than be under the care of that drunken tyrant again."
"Why do you permit such a surgeon to have the care of the sick, wounded, and dying soldiers?"
"Well, it is difficult for us to do much with each other, but there is the medical director just ahead of us; you ought to see him; I'll introduce you. He is very much of a gentleman."
The first query of the medical director, after reading my papers, was
"Have you visited the Jackson Hospital? And did you see Surgeon Powers?"
"I undertook to visit it yesterday," I said, "but was hurried through in such haste, by Surgeon Powers, that I could not speak to any of the soldiers, or stop to write for them to their home friends, if they desired."
"What do you think of Surgeon Powers?"
"I think he is an unfeeling tyrant. The white of his eyes had the color of red flannel, and the unmistakable brandy breath made standing near him very unpleasant. Besides, his ungentlemanly, morose treatment of helpless soldiers indicates his entire unfitness for the position he occupies. If the milk of human kindness is more loudly called for in one position than another, it is in the surgeon in charge of sick, wounded, and dying soldiers."
"We know, Mrs. Haviland, this is true, and we made an effort to displace him once and failed, because the medical director over the whole of us in this division, next in rank to Grant himself, is determined to hold him here. But if you will make out your report, with the recommendations from your governor and Congressman backing it, we can make that efficient. You may make your report as strong as you please."
I left him with cordial thanks, and soon the report was handed him. I visited all the hospitals in that post, and on my second visit to the Jackson found Surgeon Powers filled to overflowing with affected politeness; but it did not brighten the bleared eye, or straighten the zigzag gait of the surgeon.
A few weeks after I met a Memphis officer, who informed me that Surgeon Powers was relieved of hospital work altogether very soon after I left the city. A few months later he filled a drunkard's grave.
In one hospital in Memphis I found in one corner a female soldier, Charlie. She was in both Bull Run battles, and four others she named; besides, she had endured long marches. Here she was taken violently ill with typhoid fever, and for the first time her sex became known. She was large and rather coarse-featured, and of indomitable will. She said the cause of her enlistment did not now exist, and she wanted to go home as soon as able. She intimated that her betrothed had recently died, and she had no desire to remain in the army.
While in Memphis a telegram came from President Lincoln ordering four hundred colored men to be enlisted, and no more, until further orders. Colonel Eaton took this work for his breakfast spell. As he came in rather late for his morning meal he said, "I have enlisted the required number, and quite a company went away crying because they could not enlist. I comforted them by telling them that I presumed there would be another call soon." I had built a bed for myself in one corner of the commissary building, and as we were occupying the weakest point at the post, we were ordered to have no light in our tents, but before dark to have every needed article at our bedside, ready at a moment's warning to be conducted to Fort Pickering. Soldiers were kept in readiness for action, as the enemy was threatening to retake Memphis. At two, o'clock A. M. the loud cry, "Halt!" at the corner where I was sleeping, aroused me. This was quickly followed by a still louder "Halt! May be you don't know who I is; I holds a gun, an' her's off."
"Well-well, I only want to come to you; I don't want to go farther." The officer approached, saying, "That is right; if I had taken one step after you cried halt the third time, you should have shot me through, no matter who I am, if it was the President himself."
At the breakfast table Colonel Eaton remarked: "A number of our new colored soldiers were put on picket guard last night on trial, and not one sleepy head was found among them. Since we accept these men as soldiers I am confident it will do away the necessity of drafting men, as some think must soon be done."
I spent a few days in visiting hospitals, often reading portions of Scripture, and kneeling by the cot of the suffering and dying soldiers, imploring the Great Physician to heal the sin-sick soul. For some I wrote letters to their home friends, which I found was often very gratifying to poor homesick boys. One very sick with pneumonia wished me to write to his folks in Kent County, Michigan, that he was in the hospital from a little cold, but would soon be able to join his regiment again. I dared not write according to his directions, and told him I would finish his letter at head-quarters. When he asked my name, he wanted to know if I was a relative of Rev. D. S. Haviland, in Kent County, Michigan. When I told him he was my son, he held my hand in both of his and burst into a flood of tears, and said he had heard him preach many times, and thought he was such a good man. I saw his feelings were deeply affected, and I feared it would increase the fever, and I promised to come and see him again in a day or two. I sat by him with my hand upon his head and consoled him as best I could. When he became calm I left, and called on his physician for his opinion concerning him. He said he was still in a critical condition, but thought the disease was turning in his favor, and advised me not to write to his friends until two days more had passed, as he would then be able to judge better of his case. Two days later I called again and found him much better, but the doctor thought the excitement of my leaving him increased the fever during the afternoon. He was now a little stronger, and he said I had better not let him know that I designed leaving the city. I finished the letter with greater encouragement than I could have done conscientiously on my first visit.