The boy had been a patient of his from
his infancy, and in a piteous letter, which I afterwards read, his
mother had implored the doctor to watch over him in case of sickness.
When, under the dead boy's pillow, was found a portion of the
apple-pie, revealing the cause of his death, the doctor's anger knew
no bounds, and he gave vent to the imprecation above mentioned.
As the summer waned, our commissary stores began to fail. Rations,
always plain, became scant. Our foragers met with little success. But
for the patriotic devotion of the families whose farms and plantations
lay for miles around Ringgold (soon, alas! to fall into the ruthless
hands of the enemy), even our sickest men would have been deprived of
suitable food. As it was, the supply was by no means sufficient. One
day I asked permission to try _my_ fortune at foraging, and, having
received it, left Ringgold at daylight next morning, returning by
moonlight. Stopping at every house and home, I told everywhere my tale
of woe. There was scarcely one where hearths were not lonely, hearts
aching for dear ones long since gone forth to battle. They had heard
mischievous and false tales of the surgeons and attendants of
hospitals, and really believed that the sick were starved and
neglected, while the hospital staff feasted upon dainty food.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140