Slave preacher was ‘Gospel warrior’

Chimborazo Hospital in Richmond was a most depressing place to be in March 1865.

The doctors and staff were in dire straits, as were the wounded and dying Confederate soldiers who languished there. Medical supplies were in short supply, especially morphine. The gloom of death permeated the halls and stalked the wounded. Pain was the soldiers’ constant companion, and routine sicknesses and infections were often fatal.

Unsanitary conditions made the situation even worse. One of every 10 Confederates brought to Chimborazo with diarrhea or dysentery died. The overall mortality rate was 20 percent — actually good by 19th-century standards. Mixed with the stench of gangrene was the scent of the day’s “medicines” — turpentine, camphor, castor oil and whiskey.

My great-great grandfather, James Meredith Crutchfield, was one of the Confederate soldiers at Chimborazo in the closing days of the War Between the States. Taken prisoner after being wounded at the Battle of Piedmont the year before, he was taken to Camp Morton, the infamous Federal prison in Indiana. There he suffered along with the rest of the Southern prisoners.

One prisoner at Camp Morton described how he witnessed a Yankee guard take a prisoner outside when the temperature was below zero and give him a bath with a broom. “The fiendish deed was repeated a second time.” That prisoner subsequently died.

My grandfather was transferred to Chimborazo on March 10, 1865, and died there March 28, succumbing to his wounds and the ill treatment he had received at Camp Morton. His widow died not knowing what had become of him. The family still does not know where he was buried or if he was buried.

Yet even in the cruel despair of war and death, a kind Providence often sends hope. In the final days of the war, hope came to Chimborazo in the form of a preacher. This preacher had to get special permission from the Confederate authorities to minister to the wounded at Chimborazo.

Permission was granted, and the preacher roamed the 150 wards of the hospital — praying with and for the wounded and dying. It was the perfect opportunity for a minister of the Gospel — the chance to share eternal salvation with those facing eternity. There was something most unusual about this preacher, however. He was black and a slave.

Early bitterness

John Jasper was born the 24th child of slaves Philip and Tina Jasper on Independence Day in 1812. John’s mother was a devout Christian and prayed that God would call her son to become a preacher. However, as a young man, Jasper became bitter after his master cruelly separated him from his first wife.

Jasper’s bitterness caused him to sink deeper and deeper into a lascivious lifestyle. He eventually was purchased by a kindhearted Richmond businessman by the name of Samuel Hardgrove. Hardgrove was known for his personal piety, and his concern for Jasper’s spiritual welfare was obvious.

He was a deacon and devout member of the First Baptist Church of Richmond; his obituary in 1862 called him “a great citizen, businessman and Christian.”

Hardgrove prayed earnestly for Jasper’s conversion, and it was largely because of his kindness that Jasper acquired and retained a love for the white race — even though it was the white race that denied him his freedom.

Jasper would later speak of Hardgrove’s piety and kindness toward him and the influence Hardgrove had had on his life. When Jasper was converted in Hardgrove’s tobacco warehouse in 1839, Hardgrove immediately sent for him. After hearing John tell the story of his redemption, the two men wept openly together. According to the original biography of Jasper by W.E. Hatcher titled “John Jasper: The Unmatched Negro Philosopher and Preacher,” Jasper relates what happened next:

“Den Marse Sam did a thing dat nearly made me drop ter de flo’. He git out uv his chair an’ walk over ter me an’ give me his han’, an’ he say: ‘John, I wish you mighty well. Your Saviour is mine, and we are brothers in the Lord.’ Wen he say dat I turn ‘roun’ an put my arm agin de wall, an’ put my fist in my mouf ter keep from shoutin’.”

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