But he was already dying. As soon
as he was moved the blood ran in a little stream from his mouth.
Wiping it off, I put the cup to his lips, but he could not swallow,
and reluctantly I left him to die. He wore the blue uniform and
stripes of a Federal sergeant of cavalry, and had a German face. The
next seemed anxious for water, and drank eagerly. This one, a man of
middle age, was later transferred to our wards, but died from
blood-poisoning. He was badly wounded in the side. A third could only
talk with his large, sad eyes, but made me clearly understand his
desire for water. As I passed my arm under his head the red blood
saturated my sleeve and spread in a moment over a part of my dress. So
we went on, giving water, brandy, or soup; sometimes successful in
reviving the patient, sometimes able only to whisper a few words of
comfort to the dying. There were many more left, and Dr. McAllister
never for a moment intermitted his efforts to save them. Later came
more help, surgeons, and attendants with stretchers, etc. Soon all
were moved who could bear it.
Duty now recalled me to my patients at the hospital.
My hands and dress and feet were bloody, and I felt sick with horror.
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