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In the fall of 1862, eight year old Maud E. Morrow of Bainbridge, Ohio, went on the adventure of a lifetime. Her father, a physician with the Union army, had fallen ill at Corinth, Mississippi, lately the scene of a very bloody battle. The child managed to talk her mother Emma into taking her along as she traveled to a war zone to nurse her husband back to health. While in Corinth, Maud witnessed things no child should ever have to see: the blood and horror of a country torn by civil war. But she also saw some of the best traits of humanity in the army hospitals at Corinth: hundreds of men and women selflessly working themselves nearly to death to provide medical care for sick and wounded soldiers. Maud also saw firsthand the value of freedom, as she met newly freed slaves and did her own small part to help them improve their lot in life. Fortunately for posterity Maud wrote reminiscences of her travels during the Civil War, and some of them were published in the book Recollections of the Civil War, which came out in 1901. In the forward to her book, Maud made the following disclaimer:
As this is not a story of fiction, I have given the names of all that I remember who were in any way connected with it, in the hope that there are yet some of the number living who will read my little narrative and recognize their own part in it. Should such be the case, my joy at hearing from any or all of them could not be expressed. I have written, that there might be a record of the facts, that my sister and brothers might become familiar with them, and because I love to dwell upon the incidents of my “army life,” as I sometimes term it. Lastly, I have written that it might be as a memorial to my brave, courageous mother, who, with her own hands, ministered so tenderly to the sick and wounded with whom she was brought in close contact. Whether this ever reaches the public eye is a question. Should it be so fortunate, I ask the public to read with kindly criticism, remembering that it is the story of the child told in the language of the adult.
Without further introduction, here are excerpts from the recollections of Maud E. Morrow: some of the following work is from her book; other quotes are taken from an article, "Recollections of a 'Yankee' Girl Who Visited in Occupied Corinth," which was published in The Daily Corinthian (Corinth, Mississippi) May 16, 1954.
I now for the first time give to the world a simple little story of the early part of my life. It is a story of the war without much war in it. My first recollections of the Civil War (which I always thought very uncivil) are of the days of ’61, after Sumter had been fired upon, when each night one of the neighbors would come into our home, and she and my parents would discuss the prospects of war, which at first though a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, was even then lowering darkly upon us. We didn’t get the newspapers daily then as we do now, but whenever one could be obtained, my mother would read the news aloud, while I lay in my trundle bed, listening and cowering with fear. Who shall say that children do not enter into the spirit of current events? I had all a child’s fear of war, and that fear hung over me, for a time, as a dark cloud, for I thought the battles would be fought at our very doors.
In September, 1862, my father, Dr. Coridon Morrow, offered his services to his country, and was appointed Assistant Surgeon of the 43d O.
V. I. [Ohio Volunteer Infantry] His first work was at the battle of Corinth, Miss., which occurred on the 4th and 5th of October. Soon after the battle, owing to bad water and change of climate, he was taken dangerously ill, and wrote my mother an almost illegible scrawl, begging her to come to him at once. We had broken up housekeeping at our home in the village of Bainbridge, Ohio, and gone to Aberdeen, on the Ohio river, to spend the winter with relatives.
It was almost an accident that I was taken on this never-forgotten journey. There were four children of us; two were taken and two were left. I was at this time but little more than eight years old, my baby sister, blue-eyed Mary, but five months. At first thought, it seemed that my mother could take but one, the baby, but here I made the plea of my life to be allowed to go, promising to be good and to help after we should get there. There was little time for parley, and the question was soon settled in my favor. We started on Friday, October 31st, leaving the little brother and sister to the care of kind friends in the little brown cottage, on the banks of La Belle Ohio. The river being at a low stage, no boats were running, and we were compelled to go by stage-coach to Georgetown, where we took supper and remained till 3 o’clock the next morning, when we were hurriedly aroused from our slumbers, and without waiting for breakfast, we took another stage-coach which conveyed us to Bethel. After a hurried breakfast there, we took passage in a four-horse omnibus which bore us to Cincinnati. I remember many of the incidents of this ride: how we stopped to take in passengers, some of whom were women going into the city with their Saturday marketing; and I can yet recall the appearance of the stout old gentleman who, with cane in hand, occupied the seat opposite me.
I was a very tired little girl when we arrived at Corinth, at 8 o’clock on the night of November 4th. We were met at the depot by an ambulance, and driven to the Corona College Hospital, a mile distant from the town. As we neared the building and surrounding battle-field, a horrible odor, as of burning flesh, greeted our nostrils, which the driver informed us was caused by the burning of horses and mules killed in the late battle. In the latter part of our journey we had fallen in with a Mrs. Dr. Blaker, whose destination was the same as our own, and who had come to minister to a sick or wounded husband. We entered the hospital together, and were first shown into the Medical Director’s room, where the records were examined. It took but a few moments for Mrs. Blaker to learn that her husband was dead and buried. I can hear her wails of distress yet. We were more fortunate, and were soon ushered into the room occupied by my father and several other sick officers. The hospital was crowded, and there was no extra room for us. Another cot was brought in, an army blanket hung as a screen, and thus we spent our first night in a southern hospital.
Corona College Hospital
It stood in the midst of the historic battle-field and surrounding encampment. Prior to the war, it was known as The Corona Female College. It was a large, three-story structure of brick, with portico in front supported by massive pillars, and never was hospital more conveniently located with reference to battle-field. To me it was the Castle Beautiful, and even now, as I attempt to write of it, the memories of that time come thronging and surging through my brain, with such forceful rapidity, each clamoring for utterance, that I scarce know how to take up the tangled threads of warp and wool, and weave them into a smooth and readable story. The building was also known by the names of General Hospital and Seminary Hospital.
With the happy freedom of childhood I roamed about at my own sweet will, and I have given the “cup of cold water” to more than one poor sick or wounded soldier, as he lay on his bed of pain. There was one in particular, whose room was opposite our own: the door was mostly open, and he would frequently call to me to come and talk to him or hand him a drink of water. The first day we were in the building, I made the rounds of our ward on the second floor, with a lady nurse, Mrs. Penfield. I afterward called down her wrath upon my head by asking her if she had a field full of pens. One scene of that day’s visit arises vividly before me now, and I can draw a pen picture of the white-faced soldier I saw, propped up in bed with the nurse combing his hair, and bathing his face and hands. I became familiar with scenes of sadness and suffering, with the sight of pale faces, crutches and armless sleeves, and, ever and anon a stiff form wrapped in a blanket would be carried to the dead house, thence to a soldier’s grave.
My baby sister and I soon became great favorites in camp and hospital. On the night of our arrival the baby cried, and the word went around from room to room: “There’s a baby in the house. Where did it come from? Bring it in.” And in due time she was taken into the rooms where there were no contagious diseases. The men were much cheered by her presence, and one of the doctors said it was “quite a treat to hear a baby cry.” Dr. Robins, the surgeon in charge of our ward, would carry her about the room at each visit he made, sometimes taking her down stairs into the hall and out into the grounds about the building, I following wherever he went. The doctor called her his “little rosebud.” One day she scratched his face until the blood came, and he bore the marks several days. I can see him now, a slight, fair-haired young fellow, and, strange as it may seem, after the lapse of all these years, I can hear the very sound of his voice, as, upon entering the room, he would throw back his head and laughingly call out “Where is my Little Rosebud?” He told us of the friends he left at home, but alas! for them, he died the following summer of smallpox, in Memphis, Tennessee.
Tour of Battlefield
One of our fellow townsmen, Mr. Nathan W. Crooks by name, now a resident of Washington C. H., Ohio, was in camp at Corinth at this time. Escorted by him, my mother and I made the tour of the battle-field. Mr. Crooks carried my little sister in his arms, and to this day, upon occasion, introduces her to friends as the little girl he carried all over the battle-field of Corinth, with the accent on the inth. We visited the R. R. cut where my father held his emergency hospital, with shot and shell screaming and bursting all around him; we stood within the enclosure of Fort Robinet, where brave Col. Rogers of the Texas Brigade fell, and was buried with his colors. And little I reck’d the day would come when I would thrill with patriotic pride at the recollection of having stood on the parapet of this historic fort, with “Old Glory” floating proudly in the breeze above me, while at my feet, in the trench surrounding the fort, lay friend and foe, buried in one common grave. As one has fittingly written of them, “They sleep, and glory is their sentinel.” I have wandered all over this field of battle. My playground was that portion occupied by the 14th Wisconsin during the fight, and of the many minnie balls, grape and cannister I picked up on this memorable spot, but one battered minnie ball remains.
The Tishomingo Hotel, My School and Other Incidents
“The scene now changes. We were now ordered to town. We 'moved' in ambulance, my father being taken on a cot, and were given quarters in Tishomingo Hotel. The old Tishomingo House! Can I ever forget it? The historic dilapidated old hotel through which a cannon ball passed during the progress of the battle. We were given a large cheerless room in the second story: the floor was bare, the four large windows were each guiltless of blind or curtain.
Our bed consisted of two cots placed together, with an army blanket to each for covering. The nights were cold, and we would have suffered bad had not my mother arisen through the night and replenished the fire. There was a large stove in the room and we had a plentiful supply of wood. The hotel was used as a hospital, although it was not full at this time, there being a number of vacant rooms. I remember but one nurse here, a Miss Johnson. We were great friends and I spent as much time in her room as in our own. I frequently took walks with her about town. I went with her one morning to call on Dr. Norman Gay and family of Columbus, Ohio, who had roomed for a time at the hotel, but who afterward rented furnished rooms in a private house in another part of the town. On our way we passed the Iuka House and several stores.
I had not been long in the Tishomingo House until I made the acquaintance of the cook, a curly-headed young fellow whose name was John Storms, of Ohio. Part of the time we took our meals in the dining room with the doctors and officers. By 'we' I mean my mother and myself; my father not being able to leave the room, his meals were carried to him. At other times we all took our meals in our own room. Those who ate in the dining room were: Dr. Gay, wife and son, Dr. Spicer, Dr. Huntington, Captain Pemberton, Chaplain Esterbrook, Miss Johnson, ourselves and many other comers and goers, whose names [last line illegible].
Life Near An Army
Across the railroad and directly opposite the hotel was another encampment, and reveille and lights out were again daily and nightly sounds. Gen. Hunter had his headquarters in a large white house not far away, and night after night I have sat on the upper porch listening entranced to the regimental band, as it played Hail Columbia, Star Spangled Banner, Red, White and Blue, Rally 'Round the Flag and America. Each night the band would play from dark until bedtime, and I could not be induced to leave my post until the last note died away in the silence. Many events come to my mind as I write of the time. One day a man was brought in who had been accidentally shot through both thighs. While sitting on the floor of a box car a jolt dislodged a musket from where it was standing. As it fell, it was discharged and the man being in direct range, the ball passed through both limbs.
Amputation was decided upon as the forlorn hope of saving his life. Not knowing the time fixed upon for the operation, I passed down the stairway leading through the medical director's room, which was also the operating room, and there on the operating table, under the influence of chloroform, white and lifeless looking, surrounded by the doctors, lay the poor fellow undergoing the awful ordeal of having both legs taken off. Sick at heart, I hurried on and delayed my return until I felt sure the operation was well over with. But alas! The hope of saving his life was a vain one, as he died a few days later.
While here, we one day received a visit from our old friend, Frank Williams, of the Seminary Hospital. He came to tell us goodbye as he expected to leave with Mother Bickerdyke in a few days for LaGrange, Mississippi [Tennessee].
The Photograph
A few days later he sent a friend to have my picture taken at the little gallery built up against one end of the hotel, and authorized him to
spare no expense in securing it. Photography was not then the fine art it is today and this picture was an excellent sample of the old time ambrotype and was placed in the handsomest case the establishment afforded at a cost of $4.
There were a great many refugees or contrabands in Corinth. President Lincoln's proclamation of Emancipation had not yet been issued; yet the slaves were practically free. Some of them had quarters near the hotel. Among them was a giant old couple known as Uncle Sandy and Aunt Katy with whom we became acquainted. Aunt Katy did washing for us and was frequently in our room. My mother brought a large piece of homespun cotton cloth of her such as was used by the slave women for dresses and aprons. After Aunt Katy had tasted of freedom, she though 'Massa Linkum' a grand man and the best friends the slave had.
My mother one day asked her what she thought the 'Yankees' looked like before she saw them. 'Well, hunney,' she said, 'I thought they was some kindof wild animals with horns on their heads and they would eat me up' and then she laughed until her fat sides shook as she realized what kind of an animal the Yankee really was.
Uncle Sandy told us that when he first entered within the Union lines he ate so much he became very sick and thought he was going to die and that the only reason he hated to die was because he could never eat any more.
The School
From among the children of the refugees I organized and taught a school on the upper veranda of the Tishomingo, which was situated at the crossing of the Memphis and Charleston and the Mobile and Ohio Railroads. The pupils were all girls, some older and some younger than myself, and as far as I have ever been able to learn to the contrary, this was the first crude little contraband school organized in the great state of Mississippi, and humble though it was, I feel very proud of my share of it. I taught them the alphabet, and how to make a few figures. Our text books were the heads of newspapers, and cards with figures numbering the rooms, which we tore off the doors. Many trains passed our schoolroom daily and each whistle that pierced the air was a signal to suspend lessons, and teacher and pupils alike would scramble to the front and leaning far over the rotten railing would wave and cheer at the blue-coated soldiers being borne onward to victory or defeat, life or death, God alone knew.
But the time came all too soon when the Tishomingo House was ordered evacuated as it was to be again used for hotel purposes. We received instructions to go to Jackson, Tennessee, 60 miles north and one sunny sabbath morn we boarded the train for that place and it was many a day before I ceased to regret my dusky pupils and playmates.
It was with sad hearts we left Corinth. We had been here so long it had become like home to us, and we were much attached to the place, the nurses, and our soldier friends. But the fortunes of war are many and varied and there is no sure abiding place in the army.
In February 1863, Maude, her baby sister and mother returned safely home to Ohio. Coridon Morrow was joyously reunited with them in early 1864 when he was discharged from the army. Maude Morrow lived the rest of her life in Bainbridge; as an adult she took great interest in conversing with Civil War veterans, in particular those that had served with her father in the 43rd Ohio. When Doctor Morrow passed away in 1906, Maud wrote to The National Tribune, the newspaper of the Grand Army of the Republic, to let her father's old comrades know of his death. In her eulogy she wrote that
He was ever ready and willing to aid soldiers and soldiers' widows in obtaining pensions, by furnishing all the evidence in his power. He had doubtless aided hundreds of soldiers and widows in this manner, and as one here has said of him: 'he had thus put bread in the mouths of many hungry children." Another veteran had camped on the other side."
Maud E. Morrow never married, but she lived a quite long life, dying in Bainbridge on May 1, 1948, at the age of 95. She was beside her parents in the city cemetery. For those that would be interested in reading Maud's book, I have good news - it has been digitized and is available online - it can be found here: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/49215/49215-h/49215-h.htm