White House, Va., June 8th, 1864.
I am constantly on the move, seldom sleeping two nights in one place. I came here by request to procure supplies for our field hospital. The paroled men are all at the hospital, by order of General Burnside, until some provision can be made for them. Most of them are doing nothing, but I cannot remain in sight of so much suffering and do nothing to alleviate it, especially when help cannot be procured. I am not —will not—be detailed, and, by so doing, take a soldier’s place. On the contrary, what I do is so much that would not be done did I not do it, and I would do the same for friend or foe. God knows there is little enough done now, and I think He would hold me guiltless could I do an hundred times as much.
Dr. Bonine gives me full authority to do as 1 think best, asking nothing, and sanctioning all I do. Constant exertions, under unfavorable conditions, begin to tell on our brave men.
There are now more sick than wounded coming in, or, rather, passing through, this hospital, for they are sent away as fast as transportation can be procured. How sad and sickening the thought that the ceaseless tide of buoyant manhood that has been surging along in seemingly resistless force, as steadily returns, a crimson flood that threatens to deluge every hearthstone in our land with tears and blood. But the more fierce the storm, the sooner past. Our soldiers are firm in the belief that this is to be the closing struggle, and fight with a determination seldom equaled, never excelled.
