I took between both of mine his hand, covered with mud and blood and smoke of battle, and told him I was not only going to stay with them, but was going to send him back to his regiment, with a lot more who were lying around here doing nothing, when there was so much fighting to be done; I had come on purpose to make them well, and they might make up their minds to it.  My own courage had revived, and I must revive theirs; I could surely keep them alive until help should come.  By softening the torturing bandages on his face, I made him more comfortable; and in an adjoining room found another man with a thigh stump, who had been served by field-surgeons, as the thieves served the man going from Jerusalem to Jericho:  i.e., “stripped him, left him naked and half dead.”  Those men surely did not go into battle without clothes; and why they should have been sent out of the surgeon’s hands without enough of even underclothing to cover them, is the question I have never yet had answered.  Common decency led to his being placed in the back room alone, but I shall never blush for going to him and doing the little I could for his comfort.

After I returned to the large room, I took notice about clothing, and found that most of the men had on their ordinary uniform; some had two blankets, more had one; but full one-third were without any.  There was no shadow or pretense of a bed or pillow, not even a handful of straw or hay!  There was no broom, no hoe, or shovel, or spade to sweep or scrape the floor; and the horrors were falling upon me when the man of the blankets came, and said: 

“Mattam, iv you are goin’ to do any ding for tese men, you petter git dem someding to eat.”

“Something to eat?”

“Yaas! mine Cot, someding to eat!  De government petter leave dem to tie on de pattle field, nur do pring tem here to starve.”

I looked at him in much surprise, and said: 

“Who are you?”

“Vy, I am de surgeon.  Tey send me here; put mine Cot, I cannot do notting.  Tere ish notting to do mit!”

I called out:  “Men, what have you had to eat?”

“Hard tack, and something they call coffee,” was the response.

“Have you had no meat?”

“Meat?  We have forgotten what it tastes like!”

In one corner, near the front door, was a little counter and desk, with a stationary bench in front.  To this desk the surgeon gave me a key.  I found writing material, and sent a note of four lines to the Corps Surgeon.  Half an hour after, an irate little man stormed in and stamped around among those prostrate men, flourishing a scrap of paper and calling for the writer.  His air was that of the champion who wanted to see “the man who struck Billy Patterson,” and his fierceness quite alarmed me, lest he should step on some of the men.  So I hurried to him, and was no little surprised to find that the offending missive was my note.  I told him I had written it, and could have had no thought of “reporting” him, since I knew nothing about him.