The wounded were brought in, and we were appalled at their number, when we thought of the slain, which must be in proportion. Every tent was filled to its utmost capacity, and still they were borne in; ghastly wrecks were some of them, who only came to die. Ropes were hoisted, and blankets laid over them to keep out the blinding heat of the sun, till busy hands could put up additional tents.
Some twenty rebels were brought in—and they seemed to bear their sufferings well—as wounded prisoners of war. I think they were glad to find rest and sufficient food. They were great, gaunt men, who looked likely to have lived on scanty rations all their days.
Our men died rapidly from fever and wounds, and it seemed impossible to rise from the depression which each new death caused.
It was piteous to hear them moan so sadly, yet utter no words of complaint. A little drummer-boy, only thirteen years of age, who belonged to a Rhode Island regiment, was taken with bleeding at the lungs, and moaned only for his mother. She would be all alone, he said, for his father died when he was only ten years of age. He asked me to write, and tell her how it went with her boy; and I sat there holding the dying child in my arms. I thought how her poor stricken heart would agonize over the cruel, cruel blow.
She wrote a reply to my letter, and it was read with tears, long after her boy was laid to sleep in the hospital grave-yard at City Point. I learned of the
