July 3d, 1864.
We are within three miles of Washington. Have two hundred patients on board, all of the class called “bad cases.” The vessel is not a hospital boat, only a river transport. The men lie on hay on the floor— some without so much as a blanket under them. They, too, live on hope, and expect all their wants will be provided for in Washington. We have not half the needed help. I dressed wounds until 1 o’clock this morning—but am more than repaid by the expressions of gratitude by my patients.
