Beyond All Price

by Carolyn Poling Schriber

  “As I understand it, there are two groups. Some of them are members of the Boston Educational Commission for Freedmen, and others are missionaries sponsored by the American Missionary Society in New York. Nellie, you might remember a visit we had from a gentleman by the name of Edward L. Pierce back in January.”

  “Vaguely, Sir. Was he the one who kept talking about the need for humanitarian aid without ever defining what that might be?”

  “That’s the one, and we laughed about his innocence at the time. But he returned home and recruited some fifty-three men and women who are due here in early March. From what I’ve been able to learn, there are all sorts of folks in his group—clerks, doctors, divinity students, teachers, abolitionists. Their intention is to prepare the slaves for full independence and citizenship.”

  “Won’t their goals interfere with those of the cotton agents?” Doctor Ludington asked.

  “Perhaps. But both Reynolds and Pierce have been sent here by Secretary Chase and at Lincoln’s order. If all goes well, Reynolds’ people will concentrate on the immediate employment needs of the Negroes, and Pierce and his sincere little band will work on more long-range efforts to spread education among them.”

  “What if the two groups don’t co-operate with your proposed division of labor, Daniel?”

  “Then we do our best to stay out of the way.”

  ggg

  20

  James Island and Secessionville

  The change, when it came, created massive upheaval. Generals Hunter and Benham had agreed it was time to move on the city of Charleston. No one doubted the importance of such an assault. Charleston was the birthplace of the Confederacy, the site of the first shots fired, the symbol of everything the South believed in. No major military installation stood there, although a series of small forts protected the main channels leading into Charleston Harbor. And even though much of Charleston had been destroyed in an accidental fire the preceding December, the city was still a bastion of Southern sympathies and southern traditions. If it fell, the Union leaders believed, the rest of the South would collapse inward on itself.

  General Benham planned a two-pronged attack. One division, led by General Wright, would cross the Edisto River, march across Johns Island, and take possession of the abandoned town of Legareville on the Stono River. That would put them within a short boat ride of James Island, where the most dangerous of the protecting forts were located. The other division, led by General Stevens, would travel by steamer, first to Hilton Head, where they would pick up additional regiments and then sail for the mouth of the Stono River itself. Naval gunboats would precede the army steamers up the Stono, blasting any challenges to their movements.

  For Nellie, the plans were only a familiar variation of the other troop movements in which she had participated, except this one was larger, and better armed, and was being taken more seriously than any other she had witnessed. Colonel Leasure once again gave her her orders, which involved making alternate care arrangements for those patients who could not leave the hospital and sorting out which of the patients were really strong enough and mobile enough to accompany the main army. The supply lists for Doctor Ludington were also longer and more comprehensive. This time she did not question the need for so many ground cloths. She knew all too well why they would be needed.

  Just as before, the colonel warned her she and her ambulatory patients would be the last to load aboard the steamers. They would not disembark during the brief stop at Hilton Head, and they would remain aboard ship until suitable quarters could be arranged on James Island.

  “Yes, Sir. I understand. Please don’t worry about me.”

  “Well, but I do worry, Nellie. I must ask you to keep out of the way but at the same time to make yourself instantly available if we go into battle and nurses are needed. That sounds contradictory and confusing, even to me.”

  “I’ll be there if you need me, Sir.” Nellie was touched by his concern. She was still smiling when his next instruction came.

  “And get rid of that confounded cat!” Her heart plummeted, although she should have known she would not be able to take a cat into battle. The thought of losing that warm bundle of fluff reminded her of all the other pets she had lost—Pythagorus, Oliver, and now Cotton.

  “I’ll leave her with the slaves, Sir. They’ll take care of her for me, and I can always come back for her.” Nellie wished she could believe her own words.

  The move to James Island was torturous. The rain came down in a steady deluge. Nellie and the troops aboard their steamer had shelter, but those marching across Johns Island bogged down. Men bearing heavy packs found the mud sucked the boots right off their feet.

  Colonel Edwin Metcalf of the Rhode Island regiment later described the misery of their march:

  A short victorious march to Charleston, and the whole sea coast is ours! How simple, easy, natural—how well contrived, how impossible to fail! Alas! No; success was certain—if it should not rain, and it did rain. In June, rains will come in South Carolina and when they come, men’s plans always fail if they won’t stand drowning . . . . How the water did pour! How the road deepened and lengthened . . . Our little army was floundered. I saw the hardiest in my command, proud, self-reliant officers and men, sit down and cry like children while they cut off their shoes, and then dragged themselves along to shelter.”

  Nellie’s own low point came when the Second Division made its way onto James Island and set up camp on whatever bits of solid ground they could find. Try as she might, she could not fully disguise her distaste at being housed in a tent once again. The canvas had been stored for a long time in damp conditions, and the musty smell permeated everything in the tent. Out came the tin plates and cups, a come-down from the English porcelain on which the Roundhead staff had been taking their meals. No slaves stood ready to do her bidding. Once again she had to fetch whatever she needed for herself. There was not even a beautiful landscape to soothe her sinking spirits.

  James Island was a swamp, and a particularly nasty one at that. More than half of the “land” was accessible only at low tide, and then only when the sun dried out the pluff mud. A few high ridges offered crude roadways, and some plantation owners had taken advantage of the sogginess of the soil to create vast rice fields. Cotton crops grew only on the highest ground. Rough wooden causeways stretched here and there across the watery channels, testimony to the dangers of trying to march an army across the island. And then there were the bugs. Fleas and mosquitoes swarmed, and it was impossible to keep them out of the tents.

  Nellie tried not to complain, but one night in the mess tent she confronted the colonel. “Why in the world is the army interested in holding this miserable swamp? There’s no place big enough to hold a battle, as far as I can see, and even if we won a battle, what would we do with the place?”

  “It’s a fair question, Nellie. Obviously our target is the city of Charleston. Look, I’ll draw you a map,” he said, picking up a stick and drawing some lines in the dirt floor. “Charleston sits on a peninsula at the far end of Charleston Harbor here. Fort Sumter, the place that started this whole mess, is on an island in the middle of the harbor. Now, precisely because of the land conditions you have so vividly described, it’s going to take a naval attack to bring the city to its knees. But a naval attack, as we have already discovered, faces almost insurmountable dangers from two other forts that guard the entrance to the harbor: Fort Moultrie on the east side of the harbor (and we can’t get there!) and Fort Johnson, here on James Island. If we can take Fort Johnson from the rear, the Navy will be able to sail right into the harbor through the main shipping channel. The only thing stopping us, besides the pluff mud, of course, is a small Confederate line between us and the rest of the island. If we can breach that line, we go right on to Fort Johnson and clear the way for the Navy.

  “Well, I haven’t seen any Confederates around here, unless they’ve taken to enlisting mosquitoes.”

  “They are out there, I promise
you. That’s why I’ve given orders you and the other women will not leave this camp.”

  “But. . . .”

  “I’m not in the mood for arguments, Nellie. There are little picket outposts all over this island. We’re sending well-armed squads of men to flush them out, but they know the footpaths better than we do. We’re getting organized for an attack, but those preparations take time. This is not a little two-day exercise like Coosaw Ferry. We’re here to get a job done, and we’ll be staying until it’s completed.”

  “Of course, Sir. I didn’t mean to sound critical.”

  If Nellie had doubted the colonel’s words, she soon saw evidence of the Confederate presence for herself. One afternoon, a scouting squad of Roundheads came back to camp fairly dancing with glee and dragging two cannons behind them. They had stumbled across a band of rebel soldiers who were trying to establish a firing position on a ridge within sight of the Union camp. When the Confederates spotted blue uniforms, they abandoned the attempt. One cannon slipped off the causeway and become bogged down in the mud. After several futile attempts to free it, they fled, leaving all three of the 8-inch Howitzers behind.

  The Union soldiers seized the cannons and brought them back to camp. Along the way, they were spotted by a crew of soldiers from the Confederate Eutaw Battalion, but the rebels assumed these were retreating Yankees, dragging their own cannons behind them. A few shots sailed over their heads, but the “retreating” Yankees came home without a scratch. It was a great morale boost for the entire camp.

  Another incident served to balance those high spirits with a dose of grim reality. Captain James Cline led a squadron out to explore the grounds of the abandoned Legare Plantation in hopes of moving part of the camp to a more forward position. Other Union soldiers from the Twenty-Eighth Massachusetts and the Seventy-Ninth New York moved toward the surrounding woods, where they ran into more soldiers from the Eutaw Battalion. As the rebels came pouring out of the woods, Captain Cline and twenty-two members of the Roundhead regiment found themselves cut off and surrounded. The Confederates forced them to lay down their swords, and then marched them off in the direction of earthworks being erected near a small settlement known as Secessionville. Within a couple of days, official word came: the men were being held as prisoners of war and had been transported to Charleston.

  Skirmishes near Grimball’s Plantation brought more casualties. In a gunfight between the Eutaw Battalion and the Forty-Sixth New York, two men died and five were wounded. Two days later, Union regiments faced a Georgia regiment in a more serious conflict. This time there were three Unions soldiers dead and nineteen wounded. Nellie was too busy in the hospital tent to reflect on what was happening, but it was clear the casualty list was mounting: twenty-two prisoners, five dead, and twenty-four wounded soldiers before the battle lines had even been drawn.

  The ordinary soldiers felt they had come a long way to do absolutely nothing once again. As they waited, and grumbled, the war still seemed far removed. For Nellie, on the other hand, the first realities of treating battle injuries were shock enough. These are bullet wounds, she kept telling herself. What if they had been hit with cannon balls instead of bullets? She realized the coming days would put her own courage to a test, and she tried to steel herself against the revulsion she felt at torn flesh and suppurating wounds. Doctor Ludington watched her quietly, knowing this was a struggle she had to face on her own. No platitudes would serve her as well as a few more harsh realities.

  The commanders were busy with plans for the coming attack, although they were having trouble coming to an agreement. General Hunter was nearing retirement and wanted to do nothing that might ruin his career at this late stage. His second in command, General Benham, was younger and brash to the point of insubordination. His philosophy was to take the riskiest route, hoping for a victory that would surprise and delight the Army high command. As for the two brigade commanders, they, too were ill-matched. Gen Wright was cautious to a fault. He would not agree to a plan that put those same men in danger of their lives. General Stevens was probably the most competent officer of all, but he deeply resented having to answer to a commander he felt was unfit for duty. He wrote to his wife to take out his frustrations, calling Benham “an ass and an imbecile—vascillatory, and utterly unfit to command—a dreadful man of no earthly use except as a nuisance and obstruction.”

  Such obvious differences meant days passed without a resolution. On June 15th, General Hunter made a quick trip back to Hilton Head to placate his wife by taking her to dinner with Admiral DuPont. As soon as he was gone, Benham made his move, issuing orders for an attack on the earthwork at Secessionville.

  Benham’s fellow officers did not question the importance of that earthwork. It blocked the only dry access to the causeway that led straight to Fort Johnson. If they could take possession of that position, they could not only open the way to Charleston Harbor but also protect their troops from any attack from the rear. But what made the site appealing was precisely what made it a difficult target. Just outside of Secessionville, the dry land narrowed to a width of about thirty yards. On either side, swamps and hedge rows would effectively prevent the soldiers from spreading out in front of the fortification. Instead, the men would be marching down a funnel that pointed them straight into the guns surmounting the earthwork. If they were fired upon, there would be no place to run. That meant this must be a surprise attack, carried out silently, under the cover of darkness, if it had any hope of succeeding.

  Nellie and the other nurses watched the men form their lines. The plan was to get underway at midnight, but one delay piled upon another. It was almost 4:00 a.m. before the men left camp. The sun was brightening the horizon, and although it was a cloudy morning, even the women knew visibility was improving. Instead of fading into the night shadows, the ranks of armed men were silhouetted against the sky. Benham gave one more order that shocked everyone. “Unload your rifles and attach bayonets,” he ordered. “We will not fire at the enemy. We are going to sneak up on him and kill him in his sleep.”

  Nellie looked at the other women with worried eyes. “But what if they see us coming and shoot first?” No one had an answer.

  The first reports filtering back to the camp were contradictory, some telling of a great victory and others, a great defeat. What Nellie saw—and what frightened her—was that by 9:00 a.m. the men returning to camp came not in their usual brisk marching formation but in clumps of running men and limping stragglers. There was fear in their eyes, and their breathe came in ragged gasps. Seeing Lieutenant Morton of Company C, she hurried to waylay him. “Please, Philo, tell me what has happened.”

  He simply shook his head, his eyes brimming with tears as he pushed past her and headed for his tent. “You don’t want to know,” he said as he passed her.

  Oh, God! Nellie whispered to herself. Then, seeing George Fisher making his way to the hospital tent, she hurried to see if he needed help. “Private Fisher, are you looking for something?”

  “The colonel wants his surgical instruments.”

  “But we’re all set up here. Why would he move them?” Nellie realized she was interfering, but could not seem to stop herself.

  “They’re setting up a field hospital down at the Rivers Plantation. Not enough room for the wounded in here,” he mumbled, as he gathered up what instruments he could.

  “Then I’m going out there with you. What can I carry?”

  “No, Miss Nellie,” he answered. “The colonel ain’t gonna want you to see what’s going on out there. You should stay here to care for those with only minor wounds.”

  “Nonsense! Any woman here can wield a sticking plaster for a scratch. I’m the matron of the regiment, and I will go with you. The colonel will need me, and I promised to be there.”

  “Suit yourself, then. I don’t have time to argue. Just don’t slow me down.” George Fisher set off back down the road with a determined stride, and Nellie fairly ran to keep up with him. I’ll not get in anyone’s
way, she promised herself. But if men need surgeons, they also need nurses.

  Before they reached the Rivers House, Nellie could see a line of stretcher-bearers moving toward it from the direction of the battle. By the time they reached the front portico, she could hear the screams and moans of wounded soldiers. There was an odor in the air, too, a stomach-churning mixture of gunpowder, chloroform, blood, and excrement. Swallowing hard, she pushed her way through the ever-growing crowds, looking for only one man, the colonel who needed her.