“Wilson Small,” June 4.
Dear Mother, — I write a line — only a line — that you may not be anxious: you can’t conceive under what circumstances. I am perfectly well. I have no time to write, no power to withdraw myself from my surroundings enough to write.
Conceive of the Medical Director sending down over four thousand five hundred wounded men without — yes, almost literally without— anything for them: without surgeons; no one authorized to take charge of them; nothing but empty boats to receive them.
Of course the Commission throws itself in and does all. Mr. Olmsted is everything, — wise, authoritative, untiring; but he must break down. You can’t conceive what it is to stem the torrent of this disorder and utter want of organization. We are all well, and can only thank God that we are here, with health, strength, and head. To think or speak of the things we see would be fatal. No one must come here who cannot put away all feeling. Do all you can, and be a machine,—that’s the way to act; the only way.
Good-by! No head to write more: Mr. Olmsted, Mr. Knapp, and I are sitting on the floor, resting, with a pitcher of lemonade between us. My cases have arrived — oh, so thankful! Thank that good Newport for me.
