Chapter 26

Bath Soldiers Home

At age fifty-six, toward the end of 1900, Pat’s health had deteriorated so much that he was working only two days a week and that only because other scoopers were covering for him. It was common practice for younger and healthier scoopers to cover for their older and less able coworkers. His $6 pension was barely beer money. Bob had taken his father in once again, after visiting him at 113 Commercial Street and seeing firsthand the condition of this flophouse.

Pat hated sponging off his son, believing that at thirty-one Bob was still single because of him. After living with his son for a month, he cut his drinking in half in order to buy a ticket to Danville, Illinois. He had applied for Bath, but it was full.

Carrying only a single small piece of luggage, he boarded a New York Central for Chicago. The fifteen-hour ride was smooth and pleasurable when compared to past train rides. Pat slept when he was tired and conversed with other travelers when he wasn’t. He spent much time in the dining car. There it was easy to initiate conversations, and it served some of the best cooking he had ever had.

The local rolling south out of Chicago was a six-hour struggle to cover 120 miles. It stopped in almost every village along the way. Pat got off several times when the conductor announced the train would be in the station for ten or fifteen minutes, bought a sandwich or an apple, and watched the crowd of plainly dressed farm folk moving unhurriedly through the station. The landscape the train passed through varied only by the crops grown, tall corn or knee-high wheat.

The Danville Soldiers Home had opened in 1898, a mile from downtown. Its layout reminded Pat of the Bath Soldiers Home, with a cluster of buildings, spacious grounds, and a farm. The cemetery, hidden behind a grove of trees, had fifty-three headstones. Except for the woods and tree-lined road to the administration building, the place had little aesthetically to recommend it: plain institutional buildings and limited landscaping along roadways. Most of the 1,000 residents were veterans of the Civil War. A couple hundred men in their eighties were survivors of the 1846 Mexican-American War.

Life at Danville was much like life at Bath. The men lived in dormitories with bunks placed side by side, five feet apart. The day was regimented army style, reveille at 6:30 a.m., taps at 9:30 p.m. Drinking alcohol was strictly limited to what was served in the recreation hall: beer, three glasses a day. For diversion and pocket money, the men volunteered in the cafeteria or on the farm. No one was allowed to leave the Danville grounds except on supervised tours of local places of interest, which consisted of fruit farms, two picnic groves, and a hotel restaurant.

The Home’s health care was good and Pat gained enough strength to work two or three hours a day, three days a week in the officers’ mess hall, serving and cleaning up after meals.

A year later, Pat was bored. He had not made many friends, hoping soon to get a transfer to Bath or to return home. He missed the Ward, his family and friends there, and his drinking mates at Kennedy’s.

Once a month, he received brief notes from Bob concerning the construction of new elevators in the Buffalo harbor and news and gossip about old friends and St. Bridget’s Parish. Annie, Bob said, was still living in New York, although one or two notes hinted that she was thinking about ending her marriage. He said Minnie had divorced her husband and was living somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen. Most of his notes devoted long paragraphs to labor strife on Buffalo’s docks.

After two years at Danville, Bath notified Pat that there were now openings at its facility and that he should apply if still interested. He did and was approved. Bath was so much closer to home. On April 2, 1902, he said goodbye to his few friends at the Danville Home and headed for Buffalo.

Pat spent four days in the Ward staying at his son’s home. Annie had initiated divorce proceedings and come home to live with Bob. Pat resumed his favorite stool at Kennedy’s. He staggered home drunk and argumentative the very first evening. Living with Bob and Annie became as tense as ever, even though he had told them he would leave within the week for Bath. They could not wait for him to go; on Sunday, April 6, they shook hands with him and breathed a sigh of relief the moment he was out of sight for good.

Pat walked downtown with his same small suitcase and boarded an Erie Railroad train. Five hours later, he arrived in Bath, was assigned to Company D Barracks, and ordered to visit the surgeon’s office. A volunteer greeted him with a polite smile. “Well, Mr. Donohue, I see you served with the 155th out of Buffalo. I’m Bill Slattery and I served with the 69th out of New York. Someday, we should chat about our service days.

“I have your records ready for the surgeons. You’ve been through this before, so you know what to expect. You’ll be examined by Surgeon Babcock and Assistant Surgeons Burrows and Potter. Please enter the examining room and strip to your drawers. The doctors will see you shortly.”

Pat did as he said and after a short wait, the three doctors entered
the room.

“Well, Mr. Donohue, welcome back. Remind us. What was unique about your army history and how did it affect your health?” asked Dr. Potter, a tall, thin man in his fifties.

Pat gave his well-rehearsed account. He concluded by saying, “I’ve lived in Buffalo ever since 1849, raised a family of five children. My wife died in 1890. Had many manual labor jobs, but didn’t keep them for more than a few years at a time. I’ve never really lost the catarrh, dysentery, and piles of the war . . . sometimes so bad I couldn’t walk.”

“All right, Mr. Donohue. May we call you Pat?” asked Dr. Potter.

“Yes, certainly, sir,” he responded.

“All right, Pat, please get up here on the table and let us examine you.”

Over the next half hour, the surgeons conducted and recorded a minute examination of Pat’s body, which showed signs of kidney sclerosis. His ankles were slightly swollen. He had a high belly and his muscles were softer than the surgeons expected of a man who had worked at hard labor all his life.

“Pat, we generally agree with what you have been saying. What’s your current pension rate?” asked Dr. Burrows, who appeared to be about the same age and height as Potter, but heavier and balding.

“Six dollars, sir.”

“Were you ever turned down for an increase while at Danville?”

“Yes, the Danville surgeons recommended $8, but the Chicago Pension Board turned it down.”

“We will see to it that your case is transferred back to the Buffalo Pension Board. Is that okay with you, Pat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please make the necessary arrangements. Will you do that?”

“I will, sir.”

He recoiled at the idea of writing his attorney, Willard H. Peck, to set up the appointment, and Bob to let him know he was coming home for a few days. His handwriting embarrassed him, but he wanted the money. Six dollars was an insult! He believed he deserved more. It angered him that so many others who had less disability were receiving twice as much. He was angry for his brother also, who was in the same straits.

Before they let him go, Dr. Burrows asked Pat if he drank. Pat bristled and retorted that he drank periodically, but did not drink every day and didn’t need it. Questioning him more, the doctor added, “The reason I ask is that we see signs in your body that you’re suffering from excessive use of alcohol.” Without being dismissed, Pat got up and walked out. Babcock, whose final word to the patient was cut off by Pat’s sudden departure, muttered to his colleagues, “That man is going to be trouble.”

Pat walked to a bench and gazed over the tree-lined lanes, vast lawns with benches, tables, fountains, well-designed flowerbeds, a fruit orchard on two side hills, a hillside cemetery, and hundreds of acres of animal and grain farm. The scene mesmerized him. Massive improvements had been made in the last two years. Pat said to himself, “I think this time I’m ready to be here.”

The next morning, he attended an orientation held in the newly constructed amusement hall, already in use while awaiting final installation of its heating and ventilations systems. It was an ornate, gothic-style building that seated 1,200 and was used as an overflow facility to house new inmates for whom no barracks had been completed. Pat took a seat in the second row; he really wanted to take in what the big shots were saying.

The men turned, whispered, and stared as Colonel Davidson, the director of the Home, entered the hall and made his way to the front row where other administrators were seated. On stage, his adjutant, Major Shillings, standing behind a podium, called the men to order. Both Davidson and Shillings were striking figures in dress blue uniforms, trimmed in black. The sun shone brightly on Shillings’s left shoulder through the windows of the south wall, as though heaven itself confirmed his authority and what he was about to say.

Major Shillings was of medium height, with grey-brown hair cut short on the sides but hanging down to mid-forehead in front. It gave him a certain boyish look. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. My name is Major Shillings. I am a local boy from the Finger Lakes Region, a graduate of the University of Rochester in 1857. I worked as a civil engineer before entering service. I served three years as First Lieutenant in Company I of the 50th New York Volunteer Engineers, building bridges from the Battle of Fair Oaks to Appomattox.

“On behalf of our very dedicated staff, I wish to welcome you to the New York State Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home, founded by the Grand Army of the Republic in 1876 and transferred to the State of New York two years later. The first meal was served to twenty-five Civil War veterans on Christmas Day of 1878. The formal dedication of the Home was celebrated January 21, 1879. Call me a blowhard if you will, but I believe it is the most unique and progressive institution of its kind in the country. The Home has about 2,000 men in residence on an average day.

“Our superintendent, Colonel Davidson, served as First Lieutenant, Company H, 30th Regiment, U.S. Colored Troops. He was decorated for bravery at the Battle of the Crater at Petersburg. He is a modest man who never mentions the deeds that won him that medal, but we are all very proud he is our superintendent, a man who works tirelessly to improve the Bath Soldiers’ Home.”

Colonel Davidson removed his hat, rose from his seat, and proceeded up a few steps to the stage. He dominated the podium with his size. He was muscular, trim, and still in fighting shape, although nearing seventy years of age. “No medal has been a greater honor than serving you men who saved the Union by your valor. If you find anything amiss with the Bath Home, I would like to know about it, and I assure you I will take whatever action is necessary. I wish you a pleasant stay and increasing good health.”

Major Shillings then gave the men the schedule they were to follow each day: Reveille at 6:00, Formation at 7:00, Breakfast at 7:30, Inspection and Roll Call at 8:00, Fatigue Duty immediately after, Dinner at noon, Fatigue Duty again at 1:00 p.m., Recall and Retreat at 5:30, Supper at 6:00, Tattoo and Lights out at 9:00, and Taps at 9:30. Shillings called it “a schedule still firmly etched in your brains, I am sure.”

The audience murmured in agreement.

“There are a variety of volunteer opportunities, depending on aptitudes, health, and skills. You will hear more about this from Doctor Babcock, Surgeon of the Home, and Mister Drummer, Superintendent of Grounds.

“We expect you to keep your barracks area and yourselves clean. The Bath Soldiers’ Home is run much like the Army. We will respond with military discipline to drunkenness, disorderly conduct, or disobedience to the reasonable orders of staff. Such conduct will be reported to the Board of Trustees, which ordinarily dismisses the person in question from the Home. You will be allowed three glasses of beer or ale a day in the canteen. Passes to Bath and furloughs home will be granted quite freely.

“We warn you not to over-indulge in alcoholic drink on the premises, or in the bars that line Belfast Street from the Home, or in Bath. Any abuse in the way of unmilitary behavior will be met with swift, certain, and appropriate punishment and most often with discharge.” He paused looking straight out at the throng to allow his words to sink in.

When he spoke again, he introduced Dr. Babcock. “Dr. Warren L. Babcock is a graduate of the College of Physicians and Surgeons at Baltimore, Maryland. He served before his appointment here as assistant physician at the St. Lawrence Hospital for the Insane. He assumed the post of chief surgeon of the Home on April 1, 1902.”

Dr. Babcock addressed the men. He was very tall, gangly, with an oversized nose, and thinning, dark blond hair turning grey at the temples. He was attired in a three-piece, dark blue suit. “Gentlemen, the Bath Soldiers’ Home provides daily medical care in the hospital and in our clinic. Upon entry, you men are given a thorough medical examination, in order to determine the care you need. Thereafter, we give you an annual, more limited, follow-up exam.

“We are crowded for beds. As you know, men are sleeping in basements and hallways. Barracks L, when completed later this year, will do much to relieve that overcrowding. I have also recommended that an enclosed corridor be constructed to connect the second floor of the new barracks to the hospital. This and other improvements can only be made if the state legislature appropriates the funding. Please write your representatives in support of our budget request.

“I strongly urge that all men in residence be vaccinated for smallpox in July. We have thirty men quarantined with smallpox. There is no reason any longer for such suffering or the mortal danger to both staff and residents that smallpox poses.

“I encourage you men to be honest with examining surgeons. Your care will depend on it. Please do not be afraid to talk to me. Make an appointment and come in.

“We in the hospital are dependent upon you healthy men to volunteer as nurses and orderlies. I ask you to consider serving in this way.

“One last word! Bath provides the best health care in the country, I believe, but no one can make you a healthy man except you. You are more likely to live a long life if you follow these simple rules: good nourishing food, sufficient sleep, regular exercise, and positive meaning for whatever days God gives you. Otherwise, there is little any doctor can do for you. I look forward to serving you men who have served our country so gallantly.”

Major Shillings then introduced Mr. Drummer. “Mr. Henry L. Drummer was born in Canandaigua and raised in Elmira. When he was twenty-three, he was appointed Superintendent of Grounds. His work has been recognized nationally by General W. W. Averell, Inspector General of the National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers. No one can explain the wonders of nature with the clarity and passion of Mr. Drummer. Consider joining his nature class, as well as volunteering to work on the grounds, which are equaled by no other in the country.”

Henry Drummer took his place at the podium, attired in brown pants, high button blouse and tie, and a black sweater. He was a small man. His whole body jerked this way and that, as though trying to enlarge the space he occupied. It made Pat nervous just to watch him.

“Gentlemen, this afternoon we have organized a tour of the hospital, the grounds, and the farm. Transportation will be available. You will become acquainted with the variety of tasks performed by your fellow residents. Mr. Edwards Smith, supervisor of the farm, has 200 acres to tend, hundreds of animals to feed, and their stalls and pens to keep clean. It is all healthy, physical work. Come, volunteer, and labor at your own pace at tasks of your own choice. We believe you will find real satisfaction in serving your fellow soldiers and grow in appreciation of nature.”

Major Shillings spoke once more. “Gentlemen, our orientation is concluded. We invite you to proceed to the canteen for refreshments and to get to know one another and the staff.” He saluted the men and left.

Pat’s head was spinning. The whole session took ten minutes. He did what was suggested and headed to the canteen for a drink.