Georgy to Mother.
“Ocean Queen.”
It seems a strange thing that the sight of such misery should be accepted by us all so quietly as it was. We were simply eyes and hands for those three days. Strong men were dying about us; in nearly every ward some one was going. Yesterday one of the students called me to go with him and say whether I had taken the name of a dead man in the forward cabin the day he came in. He was a strong, handsome fellow, raving mad when brought in, and lying now, the day after, with pink cheeks and peaceful look. I had tried to get his name, and once he seemed to understand and screeched out at the top of his voice, John H. Miller, but whether it was his own name or that of some friend he wanted, I don’t know. All the record I had of him was from my diet-list, “Miller, forward cabin, port side, No. 119, beef tea and punch.”
Last night Dr. Ware came to me to know how much floor-room we had. The immense saloon of the after-cabin was filled with mattresses so thickly placed that there was hardly stepping room between them, and as I swung my lantern along the row of pale faces, it showed me another strong man dead. E. had been working hard over him, but it was useless. He opened his eyes when she called “Henry” clearly in his ear, and gave her a chance to pour brandy down his throat, but he died quietly while she was helping some one else. We are changed by all this contact with terror, else how could I deliberately turn my lantern on his face and say to the Doctor behind me, “Is that man dead?” and stand coolly, while he listened and examined and pronounced him dead. I could not have quietly said, a year ago, “That will make one more bed, Doctor.” Sick men were waiting on deck in the cold though, and every few feet of cabin floor were precious; so they took the dead man out and put him to sleep in his coffin on deck. We had to climb over another soldier lying up there, quiet as he, to get at the blankets to keep the living warm.
