October 12.—The hospital is filled with wounded—the very worst which were on the battle-field. There was a raid expected, and they had to be taken off in a hurry. They were put on the train about three or four days ago, and have had little to eat; and many of them have not had their wounds dressed during that time. One of our nurses told me he had never seen wounded in such a state before, and says that many will be certain to die.
A man, Mr. Groover, is wounded through both knees, and his back is full of bedsores, caused from lying on a hard bunk made of branches of trees. He lay in one position on his back, from the time he was put on the train until he was taken off. The train was filled with slop and dirt of all kinds, and he had to lie in the midst of it. He is only one of many others who had to do likewise. On going into the ward the same sad spectacle greets us. One of our southern poets has drawn a picture only too faithfully of the scene in nearly all. Its vividness struck me so forcibly that I insert it:
A Call To The Hospital.
Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,
Turn the key on your jewels to-day,
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses
Braid back in a serious way.
No more delicate gloves, no more laces,
No more trifling in boudoir or bower;
But come, with your souls in your faces,
To meet the stern wants of the hour!
Look around by the torch-light unsteady—
The dead and the dying seem one;
What! trembling and paling already,
Before your dear mission’s begun?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly—
Time presses her lips to each scar;
While she chants of that glory which vastly
Transcends all the horrors of war.
Pause here by the bedside; how mellow
The light showers down on that brow!
Such a brave, brawny visage! Poor fellow!
Some homestead is missing him now;
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing;
Some mother sits moaning, distress’d;
While the loved one lies faint, but unfearing,
With the enemy’s ball in his breast.
Here’s another: a lad—a mere stripling—
Picked up on the field almost dead,
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling
From a horrible gash in the head.
They say he was first in the action;
Gay-hearted, quick-handed, and witty;
He fought till he dropped with exhaustion
In the front of our fair southern city.
Fought and fell ‘neath the guns of that city,
With a spirit transcending his years;
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
And wet his pale lips with your tears.
Touch him gently—most sacred the duty
Of dressing that poor, shattered hand!
God spare him to rise in his beauty
And battle once more for his land!
Who groaned? What a passionate murmur!
“In thy mercy, O God! let me die!”
Ha! surgeon, your hand must be firmer,
That musket-ball’s broken his thigh.
Turn the light on those poor, furrow’d features,
Gray-haired and unknown!—bless the brother.
O Heaven! that one of thy creatures
Should e’er work such woe on another!
Wipe the sweat from his brow with your kerchief;
Let the old tattered collar go wide!
See—he stretches out blindly to search if
The surgeon still stands by his side.
“My son’s over yonder—he’s wounded—
O, this ball that has entered my thigh!”
And again he burst out, all atremble,
“In thy mercy, O God! let me die!”
Pass on; it is useless to linger
While others are claiming your care;
There is need for your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy there.
There are sick ones athirst for caressing,
There are dying ones raving of home,
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing,
And shrouds to make ready for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death in its ghastliest view;
The nearest as well as the farthest
Is here with the traitor and true.
And crowned with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny with the love at the heart,
You must balsam the wounds of a nation,
Nor falter nor shrink from your part.
Up and down through the wards, where the fever
Stalks noisome, and gaunt, and impure
You must go with your steadfast endeavor
To comfort, to counsel, to cure.
I grant you the task’s superhuman,
But strength will be given to you
To do for these dear ones what woman
Alone in her pity can do.
And the lips of the mothers will bless you
As angels sweet-visaged and pale!
And the little ones run to caress you,
And the wives and sisters cry “Hail!”
But e’en if you drop down unheeded,
What matter? God’s ways are the best;
You have poured out your life where ’twas needed,
And he will take care of the rest.
I have just received a letter from my brother, dated the 8th inst. He says the army has been in line of battle ever since the late battle, and are waiting for the enemy to make the attack.
We had two deaths this past week—one named Roberts, who was wounded at the late battle; his wife lives in Macon County, Georgia; the other is named Jesse Ferrell, from Thomas County, Georgia. He has been here since we first came.
