The poor boy tried not to flinch. His one bright eye looked gratefully
up at me. After I had finished, he wrote upon the paper which was
always at his hand, "You didn't hurt me like them doctors. Don't let
the Yankees get me, I want to have another chance at _them_ when I get
well." Having succeeded so well, I "took heart of grace," and felt
little trepidation afterward. But--oh! the horror of it. An Arkansas
soldier lay gasping out his life, a piece of shell having carried away
a large portion of his breast, leaving the lungs exposed to view. No
hope, save to alleviate his pain by applying cloths wet with cold
water. Another, from Tennessee, had lost a part of his thigh,--and so
on. The amputations were my greatest dread, lest I might displace
bandages and set an artery bleeding. So I dared not remove the cloths,
but used an instrument invented by one of our surgeons, as may be
imagined, of primitive construction, but which, wetting the tender
wounds gradually by a sort of spray, gave great relief. Of course,
fresh cloths were a constant necessity for suppurating wounds, but for
those nearly healed, or simply inflamed, the spray was invaluable.
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