And now came another trial, from which I shrank fearfully, but which
must be borne.
In the "wounded wards," and in tents outside where men having gangrene
were isolated, horrible sights awaited me,--sights which I trembled to
look upon,--fearful wounds which had, so far, been attended to only by
the surgeons.
These wounds were now dry, and the men were groaning with pain. Minute
directions having been left with me, I must nerve myself to uncover
the dreadful places, wash them, and apply fresh cloths. In the cases
of gangrene, poultices of yeast and charcoal, or some other
preparation left by the surgeons.
Entering Ward No. 3, where there were many badly-wounded men, I began
my work upon a boy of perhaps nineteen years, belonging to a North
Carolina regiment, who had one-half of his face shot away.
My readers may imagine the dreadful character of the wounds in this
ward, when I relate that a day or two after a terrible battle at the
front, when dozens of wounded were brought in, so badly were they
mangled and so busy were the surgeons, that I was permitted to dress
this boy's face unaided. _Then_ it was bad enough, but neither so
unsightly nor so painful as _now_ that inflammation had supervened.
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