Those were indeed never-to-be-forgotten days. Amid all other trials, came the sad thought of our poor, wounded men at home. What would be their fate? To leave them for the sake of personal safety seemed so base; martyrdom for and with them so attractive,—and yet it was not quite clear to my mind—much as I longed to aid them—what special benefit could accrue to them by self immolation on the rebel altar. It was a difficult question; and yet one always found payment for those anxious hours, in listening to the earnest promises of protection and defence—so evidently sincere—from those warm hearts; the wish and purpose so far outstripping the ability.
“Don’t you fear, ladies, we’ll take care of you.”
“We’ll fight for you while there’s a man of us left.”
“Yes, that we will! or a drop of blood left in our bodies.”
“We’ll make earthworks of our bodies before the rebs shall touch you, ladies, depend upon that.”
“Only protect yourselves,” said I, to a particularly valiant cripple, who had just expressed similar views for us, and slightly derogatory ones to the rebel general, then supposed to be approaching our city, “only protect yourselves, and I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Protect ourselves!” said a poor fellow unable to move in his bed; “they’ll make mince-meat of us, the first thing.”
I found that this “mince-meat” idea took more firm possession of my mind than almost any other connected with the raid; and one of the greatest reliefs which I experienced on that joyful day, was the consciousness that it could not now be put into execution.
The afternoon of the “Fourth,” as I entered the hospital, the beaming faces and glad congratulations of the poor fellows, proved how much they had dreaded the rebel invasion, in spite of the bold front which they had all presented, with the single exception of my “mince-meat” friend. I still recall, with pleasure, the intense delight of one man to whom I spoke of our victory. By some strange chance, which I never could explain, he had not heard it.