Among these dreadful scenes came a minister of God, whose youthful face, pale and horror-stricken, yet all alight with heavenly pity and love, I can never forget.  Tenderly he bent above these dying men, his trembling lips touched by divine inspiration, whispering words precious to parting souls.  Unshrinkingly he performed his mission to those who yet lived, then, passing among the dead, lovingly composed and prepared for decent burial the mutilated bodies.  One burial-service served for all; this was as tenderly rendered as if each unfortunate had been dear to himself.

This young clergyman was Rev. ——­ Green, of Columbia, S.C., a near relative of the eminent divine and inspired patriot, Dr. B.M.  Palmer, now of New Orleans.

Few patients were sent to Fort Valley.  Upon recovering from the effects of the railroad accident, my husband again left for his command.  Growing dissatisfied, I applied to Dr. Stout for a position nearer the front.  Not receiving a satisfactory reply, went to Macon, where for a few weeks I remained at one of the hospitals, but still felt that I was losing time, and doing very little good.  In November I was offered a position in a tent-hospital near the front, which I eagerly accepted, little dreaming (God help me!) of the hardship and disappointment which awaited me.

CHAPTER VI.

OMEGA.

The detention of the railroad-train belated us, and when we (I and my servant) were left at a small station in Mississippi, night had fallen.  The light from a little fire of pine knots, built on the ground outside, while illuminating the rough depot and platform, left the country beyond in deeper darkness.  It was bitterly cold.  The driver of the ambulance informed me, we had “quite a piece to ride yet.”  A moment later, Dr. Beatty rode up on horseback, welcomed me pleasantly, waiting to see me safely stowed away in the ambulance.  The ride to camp was dismal.  I continued to shiver with cold; my heart grew heavy as lead, and yearned sadly for a sight of the pleasant faces, the sound of the kindly voices, to which I had been so long accustomed.  At last a turn in the road brought us in sight of the numberless fires of a large camp.  It was a bright scene, though, far from gay.  The few men who crouched by the fires were not roistering, rollicking soldiers, but pale shadows, holding their thin hands over the blaze which scorched their faces, while their thinly-covered backs were exposed to a cold so intense that it congealed the sap in the farthest end of the log on which they sat.  Driving in among these, up an “avenue” bordered on either side by rows of white tents, the ambulance drew up at last before the door of my “quarters,”—­a rough cabin built of logs.  Through the open door streamed the cheery light of a wood-fire, upon which pine knots had been freshly thrown.

A bunk at one side, made of puncheons, and filled with pine straw, over which comforts and army-blankets had been thrown, hard pillows stuffed with straw, having coarse, unbleached cases, a roughly-made table before the fire, a lot of boxes marked “Q.M.,” etc., to serve as seats, and you have my cabin in its entirety.