Georgeanna to Mother.
May 1, ‘62.
We are in sight of the abandoned rebel quarters at Ship Point, now used as a hospital, on low, filthy ground surrounded by earth-works, rained on half the time and fiercely shone on the other half, a death place for scores of our men, who are piled in there covered with vermin, dying with their uniforms on and collars up, dying of fever. Of course there is that vitally important thing, medical etiquette, to contend with here as elsewhere, and so it is:— “Suppose you go ashore and ask whether it would be agreeable to have the ladies come over, just to walk through the hospital and talk to, the men?” So the ladies have gone to talk with the men with spirit lamps and farina and lemons and brandy and clean clothes, and expect to have an improving conversation!
While we are lying here off Ship Point, New Orleans has surrendered quietly, and round the corner from us Fort Macon has been taken. What is it to us so long as the beef tea is ready at the right moment? We have been getting the beds made on our side of the cabin; only 25 are ready, but in two of them a lieutenant and private of the 16th are lying, brought over from the shore yesterday—Eliza’s game. She has taken them vigorously in hand, stealing clean clothes from the Wilson Small and treating them to nice breakfasts and teas. Dr. Haight, of New York, has just put his head in to know if Miss Woolsey has any rice ready. “No. She has used it all up on the man in the bunk-ward, with the dysentery.” Ask the cook—cook won’t boil it; so Miss W. lights her spirit lamp and boils it, and boils it. She has her reward—two men, each with his little plate of it—Was it good?—“Yes, beautiful.”
