The
quartermaster reopened his office, requisitions were made and filled,
and the work of the different departments was once more put in regular
operation.
I was busy in one of the wards, when a messenger drove up, and a note
was handed me from Dr. McAllister,--"Some of our men too badly wounded
to be moved right away. Come out at once. Bring cordials and
brandy,--soup, if you have it,--also fill the enclosed requisition at
the drug-store. Lose no time."
The battle-field was not three miles away. I was soon tearing along
the road at breakneck speed. At an improvised field-hospital I met the
doctor, who vainly tried to prepare me for the horrid spectacle I was
about to witness.
From the hospital-tent distressing groans and screams came forth. The
surgeons, both Confederate and Federal, were busy, with coats off,
sleeves rolled up, shirt-fronts and hands bloody. But _our_ work lay
not here.
Dr. McAllister silently handed me two canteens of water, which I threw
over my shoulder, receiving also a bottle of peach brandy. We then
turned into a ploughed field, thickly strewn with men and horses, many
stone dead, some struggling in the agonies of death.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223