With Him whose name is Love.”
December 6th.
Cold and unpleasant. Have been to St. Paul’s again—the hospital where I had the quarrel a few days since—with some more tea and raspberry-sauce for the sick. The doctor happened to be in, making his “grand round.” Now is my time, thought I; so, setting down my dishes, I approached him and asked an explanation of his strange conduct toward me a few days before. He replied, in anything but a pleasant tone: “You are a nurse in Wolfe Street Hospital, and have no business to interfere with mine; and I don’t want you to come here any more.” “You are mistaken, doctor. I do not belong to Wolfe Street, or any other hospital,” was my somewhat indignant reply. “Well, where do you belong? and what is your business?” On showing my appointment from Judge Edmunds, I noticed a sudden change in his appearance, and I never saw any one more profuse with apologies. “I acknowledge my rudeness. I know I was hasty; but I felt vexed to think a nurse from another hospital should trouble herself about my affairs. But it’s all right now; I do not intend to cease to act the part of a gentleman. I hope you will continue your visits to my hospital. Come whenever it suits your convenience best, and bring in for the boys any thing you see fit. You need never trouble yourself to ask me; I will trust to your judgment.” Of course I couldn’t help forgiving the doctor; but, after all, I can’t see why I should be entitled to more consideration, or my judgment considered superior to what it would have been had I been a nurse in some particular hospital. How much better it would be to treat every one with true politeness, which costs nothing, and thereby save ourselves much deep mortification.
December 11th.
This morning I went to Camp Convalescent with an ambulance filled with quilts, flannel shirts, socks, towels, handkerchiefs, sixteen pies—which I made last evening—and two large pails of stewed fruit, which I distributed among our needy soldiers. I found three quite sick, for one of whom I procured admittance to the “Examining Board” for discharge, and took the other two to Fairfax Street Hospital, in Alexandria. Came home, wrote two letters, and then went with some delicacies to St. Paul’s.
Poor Clark—the young man previously referred to as being so seriously wounded in the body—was, to all human appearance, dying. His grief-stricken mother is with him. I remained two or three hours: he still lingered. As it was getting late, and being very tired, I came home, when Mrs. May went over and stayed until a late hour with them.
December 12th.
Cold and windy. This morning went again to St. Paul’s. To my surprise I found young Clark still living, but another poor sufferer had passed away before him; he had just breathed his last. His mother, who was with him when he died, was then making preparations to take the body of the poor boy to her home. As I could render no assistance, I left these scenes of mourning and grief, and went to other hospitals. In visiting five, I found a large number whose names were added to my list. This cold weather is causing much sickness. Another of our boys—Henry Tenyck, of the 5th, for whom I have felt a deep solicitude—is no more. In one of the hospitals I saw a man who had been accidentally shot through the lungs, for whose recovery, his physician says, “there is no hope.” Sad sights are an everyday experience. Death is at work, as the lone ambulance on its way to the “silent city” too plainly tells. Soon after returning home from a tour through the hospitals, a gentleman called, who was in search of a sick son, and wanted to know if I could give him any information in regard to him. As soon as the name—Frank Rowley—was mentioned, I recognized it as the name of one of the boys whom I had “stolen” a few days before from old “Camp Misery,” and, donning my hat and shawl, I accompanied the anxious father to the hospital where his son was. That joyful meeting of father and son I shall never forget. As the young man caught a glimpse of his father on his entering the room, he sprang up in bed, and, with extended arms, exclaimed, “Oh, my father! my father!” while the tears chased each other in quick succession down his pale cheeks. In a moment they were clasped in each other’s arms, and both weeping for joy. I left them to enjoy their visit without interruption. The evening has been devoted to letter-writing for soldiers.
December 15th.
A terrible battle has been raging all day at Fredericksburg, but no particulars have been received. We can only hope and pray that the God of battles may speed the right.