Fancy my horror. Our hospital compared to the Libby prison!
“Oh! you mustn’t say that; we try to do everything here to make the confinement as easy as possible to the men, and to help them to forget that it is a hospital. I’m sure you can’t have been in the ‘Libby’ ever, have you?”
“Oh! no, indeed, never; but it seems just as bad to me to be fastened in here.”
“Well, some day, soon, I will bring you in some of our men who have been there; let them talk to you and give you their experience, and then, when you know us better, I will ask you whether you still think the same. But now I must really say good-night. I will come to the ‘prison,’ to-morrow, to see how you all are.”
“Thank you; you’ll be very welcome; and maybe,” added he, laughing, “it won’t seem so like it when I get at home here;” and once more extending his hand, he said “good-night.”
So ended the memorable week of July, 1863, which followed the glorious Gettysburg fight.
The tide of war has rolled back from our homes; the highly strung nerves are calmed; the dead sleep in the quiet graves which a people’s love has provided for them on the field of their fame; the wounded, so lately massed in our midst, are scattered; some—too few, alas!—returned, cured, to their regiments; others (the saddest part of the war) discharged from service, disabled and crippled for life; while for the remainder, listen to the words of that pale boy—as I raise his head to give him the needed stimulant, the notes of music fall on my ear.
“What is that, Henry?”
“What is that, do you ask, Miss ——? That is only some of our poor Gettysburg boys going home;” and I recognize the dead march, and I see the reversed arms, as the mournful train winds by.