Passing to my office along the path traversed last
night by the incoming soldiers, I found the snow along the whole
distance stained by their bare, bleeding feet, and the sight made my
heart ache sorely. I think I never in all my life felt so keen a sense
of utter dependence upon a higher Power, or understood so thoroughly
how "vain is the help of man," than when, in the seclusion of my own
room, the events of the night passed in review before me. With a heart
aching with supreme pity, ready to make any sacrifice for the noble
martyrs who, for my sake as well as for that of all Southern women,
had passed unshrinking through inexpressible suffering, never
faltering until laid low by the hand of disease,--I could yet do
nothing. I could not save them one moment of agony, I could not stay
the fleeting breath, nor might I intermit the unceasing care
imperatively demanded by those whom timely ministrations might save,
to give due honor to the dead.
Only an hour or two of rest (broken like the sleep of those of a
household who retire from the side of beloved sufferers, leaving them
to the care of others while they snatch a few moments of the repose
which is needed to prepare them for fresh exertions) and I was once
more on my way to the wards.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122