Part 40 (1/2)
He was at Fredericksburg, and there lost his left arm. It was a severe trial to him, for in the trade to which he had been trained, and to which he hoped to return at the close of the war, both arms were necessary. Nevertheless, he bore up against everything, and submitted to his long and painful suffering as only a brave man can. When the wound was healed, he went back to his command. He had no idea of claiming his discharge for the loss of only one arm. He said, cheerfully, he would only leave the service when the other arm, or a leg, went from him.
He was well enough to partic.i.p.ate in the battle of Chancellorsville, but not sufficiently restored to health to meet the fate which there befell him, for, toward the close of the second day's engagement, he was taken prisoner. A few days later he was marched to Richmond, and there became an inmate of the famous 'Libby prison.' A dreary attack of sickness followed his arrival there, and lasted several months.
Hospital life, even among one's own friends, is not pleasant. To a prisoner, among his enemies, even though they be kind and humane, it is horrible. He is constantly haunted by the fear that he will die there, and that his fate will never be known to his friends at home. So, in spite of the bravery of Sergeant Williams, this feeling constantly preyed upon him and r.e.t.a.r.ded his recovery.
The weeks and months went by slowly, and at last the long imprisonment came to an end. The sick man was sent back to the North, among a number of others, who were exchanged under a special arrangement. A furlough was granted him to go home and recruit his health. He was so weak and thin when he went back to his old home, that his friends scarcely knew him. But his native air, and the cheerful home scenes, soon brought him up again, and when he returned to his regiment, he was as well and as hearty as ever. He reached the army just after Grant had taken command of it, and was reorganizing it for the last grand campaign against Richmond.
He began the march with a light heart and happy antic.i.p.ations. They were cut short at Cold Harbor, where he lost his right leg. His days of service were now over, and he went into the hospital to await his recovery, when he would have to go back to the world unfitted for almost any avocation. Still he consoled himself with the hope that the people for whom he had fought and suffered, would not let him lack for some means of employment.
When he was able to leave the hospital, the war had been decided, and the great struggle was over. He received his honorable discharge from the government, and transportation to the city where he had enlisted.
After a brief rest, he set about looking for employment.
It was a harder task than he had antic.i.p.ated. No one had anything for him to do, 'Times were so dull,' 'there was so little to do,' that no one could think of employing him. In vain he urged his services to the country and for them. They were very sorry for him. They would help him if they could; but really it was impossible.
Every day his small stock of money grew smaller, and with it his hopes grew fainter. At last he disappeared from the notice of his friends, to re-appear again in a short time under different circ.u.mstances.
One day his friends were attracted by the sight of a crowd collected around a cracked and ricketty hand-organ. Approaching it they found that the organ-grinder was no less a person than Sergeant Williams. He was clad in his suit of faded blue, with his sergeant's chevrons and all. He was grinding away at his old hand-organ as the last means left him for support. Every day he may be seen along the princ.i.p.al streets of the city, patiently and sadly earning his pittance in this way--a mode so very repugnant to one's manhood.
This is the end and reward of his services and sufferings. In a land so prosperous, so favored as our own, a soldier of the Union, in his garb of honor, who has given for his country everything but his life, is forced to resort to an avocation formerly considered only fit for vagrants. It is no discredit to him, for he bears himself there as proudly as he did when following the old flag; but there is a bitter, burning sense of wrong in his heart. Perhaps you may know, dear reader, who is responsible for it.
CHAPTER LXII.
THE ABATTOIRS.
Formerly the city was much injured and rendered unhealthy, by the practice of killing animals for market in the crowded sections. In the summer these slaughtering establishments were perfect pesthouses. Now the slaughtering is done almost entirely at the abattoirs, or slaughter houses, at Communipaw, New Jersey. The buildings used for this purpose are large, and are fitted up with every convenience. The cost of killing is slight, and the butchers are well repaid by having their meat sent to them in excellent condition. The abattoirs are situated on the sh.o.r.e of the bay, where the pure sea breezes keep them fresh and healthful, and the refuse matter and filth are thrown into the water and carried off by the tide.
The mode of slaughtering is by machinery, as far as possible, and is a great improvement on the old method. Any one who has witnessed the slaughtering of animals in our small butcher shops could not fail noticing that more brutality was used upon the creatures than was necessary to secure death. According to methods which were formerly general in their application, and now are by no means exceptions to the practice, beeves were killed with heavy hammers, the butcher pegging away upon their heads until insensibility ensued; and sheep and hogs were either pounded to death or see-sawed across the throat until their heads were nearly severed from their bodies. When the bodies were s.h.i.+pped for market, much, difficulty was found in effecting a ready sale, on account of their bruised and bloodless appearance. The system by which the work is performed at the abattoirs is as humane and painless to the animal as the taking of life can be; and as a large portion of the business is done by machinery, the bodies are not subject to contusions, and, consequently, present a fresh, healthy appearance after death. To show the superiority of the new system over the old method of slaughtering was the object of our former ill.u.s.trations. Upon recent observation, we found that where the average weekly number of cattle killed, dressed, and s.h.i.+pped was about fifteen hundred, that of hogs was nearly ten times as great, and we now give a faithful representation of this portion of the work.
”The apartment in which hogs are slaughtered is upon the second floor of the building, and our first scene is that of the pen into which the animals are driven from their quarters. A chain clasp, patented by Mr.
P.W. Dalton, who superintends this department, is fastened to one of the hind legs, and this being attached to a rope connected with a huge wheel, the hog is raised from the floor and swung to a stand, where a ring of the clasp is caught on a large hook descending from the axle of a sheave or wheel, which runs along a railway, and the hog is pushed through a small pa.s.sage-way into a second pen.
”By the time it has reached this place, its excitement has subsided, and it hangs in a comparatively quiet manner. The butcher watches a fitting opportunity, and cuts the hog's throat with a sharp knife, and swings it further along on the railway.
”As soon as each sheave is used the hogs are lowered into the scalding- tub, which is about fourteen feet long, four feet wide, and three and a half feet deep. They are allowed to remain in boiling water one minute, and are then turned out upon the sc.r.a.ping-bench by an instrument extending across the tub, and furnished with several long teeth. At this bench are about fourteen men, each of whom has something to do on every hog that is sent down. The first two on each side, technically known as scuddlers, sc.r.a.pe the bristles from the head and shoulders; the next four shave, with long knives, the remainder of the body, and roll it to the end of the bench, where a final sc.r.a.ping takes place; a gambrel is inserted in the hind legs, and the hog is forwarded on a sheave to the dressers' table.
”For this work there are several men, each one having a special portion a.s.signed to him. As soon as the entrails have been removed, and the body properly cleansed, it is removed to the drying apartment, where it remains suspended on parallel 'runs' until the following day, when it is weighed, and then delivered to the wagons from windows, by means of shoots. The entrails, and other portions removed from the bodies, are taken to another part of the building, where a most extensive and complete lard manufactory is in constant operation.
”Here are eight monster iron caldrons, into which the raw material is thrown; a powerful current of steam is introduced from beneath, and the fat is rapidly reduced to a liquid state. It is then run off into smaller vats, where it remains to settle and cool sufficiently to be packed for s.h.i.+pping. During the busy season one hundred and twenty tierces of pure lard and forty tierces of soap grease are drawn off daily. The sediment at the bottom of the vats is removed, and a.s.sists in filling up the Hackensack river.
”With all the hurry and confusion incident to the immense amount of work done, it is remarkable how the building can be kept in so inoffensive a condition, and all the labor performed in such a quiet and orderly manner. The most scrupulous cleanliness is observed in every department, and the ventilation is perfect.”
CHAPTER LXIII.
THE MORGUE.
There is located on the East river side of the great city, an establishment which has been but lately introduced. It is the Morgue, or Dead House, and is modelled after the famous place of the same name in Paris. Bodies found in the streets, or in the harbor, are brought here and left a certain time for identification. Each article of clothing found upon them, or any trinket, or other property, which might lead to the discovery of the name and friends of the dead, is carefully preserved. Bodies properly identified are surrendered to the friends of the deceased. Those unclaimed are interred at the expense of the city, and their effects are preserved a much longer time for purposes of identification.