interference would excite the patient still more.  Relying upon the kindly, chivalrous feeling which my presence always seemed to inspire in my patients, I promised to get his gun for him if he would go back and put on his clothes, and, placing my arm around the already tottering and swaying figure, by soothing and coaxing got him back to the bed.  A sinking spell followed, from which he never rallied.  In a lower ward another death occurred, due also to sudden excitement.

Fearful of the effect that a knowledge of this would have upon other patients, I resorted to deception, declaring that the dead men were better and asleep, covering them, excluding light from windows near them, and even pretending at intervals to administer medicines.

And now came another trial, from which I shrank fearfully, but which must be borne.

In the “wounded wards,” and in tents outside where men having gangrene were isolated, horrible sights awaited me,—­sights which I trembled to look upon,—­fearful wounds which had, so far, been attended to only by the surgeons.

These wounds were now dry, and the men were groaning with pain.  Minute directions having been left with me, I must nerve myself to uncover the dreadful places, wash them, and apply fresh cloths.  In the cases of gangrene, poultices of yeast and charcoal, or some other preparation left by the surgeons.

Entering Ward No. 3, where there were many badly-wounded men, I began my work upon a boy of perhaps nineteen years, belonging to a North Carolina regiment, who had one-half of his face shot away.

My readers may imagine the dreadful character of the wounds in this ward, when I relate that a day or two after a terrible battle at the front, when dozens of wounded were brought in, so badly were they mangled and so busy were the surgeons, that I was permitted to dress this boy’s face unaided. Then it was bad enough, but neither so unsightly nor so painful as now that inflammation had supervened.  The poor boy tried not to flinch.  His one bright eye looked gratefully up at me.  After I had finished, he wrote upon the paper which was always at his hand, “You didn’t hurt me like them doctors.  Don’t let the Yankees get me, I want to have another chance at them when I get well.”  Having succeeded so well, I “took heart of grace,” and felt little trepidation afterward.  But—­oh! the horror of it.  An Arkansas soldier lay gasping out his life, a piece of shell having carried away a large portion of his breast, leaving the lungs exposed to view.  No hope, save to alleviate his pain by applying cloths wet with cold water.  Another, from Tennessee, had lost a part of his thigh,—­and so on.  The amputations were my greatest dread, lest I might displace bandages and set an artery bleeding.  So I dared not remove the cloths, but used an instrument invented by one of our surgeons, as may be imagined, of primitive construction, but which, wetting the tender wounds gradually by a sort of spray, gave great relief.  Of course, fresh cloths were a constant necessity for suppurating wounds, but for those nearly healed, or simply inflamed, the spray was invaluable.  The tents were the last visited, and by the time I had finished the rounds, it was time to make some arrangements for the patients’ supper, for wounded men are always hungry.