Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy—”
Some of the soldiers from the Wilderness, falling wounded in the brush which was set on fire, had been badly burned before their comrades could draw them forth. One of these now, lying wrapped like a mummy in oil-soaked cotton, was begging pitifully for morphia—and there was no morphia to give.
“I come from old Manassas with a pocket full of fun;
I killed forty Yankees with a single-barrelled gun—”
Forenoon, afternoon passed. The nurses dressed and bandaged wounds, bathed and lifted, gave the scanty dole of medicines, brought and held the bowls of broth, aired the wards, straightened the beds, told the news, filled the pipes, read and wrote the home letters, took from dying lips the home messages, closed the eyes of the dead, composed the limbs, saw the body carried out to where the pine coffin waited, turned back with cheer to the ward, dealt the cards for the convalescent, picked up the fallen checker-piece, laughed at all jokes, helped sick and weary Life over many a hard place in the road, saved it many a jolt.
At six o’clock, the two from Greenwood left the hospital. Outside they saw, on the other side of the street, a small crowd gathering about a bulletin board. They went across as folk always went across when there was seen to be a bulletin. The crowd was largely composed of country people, old men, women, and boys. It parted before the ladies from Greenwood and the two came close to the board. A boy, standing on a great stone beneath, alternately mastered, somewhat slowly, the writing, then, facing around, delivered it in a high young voice to the crowd.
A farmer, bent and old, touched Judith’s sleeve. “Miss Judith Cary, you read it to us. I could do it spryer than Tom there, but my eyes are mighty bad.”
“I don’t mind,” said Tom. “They’ve got so many words that weren’t in the reading-books! You do it, Miss Judith.”
Judith stepped upon the stone. The board held an account of the battle of Brandy Station, later and fuller than that in the morning paper. She read first—it was always read first—the names of the killed and wounded. It appeared that this crowd had in them only a general interest. There were murmurs respectful and pitying, but no sudden sharp cry from a woman, no groan from a man.