These Federal surgeons appeared to me to be very indifferent to the comfort of their patients, and to avoid all unnecessary trouble.  They were tardy in beginning their work the morning after the battle, and, when they were ready, coolly sent in requisitions for chloroform, which, having been (contrary to the dictates of humanity and to the customs of civilized nations) long since declared by their government “contraband of war,” was almost unattainable, and used by our Confederate surgeons only in extreme cases.  In all minor, and in some severe, operations the surgeons relied upon the manly fortitude of the patients, and, God bless our brave boys, they bore this cruel test with a courage fully as worthy to be recorded as the most brilliant action on the battle-field.

On the morning in question, as I made my early rounds, there met me everywhere ghastly reminders of the battle,—­men shot and disfigured in every conceivable manner.  Many, fresh from the hands of the surgeons, exhausted by suffering, looked as if already Death had claimed them for his own.  Attendants were constantly bearing into different wards fresh victims from the operating-rooms, where the bloody work would still go on for hours.  These must have immediate attention,—­must be closely watched and strongly nourished.  This was my blessed privilege; and, thanks to the humane and excellent policy adopted by General Johnston, and continued by General Hood,—­both of whom looked well to the ways of quartermasters and commissaries,—­the means to provide for the sick and wounded were always at hand,—­at least, up to the time of which I write.

Some of my favorite patients, whom, previous to this battle, I had nursed into convalescence, were now thrown back upon beds of pain.  In one corner I found a boy whom I had nursed and fed through days and nights of suffering from typhoid fever.  His name was Willie Hutson, and he belonged to the ——­ Mississippi Regiment.  Two days ago he had been as bright as a lark, and pleading to be sent to the front.  Now he lay, shot through the breast, so near death that he did not know me.  As I bent over him with tearful eyes, a hand placed upon my arm caused me to turn.  There stood Dr. Gore, his kind face full of sympathy, but greatly troubled, at his side a Federal surgeon in full uniform.  Dr. Gore said, “This is one of my old chums, and—­” But I cried out, “Oh, doctor!  I cannot,—­look” (indicating with my hand first Willie, then the entire ward)!  Passing swiftly out, I fled to my office and locked myself in, shedding hot tears of indignation.  The dreadful work of the invaders had been before my eyes all the morning.  I felt as if I could have nothing to do with them, and did not wish to see one of them again.  They had not only murdered my poor boy Willie, but dozens of dearer friends.  They were even now running riot in the home I loved.  They were invaders!

I could not meet them,—­could not nurse them.