Having dedicated myself to the
Holy Cause, for better or worse, I could not desert it even when put
to this trying test. So, when Dr. Beatty came to say that in a few
hours quarantine would be established and rigidly enforced, offering
me transportation that I might at once go on with the large party who
were leaving, I simply announced my determination to remain, but asked
that Tempe might be sent to her owners in Alabama, as I dared not risk
keeping her.
The poor fellow who had been first seized died that night, and
afterward many unfortunates were buried beneath the snow-laden pines.
Some of the nurses fell sick; from morning until night, after, far
into the night, my presence was required in those fever-haunted tents.
When not on duty, the loneliness of my cabin was almost insupportable.
Sometimes I longed to flee away from the dismal monotony. Often I sat
upon my doorstep almost ready to scream loudly enough to drown the sad
music of the pines. Since the war I have seen a little poem by John
Esten Cooke, which always reminds me of the time when the band in the
pines brought such sadness to my own heart:
"THE BAND IN THE PINES.
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