It is painful thus to reveal the thoughts of my wicked, unchristian heart; but thus I reasoned and felt just then.

After a while a note from Dr. Gore was handed me.  He said (in substance), “I know how bitterly you feel, but pray for strength to cast out evil spirits from your heart.  Forget that the suffering men, thrown upon our kindness and forbearance, are Yankees.  Remember only that they are God’s creatures and helpless prisoners.  They need you.  Think the matter over, and do not disappoint me.  Gore.”

I do not believe that ever before or since have I fought so hard a battle.  God helping me, I decided to do right.  The short, sharp contest ended—­I acted at once.

On my way to the Federal wards, I met more than one hospital-attendant carrying off a bloody leg or arm to bury it.  I felt then, and saw no reason to alter my opinion afterwards, that some of their surgeons were far rougher and less merciful than ours; and I do not believe they ever gave the poor, shattered fellows the benefit of a doubt.  It was easier to amputate than to attend a tedious, troublesome recovery.  So, off went legs and arms by the wholesale.

I had not been five minutes in the low, brick ward, where lay the most dangerously wounded Federals, when all animosity vanished and my woman’s heart melted within me.

These were strangers and unwelcome, but far from home and friends, suffering, dying.  The surgeon said to me, “Madam, one-half the attention you give to your own men will save life here.”

The patients were all badly, many fatally, wounded.  They were silent, repellent, and evidently expectant of insult and abuse, but after a while received food and drink from my hands pleasantly, and I tried to be faithful in my ministrations.

I believe that most of the soldiers in this ward were from Iowa and Indiana.

One I remember particularly, a captain of cavalry, who was shot through the throat and had to receive nourishment by means of a rubber tube inserted for the purpose.  A young man in a blue and yellow uniform—­an aide or orderly—­remained at his side day and night until he died.  His eyes spoke to me eloquently of his gratitude, and once he wrote on a scrap of paper, “God bless you,” and handed it to me.  He lived about five days.

The mortality was very considerable in this ward.  I grew to feel a deep interest in the poor fellows, and treasured last words or little mementoes as faithfully for their distant loved ones as I had always done for Confederates.

Among the personal belongings taken from me by raiders at Macon, Georgia, was a large chest, full of articles of this kind, which I intended to return to the friends of the owners whenever the opportunity offered.