Nurse and Spy in the Union Army

In passing through the college building I noticed a young sergeant, a mere boy, who was shot in the temple. He attracted my attention, and I made some inquiry concerning him. He was a Federal, and belonged to the – Massachusetts regiment. An old soldier sitting by him told me the following: “That boy is not sixteen yet; he enlisted as a private, and has, by his bravery and good conduct, earned the three stripes which you see on his arm. He fought all day yesterday like a young lion, leading charges again and again upon the enemy. After we lost our captain and lieutenants he took command of the company, and led it through the battle with the skill and courage of a young brigadier, until he fell stunned and bleeding. I carried him off the field, but could not tell whether he was dead or alive. I washed the blood from his face; the cold water had a salutary effect upon him, for when Hancock and Kearney had completed their work, and the cheers of victory rang over the bloody field, he was sufficiently revived to hear the inspiring tones of triumph. Leaping to his feet, faint and sick as he was, he took up the shout of victory in unison with the conquerers on the field. But he had scarcely uttered the notes of victory and glory when his strength deserted him and he fell insensible to the ground.” The old man added: “General – says if he lives through this he will go into the next battle with shoulder straps on.” I went up to him, took his feverish hand, and told him that I was glad that his wound was not mortal. He thanked me, and said with enthusiasm, “I would rather have been killed than to have lost the battle.”

There is one thing that I have noticed on the field in every battle that I have witnessed, viz.: that the christian man is the best soldier. Says a minister of the Gospel, writing upon this subject: “It is a common saying among the officers that, as a class, the men who stand foremost when the battle rages are the christian men. Many a time I have talked with them about such scenes, and they have told me that their souls have stood firm in that hour of strife, and that they have been perfectly calm. I have had christian generals tell me this. I have heard General Howard often say that in the midst of the most terrific portion of the battle, when his heart for a moment quailed, he would pause, and lift up his soul to God and receive strength. “And,” said he, “I have gone through battles without a particle of fear. I have thought that God sent me to defend my country. I believed it was a christian duty to stand in the foremost of the fight, and why should I be afraid?”

I once heard an eminently pious lady say that she never could reconcile the idea in her mind of a christian going into the army to fight; it was so inconsistent with the christian character that she was tempted to doubt the piety of all fighting men. I respect the lady’s views upon the subject, but beg leave to differ from her; for I believe that a man can serve God just as acceptably in fighting the enemies of liberty, truth and righteousness with the musket down South, as he can in the quiet pulpits of the North; in fact I am inclined to think he can do so a little more effectually in the former place. I only wish that there were more of our holy men willing to take up the carnal weapons of warfare, forego the luxuries of home, and, by setting examples worthy of emulation, both in camp and on the battle field, thus strike a fatal blow at this unholy rebellion.

The last night I spent in the hospital before leaving Williamsburg, I witnessed the death of a christian soldier, a perfect description of which I find in the “Memorials of the War:” “It was the hour of midnight, when the chaplain was summoned to the cot of a wounded soldier. He had only left him an hour before, with confident hopes of his speedy recovery – hopes which were shared by the surgeon and the wounded man himself. But a sudden change had taken place, and the surgeon had come to say that the man could live but an hour or two at most, and to beg the chaplain to make the announcement to the dying man. He was soon at his side, but overpowered by his emotions, was utterly unable to deliver his message. The dying man, however, quickly read the solemn truth in the altered looks of the chaplain, his faltering voice and ambiguous words. He had not before entertained a doubt of his recovery. He was expecting soon to see his mother, and with her kind nursing soon to be well. He was therefore entirely unprepared for the announcement, and at first it was overwhelming.

“‘I am to die then; and – how long?’ As he had before expressed hope in Christ, the chaplain replied: ‘You have made your peace with God; let death come as soon as it will, He will carry you safely over the river.’ ‘Yes; but this is so awfully sudden, awfully sudden!’ His lips quivered; he looked up grievingly: ‘And I shall not see my mother.’ ‘Christ is better than a mother,’ murmured the chaplain. ‘Yes.’ The word came in a whisper. His eyes were closed; the lips still wore that trembling grief, as if the chastisement were too sore, too hard to be borne; but as the minutes passed, and the soul lifted itself up stronger and more steadily upon the wings of prayer, the countenance grew calmer, the lips steadier, and when the eyes opened again there was a light in their depths that could have come only from heaven.

“‘I thank you for your courage,’ he said more feebly, taking the chaplain’s hand; ‘the bitterness is over now, and I feel willing to die. Tell my mother’ – he paused, gave one sob, dry, and full of the last anguish of earth – ‘tell her how I longed to see her; but if God will permit me I will be near her. Tell her to comfort all who loved me; to say that I thought of them all. Tell my father that I am glad that he gave his consent. Tell my minister, by word or letter, that I thought of him, and that I thank him for all his counsels. Tell him I find that Christ will not desert the passing soul, and that I wish him to give my testimony to the living, that nothing is of real worth but the religion of Jesus; and now, will you pray with me?’ With swelling emotion and tender tones the chaplain besought God’s grace and presence; then, restraining his sobs, he bowed down and pressed upon the beautiful brow, already chilled with the breath of the coming angel, twice, thrice, a fervent kiss. They might have been as tokens from the father and mother, as well as for himself.

“So thought, perhaps, the dying soldier, for a heavenly smile touched his face with new beauty, as he said, ‘Thank you; I won’t trouble you any longer. You are wearied out; go to your rest.’ ‘The Lord God be with you!’ was the firm response. ‘Amen,’ trembled from the fast whitening lips. Another hour passed, still the chaplain did not go to rest, but retired to an adjoining room; he was about to return to the bedside of the dying when the surgeon met him and whispered softly, ‘He is gone.’ Christ’s soldier had found the captain of his salvation, and received his reward.”

Tell my mother, when you see her,
That I fell amid the strife;
And for freedom and my country
I have given up my life;
Tell her that I sent this message
Ere my tongue refused to speak,
And you tell her, comrade, won’t you?
Tell my mother not to weep.

Tell her, comrade, how we battled
For our country and the right;
How I held the starry banner
In the thickest of the fight;
Tell her how they struggled for it,
And, with curses loud and deep,
Took my bosom for their target —
But tell her not to weep.

Tell her I held up the banner
’Mid the screaming shot and shell,
Till the fatal leaden missile
Pierced my side, and then I fell.
Tell her I was ready, waiting,
When my pulses ceased to beat,
And I longed once more to see her —
But you tell her not to weep.

Tell her that the truths she taught me
Nerved my arm and led my feet,
And I trusted in the promise
’Mid the battle’s fiercest heat.
Tell her, while my life was ebbing,
That I kissed her face so sweet —
Kissed the picture that she gave me —
And you tell her not to weep.

Tell her, comrade, when you see her,
That my battlefields are o’er,
And I’ve gone to join an army
Where rebellion comes no more;
Tell her that I hope to greet her,
When together we shall meet,
In that better home in heaven,
Where we never more shall weep.

CHAPTER X

On the tenth of May headquarters were established beyond Williamsburg, and communications were opened between the forces moving by land and water. The following despatch was then sent by General McClellan to Secretary Stanton:

    “Camp at Ewell’s Farm,
    “Three miles beyond Williamsburg,
    “May 10th – 5 a. m.

“From the information reaching me from every source, I regard it as certain that the enemy will meet us with all his force on or near the Chickahominy. They can concentrate many more men than I have, and are collecting troops from all quarters, especially well disciplined troops from the South. Casualties, sickness, garrisons and guards have much reduced our numbers, and will continue to do so. I shall fight the rebel army with whatever force I may have, but duty requires me to urge that every effort be made to reinforce me, without delay, with all the disposable troops in Eastern Virginia, and that we concentrate all our forces, as far as possible, to fight the great battle now impending, and to make it decisive. It is possible that the enemy may abandon Richmond without a serious struggle, but I do not believe he will; and it would be unwise to count upon anything but a stubborn and desperate defense – a life and death contest. I see no other hope for him than to fight this battle, and we must win it. I shall fight them whatever their force may be; but I ask for every man that the department can send me. No troops should now be left unemployed. Those who entertain the opinion that the rebels will abandon Richmond without a struggle are, in my judgment, badly advised, and do not comprehend their situation, which is one requiring desperate measures. I beg that the President and Secretary will maturely weigh what I say, and leave nothing undone to comply with my request. If I am not reinforced it is probable that I will be obliged to fight nearly double my numbers strongly entrenched.”

Four days later he writes:

“I will fight the enemy, whatever their force may be, with whatever force I may have, and I believe that we shall beat them; but our triumph should be made decisive and complete. The soldiers of this army love their Government, and will fight well in its support. You may rely upon them. They have confidence in me as their general, and in you as their President. Strong reinforcements will at least save the lives of many of them; the greater our force the more perfect will be our combinations, and the less our loss. For obvious reasons I beg you to give immediate consideration to this communication, and to inform me fully, at the earliest moment, of your final decision.”

A few days’ rest after the fatigues of the battle, and the glorious news of the evacuation of Norfolk and the total annihilation of the Merrimac, had a wonderful effect upon the spirits of our troops; they seemed inspired with new courage and enthusiasm. Hitherto I have said nothing concerning that great bugbear, the Merrimac. Perhaps some of my “blue-nose” readers are not so well posted with regard to the origin and structure of this formidable rebel battery as the Americans are, and it may be interesting to some to listen to a brief description of it.

“Upon the burning and evacuation of the Norfolk Navy Yard the steam frigate Merrimac was scuttled and sunk, by order of Commodore Macaulay. This was one of the most magnificent ships in the American navy, being rated as a forty-gun frigate, of four thousand tons burden. She was built in Charlestown, Massachusetts, in 1856, and was considered one of the finest specimens of naval architecture then afloat. She was two hundred and eighty-one feet long, fifty-two feet broad, and drew twenty-three feet of water. Her engines were of eight hundred horse power, driving a two-bladed propeller fourteen feet in diameter, and so adjusted as to be raised from the water when the vessel was driven by wind alone. Her armament consisted of twenty-four nine-inch shell guns, fourteen eight-inch, and two one hundred-pound pivot guns. This magnificent structure was raised by the rebels and cut down, leaving only the hull, which was exceedingly massive and solid. Over this they constructed a sloping shield of railroad iron, firmly plaited together, and extending two feet under the water. Its appearance was much like the slanting roof of a house set upon a ship’s hull, like an extinguisher, the ends of the vessel, fore and aft, projecting a few feet beyond this roof. The gun-deck was completely inclosed by this shield, and nothing appeared above it but a short smoke-stack and two flag-staffs.”

An eye witness gives the following account of the first appearance and conflict of the Merrimac: “About noon of Saturday, the eighth of March, 1862, this monster was seen coming around Craney Island from Norfolk, accompanied by two other war vessels, the Jamestown and Yorktown, and quite a little fleet of armed tugs. The Merrimac, with her imposing retinue in train, headed for Newport News, where there was a national garrison, guarded by the sailing frigates the Cumberland, of one thousand seven hundred and twenty-six tons, and the Congress, of one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven tons burden. The Merrimac steamed majestically along, as if conscious of resistless strength, and as she passed the Congress discharged a single broadside into the doomed ship, and then, leaving her to the attention of the Jamestown and Yorktown, made directly for the Cumberland. When the Merrimac was within a hundred yards of the two frigates, they both discharged their tremendous broadsides against her armor.

“The mailed monster quivered a moment under the fearful concussion, but every ball glanced from her sloping shield like the wooden arrows of the Indian from the hide of the crocodile. Her ports were all closed. Not deigning to pay any attention to the fierce but harmless assault of the two frigates, she rushed straight forward upon her prey. The formidable national battery at Newport News opened, with all its immense guns, at point-blank range, and these solid shot and shells also glanced harmlessly away. On rushed the silent Merrimac, with not a soul on board to be seen, true as an arrow, and with all the power of her irresistible weight, plunged headlong with a fearful crash into the side of the helpless frigate. The iron prow of the assailant struck the Cumberland amidships, crushing in her side with a mortal gash. Then, reversing her engine, and not even annoyed by the cannon balls rattling against her impervious mail, she retraced her steps a few rods for another butt.

“As she drew back she turned her broadside to the wounded victim, and hurled into her bosom a merciless volley of shot and shells. The ponderous missiles tore through the crowded ship, hurling her massive guns about her decks, and scattering mutilated bodies in all directions. Again gathering headway, she crowded on all steam and made another plunge at the Cumberland. She struck directly upon the former wound, and crushed in the whole side of the ship as if it had been a lattice work of laths.

“Timbers as strong as nature and art could make them, were snapped and crushed like dry twigs. As the sun went down, that night, over Hampton Roads, every Union heart in the fleet and in the fortress throbbed with despair. There was no gleam of hope. The Merrimac was impervious to balls, and could go where she pleased. In the morning it would be easy work for her to destroy our whole fleet. She could then shell Newport News and Fortress Monroe at her leisure, setting everything combustible in flames, and driving every man from the guns.

“‘That morrow! How anxiously we waited for it! how much we feared its results! At sundown there was nothing to dispute the empire of the seas with the Merrimac, and had a land attack been made by Magruder then, God only knows what our fate would have been.’ All at once a speck of light gleamed on the distant wave; it moved; it came nearer and nearer, and at ten o’clock that night the Monitor appeared. ‘When the tale of brick is doubled, Moses comes.’ I never more firmly believed in special providences than at that hour. Even skeptics were converted, and said, ‘God has sent her.’ But how insignificant she looked; she was but a speck on the dark blue wave at night, and almost a laughable object by day. The enemy call her a ‘cheese-box on a raft,’ and the comparison is a good one.” But insignificant as she appeared, she saved the Union fleet, silenced the rebel monster, and eventually caused her to commit suicide. No wonder then that the news of the death of this formidable foe caused great rejoicing among the Union troops.

Orders were issued to continue the advance up the Peninsula; and as the jubilant troops were engaged in striking tents and making the necessary preparations consequent upon a hurried march, “The Battle Song of the Republic” was being sung with enthusiasm throughout the encampment by thousands of manly voices, and every loyal heart seemed inspired by the glorious sentiments which it contained.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grape of wrath is stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.

Chorus – Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;