These were strangers and unwelcome, but far from home and friends,
suffering, dying. The surgeon said to me, "Madam, one-half the
attention you give to your own men will save life here."
The patients were all badly, many fatally, wounded. They were silent,
repellent, and evidently expectant of insult and abuse, but after a
while received food and drink from my hands pleasantly, and I tried to
be faithful in my ministrations.
I believe that most of the soldiers in this ward were from Iowa and
Indiana.
One I remember particularly, a captain of cavalry, who was shot
through the throat and had to receive nourishment by means of a rubber
tube inserted for the purpose. A young man in a blue and yellow
uniform--an aide or orderly--remained at his side day and night until
he died. His eyes spoke to me eloquently of his gratitude, and once he
wrote on a scrap of paper, "God bless you," and handed it to me. He
lived about five days.
The mortality was very considerable in this ward. I grew to feel a
deep interest in the poor fellows, and treasured last words or little
mementoes as faithfully for their distant loved ones as I had always
done for Confederates.
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