The next morning, my husband having obtained a few hours’ leave of absence, joined me in my shattered retreat.  The day was darkened by the agony of parting.  It seemed to me impossible to leave him under such circumstances, and really required more courage than to face the shot and shell.  But I could easily see that anxiety for me interfered with his duty as a soldier, so—­we must part.  On the same evening I returned to Newnan, where my friends were so overjoyed at my safe return that they forbore to upbraid.  Soon afterward the battle of Jonesboro’ again filled our wards with shattered wrecks.  As I have already stated, my husband then came for the first time to claim my care.  Before he was quite able to return to duty, the post was ordered to Fort Valley, Georgia, a pleasant and very hospitable town, where new and excellent hospital buildings had been erected.  From here Mr. Beers returned to his command.  The day of his departure was marked by hours of intense anguish which I yet shudder to recall.  The train which stopped at the hospital camp to take up men returning to the front was crowded with soldiers,—­reinforcements.  I had scarcely recovered from the fit of bitter weeping which followed the parting, when, noticing an unusual commotion outside, I went to the door to discover the cause.  Men were running up the railroad track in the direction taken by the train which had just left.  A crowd had collected near the surgeon’s office, in the midst of which stood an almost breathless messenger.  His tidings seemed to have the effect of sending off succeeding groups of men in the direction taken by those I had first seen running up the road.  Among them I discovered several surgeons.  Something was wrong.  Wild with apprehension, I sped over to the office, and there learned that the train of cars loaded and crowded with soldiers had been thrown down a steep embankment, about three miles up the road, and that many lives were lost.  Waiting for nothing, I ran bareheaded and frantic up the track, for more than a mile never stopping, then hearing the slow approach of an engine, sunk down by the side of the track to await its coming.  Soon the engine appeared, drawing very slowly a few platform-and baggage-cars loaded with groaning, shrieking men, carrying, also, many silent forms which would never again feel pain or sorrow.  The surgeons upon the first car upon descrying me crouching by the roadside, halted the train and lifted me upon the last car, where, among the “slightly hurt,” I found my husband, terribly bruised and shaken, but in no danger.  Arrived at camp, where tents had been hastily pitched, the wounded and dying were laid out side by side in some of the largest, while others received the dead.  The sights and sounds were awful in the extreme.  At first I could not muster courage (shaken as I had been) to go among them.  But it was necessary for purposes of identification, so I examined every one, dying and dead, feeling that certainty, however dreadful, might be better borne by loving hearts than prolonged suspense.