The Women Who Went to the Field
The following poem is here inserted because of its prophetic application to those women who, during the Spanish-American War, went bravely to field and camp to minister to the sick and the wounded. The poem was read by Clara Barton at the farewell Reception and Banquet by the Ladies of the Potomac Corps, at Willard’s Hotel, Washington, D.C., Friday evening, November 18, 1892, in response to the toast:
“The Women Who Went to the Field.”
The women who went to the field,
you say,
The women who went to the field;
and pray
What did they go for?—just to be
in the way?
They’d not know the difference
betwixt work and play.
And what did they know about war,
anyway?
What could they do?—of what use
could they be?
They would scream at the sight of a gun,
don’t you see?
Just fancy them round where the
bugle-notes play,
And the long roll is bidding us on
to the fray.
Imagine their skirts ’mong
artillery wheels,
And watch for their flutter as they
flee ’cross the fields
When the charge is rammed home
and the fire belches hot;
They never will wait for the
answering shot
They would faint at the first drop of blood
in their sight.
What fun for us boys,—(ere we enter
the fight);
They might pick some lint, and tear up
some sheets,
And make us some jellies, and send on
their sweets,
And knit some soft socks for Uncle’s Sam’s
shoes.
And write us some letters, and tell us
the news.
And thus it was settled, by common
consent,
That husbands, or brothers, or whoever
went,
That the place for the women was in
their own homes,
There to patiently wait until victory
comes.
But later it chanced—just how,
no one knew—
That the lines slipped a bit, and some
’gan to crowd through;
And they went,—where did they go?—Ah! where
did they not?
Show us the battle,—the field,—or the
spot
Where the groans of the wounded rang out
on the air
That her ear caught it not, and her hand
was not there;
Who wiped the death sweat from the cold,
clammy brow,
And sent home the message:—“’Tis well
with him now;”
Who watched in the tents whilst the fever
fires burned,
And the pain-tossing limbs in agony
turned,
And wet the parched tongue, calmed
delirium’s strife
Till the dying lips murmured, “My mother”
“My wife?”
And who were they all?—They were many,
my men;
Their records were kept by no tabular
pen;
They exist in traditions from father
to son,
Who recalls, in dim memory, now here
and there one.
A few names were writ, and by chance
live to-day;
But ’s perishing record, fast fading
away.
Of those we recall, there are scarcely
a score,
Dix, Dame, Bickerdyke,—Edson, Harvey
and Moore,
Fales, Wittemeyer, Gilson, Safford
and Lee,
And poor Cutter dead in the sands of
the sea;
And Francis D. Gage, our “Aunt Fanny”
of old,
Whose voice rang for freedom when
freedom was sold.
And Husband, and Etheridge, and
Harlan and Case,
Livermore, Alcott, Hancock and
Chase,
And Turner, and Hawley, and Potter
and Hall.
Ah! the list grows apace, as they come
at the call:
Did these women quail at the sight
of a gun?
Will some soldier tell us of one
he saw run?
Will he glance at the boats on the great
western flood,
At Pittsburg and Shiloh, did they faint
at the blood?
And the brave wife of Grant stood there
with them then,
And her calm stately presence gave strength
to his men.
And Marie of Logan; she went with them
too;
A bride, scarcely more than a sweetheart,
’tis true.
Her young cheek grows pale when the
bold troopers ride.
Where the “Black Eagle” soars, she is close
at his side,
She staunches his blood, cools the fever-burnt
breath,
And the wave of her hand stays the
Angel of Death;
She nurses him back, and restores
once again
To both army and state the great
leader of men.
She has smoothed his black plumes
and laid them to sleep
Whilst the angels above them their high
vigils keep;
And she sits here alone, with the snow
on her brow—
Your cheers for her, Comrades! Three cheers
for her now.
[At this point, as by one impulse, every man in the room sprang to his feet and, led by General W.W. Dudley, gave three rousing cheers, while Mrs. Logan, with her beautiful white head bent low, vainly sought to staunch the fast-falling tears; the air was white with the sympathetic ’kerchiefs of the ladies, and the imposing figure of Clara Barton standing with uplifted arm, as if in signal for the cheers, so grandly given, completed the historic and never-to-be-forgotten scene.]
And these were the women who went
to the war:
The women of question; what did they
go for?
Because in their hearts God had planted
the seed
Of pity for woe, and help for
its need;
They saw, in high purpose, a duty
to do,
And the armor of right broke the
barriers through.
Uninvited, unaided, unsanctioned
ofttimes,
With pass, or without it, they pressed
on the lines;
They pressed, they implored, ’till they ran the
lines through,
And that was the “running” the men saw
them do.
’Twas a hampered work, its worth largely
lost;
’Twas hindrance, and pain, and effort, and
cost:
But through these came knowledge,—
knowledge is power,—
And never again in the deadliest
hour
Of war or of peace shall we be
so beset
To accomplish the purpose our spirits
have met.
And what would they do if war
came again?
The scarlet cross floats where all was
blank then.
They would bind on their “brassards”F
and march to the fray.
And the man liveth not who could
say to them nay;
They would stand with you now, as they
stood with you then,—
The nurses, consolers, and saviors
of men.
Note.—Returning home from a journey, Miss Barton was notified in the afternoon that she would be expected to attend the banquet and respond to the toast, “The Women Who Went to the Field.” As there was little or no time for preparation, the foregoing poem was hastily written, and may almost be considered as impromptu.