LETTER XX.
Benton Barracks Hospital,
May, 14.
Dear Carrie,—. . . I have just come in from my
night rounds. I went to the prayer-meeting to-night;
it was very interesting. The men sing well, and you
should hear the army hymns from their lips; they are
grand sometimes. To-night there were present two of
the missionaries, who go among the soldiers to teach
them. One of them went down the river when I did;
he used to hold prayer-meetings every night. They
were solemn out there on the Mississippi, passing we
knew not what dangers, and going to meet others. I
did not dare tell mother when I went, she would have
been so anxious. The river navigation is very dangerous
in some parts now, and probably will be till the
war is over. To return to this missionary,—he gave
an account of his last trip down the river. I will give
a part in his own words.
[There follows an account of the painful and
sometimes perilous experiences of this and other
missionaries. This narrative might not be without
its own interest, but has nothing to do with the
writer's work, and is omitted. The letter then
goes on.]
I tell you all this, Carrie, because I want you
should understand the many sides and inner life of
this war. Side by side with the heroism in the field
that we read of, there is another heroism, grander,
more courageous, working for eternity.
The men want to be told these things; they care
for them, ask for them. I was reading the other Sunday
morning to a man; when I had finished, one at a
distance beckoned to me. I asked him what he wanted.
"Won't you read me a chapter, too?" I read to him,
too, and he seemed so pleased. They are dear, good
souls, some of them. One very sick man has been
very low-spirited lately. Two days ago his wife came
to see him, bringing a beautiful little daughter he had
never before seen. Oh, he was so happy! He is very
weak: I am afraid he will never be much stronger.
He sits on the side of his bed, holding his baby's little
hand in his, and the wife sits and looks at them both.
He told me that his oldest child told the mother not
to come home without papa. They want comforting
in many ways. I have such a curious variety of cares:
all sorts of things are continually rising to the surface
like bubbles, and I am expected to settle all. I keep
clear of all cliques and intimacies,—it is lonesome,
but necessary; for I must take sides from feeling, nowhere.
Some things are rather puzzling to deal with.
I think I shall have some idea of character when I am
through with this work.
It is a life of hard work, and uncertain work: you
never know one week where you may be sent the next.
I have gone wherever I was asked since I came here,
and nearly killed myself,—though I do not mind
that,—and now if I get my strength back, I shall
keep where I can use it, and not, by getting sick,
become of no use or comfort to anybody. We must
have our bodies in good order, if we want to do for
others. I bought myself a passion-flower the other day
and have trained it up by my window; it makes me
think of home. I can hardly realize the quiet state of
Cambridge. The excitement here about Vicksburg
and the river news is very great. If there is much
fighting at Vicksburg, it will fill up the hospitals, and
we shall have our hands filled with work. Tell mother
she must tell the ladies the men are delighted with
their dressing-gowns. I give them to the sickest, and
they wrap themselves up in them so comfortably!
