In a corner of the field, supported by a pile of
broken fence-rails, a soldier sat apparently beckoning to us. On
approaching him we discovered that he was quite dead, although he sat
upright, with open eyes and extended arm.
Several badly wounded men had been laid under the shade of some bushes
a little farther on; our mission lay here. The portion of the field we
crossed to reach this spot was in many places slippery with blood. The
edge of my dress was red, my feet were wet with it. As we drew near
the suffering men, piteous glances met our own. "Water! water!" was
the cry.
Dr. McAllister had previously discovered in one of these the son of an
old friend, and although he was apparently wounded unto death, he
hoped, when the ambulances returned with the stretchers sent for, to
move him into town to the hospital. He now proceeded with the aid of
the instruments, bandages, lint, etc., I had brought to prepare him
for removal. Meantime, taking from my pocket a small feeding-cup,
which I always carried for use in the wards, I mixed some brandy and
water, and, kneeling by one of the poor fellows who seemed worse than
the others, tried to raise his head.
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